Page 4 of Prince of Lust

In order to summon him, you must be filled with true desire for him. Draw the symbol. Draw blood. With the same hand that drew blood, touch yourself as you wish to be touched.

I shook as I took the chalk and bent as if in supplication to sketch out the pentagram on the floor. While squatting inside it, I took a letter opener and used it to cut open the palm of my right hand.

Stinging pain sent a thrill through my body in rapid pulses. The blood was warm, and I winced when I flexed my hand, feeling as the skin stretched and pulled and widened the wound.

Then came the question: how did I want to be touched?

I moved the layers of my priestly garb aside, still too ashamed to strip fully—ashamed to commit to this act and ashamed if I was wrong. If I couldn’t summon this creature, I didn’t want to be nude when the realisation hit me, cock and body covered in smears of my own blood.

I lay the scroll out in front of me, where Asmodeus was depicted in graphite that had faded long ago. I saw horns, the lick of a tail. I saw a broad, well-defined chest ghosting over the old paper.

In order to summon him, you must be filled with true desire for him.

I closed my eyes and summoned the thought of him. I imagined hands twice the size of mine running along my thighs. I imagined them loping around my neck, squeezing, pulling me forward. I imagined the beast doing what it wanted to my body, and I was too weak to resist. That was what I wanted. That was how I wanted to be treated. I would not be swayed from my path now; God had been a detour, and pleasure was the only thing I wished to worship.

Desire and warmth flooded to the base of my cock, which twitched before I’d even touched it. The first stroke urged it to harden. The blood leaking from my wound coated the shaft and sucked sensually against it with every tug; I was flushed and fighting shame in favour of this. I desired my satisfaction, but it took everything in me to focus, to allow myself this.

Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this the kind of filth you have craved your whole life?

I imagined the voice was not mine but Asmodeus’. I answered loudly, clearly, and out loud.

“Yes.”

I spread my legs. The cold night air did nothing to quell the heat in my groin, and as I stroked and the wet noises of blood slicking against my cock echoed against the stone, something happened that shifted me and this act away from crude pleasure. My body and my mind crystallised to that singular focus; a building rhythm in my groin, hand cupped with pestilent desire, the blood and the body: I achieved a kind of mysticism. The forefront of my mind collapsed under the weight of my excitement. I was gone from myself, and the animal in me took over to thrust, to grind, to steal every bit of friction it could from my blood-slick palm.

The air rose around me as if the sides of a coffin were boxing me in. Asmodeus in my mind’s eye. Asmodeus filling me up. The rapture of its insistent touch and the force of its pressure bearing down on me was something that I couldn’t ignore. Something kissed me, though I could see nothing. This presence began to learn my body and acquainted itself with my lips and my teeth. A warm tongue filled up my mouth and flicked over my incisors. I moaned throatily. Something sharp tore at my lip—I screamed out as the wet metallic taste pooled under my tongue. I buckled. My body twitched, confused as the conflicting sensations sparked in my brain. The pain, the pleasure—claws teased my skin, which split open under the invisible press of a large hand.

I came.

Within seconds, my eyes rolled back, and my body convulsed in the throes of the little death—a blinding, endless bit of liminality. My bloodied hand trembled, and I listed forward, sprawling in the mess I had made. Half suspended on my spread hands, I stared, panting at the mix of blood, cum, and sweat that now decorated the pentagram’s interior.

It was done. It was inevitable, now.

I braced myself for a demon.

Three

“What have you done?”

The voice echoed in that lonely stone room and made me shiver. My head shot up.

It was Bishop Jonah’s voice. I was sure of it.

Unbidden memories came to me—his beatings, his teachings, his frequent scolding. My fingers dug into the filth-covered stone, tense and insistent. I hoped I would find purchase there; I craved the feeling of being anchored.

But my mind was clouded by the orgasm, and as the pulsing aftershocks faded, the nonsense of my fears became apparent.

I was alone, and Bishop Jonah was long dead. The voice had been in my mind.

I thought again of how often the old man scolded me when I was new to the holy order. What I had heard must have been the voice of guilt, like a puckered wound refusing to heal. Either my own or God’s last attempt to keep his child pure.

Only, if God truly intended to keep me pure, He should have made me feel guiltier. Instead, I’d had years—decades!—to overcome the guilt and the shame. I never would have gotten this far if guilt was enough to stop me.

Splayed there with the old scroll spread on the ground and my cock spent and dripping, pleasure, and stinging pain throbbing around my body, I struggled to feel anything but animalistic joy. A strange and blissful shock.

I had really done it. I had done something forbidden in the eyes of God — hell, in the eyes of any decent man — and the consequence was beginning to rise now from the pentagram of chalk and blood I had drawn on the clear stone floor.

It came together in a knitting of nerves, osseous matter, tendon, muscle, skin; a tapestry of life made from the wet gore of my own hand. Droplets of my blood were sucked through the air to join with this unholy making.

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