Page 10 of Prince of Lust

It was exactly what he meant, but I couldn’t fault him. Ego and youth go hand in hand, even amongst the faithful. I reached out and squeezed the man’s shoulder. But his eyes had wandered. He spotted the scroll I used to summon Asmodeus and another burr caught in his brow.

“That is meant to be under lock and key.”

I stood slowly and approached it, feigning surprise. I glanced at him and tried to strike some conspiratorial bond between us without a word. Oliviero looked frightened. It was a delicious expression, all twisted brows and short, staccato breaths.

“I’ll take the book to the restricted section,” I said, like all of this was nothing. I don’t know—I couldn’t bring myself to act scared. I hoped shock would be a good excuse for my despondence. As I picked up the scroll, I caught a glance of the sketch—of Asmodeus’ hulking body. I pressed it close to my chest.

Oliviero stands too. “We must contact the bishop,” he said. “Tomorrow, anyway. You should sleep; I can take it back for you.”

“No,” I said it too quickly. Oliviero flinched. I summoned some kind of lie and tried to soften the blow. “I don’t want to put you in any danger, Oliviero, and this book... is about as dangerous as you can get.”

His eyes went wide with the kind of trusting innocence that a child would have for its parent. The guilt struck me hard, but I had committed to the act now, you see. Return was not possible, nor was it wanted.

But Oliviero accepted my words. He blushed and nodded, then slipped out of the room, all legs and awkward height. He flashed me one final look before he disappeared for good, and as soon as he was out of sight, I forgot about him completely.

After coming so close, after being so hard and so willing to let Asmodeus, Prince of Lust, have its way with me, there really was no going back. God’s collar lay abandoned on the floor. I did not kneel to pick it up.

I wasn’t God’s anymore. Perhaps I had never been.

No matter what it took, I made the covenant there with myself. No matter the ritual, the sacrifice, the blasphemy, the price, I was going to be that demon’s toy.

Six

Itossed and turned for hours.

I’d tucked the tome under my pillow for safekeeping. Or perhaps because I wanted to be close to the demon, or I hoped that closeness to it might award my body somehow. It felt stupid admitting that; the Prince of Lust would not return unless I summoned it.

I slept fitfully. I kept waking up in an intense sweat, sheets slick, and my body shaking. Each time I was rock hard, cock desperate, pulsing under the sheet. The first two times I woke up, I took my cock and worked myself until I came, thinking of the demon’s cock inside me, its grip around my waist, how it could use me like a cock sleeve—use me however it wished. I imagined the way I would be twitching and gaping at the end of it, cum leaking from me. Had, used, and discarded. By the third time I awoke, horny and desperate, I gave up. Relief wouldn’t come; I had been using my hands for decades, and it wasn’t enough. It had never been enough, and now I that had seen what could have been, it would do nothing for me. Instead of touching myself a third time, I sighed and turned over, trying to sleep.

Eventually, a deeper sleep came. I had an hour or two of uninterrupted rest before the dreams.

At first, they were vague. I only saw shapes and some colours, skin mostly, the demon’s hands flashing into view. Nothing really happened in those dreams except impressions of taste and smell and touch, and they flowed through me easily. Then detail snaked into them; the scent of the prince, its fragrant cedar and caramel, with the smell of my own sweat and cum mixed with it. I watched the demon materialise again, growing out of ash and blood like it had when I first summoned it, only now it lunged at me the instant it materialised. It saw me, and its cock hardened and blushed a dark red at the tip; the shaft was thick with bumps plumping to firm ridges as it grew erect. I let it grab me by the neck again, lift me, and throw me against the wall, raking my skin red and raw with its claws.

There was nothing coherent to what happened next, no reality to it. But it felt good to dream. I was pushed against the wall. My legs were spread. I arched down into position with decades worth of eagerness, and the prince’s cock split me apart, slipped inside like I was made for it, ridged and tugging on the warm wetness of my insides. I had nothing of that size to compare it to—it had only ever been my fingers—but my mind translated it as a fullness. A satiation that seemed heavenly and impossible after so much dripping lust.

The demon didn’t even have to thrust to have me close to the edge; I generated enough friction on my own, squirming and grinding back with unstoppered desire. And I couldn’t stop myself, not even when I had the vague awareness this was just a dream. I squeezed my ass and felt the answering pulse of the cock inside me. Asmodeus growled and rammed up into me, and I screamed freely, eagerly, head thrown back as it crowded me close to the wall, yanking my head back by a fistful of my hair. When it kissed me, it felt ravenous; the prince made a meal of me, hammering hard and without mercy, thrusting and pushing. As it came, it growled deep, and I felt the sticky warmth of it coat the inside of my ass. The cock popped free of my twitching hole, and I shuddered through my own orgasm, warm cum from my gaping ass dripping down my leg.

I felt like such a slut. Such a good little slut.

I woke with a start. I shot up in bed and realised I’d cum again and was now lying amongst my own mess. Shame pricked at my skin again, but the embers of desire helped burn it away. Like some sacred or holy blessing on me, like a ward against evil, each orgasm at the thought of that demon had muted those feelings.

By that point, it was probably four or five in the morning. Dawn would come some, and with it, a retribution I dreaded.

I hadn’t interacted much with the new bishop. I knew he was an old, conservative man, but they all were. I had almost expected someone from our flock to be named abbot, but the church had sent another bishop to us—most likely for the evil we protected in the form of those tomes. Still, before he had even arrived, I’d decided not to know him. Bishop Jonah’s ghost still haunted me and I didn’t want to realise just how little I had grown by allowing myself to be, once again, influenced by another of these officials.

But the fear I had, the one that just nearly suppressed my lust that night, was that the bishop would be alerted, he would swoop in and efficiently remove every dangerous tome under the monastery’s care, and then an inquisition would be held to find the culprit.

You see, I wasn’t much worried about that last point. It felt almost inevitable that I would be found out, and I’d developed a kind of numbness around that. It was the thought of the tomes being ripped away from me. Any chance I had to contact Asmodeus, Prince of Lust, again being taken and destroyed. The growing horror that if this demon did not fuck me, nobody would—or no average man would ever be enough.

Really, what was there to be ashamed of? If anything, holding back, pretending this wasn’t what I wanted— surely there was more shame in that? If I could be honest with myself, honest in the eyes of God, then that was better than lying for the rest of my life. It felt more honourable. More blessed. And in all honestly, the dream I had only proved how insidious my desire was. Lust fired through my veins.

A dream was only a dream. But I wanted to feel the real thing.

I wanted the demon to pick me up and throw me around, to use me completely, to fuck every thought out of my head.

Render me nothing but yours. Make me your slut, your hole, your toy; I will be nothing else. Not Don Alessandro. Not a man. Not even that.

Stronger than any covenant God ever made, that feeling. Stronger than shame, too. I said it like a prayer: make me a ruin.

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