Page 5 of Prince of Lust

The godly man in me screamed. I shifted inexplicably away from the growing creature, frightened in that primal way where the core of you starts to open like a yawning chasm, and every other part of you drops inside. I knew if I didn’t get a handle on it, I would be lost to the fear. Imagining running and leaving the Prince of Lust alone in a monastery—whatever dark scenario would play out; I knew I would regret fleeing.

You wanted this, I kept telling myself. You have been wanting this for years.

For my whole life. Every waking breath. Every dream.

I scuttled back inside the pentagram and stood to my full height, and as the demon materialised, it seemed to mimic me. Pink, puffy lungs expanded with sudden breath and were rapidly covered by tendons and muscle and skin. At once, everything came together and rendered it physical.

Asmodeus stood five feet, six, seven, and as the mist surrounding it dissipated, I choked in surprise.

To say the body was strong would be too lacking. The muscles were prominent, as if carved from marble, with the same sturdy density one would expect from a statue. It stood naked with its back turned to me, and I risked assessing it. Or, more accurately, my eyes wandered, grazing down its rippled back, where ridges grew from its spine to the tight waist and lower. Each thigh was the width of a small tree trunk. As if sensing me for the first time, it turned rapidly, sending its tail out to lick at the marble, the sound echoing like the clanging of steel against steel. I would have named it a beast. I had almost expected a beast. I would have taken anything. Anything at all willing to touch me.

But this. . .

It looked nearly human, if distended and much larger. The demon’s torso was pure muscle, skin taut and rippling over its sinews, and its skin was a tawny brown. The light from my torch was thrown over its face, which was handsome, eyes dark and watchful. Its skin glowed. Briefly, I was rendered silent: I saw a vision of Asmodeus’ glory, the prince surrounded by rings of hellfire, the whole body illuminated in beautiful destruction.

Fear thrummed through me, and something else, something deeper in me that Bishop Jonah had tried to beat out of me. Standing there, watching this thing materialise and knowing I wasn’t going to run, knowing instead I wanted to stay, I realised maybe Bishop Jonah had been right all along. There was something wrong with me. There was a terrible desire in me, and there had been all along. Maybe my entire life. And the other thing, the worst realisation of all: if this was a test from God, I was going to fail.

The demon met my eye.

Instinctively, I darted backwards, not quite out of the pentagram. Was it a game I was playing or genuine fear? I could not tell you. Resistance and willingness fought for my attention.

The demon turned to look at me. My shoes squealed as they slid over the stone.

“I asked you a question, Alessandro. What have you done?”

I watched the demon say the words in the stolen voice of Bishop Jonah, and I thought about laughing. The cruelty of that, the delicious blasphemy of it. All that emerged from my mouth was a desperate exhale.

The demon shifted its head to inspect me, and its voice morphed to a stranger tone, jolting, deeper, gruffer. “Are you ashamed?” it asks. “Embarrassed? What would they say, all your brethren, if they knew what you really wanted?”

Everything in me lit up. Warmth pooled in my belly and lower, and my heart beat madly. I still couldn’t help but flinch away from it. It was the size, I think, or the look on its face. Its eyes were the deepest black I had ever seen, save for a small gleam I’d like to think was amusement, which sparkled in the corner of its iris as it took in my squirming. The demon—Asmodeus—laughed.

The room rumbled with the sound. Dust dislodged from the ceiling and rained over us. The very core of my body tightened with anxiety and want; a smirk appeared on its lips. It stepped forward. I stepped back. We moved in a perverse little dance for a moment as I fought my open human fear, trapped in frightened muteness as the demon matched my every step. It looked me up and down, and its eyes turned bright and hungry.

Growling, it spoke. “You have summoned me with desire. With the open wet gore of your own body, you have pleasured yourself. You have thought of me and manifested me, and I can see what you want. You’ve been wanting it for years. Someone to open up your body. To take it. To make you take it. To hold you down as they ruin you.”

I shuddered. I had never—not once—heard it said so openly. The confidence with which it spoke and the nerves it sparked in me made me nearly instantly hard.

Asmodeus noticed. It glanced down between my legs and chuckled. “I know,” it said, “Poor little lamb. But I want you to say it.”

It stalked forward. Each footfall rattled the building, shooting vibrations up through my feet. Its tail flicked out like an agitated cat, whipping back and forth as it approached, and it bent down to better meet my eye, the way one might a child.

It reached out. A pointed, dagger-like claw scraped beneath my chin as it tilted my head back. The skin popped, oozing blood instantly. More gently than I thought I deserved, Asmodeus took my chin between forefinger and thumb, claws pressing into my puckered skin, and tilted my jaw until my neck strained.

“Filthy, blasphemous priest,” it growled. “What do you want?”

I exhaled. That sigh—it had a weight to it. I wanted to move without words or to have things done to me, partly because I felt inexperience hovering like a guillotine above my neck and partly because I wanted absolution. I wanted to touch it and be touched. I wanted it to fuck me, stretch me, gape me, to render every waking moment I spent in the worship of God worthless. Make me an object. Make me yours. Compare me to something to be discarded, something useless at best, a body to be fucked. Make me forget everything but the feel of your cock.

But the slut was still a chained animal at that point, and I found I could say anything. I couldn’t understand what I was feeling. Hadn’t I wanted this? I had risked everything.

My priesthood. My reputation. Now that the demon was here, I was a stuttering, embarrassing mess. All my inhibitions rose up. I remember the death throes of my faith rearing up like a spooked horse, screaming in the void of my lust-flooded mine: you are a priest, for God’s sake!

The thoughts I was entertaining—imagining this demon taking me and pinning me against a wall, massive hands wrapping around my waist—I knew I shouldn’t want that. I was too embarrassed.

Asmodeus grabbed my chin again, harder. The claws strained so hard I cried out, hissing against pain. Warm blood dribbled from the puncture wounds.

“Please,” I managed.

“Ah,” the demon said, smiling cruelly. “The bitch speaks.”

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