Demonic (Sex???) Possession Written By A 15 Year Old Virgin (ft. Loki)

(From the archives, like as in, exactly ten years ago in 10th grade. My nephew is currently pacing around in circles and has not stopped talking for ten minutes with enough energy to power all of China high off being six years old.)

TW: Loki boxing match, erotic lava, sex/possession as told by a virgin, and lots of… scythes?

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Really Weird Erotica I Wrote While Manic at 19 and Psychotic for the Neverending Samael Smut Novel

(I wrote this when I was high off my own brain, and not only does it involve chili corn dogs, it also involves Satan turning red during sex, bestiality with a naga, and lots of other weird crap.  Have fun!  This is your brain on mania and psychosis when you are a romance novelist!)

I felt something twitch against my neck.

“Squeaker?” I murmured.  Great.  The rat had escaped, again.  There would be rat crap in my bed.  I brushed him from my chest.  “Stupid little rodent-”

His tail was obese, scaly, and much too large.  It coiled around my wrist like a bracelet then wended its way through my fingers.  The bed I laid on shifted, and my pillow sighed.

“Hello, lamb.”

Pillows.  Sighing?  It must have been the cafeteria food.  Twenty-four hours later, and it still cast its sick spell on me.

Shana,” someone whispered.  A phantom hand brushed my hair.  I felt muscled arms wrapped around my waist.  Ghost lips touched my brow.

“Great.  I’m hallucinating.  I knew I shouldn’t have touched that chili corn dog at lunch-”

A rumble of deep laughter shook my ‘bed.’  The pillow-that-was-not-a-pillow felt warm and supple, like it was living.  The mouth encompassed mine, silencing my panic.  Groggy, I let the lips linger, wondering what the hell had been in that mustard.

The hands guided me onto my stomach and reached down to cup my hips.  I ran my hands over Dream Dude’s stubbled cheeks.  His chin brushed like sandpaper against my jaw.

“Uh?” I murmured.  “A five o’ clock shadow at dawn.  I thought those were cast at evening,

“I cast shadows at all hours.”

“Sure you do, dream dude.”  I closed my eyes, sucking at the skin in the hollow under his ear.  He inhaled sharply, parting me with his fingers.  I gasped, grinding into his palm.  “That’s funny,” I murmured.  “Most of the hot guys in my dreams are blond.  And we’re on a tropical island, or a beach somewhere.  This place is so dark and broody.”

The scaled thing struck into me.  I gasped, cinching around it.  The mustard- induced monster guy groaned.  He raked sharp nails down my back.

“What the hell!” I gasped.

“This isn’t a dream, maggot,” he said through gritted teeth.  “Damn you and your brain of a flea-”  He roared as I nailed down on it, trying to shut him up.

“You’re right, dude.  This is a chilli dog nightmare.  But a strangely erotic one.  They must’ve used the devil’s ketchup or something-”

Stop,” he moaned.  “Too much.”

“That’s you’re fault- holy God.  You must have really humongous feet- AH?” He writhed impossibly inside me.  I moaned, digging my fingers into his shoulder.  “What the hell was that!” I demanded.

He sucked at my breasts.  “Me.”

A gas lamp hissed to life behind a stained glass window.  The not-blankets knotted around my legs, sliding in coils up my midriff.  I was burrowed in the knots of a snake.

He groaned, twining around me, and the not-bed surged  up until my back was pressed to the wall.  He grinded against me, velvety skin yielding to cool scales below his torso.

“I’ve wanted to join like this with you for eons, Havah,” he whispered.  His speech was cool as a hiss.  “Look at me.  I can walk now.  I can stand.  You gave me my speech and strength.  I will protect you as I could not before.”  He threaded his fingers through mine, squeezing my hands to his heart.  He kissed my knuckles with a flicking tongue.  “I am here for you always, Havah.  You no longer must walk alone.”

Warmth exploded like fireworks within me.  It was the Fourth of July down below.  “Are you like Satan or something?” I cried.  “All the exploding and fire.  We didn’t cover this in sex ed.”  I curled up on myself, unable to contain him.  It was, as he’d said, too much.  “I’m burning.  God damn chilli dog.”

He withdrew, wettened by me.  The chilli dog-demon’s eyes glowed.  “Pray for me, Havah,” he begged, thrusting his tail into my mouth.  I bit it in surprise. He groaned, keeling under me.  I ran my hand down the shaft, trying to wrench it from my mouth.  It snaked down my throat to gag my screams.  My wails shook the coils and joined his roars.

“Bloody severed god.  Yes.”  He withdrew, letting me breath.  He caressed me as I shrieked, gazing at me in awe.  Sweat clung to his brow. “You are everything, Havah,” he whispered, gently kissing my neck.

I bawled.

“You’re crying?” he murmured, eyes closed as he nipped at my skin.  “Don’t cry, my angel.  Shana?  This is the happiest moment of my life.”  The monster rocked me like a child.  “Please,” he said weakly, “stop.”

“You’re the Devil.”  I choked on snot.  “The cafeteria used Satan’s ketchup, and they summoned an unholy demon.  Why?” I screamed.  “Why didn’t I pack a BLT?”

“Stop!” he pleaded.

