And yet—somehow—I felt powerful, too. For Asmodeus was panting with me.
“Kneel,” it said.
I smiled as I went down. There was no shame in the motion, nor did I make a ritual of it. I lowered myself because my body longed to be low before it, and because my mouth ached to serve.
Lord, how I had dreamt of this.
How many nights had I touched myself beneath the monastery’s sheets, trembling with half-formed thoughts of surrender? Yet even the molten heat of thirty-five years of buried desire could not compare to the reality. Desire, when it was untethered to something or someone, became nothing but the fantasy of a touch-starved man. A weak thing.
But everything changed the moment I summoned Asmodeus. Lust becamelaw. Willingness becamecompulsion. Passion hardened into the force that drove me through Hell and all its trials. From the instant its form rose before me, speaking in Bishop Jonah’s voice—What have you done?—I had been moving toward this moment with Asmodeus, and toward every moment that would follow. An eternity of pleasure.
Above me, Asmodeus stroked a hand over my head. A single clawed finger traced the line of my cheek, pausing at my lips. It circled them, slow and deliberate, while the others teased the stubble along my chin. My breath quivered. Its cock pulsed. I imagined the weight of it against my tongue and sighed, shifting on my haunches as impatience coiled in me.
Before we stepped into the Court of Kings, Asmodeus had touched me. That pleasure had been divine in its completeness, nearly sacred despite the restraint of its hands—and simply hellish when it was withdrawn. Now, caught up in recollections of the heat of its touch and the weight of itsdesire, my body responded instantly. My hole fluttered around emptiness, aching for what was to come. My cock twitched at the sight of its own, growing darker and fuller between its legs. It throbbed as it grew, the hair over its crotch shifting as its length disturbed it. I leaned forward, trying to kiss the fingers that played over my lips. How desperate I was for that cock to press onto my tongue.
You see, here is something unspeakably powerful in the act of worship. And thiswasworship. I would venerate it with my mouth, make of my body a low altar, and offer my tongue as sacrifice. To kneel before the Prince of Lust and give myself freely was not mere desire, but devotion.
And, I feared, a kind of love.
Not because of whatcouldhappen–the knowledge that, eventually, the demon would take more from me, and perhaps would be driven to the need to fuck me as it pressed into my throat, only to realise it wanted more–but because the act itself would bring it pleasure. Because I–Alessandro, the once-mortal, the once-priest–would be the cause of this ancient being’s unmaking. My mouth, my throat, and my hands were the instruments by which I meant to pull sound from the throat of a creature older than sin.
There was power in that.
Asmodeus lifted its fingers from my face and allowed me to approach. I crawled on my knees, untroubled by the cold stone biting into them. Pain, in this context, was a prayer. It only sharpened my purpose.
When I reached it, I bowed my head and pressed my lips to the warm flesh beneath the base of its cock. Just beneath the weight of its sac. I lingered there, reverent, dragging my cheek and mouth along the skin, inhaling its scent.
It was thick and heady—earth, sweat, salt, and something far darker. The smell alone made my thoughts blur at the edges. I worshipped with slow teases, with lips and breath,until Asmodeus seized my hair and pulled me back. I hung suspended in its grip, my mouth inches away from divinity. It remained silent. But the stillness in its body, the heat of its skin, told me everything.
With one hand, it stroked itself for several agonising seconds and then dragged that thick, veined length across my face, anointing me in its musk. It pressed the head into the soft hollow of my eye, where it pressed and thrust, as if intending to use the socket. Then it dragged along the bridge of my nose.
“Smell it,” Asmodeus commanded. I inhaled as it demanded, willingly, greedily. This was a demon, not a washed and clean body. Yet I found the scent of it thrilled me; the musk and the sweat as enticing as any perfume. I was filthy, and I loved it.
That thick member pulsed against my skin, hot and heavy, and I licked a slow line along the length of it without waiting for instruction. My tongue dragged over veined flesh, tasting the slick already gathering at the tip, breathing it in like incense.
“Smell it,” Asmodeus commanded.
I did. Deeply.Obediently. This was not a clean thing. It reeked of flesh and desire, of power. And I adored it. I, too, was unclean, and I rejoiced in it.
Its cock throbbed against my cheek, heavy and hot, and I needed no permission. I leaned forward and licked it. I tried to be slow and reverent. My tongue traced the veins, tasted the salt and the slick at its tip, and I breathed it in like incense offered at a profane altar.
I half expected the demon to rebuke me for my impatience.You should have waited, little lamb,it might have said.Waited to be told how to serve.But Asmodeus only chuckled, indulgent and dark, as though my eagerness was a delight it had long anticipated.
It grasped the base of its cock and tapped it lightly against my cheek, then again upon my lips. I parted them without thought, instinctively offering myself—but its grip tightened in my hair, and it pulled me back, just beyond reach. Teasing. Testing. A game of restraint and ache.
Well, I failed instantly. Hadn’t I waited too long? I groaned and leaned forward, desperate to catch the head with my mouth, but Asmodeus angled away once more, watching with quiet amusement as I struggled.
"You wish to serve," it said, voice curling low, silken with amusement.
"Yes," I breathed.
"Then show me your hunger."
"Please," I begged. My voice was hoarse, stripped of pride. "Please. I’ve waited so long. Let me taste you."
It did not release my hair. Instead, it held me still, waiting until my lips opened in a perfect ‘O’. Then, slowly, it pressed the flushed head between them. It moved in and out, shallow and unhurried, letting only the tip pass over my tongue—just enough to leave me wanting. Each withdrawal ended with a soft pop as my lips clung to its retreating flesh.
I tried to chase it with my tongue, to lick around the slit, but Asmodeus tutted low, a warning. For what felt like eternity, it toyed with me, dragging its cock across my lips and cheek, tapping the curve of my jaw, until either its patience waned, or it found satisfaction in my quiet unravelling.
