Page 10 of Hell and Its Pleasures

The bishop nodded his head. “You already know your place,” he said. He brought his foot forward and ground his shoe over my cock.

I groaned and rocked forward, splaying both hands on the ground. Already painfully hard—and shameful about it, so shameful, so bitingly concerned I felt nauseous—the bishop’s touch sent both pleasure and pain sparking through my body.

“St-stop this,” I grunted, but even to myself, my voice sounded airy and faint. Distant with pleasure.

The bishop tutted. Using his cane, he shifted my chin up to look at him.

“Alessandro, you have always wanted to be treated like this. I knew it when I was alive, and I know it now. The only difference here is that you have proven it so willingly. You have killed to get here. Your body smells of blood, and life, and desire—youwantthis. Whether I am a lesser demon, or whether I am your Bishop Jonah, doesn’t really matter to you. In the end, what your body sees, what your body reacts to, is a desire for the depraved.” He stepped forward. I swallowed intrinsically. My heart raced. Conflicted, sitting somewhere between pleasure and fear, want and distress, I struggled to keep his gaze. “You may have never wandered about sucking my cock before now, but you are pathetic, and wanting, and if I tell you to open your mouth, I know you will do it.”

I didn’t do it. Not right away. I focused on slowing my breathing, which was rapid fire and inconsistent. I struggled to think—was he right? Had I ever wanted the bishop? Or had Iwanted his respect? His trust? His love? Were those such clear distinctions to me?

If I could have none of that, but I could still be of use to him, would I do it? Would I allow my throat to be fucked here, on my knees in this hellish limbo?

Would I do it for myself? Or for Asmodeus?

This part of me still clung to reasoning and logic. I still wanted to be a human man, bound up in morality, bargaining with oneself to avoid the guilt and shame so familiar to me. But now, after what I had done to Bishop Fazio, and the complete rejection of a life dedicated to God, why did I still feel this way?

I hadn’t replied to the bishop. He tutted and cocked his head and said, “Take the rest of your clothes off, Alessandro.”

I quivered. I felt my cock straining. Without touch, it felt warm and firm and twitching. The skin of the glands felt dotted with pleasure, vibrating with it. I wanted to touch myself. I wanted—something more.

I looked up at Bishop Jonah, who was not a pretty man by any stretch of the imagination, but he was familiar. A man who had commanded my respect and my fear for years now had me on my knees. . .

I could pretend I was doing this for the demon Asmodeus. If I wanted to be split open on its cock again, I would have to find it, somewhere in amongst this place. But Hell was large, ever expanding, and full of its demonic brethren—it was an unknowable place for mortals. If I couldn’t exchange my body for the help of demons, then what could I offer them? Why else would beasts of evil choose to aid in my cause?

Perhaps I. . .had to do this.

The bishop laughed. I jolted in place, pulled back from my anxious reasoning to this reality, where my knees ached, and dust covered me. Bishop Jonah bared his teeth. I felt like I had at thirteen, fourteen. Terrified of him. Terrified ofthe feelings that kept growing in my gut. The bishop leaned forward and tapped my chin again. The touch—warm, calloused, unkind—made me gasp.

“Oh, I know that look. You are trying to convince yourself that, if you truly think about it, there is a moral need for you to open your mouth and let me slide inside.”

I blinked at him. If my face could get any hotter, I’m sure it happened then.

“After everything,” the bishop continued, “I have to wonder. Do you still need to convince yourself to do things, Alessandro? Or will you justdowhat you wish and bear the consequences?”

My heart thudded in my chest. The nausea in me gave way to a giddy release, because I knew, in my heart of hearts, that he was right. What consequence would there be for this action except Hell, a place I had already welcomed? I had killed a holy man and forsaken God so thoroughly and publicly that there could be no redemption.

Stop fighting it, my gut said, my heart pleaded, my mind cooed. It didn’t matter who touched me. It didn’t matter what they looked like. I wanted to be had and used and wanted; I wanted this vessel to be made useful.

Bishop Jonah saw me relax and stopped laughing, though that all-knowing smile could not be so easily dislodged. With a fervour, he shifted his cassock aside, and pulled himself free.

The layers of the priestly cloth had obscured it, but he was excited, as hard I was. My mind went blank momentarily. I forgot who he was, his age, his appearance—I forgot everything except that I was on my knees and that someone had their cock out for me to suck. Another part of my mind, long tethered and controlled, slipped forward the way it had with Asmodeus. I found it easy to let go and did nothing to stop him as he walked forward.

He smelled of sweat. He gripped his cock, flushed pink at the tip, averagely long but with ample girth, and he pressed it against my face. I closed my eyes with my heart racing, inhaling the smell of the underside of his cock, and sucked a ball into my mouth. It had flavour—sweat and unwash, not unwholly unpleasant—and in fact, the added degradation of having the bishop drag his unclean self over my face only made me shiver more.

“Pathetic,” the bishop said, and I groaned as I sucked. He hissed and wrapped his fingers into my hair, pulling hard, and then he wrenched me off. His ball left my mouth with a pop, and I only had time to say, “Ah!” before he shoved my mouth over his twitching cock.

The moan that left me was guttural, smothered by the blockage slowly pushing down my throat. Without care or ease, the bishop thrust hungrily into my mouth. I lasted five thrusts before I gagged, before the rapid motion in and out of my throat made my body convulse around the girth. The bishop groaned, rocking forward as the sides of my wet pharynx closed around him.

He pulled out calling the Lord’s name. “God, oh Holy God,” he said. I looked up at him and he slapped me hard across the face.

“You love this,” he said, stepping his foot once more against my straining cock. “You disgrace the church with how much you love this. Tell me, Alessandro. Confess.”

I didn’t, not right away. I was still catching my breath. He used the moment of open-mouthed panting to press himself once more inside. Then he gripped a fistful of my hair and thrust. I tried to stay calm, to breathe around the blockage, to not gag, but he was so deep, and my throat was so full that tears gathered at the edges of my eyes. He stuffed himself into me, cock ramming down as deep as it would go, and a flood of saliva and bile pooled in my mouth. When the bishop draggedhimself free, the wet mix dripped from my mouth and splattered into the dirt.

I moaned. I smelled of sex and want and sweat. My cock ached with desire; I could see it twitching through the breeches. Bishop Jonah’s eyes glided down my chest and stomach hungrily, and he made a soft noise when his eyes saw my cock, but somehow his expression remained slightly close to disgust. Like all of this was a chore, like he enjoyed none of it. Like it was his duty to do this to me. To put me in my place.

“Take them off,” he said.

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