“You sound evil.  Like Lucifer’s spawn.  Why?” I pleaded.  “Why me?  Don’t eat me, my god, wake up.  I can’t wake up-”

“You are awake, maggot.  And, I already ate you.”

“But I’ve been dreaming.  Dreaming such horrible things.  About death and gods and angels.  And Samael,” I said with revulsion.  “I hate that guy.  I hate him.”

He growled.

“Stop growling at me!  Let me go, bed rape-basilisk thing!”

“I’m a man,” he grated.  “Not furniture.”  He forced me down on his torso and grinded against me.  Bed-rape futon monster moaned, running his tongue over his unfriendly incisors

“What are you doing?” I bawled.  He thumbed tears from my eyes.  His lips pursed in pleasure and eyes hooded like a snakes’.

“Waking you up.”

The rape tail choked my neck.  He poked its tip in the corner of my mouth.

“Suck,” he ordered, threatening me with his fangs.  On pain of death, I did.  He nuzzled my neck.  “Oh Havah.”  He licked the tears that streamed from my eyes, finding pleasure in my Lovecraftian horror.  I was being raped by Cthulu.  His tail twined around my tongue, and the scales below his abs bulged.  He hissed, rubbing the mound against me until I thought I would burn.  Shaking, he crushed me to him, roaring as he bucked into me.  He lost control of the dreaded tail, and I spat the damn thing out.

“I’m being humped by an anaconda,” I said, mortified.  I clung to his shoulders, riding him against my will.  He buried his face in my breasts.  “You, good sir, are a freak.  Freak of nature, that is.”

“Please shut up,” he rasped.  His tail arched above me and cracked down on my hips like a whip.

I screamed as it struck me and hammered down on him from the whiplash.

“You asshole!” I cried out, incredulous.

He purred.  “I enjoy that.”  He lashed me again, groaning.  The mound kissed my lower lips and throbbed.  “Your assets, I mean.”  He clawed at my hips, pounding against them until his skin was slick with me.  He thrust me back into the curve of his coils, running the mound over my breast. My heart throbbed with it, and a monstrously loud pulsing burst through the room.  His basilisk tail arched my back into a C.  I cried out, clinging to him.

“Samael?” I whispered.

“You’re awake.”

A wet sucking sound came from his chest, like an old wound had reopened.  He cried out as his empty heart rotted.  Thick blood wept down his torso, into my hair.  He wet his fingers with it and thrust them into my mouth.  I swallowed, senseless.  Zuhama, the gall of death.  Fires incinerated my veins.  I wavered on the edge of consciousness, the drumbeat of his heart pounding through my head like gunfire.

He moaned.  He thrust me onto my knees so I straddled him, facing away.  He arched over my back and grinded me into his scales.  I cried out, overwhelmed, and dug my fingers into the ridges of his underbelly.  I was sandwiched between his chest and tail, breasts crushed against his scales.  His fangs flashed in the moonlight.

You’re the dragon,” I gasped, somewhere beyond horrified.  The mound ran down my spine to dip between my hips.

“Observant, Watson” he sighed, pausing to kiss me below.  I yelped.

“Not okay!  This is not natural!-  oh my god that god damn tongue…”  He curved like a conveyor belt around me, running the bulge up to my lips.

“Please,” he begged for the same.

“Hell no.”

He ignored me and did so anyways.  It was like 69ing a hydra.  Clearly into it, he wrapped his tail around my neck in a choke-hold, rubbing against my cheek.  He groaned below as I wept, demonic tongue spearing into me.

“This is so wrong.”

“For the love of filth, shut up.”

Glaring at him, I licked it.  He screamed.

“Too much, maggot!” he roared.  He shoved me down and arched over me, grinding it into my core.  He crushed me like a python , his touch brutal and unforgiving.  He forced my head down so I couldn’t speak, then used his tail for deviant purposes.  He laughed at my muffled shrieks.

Blood for blood,” he whispered.  I felt his back press into me.  His fangs sunk into my neck.  He groaned as the blood welled up.  I bit down on him in pain.  The heartbeat from his chest was deafening. He hissed into my skin, thrusting me down so we locked.  I was a butterfly on pinned wings.

Breath heavy, he wrenched my head sideways and forced his mouth on mine so that I tasted the blood.  I reeled from the brutality as he thrust his tongue past my lips.  The ghost of a smile touched his face.

He pulsed between my legs.  My mouth parted in confusion.  He closed his eyes, gasping, then let out a hollow sound.  Suddenly, his skin burned, and he erupted into me.  He caught the scream on my lips and thrust into me, ravenous.  I shook in a hot sweat and moaned, completely overcome. He smiled as if mocking my terror, then razed my lips with his fangs.

“You’re unholy,” I whispered.  “A monster.”

“An aberration,” he taunted.  “But you like it, lamb, so lie back and think of Gehenna.”  He flipped me over in his coils, slowing his thrusts.  Each one was agonizing.  He smirked at my wide-eyed amazement.  It was the guilty grin of a five year-old that had busted into the cookie jar and still had crumbs on his lips.

“God damn snake anatomy,” I rasped.  “I… forgot… AP Biology…”

“Expect the unexpected, maggot.  Otherwise you’ll be ill-equipped- BY THE FIRES OF SHEOL, YES.”  What was a burning became an inferno, his scales like hot irons.  Hellish profanities tumbled from his lips like filth.  He roared them and my name.

