Chapter 9
Fuck.
Something inside me broke open. I stared at him through the haze of sweat and arousal, through the blur of my own tears, and still—he smiled.
The devil of my childhood, the monster that crouched in every sermon, that snarled between the lines of every Bible verse, warning me to keep my hands to myself, to tame the hunger in my blood.
And now here I was. Touching myself for him! Spreading my thighs wider on an altar. Crying out as my cock leaked precum over my stomach. All of Hell watching. And Lucifer—first among the fallen, proud morning star—smiling.
Was it approval? Amusement? Did he see himself in me now; was he thinking, ah, I was wrong to think you unworthy. Whatever it was, Lucifer’s smile only deepened my pleasure.
A thrill passed through me so violently I thought I might sob.
I was desecrating the temple of my own body. I was profaning everything I had once held sacred. But what else was this, if not worship? What else could you call the offering of flesh, the outpouring of desire, the complete surrender of soul and self?
My rebellion, like his, was a cry for freedom. And now I acted out that rebellion with every thrust of my hips, every moan ripped from my throat. No more shame. No more silence. I had made a church of this altar, and in it, I was both priest and sacrifice.
The boy I had been—the boy who clenched his fists at ten years old, begging God to take the feelings away—he was watching too. Smiling, too, as he saw what I had become.
I jerked myself harder. The arousal hit me with an intensity I’d never before experienced. I was filthy. I was a whore. I was nothing more than this; I would never amount to anything more than meat seeking pleasure. I was there to give pleasure, to receive it, to marinate in it.
“Fuck, yes,” I murmured. My breath hitched.
I rolled my hips up into my palm and let my other hand drift lower, fingertips skimming my entrance, still raw and aching from where Asmodeus had worked me open. I pushed, just a little. My muscles clenched around the first finger.
I moaned again, louder this time.
“Show me,” Asmodeus said, voice closer now, “what you want.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I reached lower, slick fingers trembling as I pressed into myself—slow at first, then deeper, until I moaned, head falling back against the stone.
The heat inside me hadn’t faded. Asmodeus’ touch from earlier had made me pliant: I was still stretched, still aching, still open.
The slick sound of fingers pressing in and out echoed, obscene in the vaulted silence of the Court.
I fucked myself with my own fingers. One, then two. Then three. I couldn’t stop. My body rolled into the motion, hips shifting back to meet the thrust. The altar steamed beneath me, sweat and spit and the musk of sex soaking into its ancient surface.
A fresh wave of precum leaked from the head of my cock as I worked myself wider. I was panting now, whimpering with my head lolling back against the stone. My whole body thrummed with desperate need. I wanted to cry. I wanted to be taken.
But more than that—I wanted the Kings to witness all I was willing to do to be claimed. How far I’d come from the boy in the chapel who had begged God to take this want away.
My fingers curled inside me, and I rocked down harder, crying out. I fucked myself until my arms shook, the muscles of my forearm spasming. I moved until my body couldn’t bear the pleasure of my cock without the fullness of something more.
I was open and holy in my ruin, and still I reached back, spread myself wider, and whispered to the demon watching:
“Please. I can’t anymore. I need you.”
Asmodeus climbed up and smiled. It had only been waiting for me to ask. “Turn over.”
Eagerly, I pulled my own fingers free with a whine as I obeyed the command, crawling onto my stomach.
Then I felt the weight of Asmodeus settle across my thighs, the sharp heat of its fingers dragging up my spine.
I moaned at that contact alone, pushing my hips up as best I could, wanting its touch anywhere it would give it.
The pressure of it against me, the connection between our flesh, was an eclipse of heat; I briefly forgot where I was and that I was being had in front of watchful eyes.
I became a body tuned for pleasure and nothing more.
Its cock, broad and inevitable, pressed where fingers had already prepared me. My hands scrambled against the altar, searching for anything to hold as my knees shook beneath me. But before it pressed in, the demon announced loudly, “You are mine.”
The words struck something deep in me. I writhed with the anticipatory pleasure.
