“You were made for this,” it said, low and close to my ear. “Made to be opened like scripture. Read from and worshipped through.”
I trembled. With my arms no longer supporting me, chest flush to stone, I struggled to spread my legs as wide as they could go. There was no grace left in my posture, only a complete offering. It could do with me what it wished. My mouth fell open. My vision swam. I could feel it now, not just in the flesh but in something beneath it, like through the act of fisting, Asmodeus had reached into the soft belly of my spirit and begun to sculpt me from within. Each shift of its hand shaped me, into this Saint it spoke of. Even through the pain, even through the raw humiliation of my body slick and shaking beneath the gaze of ancient kings, I felt holy.
Then, without warning, Asmodeus withdrew.
The sudden emptiness tore a cry from my throat.
I collapsed fully onto the altar, panting, trembling, my thighs slick and shaking from the effort of bearing that impossible stretch. But I was not given rest. Rough hands seized my hips. Before I could breathe, I was hauled up, spun, and thrown onto my back. My shoulder blades struck the altar hard enough to make me grunt. My legs splayed out beneath me, and I scrambled, dazed and burning, to prop myself up on shaking elbows.
Asmodeus crouched above me, wreathed in heat and shadow. Steam curled off its skin, and its eyes blazed, not with fury, but with a hunger. With pride, and a daring, possessive gleam.
“You begged to be mine,” it said, voice low. Fear made me shiver. “Now show me how you receive your god face to face.”
I stared up, chest heaving, legs spread wide and helpless before it. My body was still pulsing, my hole aching and wet with the echo of its claim. But it was the look in its eyes that undid me—that fathomless, burning focus. It was not the look of a man preparing to use a body, but like a god admiring the offering upon its altar before the sacrifice. What else could I do? I wanted it terribly. I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. My voice had vanished again. But my body answered loud enough.
Asmodeus lowered its body and gripped my hips, dragging me close. Its cock, broad and already slick, throbbed. Asmodeus spat onto its own cock with perfect aim, and the gesture was oddly sweet, for I was already gaping wide. Its cock nudged my entrance. I braced myself against the altar, spreading, arching back. My feet nearly slipped over the edge. The heat of its body against me made my vision blur.
“You begged,” Asmodeus said, voice molten. How teasing those two words sounded.
You asked for this. Do not forget that.
And it thrust inside.
The air left my lungs. My mouth opened, but no sound came forth. The stretch was somehow nothing like its hand. This was harder, heavier, a pressure meant not to test my limits but to claim every inch of me, and it felt like the length of my insides were made to take its sinking member. I felt myself split open around it, breath catching in my throat, limbs trembling as my body was forced to make room. Asmodeus moved in slow, unyielding inches, as if the demon meant to carve its shape into the very architecture of my flesh.
I cried out in pain, and Asmodeus groaned with the pleasure of my struggle. Resistance edged back into my limbs, andI seized up. Asmodeus cooed to me, once more strangely sweet, and it crowded close until I felt its balls press against my ass. Fully inside of me, it urged me to look at it. I whined, struggled to breathe.
“Shh,” it said, and wordlessly commanded me to open my mouth. I did so without question, tongue lolling free, and Asmodeus spit into my whorish mouth without warning. I swallowed reflexively, and whether it was real or imagined, an aphrodisiac-like pleasure softened my flesh. I relaxed, and it began to move again.
Soundlessly, the demon loomed above me, gaze fevered, wings casting flickering shadows across the chamber walls. I was aware, in some distant corner of my mind, that the thrones still watched. That Lucifer's eyes had not left me. But even shame had burned away now. I had nothing left to hide. My body was laid bare, my soul laid open. I was nothing but a willing, hollow vessel, and I slipped into a liminal state as the demon thrust. Years might have passed, or centuries, as it fucked me.
The demon’s hands slid beneath my thighs, lifting my hips from the altar so it could sink deeper. My back arched. I cried out, my voice hoarse and uncontained. My cock, untouched and aching, jerked against my stomach, already slick with need. Every thrust built upon the last, not faster, butdeeper, until the stone beneath me felt like it pulsed in rhythm with our coupling. I clung to the edges of the altar, fingernails biting into the groove of the stone, but I could not ground myself. There was no gravity here except Asmodeus; it was a force in and of itself, and I could not escape its terrible orbit.
“You are beautiful like this,” Asmodeus growled. “Open. Consecrated.Remade.”
I wanted to speak, to tell it I would endure anything for this. That it could break me apart, and still I would beg to be touched again. But my mouth had forgotten how to shapeanything but moans. I could barely keep my eyes open, for they were damp with pleasured tears and blurred by the force of its thrusts. Asmodeus bent over me, pressing its forehead to mine. I felt the sharp crown of its horns at my temple. I tasted ash and incense on its breath.
With one hand, it reached for my throat, not to choke—though I would have loved it—but to hold. To steady me. Sudden clarity returned to my vision, and I gasped loudly as it fucked hard into my open hole.
“You will bear my mark in everything you do,” it said.
I struggled to stay focused. I nodded against its hand around my throat. But my vision threatened to swim again, and my legs had gone numb. Like the whore I was, I could only open my legs wider still, ignoring the tight pull in my pelvis and hips. I knew there could be no true sanctity without my utter surrender. I was a reliquary, filled with the breath and blood of something ancient and unholy, and waiting to be filled with its seed and every inch of its lust.
Somehow, Asmodeus found a new depth. A place I did not know could be reached was touched, and in its wake,ecstasyflooded me, violent and bright. There, it pounded into me over and over, and I was screaming, pulled out of time and space into a liminal pleasure that crashed into me, and my cock pulsed and spasmed as I suddenly came, utterly untouched. I sobbed as the orgasm tore through me. It was not one of those rounded, blissful pleasures, but a sharp and blinding force. White light burst behind my eyes as I seized.
Pleasure surged through me with such violence I thought I might unravel entirely. My back bowed, muscles tensed in some sacred seizure, and I felt myself depart from the narrow vessel of my name: for one suspended moment, I was nothing but light and noise. What had beenAlessandro, the man, became little more than breath and pulse and pleasure. No thought remained, no prayer nor resistance, only theshuddering of a body unmade and remade upon an altar that had waited centuries for a soul willing to burn.
Somehow, I spilledagaininto the air, helpless. The double orgasm shocked me, and it was as though something deep and long-starved had been fed for the first time. The sound that left me, all raw and wordless, rang off the court’s walls; an unholy liturgy that echoed from stone hollows older than any cathedral I had knelt within.
Then came the change.
It began in my back, deep beneath the skin. A pressure built, steady and unrelenting, until I could no longer breathe through it. My spine stiffened, my chest strained upward, and heat rose like fever across my shoulders. I could feel something shifting beneath the surface, a rhythm out of step with my own heartbeat. The altar beneath me felt suddenly colder, or perhaps my body now burned too hot to measure.
There was no pain at first, only strain, a terrible awareness that my shape–this human form–was no longer enough. The pressure swelled until my mouth opened in a silent gasp, and then, with a force that ripped a cry from the hollow of my chest, the skin behind my shoulders gave way.
They did not burst from me all at once. Instead, they forced themselves free by slow degrees, thick and trembling. I felt every new inch push clear of muscle and bone. I panted as heat spilled down my sides, the air turning sharp and metallic with the scent of my blood. My fingers curled against the altar as I lifted slightly, helpless in the throes of what I was becoming.
Wings.