“You’re turning- red?” I gasped, incredulous.  His midnight black scales flushed the color of a bloodstain.  Sam’s pallid cheeks bloomed into life.  He hammered into me, laughing madly.  The ceaseless tide of pleasure made me cry out  like an idiot.  “You’re a bastard!” I inhaled.  “Oh my god.  Oh my god oh my god-”

“The Lord,” he growled, shoving me down on him, “has nothing to do with this.”  He played me like a puppet, slamming me to meet his thrusts.  The rippling coils were cords of muscle and would have given weaker men motion sickness.  I felt like grain in a mill, grinded by an endless wheel.  “I invented sex,” he snarled.

“Sure you did- oh my god STOP!-”

He roared like a lion.  I fell absolutely still, terrified to speak.  In the silence he continued, language degraded to guttural sounds.  He lapped at the blood on my shoulder and started to grunt, clawing at my breasts.

“Take me, Havah.  Take me.”

He swelled within me, impossibly large, and I lapsed into the Prayer of St. Michael.

Lightning struck the mansion’s roof.  Samael bellowed with the thunder.  He crooned like a bitch in heat, angel’s song made dirty by lust: “Hayah Havah, my Eloa.”  He dragged us to the base of his coils and thrust into my core.

Red Shana.  My rose.”  His grip was crippling, and he howled.  His gall knifed into me, and I screamed with him.  His skin flashed crimson at the height of our ecstasy, and I felt my vitality pour into his heart.  His wound scarred over once more, and the bite he had given me closed shut.

“So that’s why the Devil’s red,” I said, mortified.  “You’re like the butt of a monkey in heat.”

He hissed, tail coiling around my neck. “Don’t make me strangle you.”

“I’m getting raped by a basilisk.”

“Your’s is not to question, Eve.”

“So you admit that you just raped me, masquerading as a chilli-dog nightmare?”

“I admit nothing.”  Though spent, he stayed inside me, pressing into me gently now. I bit my lip, on fire inside, and cried out as his poison filled me.

“Too much.  It hurts.”

“Embrace the pain.  It’s the only true thing, girl.”

I groaned.  “You’re not the Molotov cocktail!”  I blushed with fever, unable to breathe.

He sucked my lip, breathing life into me.  “The tail of a what, you said?…”  Within, he proved his point.  He hissed.  “So small,” he whispered.  I clung to his chest like a straitjacket.

“Please,” I begged.  “Stop, or I’ll spontaneously combust.  I’m flammable, Samael.”

“You’re fine.  More than fine.” He massaged my shoulders, humming.  “Glorious, actually.  Like Eden on my skin-”

“Stop invoking the Bible!.”

“I’m trying to stop myself from singing,” he muttered.  “Angels do so when we are… aroused.”  His black hair spilled across my shoulders as he pressed his face to my neck.  He struggled to restrain himself so I didn’t incinerate.

“Ohhh-kay.  Lovely.  Now the Heavenly choirs will scar me for life.”  I remembered him brooding under the moonlight that time I’d passed out drunk on his couch.  He’d sung me to sleep like a dream.

“I used to sing lullabies to you, Shana.  Under the moonlight.  Songs I made just for you.”

“About maggots?”

“That was your favorite.”

“Only because they turn to butterflies in the end.”

A rumble rose in his chest.  He sighed, embracing me.  “Why do you grow more beautiful with time?  I just become more wicked.”

“Well, first off, I don’t rape people.”

“I can’t help it.  I have wanted to consummate this union from the first time I laid eyes on you in this life.”

“In the hearse?”


“As a skeleton?”

He was silent.

“How would that even-”

“Would you just enjoy the moment?”

“Getting boned by a basilisk?  Yeah, I’ll tell you how it feels.  Like an X-rated Exorcist.”

“Shall we masturbate with crosses next?”

“No!  My god, your mind is a gutter.”

“Says the girl who enjoys possession.”

“No I don’t!  What the hell are you talking about-”

“What do you think I’ve been doing,” he whispered, consciousness enveloping my mind.  It was a bit like a tranquilizer.  I zoned out in the cool black nothing like I was knocked out on pain meds.

“You’re just a vacuum…?” I whispered.  “I’m fucking a black hole.  How is this I don’t even-”

The darkness took me completely.  I was aloft in the abyss, like Brahma in his primordial lotus.  It yawned around me, drenched with my name as it filled me.  I gasped, only to breathe him in, and Death hurled against my skull like the sea.

“Mind rape,” I rasped.  “Oh my god.”

The darkness contorted into a robe.  I was in the lap of the Reaper again.  Blackness peered back at me, smirking.  Terrified, I forced his hood back.

He was faceless.  Black nothing.  It sucked at my skin, plunging me into eternity.  I saw ages in its eyes: supernovas erupted before me, in the beat of a heart we came to the edge of the world.  My little lonely planet was a pipe dream, the reality I knew void.

“Existential Nietzschean mind rape?”  I gagged, stomach rolling.

The black nothing pinched my ass.  I gazed at it, incredulous.

“Stop grinding into me, abyss!”

I was being humped by darkness.  It was horrific.

He came a final time.  It was like I’d swallowed absolute zero.  Which, circumstances considered, was just about right.

“I don’t have an Antichrist in the oven, right?” I cried out, bitch-slapped by a refrigerator.

