Page 19 of Altar of Flesh

It snapped around. The angelic visage cracked; oozing blood leaked from its eyes, which had turned pitch black. The voice turned demonic, a thousand shouting cries at once as they screamed, “So many questions for a whore!” Its facade returned momentarily and that old, pleasant voice with it. “I should be askingyouwhat gives you the right to gallivant about in mine territory.”

I hesitated only momentarily but ended up telling it. What was the point in pretending to be anything other than what I was? I invoked Asmodeus, my Lord, at least four times, and each time Furfur sneered at me.

When I was done, it stared blankly at me before that placid face devolved into a grimace. It threw its head back and laughed so hard its body shook, wings bouncing by its side.

“Do you expect me to believe that, little human?” it snarled. Quickly, it pressed itself against the invisible barrier that kept it trapped within the circle. All those fine features scrunched against the delineation of the sigil’s power, skin bunching up, nose upturned, mouth and teeth bared as it breathed heavily. The skin singed, and it hissed. “How could you have piqued the Lord’s interest? Asmodeus is a King of Hell!”

Emboldened by my time with Furcas and, of course, by the safety granted by this sigil’s power, I stepped close. I told Furfur, “Because I summoned it,” and watched gleefully as its face fell. Curiously, Furfur tilted its head. The curled hair drooped to the side as it considered me in this new light.

“One of my brethren destroyed your body,” it said quietly. “You must have convinced someone to fuck you. Lustful, abhorrent human—I’m surprised by your persuasion.”

“Furcas did that to me,” I said and watched as Furfur raised a brow. It did not hide its interest in that and grinned broadly.

“Furcas? That ridiculous primordial cunt.” It spat the last word through its overly large smile. “It would not touch a human.”

“Unless. . .?” I prompted.

Furfur’s face fell. Inexplicably, in seconds, it drew its wings around itself. The white feathers shone as they slotted against one another, and soon I could see nothing of the angelic form beneath. Furfur was. . .hiding from me.

This lasted nearly half an hour. At first, I tried to speak to it, to encourage it to converse with me. But it was thinking, or sulking; I knew not the nature of demons and had found they weren’t consistent creatures. For whatever reason, Furfur did not wish to look upon me whilst it ruminated.

I drew away from it and lay down on the hot rock, letting it think and deciding I would stay there as long as it took. Asmodeus had tasked this of me, and so long as the sigil held,Furfur would be trapped. In the meantime, I set about trying to feel what was happening in my lower body. I spread my legs and reached around to feel the smooth, sensitive insides that had spilled out. It twitched as I tensed, half curling back towards the anus but not slipping back inside.

I flushed because I knew then that I would need help, and when I looked up, Furfur was looking back.

Its face was the picture of innocence, all upturned brows and gently pursed lips. It tilted its head as its wings sank behind its back. Quickly, I stood up.

Furfur said, “I have been thinking.”

“Yes, I gathered that.”

A beat passed. It looked me up and down. “What happens to me if I touch you?”

I frowned. What? “Nothing. Except, I suppose, a bit of pleasure.”

“And what happens to me if I don’t?”

Without thinking I replied, “I’m much more concerned about what happens tome. Lord Asmodeus tasked this of me. I won’t be allowed at its side without pleasuring a demon from every rank.”

It looked—defeated. Suddenly, I was hit by the softness of its tone. It had sounded so sincere, then, like a youthful young man. Like Oliviero, worried about forgetting a passage he had meant to memorise. But this—Furfur’s voice had a tinge of fear.

Then, stepping forward, I clarified with, “What are you afraid will happen?”

To my surprise, it answered immediately. “It is as you said before. I am being punished. Where my brethren’s circles summons them alone, mine binds me to the summoner.

I realised what it was saying belatedly. “You are worried I will force you?”

And I was floored.

At once, all of my Biblical studies rose up against me. It felt as if I had been punched.

Do not ask me why it had not crossed my mind before. Everything I had done in Hell, whether I had resisted out of fear or not, I had wanted; I had consented to in my heart of hearts. But the teachings rose in me, phrases and passages that had caught the morality in my mind raised up again.

The covenant of marriage became a bulwark against immoral action; marriage itself was all the consent a man could ever need to touch his wife. Sex was a duty for so many of the Christians I knew. In the community I had preached to, it had happened many a time.

If he forced himself upon her, was it rape, when Proverbs 5:19 said he could have her “at all times”? When 1 Corinthians 7:4 said, “A wife does not have the right over her own body, but her husband does”?

“Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbandsin every thing.”

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