“Yes,” I said, squirming back against it, hopeful for it to enter me. Then Asmodeus lowered itself until its lips brushed my ear. I heard the fluttering flame of its eye, the sound like rushing water.
It spoke to me and me alone, then. “You have surprised me again and again, little lamb. My once-priest. My whore.”
It parted my cheeks, and instead of that heavy cock, I felt its fingers again—slick and scorching—curling inside me.
More than one. I gasped and writhed, biting into my forearm to keep from crying out too loudly.
The court welcomed my cries, drank them like holy water.
Suddenly, they were murmuring amongst themselves; all those vile kings had come to watch my claiming.
I flinched, momentarily distracted by their voices, but Asmodeus’ hand snaked around my neck. Pressing firmly against my throat, it dragged my head back, closer to its mouth, with its other hand working inside me.
“You wanted to be mine. Isn’t that right? Mine, forever.”
“Forever,” I echoed.
“As my toy. My consort. My lover.”
Lover. My heart leapt high, and I whined. Lover. The term was more intimate than anything it had done to me.
Sex, I had known. I had endured it. Dreamed of it in the dark and repented for that desire in the morning.
Sex, with Asmodeus and with lesser demons, I had come to love.
The act was a grounding thing, as much as it was transformative.
I had never felt so close to my own flesh, nor to Heaven, nor to happiness, as when something plunged into me; when my body connected with another, and we writhed together in ecstasy. But lover?
Lover was a title, a role. It wasn’t something done to me, nor a naming of the act I participated in.
It was something I was. To be fucked was simple.
Even to be claimed. These were, in many ways, similar to duty–and I knew duty as well as I knew the Bible, for most of my life had been in service to God and to His institution.
Perhaps I had fallen so easily into sex and had climbed the path to Asmodeus with that same sense of duty urging me onward, because I could twist it to fit the familiar role I had played as a priest. Acts of service, submitting my body to a higher cause–these were recognisable.
But to be called lover… that meant I was wanted not just as a body. It meant I was chosen, over and over, not for how I yielded, but for who I had become in the yielding.
My heart ached at the tenderness of it. Not gentleness—Asmodeus was never gentle—but tenderness, in the truest sense: a reaching toward closeness, even if the intimacy was laced with danger.
All the while, Asmodeus’ fingers were inside me.
It did not rush at it stretched me, instead filling me slowly, cruelly, until my body trembled from the strain. My thighs quaked. My cock rubbed helplessly against the warm stone.
When a fourth finger breached me, my breath hitched.
“More,” I begged, even as it began to feel too much. “Please. More.”
I was begging for its cock, of course, but Asmodeus only pressed deeper still, bony knuckles popping inside me as its fist sank inside.
My body shuddered, unable to comprehend the stretch, the unbearable fullness that now consumed me from within.
Every nerve sparked like lightning under my skin.
The altar beneath me had grown impossibly warm, as though it too had been stirred to life by the force of my submission.
I gripped its edge until my knuckles whitened, tears burning at the corners of my eyes—not from pain alone, but from the enormity of what was being asked of me.
What I was offering. What I was becoming.
I cried out, trying not to fight it. But my body was resisting, and I held myself tensely, waiting for the pressure and the pain to ease. The sweat of panic pricked on my brow.
“Mmf–!”
"You open beautifully," Asmodeus said. “That’s it. Relax your hole for me; show me what you have become.”
I whimpered something incoherent, my lips trembling against the stone. The sound I made was incomprehensible. My hips lifted to meet its movement, and still I could not believe I had space for what it gave. But I did. My body, traitor and temple both, welcomed its sinking fist.
"This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" it purred. Its hand—arm—whatever part of it was buried inside me now—curled slightly, and the shift sent a cry spiralling out of my chest. "To be undone. To be ruined for all others."
I choked on my own breath, desperate for more and terrified of just how much more there could be.
"And look," Asmodeus went on, almost sweet in its mockery, "how eager you are to be destroyed. A priest, once. A man of vows. Now nothing but a hollow vessel begging to be filled."
Its free hand stroked the small of my back with terrifying gentleness.
“You are marked by me, inside and out. Do you feel it?"