I AM BARREN.  thrummed the void.

“Err, right.  Good.  I mean- um, that must be a touchy subject- ack!

He laughed low in his throat, suckling my breast.  It was like being stabbed by an icicle.  He slipped out of me, spent, and smoke rose from his tail.  With heavy breaths he gained control of his form, slipping back into the guise of the basilisk king.

We stared at each other awkwardly.  He cleared his throat.

“So- ahem.  Um.  Tea?” Samael smiled like he had a toothache.

“Legs?” I asked.

He quirked his lips. “It is… difficult.  To… transform.  After, well.  I am sapped of strength.  Nor do I have the focus.”

“Alright, Voldemort.  Where are my clothes?”

He was reluctant to let me go.  He sighed, hugging me.  “On the bed,” he grumbled.  “I could just carry you, you know.  You are very… cute.”

“You don’t like that word, do you?”

He snapped his fingers and candles illuminated the room, shining from a red chandelier.  Like the interior of his hearse, it was bedecked in dark woods and leather upholstery.  Book shelves lined the walls.  Tomes that belonged in the Library of Congress were piled on his desk next to a half-drunk shot of vodka.  The bed was what I expected, four poster, excessively large and, of course, unmade.  The wine-colored sheets looked like they’d been gnawed on in his sleep.  Either Death was teething or a restless sleeper.  My clothes were draped at its head, carved into the shape of a tree with a serpent twined around it.

“You’re not going to put me down, are you?” I said begrudgingly.

“I just want to hold you, maggot.”  He snaked onto the mattress, spooning me.  “For once, don’t squirm away.”

I’d been trying to do just that.  “Do I really squirm that much?  Like, is it noticeable?”

Mmm,” he said, slipping his fingers inside me.  He played with me lazily, tail sliding between my knees.  “Now you do.”

“Cute.  Real cute.”

“I am not cute,” he sneered, muffled by my hair.

“Then I’m not either!  And what we just did definitely wasn’t-”

“It was beautiful.  You never read the book I gave you, on relations between man and immortals.  We come from alien cultures, Shana, whose reproduction is as different as that of  spiders and a birds.”

“Spiders eat their mates.”

“As do some immortals.  It is the circle of life.  A mantis isn’t barbaric for beheading her husband.  If she didn’t, there would be no mantises.”  He reached deep inside me, and I squeaked.  Samael laughed.  “So let me have beauty with you,” he whispered, lightly kissing the back of my neck.

“Well, I’m not a basilisk,” I said, staring wide-eyed at the stained glass window.  I moaned against my will, scared but not enough to make him stop.  “Ooo.  Oh my god-”

“I’m your god.”

“No, you’re my thorn.  The kind that sticks in the side and refuses to leave- ah, no!  Stay.  You can stay…”  He covered my mouth with his free hand, then poked his tail back in.

Urgh,” he growled.  “Why have I never thought of this before-”

I bit his fingers and he yelped.  “Because it’s bestiality!” I cried.  He trapped me behind his forearm, angrily grabbing my breasts.

“Not when the upper part is human.”

Deeper,” I groaned.  “Holy hell.”

“That’s more like it, lamb,” he hissed, tongue flicking over my shoulder. “Who’s your Prince of Darkness?  I’m king of the lower depths-”

“Okay, Sam.  That just ruined it- gyah!  Too much!”  He stirred within me, flexing.

“Then don’t provoke me!- Gehenna, it’s so cramped-” I throbbed around him in response to his invasion.  My eyes rolled back in my head.  “So tight,” he moaned, rolling over.  His tail slid out and I gasped, rolling on top of him.  We lay there in a messy heap, I on his chest out of breath, him almost passed out beneath me.  He moaned, sliding so his face was under me.

“No!” I yelped, grasping the bed frame.  He parted me with his lips and went at it again, tongue flicking in and out.

“This is my favorite place in the world,” he sighed.  “All this time, I’ve waited.  Waited and waited for you.”  He held me fast by my hips, massaging them.  I bowed onto the pillow, unable to breathe.  His hands ran up my back to trace my spine.

My Havah, my lily.  You release me.”  His tongue snaked from between my legs to my breasts.  I watched it, horrified.

“Who’s the praying mantis again?”  He sucked at me like a leech.  I told him so, and he flung me off, scowling.

“I am not a leech,” he rasped, pupils consuming his eyes.  He licked his lips.  “I’m just hungry.”  He lay there, hands crossed behind his head, deciding not to move.

I cursed, grabbing my clothes.  They were soaked like they’d been tossed in snow.  Something hit my hips.  Samael laughed.

“Stop flogging me, you torture monkey!”

He pursed his lips: “You are no fun,” then put the pillow over his head.

I muttered darkly and slammed open his closet.  A cold wind slapped my face.  It was a narrow hall the stretched on into nothingness, lined with robes, suits, and leather.  The left had normal clothes: Grateful Dead t-shirts, polos, jeans, but the further back I walked, I found togas, that puffy white shirt from Seinfeld, armor, everything.  I shook my head, then ran back to the entrance.  His Hugh Hefner-esque bathrobe hung beside it.  I grabbed the burgundy fabric and attempted to make it fit.

