“As my toy. My consort. My lover.”
Lover.My heart leapt high, and I whined. Lover. The term was more intimate than anything it had done to me.
Sex, I had known. I had endured it. Dreamed of it in the dark and repented for that desire in the morning. Sex, with Asmodeus and with lesser demons, I had come to love. The act was a grounding thing, as much as it was transformative. I had never felt so close to my own flesh, nor to Heaven, nor to happiness, as when something plunged into me; when my body connected with another, and we writhed together in ecstasy. Butlover?
Lover was a title, a role. It wasn’t somethingdoneto me, nor a naming of the act I participated in. It was something Iwas.To be fucked was simple. Even to be claimed. These were, in many ways, similar to duty–and I knew duty as well as I knew the Bible, for most of my life had been in service to God and to His institution. Perhaps I had fallen so easily into sex and had climbed the path to Asmodeus with that same sense of duty urging me onward, because I could twist it to fit the familiar role I had played as a priest. Acts of service, submitting my body to a higher cause–these were recognisable.
But to be called lover… that meant I was wanted not just as a body. It meant I was chosen, over and over, not for how I yielded, but for who I had become in the yielding.
My heart ached at the tenderness of it. Not gentleness—Asmodeus was never gentle—buttenderness, in the truest sense: a reaching toward closeness, even if the intimacy was laced with danger.
All the while, Asmodeus’ fingers were inside me.
It did not rush at it stretched me, instead filling me slowly, cruelly, until my body trembled from the strain. My thighs quaked. My cock rubbed helplessly against the warm stone.
When afourthfinger breached me, my breath hitched.
“More,” I begged, even as it began to feel too much. “Please. More.”
I was begging for its cock, of course, but Asmodeus only pressed deeper still, bony knuckles popping inside me as its fist sank inside.
My body shuddered, unable to comprehend the stretch, the unbearable fullness that now consumed me from within. Every nerve sparked like lightning under my skin. The altar beneath me had grown impossibly warm, as though it too had been stirred to life by the force of my submission. I grippedits edge until my knuckles whitened, tears burning at the corners of my eyes—not from pain alone, but from the enormity of what was being asked of me. What I was offering. What I was becoming. I cried out, trying not to fight it. But my body was resisting, and I held myself tensely, waiting for the pressure and the pain to ease. The sweat of panic pricked on my brow.
“Mmf–!”
"You open beautifully," Asmodeus said. “That’s it. Relax your hole for me; show me what you have become.”
I whimpered something incoherent, my lips trembling against the stone. The sound I made was incomprehensible. My hips lifted to meet its movement, and still I could not believe I had space for what it gave. But I did. My body, traitor and temple both, welcomed its sinking fist.
"This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" it purred. Its hand—arm—whatever part of it was buried inside me now—curled slightly, and the shift sent a cry spiralling out of my chest. "To be undone. To beruinedfor all others."
I choked on my own breath, desperate for more and terrified of just how much more there could be.
"And look," Asmodeus went on, almost sweet in its mockery, "how eager you are to be destroyed. A priest, once. A man of vows. Now nothing but a hollow vessel begging to be filled."
Its free hand stroked the small of my back with terrifying gentleness.
“You aremarkedby me, inside and out. Do you feel it?"
I nodded frantically, though no words came. My body pulsed, stretched wide and filled past understanding, and yet I still wanted more. My cock throbbed against the altar, untouched and weeping. I bucked against the stone, hoping to relieve some of the tension there, but that sudden jerk spawned a violent spark of pain and pleasure in my hole,where Asmodeus’ fist worked. Every movement inside me was a revelation. Every stretch an unmaking.
"As deep as I go," it whispered, “you still reach back for more. Is this devotion, or hunger?”
“Both,” I rasped, finally finding my voice.
It laughed, seemingly pleased.
And I felt it move, slow and monstrous inside me, a rhythm like the turning of stars, the grinding of Heaven's fall. What else could I do but succumb to that feeling? Somehow, I relaxed. I fell completely against the stone and my eyes fluttered closed as Asmodeus gaped me.
“Yes, relax. Good little lamb. You are not a simple man anymore,” Asmodeus said. “You are what I have made you.”
Part of me wanted to know what that meant, but that curious Alessandro was buried beneath layers of feeling and pleasure, and I could not ask. I let out a moan, and Asmodeus surged forward, saying, “Yes. You are desire incarnate. A psalm of lust.” And then, “You are Lust’s First Saint.”
Sound erupted in the chamber around me, but I couldn’t comprehend what was being said over the sound of my own moaning and the slick, wet noises of the fuck. Asmodeus silenced them somehow, or perhaps minutes of argument passed without my awareness, so lost in the throes of pleasure was I. Comprehending this new role and title, and what it meant, would have required more awareness than I could muster.Lust’s First Saint–it meant nothing to me in that moment. Indeed, all I managed to say, for I am utterly pathetic, was, “Fuck me!”
One slow drag of that infernal hand—one retreat—and I nearly collapsed. My muscles seized around its hand, like my body wanted both fist and cock. Trying to hold it inside me, desperate to preserve that unbearable fullness a moment longer. It did not remove its fist fully, but Asmodeus moved with purpose, knowing exactly how to unmake me.
It shifted its weight above me, pressing down into the cradle of my hips. The altar groaned beneath us, slick with sweat and holy desecration. I could feel the hand still inside me, knuckle-deep, palm-spread, anchoring me to a vast and terrible pleasure.
