Page 11 of Prince of Lust

I needed Asmodeus. I needed it right then and there.

I threw the covers off and lit two lamps before I went to the door and bolted it.

The room glowed with light. It was like a small cell, all cold stone. The bed—simple by design—took up most of the room, and the only other piece of furniture was a modest bedside table that housed an equally unremarkable oil lamp. I sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at my hands. The palm had been bandaged, but the wound still wept. Pink oozed through the cotton. Gingerly, I removed the bandage and exposed the puckered flesh beneath. It hadn’t been long enough to heal, and in fact, Asmodeus’ forked tongue had pried the cut open even deeper than I had first made it.

What if it made it larger? What if it used that wound to pleasure itself? Made it stigmata, made you holy with every thrust until you were stretched in the form of crucifixion, until you could look at your reflection in its black eyes and see the Son of God looking back?

Desire felt complicated.

I ignored the aching throb of my spent cock and turned to the pillow where I’d tucked the scroll away. I pulled it out, and locked eyes instantly with the sketch of the demon.

I made a low noise. Pathetic. Pathetic—I heard that rebound through my skull in Bishop Jonah’s voice and then in the prince’s. The effect was another aching throb through my appendage. I didn’t have to do much to coax it to attention.

Whilst I still had some control over my sanity, I stood and drew the pentagram in chalk around my bed. I’d slept in nothing, and so, already naked, I lowered myself onto the bed.

I had no knife with me, but I had teeth. I closed my eyes and summoned the demon in my mind. Asmodeus’ forked tongue flicked against the weeping wound. I tasted myself in a new way, shivering at the odd sweetness and the metallic undercurrent. Then, I bore my teeth and pressed the sharp edge of my canine against my palm.

Very simply, it hurt. I squeezed my cock for the slight shuddering pleasure it offered me, and my mind split. The stupid, cum-hungry slut roared to life and started a chorus of quiet, eager moaning. Yes, yes, yes—I gnawed at my palm, and that part of me revelled, knowing that when I bled, when I touched myself, when I thought of it, Asmodeus would come to me. The other part of my brain was the base, fearful primitive. Pain shocked it to life, and it reared up with a scream. What are you doing? You’re hurting yourself—stop it. Stop it.

I did not stop it.

Not until I tasted blood.

That time, instead of working my cock, I dipped my fingers in the oil from the lamp and edged those warm, blood-slicked fingers to my own ass.

I pressed in.

There’s always a moment at the beginning where one’s body tries to reject the interloper. It happened to me then—a pushing sensation, a bodily refusal, but I didn’t stop. I put another finger inside, scraping it over my own prostate, shivering at the jolt of feeling. I fucked myself.. I degraded myself for the act of it—I was a slut. By sunrise, every priest in the place would know what kind of sick man I was. By that point, it wouldn’t matter. I’d belong to the demon, not to God.

I bounced on my own fingers and called its title aloud. Prince of Lust, Prince of Lust. I touched myself sparingly, like the sacrament—this orgasm would be given to me by the prince itself and not my own mortal hand. I thought about the filthy things I wanted it to do to me—the things I might have let it do if it wanted to, if it asked me. The complete and utter surrender I would offer it, even when partaking, would send me straight to hell. I’d held it at bay for years, but now there was no stopping it. One taste of my fantasy, and it was all I could think about.

Please, I prayed, please, please, please, please.

Sulphur. Cedar. A pleased, airy laugh.

“Virgin on a technicality alone,” a deep voice said, amused. “You have desecrated yourself many a time. You desecrate yourself now.”

“Yes,” I said. I opened my eyes, and there it was: monstrous, hungry, watching. I slowed my movements and started to pull my slick fingers out of myself, but Asmodeus hissed. Its face crumpled into fury, and it rushed forward, slamming its fist against the wall to my left. I jumped and shuddered, sliding further down onto my fingers with a protracted groan. The force of its punch was so strong that brick indented around the large fist. Dust fell to the floor. I gulped and slowly met the demon’s gaze.

“Never said stop,” it hissed.

I moved slowly, doing as I was told. I started bouncing, and it tutted me. That liquid-quick tail lashed forward and sharply edged beneath my chin. The skin seared as the pointed tip carved a cut through the soft flesh. I winced, clenching involuntarily around my own cramping hand.

“Slowly, boy,” it whispered. “Show me how much you want it.”

So, I showed it. A natural nervousness washed over me at first, and I had to close my eyes to move with such intentional slowness. But the demon made a pleased noise, and it opened something in my gut. Another one of lust’s cousins: compliance. Submissiveness. Obedience. It dawned inside me the way desire did, growing steadily hot until I was in a haze. I drooped forward and spread my legs, angled so the demon could watch.

And it was watching. Very intently. My cock was twitching, the pink head swollen and dripping precum down onto my twisted thigh. The demon approached and I watched it from underneath my lashes, panting shakily as one of its fingers glided up my thigh. The claw scraped at the skin, but then it pressed the round rise of its finger over the pooling precum and put it to its lips.

“You summoned me again,” it said with something akin to wonderment. “You must really be desperate.”

“Yes,” I told it. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m desperate.”

“For what?”

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