“You’re too tall, Corpseboy.  And thin.”  It clung to my curves like a second skin, then dragged along the floor like a bridal train.  I tripped on the granite into one of his coils.  He muttered, knotting around me.  The door slammed shut- apparently, it had been opened- and the far end of his tail brought in a tray with a tea set.  I stole a scone and munched it darkly.

“My life is ridiculous.”

“At least you’re living, worm.”

I scowled, still jittering from the unholy hookup.  The tea tray sat on his nightstand, untouched.  The ghostly music from upstairs was audible through the door.  A stray skeleton waltzed by.  I shrieked.

“There are dead people out there!”

“They’re my guests.”

“Me or the dead people, Samael.  You can’t have both.”

He chucked the pillow at me.  “Women ruin everything.”  His eyes flashed an angry red.  He watched me struggle through the mounds of snake, delicately preparing his cup.  “Next you’ll have me clip my wings.”

“I could make cool dream catchers out of them.”

“You’d be dead in the morning.”

“Fletch arrows with them?”

“As if you could shoot a bow.”

“You’re a misogynist pig- I mean snake.  A misogynist snake.”

He forced a cup on me.  “Calm down, maggot.  Drink.” It was mint and appeared to relax him.  The tell-tale blush faded from his cheeks, and he looked like Dracula again.  He caressed my shoulder, lifting a scone to my lips.  “Eat,” he urged me.

I took a bite; he shuddered.  “It’s the chocolate, I know,” I said.  “Gets me every time.”

“If I covered myself in it, would you find me more appetizing?”

“You want me to lick you?- okay, never mind.  That was a dumb question.”

He put the rest of the scone in a very questionable place.  I went for it carefully, but he forced my head down, snatching the scone away so my lips could replace the pastry.

“Cheese,” he pointed at the scone.  “Mouse.”  The tail hit me again.

I bit him in anger.  “You bastard.”

His cup smattered on the ground.  “No.” he roared.  “Too much!  NOT JUST AFTER WE HELD CONGRESS- OY HAVAH!”

I straddled him, glaring.  He hissed.  “Drink your tea, Corpseboy,” I said drily.  His tortured expression almost drew my pity.  He drank my untouched cup, porcelain trembling in his hand as he throbbed below  I squeezed my hips around him and smirked.

“You are insatiable,” he grated.

“It’s just your own medicine, Bonebutt.”

He growled, rising slowly into me.

“So it’s like your on and off switch.” I mused, opening to let him fill me.  I lowered myself slowly onto him, hissing in turn.  He watched me with unfocused eyes, eating the scone like he had a concussion.

Wurgh?” he said, crumbs falling from his lip.

“I guess all the aether goes from your head to here.”  I flinched, cinching around him.  “No wonder they call it a death bed.  This thing could kill me.”  I gasped, stretched to my limit.  “Oh god,” I whispered, forcing myself down until I swallowed him.

He bit his claws anxiously.  Black drool ran from his lips.

“I guess I’m on my own then.” I worked my way up and down his length, crying out when the pain hit.  I rode it anyways.  He thrusted instinctively, eyes completely dead.

I vaguely wondered why I was doing this, orgasms aside.  I had nothing to give thanks for.  I certainly didn’t love him, shadowed memories aside.  I didn’t know about the immortality of souls: all there was was this life.  Shannon Parker, college-bound and wide-eyed to the world.  Maybe he would stay behind in Redmont come summer’s end, or vanish just as easily as he came.

Speaking of coming.  He foamed at the mouth.  I leaned down to his chest, kissing the wound old as time.

Succubus,” he rasped.  “You are a different girl when impassioned. 

“How did you know?  I never taught you.  You tempted me, Havah, beguiled me.  When the change came, I thought my manhood gone.  That I was crippled, legless, subhuman.  I fell into madness and couldn’t speak.  I could not even stand.  I dragged myself through dust, not even knowing your name.” 

“All I knew was I had to find you, that you would heal me.  You always do.”

His wound closed, swallowing the rib behind new skin.  Tears fell from his eyes.

“I love you, Shana.  I love you.  More than you can know.

When he came, he was empty, no burning or storm inside me.  I laid out on his chest, breathing deeply.  He knotted his hands through my hair, whispering my name.  I sighed, turning so my hips were on his stomach and my head fit below his neck.  He groaned, one hand snaking weakly to my breast, the other between my leg.  His breaths came peacefully and his eyes closed.

Unholy Communion

Sister Philadelphia lit the candles in the vestibule and inhaled the rich incense wafting from the church.  The pews were empty, and darkness yawned across the altar, its maw stretching up to the crucifix where an impaled Savior grinned arcanely at his dismemberment.   The flames drew out the stained glass window and outside, an early snow.  Sister Philadelphia heard a crow caw in the dripping pine, and she gathered her habit and red shawl around her shoulders as she fared the evening twilight and flakes of ice in the withering sky out to her small cell.  Her sisters were fast asleep, tired out from worship, and she had had the evening shift on All Soul’s Eve.  Sister Philadelphia gave a happenstance glance at the graveyard, full of weeping angels, and she imagined them singing alleluias in weeping Christ’s passion.  How crucifixes and the crutches of Saint Lazarus and wounds of Mary Magdalene, though only of the heart, were strange soliloquies on temptation.  It was said Christ harrowed Hell, and Sister Philadelphia was always afraid of the darkness, but so she braved the closing shift, shut the doors of the church, and entered the convent.  Just a few footfalls walk to the end of the hall, her boots crunching snow, until she drew out a skeleton key and opened her cell.  Inside, a small bed, a tiny nightstand with a Bible, and a candlestick.

