Page 61 of Unholy Fate

“Of course you are,” I said indulgently. “You keep telling yourself that, pet. But we both know the truth.”

I grabbed a fistful of his ebony hair, yanking his head back. He winced, but his eyes remained defiant.

“Submit,” I said. “Submit to me, and perhaps I’ll make it quick.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. I threw back my head and laughed, the sound echoing off the cavernous walls. “So be it, then. It seems you’re in need of a lesson in obedience.”

He struggled to maintain an impassive mask, but the cracks were forming, the desire warring with dread in his dark eyes. Breaking his stubborn defiance would be a decadent pleasure.

My hands mapped the contours of his body possessively, fingers digging into taut flesh. I would make him mine, mark him irrevocably. Shattering resistance was an art form I had spent eons perfecting. By the time I finished with him, he would beg for my touch, plead for the exquisite agony only I could inflict.

After all, I was the King of Hell. And Ian, my bewitching Astaroth, would submit to me like all the others before him.

The chains that bound him clattered softly as he strained against them, a symphony of defiance and desire I added to my infernal playlist. The shifting metal groaned in response to my unspoken command, repositioning his body, exposing him further.

I removed the last vestiges of his tattered pants, casting them aside like the debris they were. His cock, hardening despite his best efforts, was a testament to his true desires.

“So you do want this.” I traced a finger along the length of his shaft. “Good. It’s always more...rewarding when my prey admits their desires.”

I eschewed the usual preparations, the slow build-up that would normally be afforded to one of his stature. No, Ian needed to feel the full force of my wrath and lust. He needed to understand his place in the grand scheme of things.

I looked down at his ass, his tight anus puckered by his defiance.

“Very well, my pet,” I said, the words carrying a guttural edge of hunger. I positioned myself at his entrance, aligning our bodies, my red to his deep blue, and began to push in. It was a tight fit, his rarely-used ass clamping down on me like a glove. But he was made for me, my Astaroth—I had chosen him well.

The head of my enormous, ridged cock breached the tight ring of muscle, inch by agonizing inch. He hissed in air through gritted teeth, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. His face contorted into a stunning mix of pain and pleasure and something else entirely. Something that would be mine the moment I claimed him completely.

With a final thrust, I buried myself to the hilt inside him. Both of us gasped at the same time. He arched off the cold stone floor, straining against the chains, every fiber of his being rebelling against my possession while betraying him with pleasure. I wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him still as I began to move within him.

The scent of sex and sin enveloped us as we moved together—a delicious combination of sweat and musk and desire that intoxicated me further. The soundtrack to our sordid lovemaking was an ominous symphony played by Hell’s orchestra—a cacophony of moans and groans that echoed off the walls around us.

My fingers dug into his hips as I pounded into him slowly at first before picking up speed. Ian’s back arched off the slab once more as he met my rhythm willingly now—his body giving in to its carnal needs even as he fought against losing himself to me fully.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” I growled, my thrusts relentless, merciless, the very embodiment of damnation.

I didn’t stop there. I had been waiting for this for too long, and I intended to savor every last second of Astaroth’s torment. My hands gripped his hips, leaving behind the imprint of my fingers, as I claimed him in body and in spirit.

“Fuck you,” he moaned, his eyes clenched tightly shut.

“Oh, my dear Astaroth.” I leaned in so my lips were mere centimeters from his ear. “You’re already fucked. And I intend to keep fucking you.”

With each thrust, he weakened, his struggles becoming less coordinated, less effective. The chains creaked and groaned, echoing his pain and pleasure.

My other hand roamed his chest, leaving behind a trail of bloody claw marks, branding him as mine. He arched his back, still straining, still rebellious, which presented his neck to me on a silver platter, willingly offering the most intimate of gestures.

I plunged my fangs into his neck, feeling the rush of warm, life-giving blood spill into my mouth. He tasted of sin and repentance, of the sins of the father being visited upon the son. His blood was ambrosia, a symphony upon my tongue.

His moans intensified, his ass bucking back against my hips in a desperate attempt to find his own release.

“You will not orgasm! Not until I allow it,” I roared, my voice echoing off the dungeon walls.

And as I held him on the precipice of ecstasy, savoring his agony, I pulled away, leaving him whimpering.

“Submit, Astaroth,” I growled, my voice a low, menacing rasp. “Submit, and I’ll make it good for you.”

He shook his head, a defiant gleam in his eyes. “Never.”

Anger surged within me, and I doubled my efforts, eliciting a strangled moan from him. I knew the signs of capitulation when I saw them, and Astaroth was so close, so very close to breaking.

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