Something inside me broke open. I stared at him through the haze of sweat and arousal, through the blur of my own tears, and still—he smiled.The devil of my childhood, the monster that crouched in every sermon, that snarled between the lines of every Bible verse, warning me to keep my hands to myself, to tame the hunger in my blood.
And now here I was. Touching myself for him! Spreading my thighs wider on an altar. Crying out as my cock leaked precum over my stomach. All of Hell watching. And Lucifer—first among the fallen, proud morning star—smiling.
Was it approval? Amusement? Did he see himself in me now; was he thinking,ah, I was wrong to think you unworthy.Whatever it was, Lucifer’s smile only deepened my pleasure.
A thrill passed through me so violently I thought I might sob.
I was desecrating the temple of my own body. I was profaning everything I had once held sacred. But what else was this, if not worship? What else could you call the offeringof flesh, the outpouring of desire, the complete surrender of soul and self?
My rebellion, like his, was a cry for freedom. And now I acted out that rebellion with every thrust of my hips, every moan ripped from my throat. No more shame. No more silence. I had made a church of this altar, and in it, I was both priest and sacrifice.
The boy I had been—the boy who clenched his fists at ten years old, begging God to take the feelings away—he was watching too. Smiling, too, as he saw what I had become.
I jerked myself harder. The arousal hit me with an intensity I’d never before experienced. I was filthy. I was a whore. I was nothing more than this; I would never amount to anything more than meat seeking pleasure. I was there to give pleasure, to receive it, to marinate in it.
“Fuck, yes,” I murmured. My breath hitched.
I rolled my hips up into my palm and let my other hand drift lower, fingertips skimming my entrance, still raw and aching from where Asmodeus had worked me open. I pushed, just a little. My muscles clenched around the first finger.
I moaned again, louder this time.
“Show me,” Asmodeus said, voice closer now, “what you want.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I reached lower, slick fingers trembling as I pressed into myself—slow at first, then deeper, until I moaned, head falling back against the stone. The heat inside me hadn’t faded. Asmodeus’ touch from earlier had made me pliant: I was still stretched, still aching, still open. The slick sound of fingers pressing in and out echoed, obscene in the vaulted silence of the Court.
I fucked myself with my own fingers. One, then two. Then three. I couldn’t stop. My body rolled into the motion, hips shifting back to meet the thrust. The altar steamedbeneath me, sweat and spit and the musk of sex soaking into its ancient surface.
A fresh wave of precum leaked from the head of my cock as I worked myself wider. I was panting now, whimpering with my head lolling back against the stone. My whole body thrummed with desperate need. I wanted to cry. I wanted to be taken.
But more than that—I wanted the Kings to witness all I was willing to do to be claimed. How far I’d come from the boy in the chapel who had begged God to take this want away.
My fingers curled inside me, and I rocked down harder, crying out. I fucked myself until my arms shook, the muscles of my forearm spasming. I moved until my body couldn’t bear the pleasure of my cock without the fullness of something more.
I was open and holy in my ruin, and still I reached back, spread myself wider, and whispered to the demon watching:
“Please. I can’t anymore. I needyou.”
Asmodeus climbed up and smiled. It had only been waiting for me to ask. “Turn over.”
Eagerly, I pulled my own fingers free with a whine as I obeyed the command, crawling onto my stomach. Then I felt the weight of Asmodeus settle across my thighs, the sharp heat of its fingers dragging up my spine. I moaned at that contact alone, pushing my hips up as best I could, wanting its touch anywhere it would give it. The pressure of it against me, the connection between our flesh, was an eclipse of heat; I briefly forgot where I was and that I was being had in front of watchful eyes. I became a body tuned for pleasure and nothing more.
Its cock, broad and inevitable, pressed where fingers had already prepared me. My hands scrambled against the altar, searching for anything to hold as my knees shook beneathme. But before it pressed in, the demon announced loudly, “You are mine.”
The words struck something deep in me. I writhed with the anticipatory pleasure.
“Yes,” I said, squirming back against it, hopeful for it to enter me. Then Asmodeus lowered itself until its lips brushed my ear. I heard the fluttering flame of its eye, the sound like rushing water.
It spoke to me and me alone, then. “You have surprised me again and again, little lamb. My once-priest. Mywhore.”
It parted my cheeks, and instead of that heavy cock, I felt its fingers again—slick and scorching—curling inside me. More than one. I gasped and writhed, biting into my forearm to keep from crying out too loudly. The court welcomed my cries, drank them like holy water. Suddenly, they were murmuring amongst themselves; all those vile kings had come to watch my claiming.
I flinched, momentarily distracted by their voices, but Asmodeus’ hand snaked around my neck. Pressing firmly against my throat, it dragged my head back, closer to its mouth, with its other hand working inside me.
“You wanted to be mine. Isn’t that right? Mine,forever.”
“Forever,” I echoed.