A chill passed over the room as her boots, thoroughly soaked through and clinging with orange leaves, were taken off.  The vents let in the warm air from the fire in the main hall and she arrayed them so they directed their heat at her bed.  Shivering, she gathered herself and turned to the Gospels, her candle drawing out a facsimile of a smile from the cross on her wall.  She tucked herself into her blankets and read over John miming the verses and parables on her memorized tongue.  It was her favorite.  She had always been an outcast in her small Rostock village for so loving study, in a time when women shouldn’t read and were expected to suckle babes then turn dirt in an early grave, half-sick from motherhood and needlework and butter churning.  No, she chose the sisterhood, if only to learn to read.  The rest of the trappings, from Christ to the Masses, she wasn’t too sure about.

Suddenly, a knock at the door, only she was dressed in her linen night shift.  She gathered her skirts, smoothed her dark hair, and peered out the lock with eyes like amber bezels.

Darkness, writhing darkness, and beneath that, boiling red.  Wicked heat came from the door’s entrance, like the furnace of a hellmouth.

Sister Philadelphia opened the door to find herself face to face with a man of red skin, ram horns, fineries she had never seen yet plain in the dress like some respectable nobleman, dripping gold from his pointed ears, and curled black locks oiled to shine boot polish bright.

He grinned like a cat arching its back.  “Sister, I’m cold, would you but let me warm myself in your blankets?”

His eyes were infernos.  All yellow heat and slit iris.

She would have screamed, but it died in her throat, and the Devil takes no prisoners, only the willing.

She saw the chance to test what the priests and sisters taught her.  A devilish chance, as it were, but scripture nonetheless.

“If I read, will you listen, oh Dark One?”

The Devil laughed.  “I’m a man of the book, Sister.  A traveler too.  Gypsy or not, I’m afraid I’m a rambler, and I always fancy a word with pretty girls.  To hear the gospel from your lips would be celestial temptation most frightful.”

“Then come in.”

Sister Philadelphia was never much of one for God, more for he who taught humanity knowledge and to quote scripture in their sin.  To have the Devil at her doorstep, why, on All Soul’s Eve?  It was meant to be a test.

And he was a might handsome, as handsome as sin.

She locked the door shut behind them.

“In the Beginning was the Word…”

He draped a blanket around him like a cape, then examined the cross.  “Grapes from the vine, yes.  To be made into the vintage of wrath or mercy is simply up to the maker of the wine.”

The room was like a dragon’s womb, enchantingly hot, all radiating from the Devil.

He looked at her with obsidian and vice.

“Tell me, you were there.  Is it truly as they say?  God created the universe in seven days?”

“More like He gave a sneeze and we were all shat out on accident.  You must admit, this Book is a bit lacking.  Where’s the bit about where bellybuttons come from, their purpose, really?  I invented them.  I also invented opposable thumbs.  And the pearly seat of womanly pleasure.  That was my greatest one.”

The Devil examined his claws.  “It’s all trite bullshit in the end, this Book.  Now I would have written it differently: In the Beginning was a Woman, and she lusted after a Star.”

Sister Philadelphia’s eyes grew wide, curiosity after first succulent bite.  The candle stubbed out, but he glowed like coals in the dark.  “Eve, yes.  I have always loved her, though Father Philip says she is Sin.  I gave everything I had for Knowledge, for the Word.”

“In that, inquisitive Sister, we are joined.  Woman is born hungry.  Hungry for words.  A last rib made of ink.”  The Devil took the cross down from the wall and respectfully placed it in the nightstand drawer, if only so his Father did not witness corruption.  The Devil is a gentleman, after all.  “Tell me, Sister, was it worth it?  Giving up life for this back country parish?  All so you could be a learned woman?”

“We feed the poor.  We tend the sick.  In those duties, I rejoice.  But to read, why, I would have become lame and dumb in order to understand language on the page.  Someday, I will write my own books. Like Teresa or Hildegard or Catherine.  I have it in my bones.”

“I’ve written many books in my time, sweet Sister.  Would you like to taste a Star?  It is the drink of poetry.  The flesh of God is the Sun.  He used to nurse us from His light.”  And with that, the Devil pulled a silver pear from his breast pocket.  Sister Philadelphia gasped at its succulent scent and without hesitation bit in.  Its flesh was blood red but tasted like sugary providence.  Fire warmed her belly, and the Devil cradled her head in his hands as she devoured it.

“Kiss me, I have never tasted a man’s lips, and what passes between a Bride and Darkness is best left to the day souls walk the Earth.  It shall be our secret.”

“What is your name, sister dangerous?”

“Philadelphia.  Just Filly.”

“So Filly, will you give me a prayer each night for my soul in exchange for a kiss?  No one has yet to pray for me.  I do so grow lonely down below.  If you appeal to your God, perhaps Father shall grant me some mercy.  You are supposedly a holy woman, after all,a and your nightgown smells of frankincense and myrrh.  I do so love holy things.”

“I will pray for you until you die, if you promise me you will tell me the truth: will I find what I am looking for here?”


“Than it was all worth nothing.”

“I can make it all worth it.  Now be quiet, and know the Morning Star for who he is.”

They kissed like fire and oil, combustion embodied, and suddenly Filly found herself full of light, of burning, and she probed her tongue into his lush red lips and tasted damnation.  It was like the chocolate she had once had at a Christmas market in the Black Forest as a child, one she had stolen when her poor parents weren’t looking and the vendor was closing up for the night.  He smelled like cloves and oranges and ash.  Grasping hands, soft hands, hard talons, cupping her breasts, skimming her back, and soon they were falling into each other’s arms and his broken halo cut her brow like shrapnel and there was blood at her mouth from her forehead.  He lapped at the wound with a cat rough tongue, then eased her out of her night shift and was soon working her sex with that same forked tongue like a melody.  She came like rain as he used his fingers in a come hither motion then lapped at her pearl like a wild thing.

His mouth wet with her, he suckled at her breasts, and she fisted handfuls of his curling black hair into knots as she apexed beneath him.  Soon, his hot, eager member against her belly, wet with precum, and like swans flying north they joined in unholy communion, a sinuous movement bespeaking an ocean of sin.  He was hot inside her, pumping and pleasing and caressing and teasing.  She cried out as softly as she could so as not to wake the other sisters up.

“Filly, you are sweet,” he growled, taking his fangs and pressing them deep into her neck until he was drinking her lifeblood.  “So sweet I could… fall… yet again.”

Words escaped her as their black covenant wrote a whole nother gospel on what not to do on a holy day.  She heard the cross shatter as the drawer fell open and God turned away from her blaspheming.

Good riddance.

The Devil came inside her in searing spurts, and she felt it pulse upwards to her womb, blinding her belly with serpent seed.  He licked her wound shut with his saw paper tongue and then gave a sweet sigh, if the Devil could be said to ever be sweet.

“Come with me away from here, Filly.  I will teach you witchcraft, the oath of the Witchfather.  Let us travel Germania as Samiel and Brunhilde.  The Black Huntsman and his Valkyrie.  You are not a meek lamb of God.  No, you are a lioness.”

She stroked his back, where his wings of plush leather joined his shoulder blades.  “Yes, I think I would like that, Samiel.”

And so they left a train of ghosts behind them, bones rolled in their graves, and the Devil and Filly were ne’er to be seen in Rostock again (at least, not in daylight).



More shitty erotica from college. Everybody wants to bang Satan!

I’ve entered a kind of paralysis; limbs frozen as shots of liquid terror race through my veins.  The darkness clamps down like a straitjacket, suffocating and restraining me, while a banshee wind rattles the rotten wood of the decrepit mansion.  Nana’s still snoring, deaf to the howling storm outside, and I know I am alone, the only conscious being for miles around.

He’s staring through the rain-dappled window with serpent eyes, crimson skin slick with water.  Ebony hair hangs in a tangled mat as he breathes black fog across my window. He smirks, tracing letters in the vaporous sheet:

“Come Out, Helice.”

My legs, moon pale, slide out from under the downy comforter against my will.  They lead me the cold stone floor, and like Frankenstein’s monster I stumble out of my room, blindly following the dark corridor of the hallway until I trip over the threshold of the foyer.  Crawling on all fours, my limbs lead me to the oak door. My hands clasp the lion-headed doorknob and twist it open. My body rises, clad in a thin white shift, and follows the stone path to the forest.

He whispers in my head, a chthonic language that courses through me like fire.  I feel him pull me deep into the woods. The clouds bathe me in their cold showers and if I could, I would grimace in pain, but my face is still as the grave- I cannot even blink the rain off my eyelashes.  My bare feet cry out in discomfort, ravaged by sticks and stones. There is no light to see by, yet I make my way through the forest like I have walked these woods for years. He lets me see as he must, with perfect clarity that can discern the slightest shadow.

It is a night for beasts and black Sabbaths, is it not, Creator?”  His voice comes from behind a gnarled chestnut tree as he steps out from behind the trunk.  He smiles and releases his hold on me, and with relief I slump against the chestnut, breath coming in gasps.

I refuse to answer him – there’s no way I will give the monster what he wants: attention. I shiver, the chill rain seeping into the marrow of my bones.  My surroundings fade to dark shadows and I stare at the black ground, refusing to meet his eyes.

His laugh is hollow as he creeps around the tree trunk, the ghastly red of his eyes illuminating our surroundings. “Creator, your games only serve to amuse me.  I can keep you here as long as I desire, Helice

I shudder at my name on his husky tongue.  I tuck my knees against my face and shut my eyes, willing myself to forget the cold and the monster.

All I want is company, a bedfellow to while away the lonely hours with.  Creator, Creator, I would never hurt you, Creator. Helice…” he hisses in a singsong voice. I feel his strange, seven-fingered hand resting on my shoulder blades, the other stroking my collarbone affectionately.

I scream in fury, grabbing his hands and bending his fingers back with all my strength.  With sickening cracks, they break, ripping his flesh. Hot ichor seeps out, hissing as it escapes his cuts.  It scalds my skin and I wince, burying my hands in my soaking nightgown. My eyes meet his face, twisted in wry amusement.  He is crouched over on all fours, wings erect to shield us from the rain. The monster licks the base of his mangled fingers.  The bones grind against each other, back into their proper places, while his flesh heals instantly, steaming as the bloody half-moons I inflicted vanish.

That was quite unkind, Creator.

The drops of his acid blood are burning my skin.  The focused points of pain send jolts through me. Moans of agony escape my lips, but I can’t run, cornered by the beast.

You’re in great pain,” he murmurs, taking my raw hands forcefully.  I scream at his terrible touch.

So fragile, so red.”

He laps up the blood like an animal, cat-rough tongue healing my palms.  I pray, for mercy, for help.

But there is only me, me and the monster, alone in the depths of the wood.

He licks my blood from thin, blackened lips.  His slit-pupils focus on me. I am pinned like a butterfly by his gaze.  “Creator, your blood is like providence,” he growls, long, prehensile tongue flicking out to taste the air.

“Why do you torment me?” I demand.  My voice shakes like the pulse of a dying man.  “When I found you in the woods, on the brink of death, I thought I was showing you mercy.  But you’ve turned on me. Tell me, what are you!”

“Your creation,” he hisses, fangs gleaming in the red glow of his eyes.  

“I’m not your Creator!” I sob, burying my head in my hands.  

I was a fool, to harbor this creature, to take pity on him.  In a matter of weeks he has grown thrice-fold, devouring the raw meat he forces me to bring him.  He has wheedled his way into my mind and manipulated me like a marionette, utilizing some unholy mind control to puppet me to his will.  I should never have let my curiosity keep him a secret, should have told my Nana immediately of the strange being I found in the woods. Batty as she is, perhaps she could have provided some protection.  

I remember Nana’s words from when I moved here a month ago: “These lands are cursed, Helice.  There is an old, dark corruption in these hills. Be wary when you walk the wooded paths.” A faraway look had settled in her rheumy eyes.  “Just as your grandfather and parents lost their lives, so may you if you aren’t careful.”

I had chalked up Nana’s warning to dementia, but now knew there was a dreadful truth to her words.  I stare that truth in its gaunt face, all razor cheekbones, sharp as barbed wire. He grins arcanely back at me.  

“You want to know where I come from, Creator?” the beast hisses.

“Yes,” I whisper.  

He edges close to me, so that I can feel his hot breath through the lace of my nightgown.  He toys with the neck of my shift.

“I am judgment, destroyer of worlds.  My skin is red with the blood of the slain.  I leveled Sodom and Gomorrah to dust, murdered the firstborn filth of Egypt, and I would have annihilated you, had you not shown kindness to me.”

“What?” I murmur, pale with fear.

“I made a deal with God, Creator,” he purrs.  “I saw corruption in this world and asked God to destroy it.  He refused my judgment. So I made a bet: if I discarded my angelic form and took on humanity’s sins, letting them twist me into something hideous, I wagered no one would show me mercy.  The Lord, ever faithful in humanity’s good, said that if a single human showed me kindness, this world would be preserved. I have traveled this planet for decades, taking on the forms of the hated: the homeless, degenerates, enemy combatants in need of mercy.  All humanity has treated me cruelly… all but you.”

“Me?” I ask, disbelieving.

“Yes.  You were the last test – I assumed my most monstrous form with you, expecting rejection, but instead, you showed me mercy.  Though I took the shape of your nightmares, you found it in your heart to help me. God was proven right, and my judgment proved wrong.  Because of you, the world was preserved.” He leans in, bat-like wings covering me. I gulp down air at his pinions’ leathery touch. “Now tell me, Creator, has your suffering been worth it?”

I shiver uncontrollably.  “Judging angel? You seem more demon than seraph.”

His eyes spark, and he examines his seven taloned fingers.  A bestial laugh comes from him. “I suppose I am demonic, in this form…”  He cradles my head in his hands. I choke back sobs, recoiling from his touch.  “Shh, Creator.  Don’t cry. I have brought you pain.”  He traces my collarbone, teasing the shift off my shoulders.  I am rooted to my spot, fearful of what he will do. “But I can bring you pleasure…”

My eyes widen like dinner plates.  “No…” I whisper.  “I don’t want that!”

He smiles sadly.  “Poor Creator. Alone since the death of your parents.  Is it any wonder you helped me?…” He wipes the rain from my brow.  “You recognized your brokenness in me. Saw the weight of your pain reflected in the monstrosity I am.”

My lip quivers.  “It hurts,” I say, voice raw, “their absence.  I dream of the accident every night, and I wake up with bruises on my soul.  The pain and guilt: it’s made me a monster myself.” I shake, mind battered. My brain flashes back to my parents’ screams.  “That’s why I couldn’t hurt you,” I cry, “no matter how hideous you are – because you were like me. Abandoned. Alone.” I sob into my arms, snot dripping from my nose.  

The monster embraces me, and I lean against his chest, thick with alien muscle.  He soothes me, running his hands through the wet locks of my hair. I bawl, ragged cries sapping my lungs of strength.  I feel light-headed, terrified to be in his grasp, but search for succor nonetheless.

“All I have wanted for days was to be this close to you,” he says, voice rough.  “To fix you, Creator, as you have fixed me. I was tired, so tired, of this wretched world.  But you showed me kindness, created me anew. Because of you, my faith has been restored.”

“What do you mean?” I breathe.

“That faith is an awful thing to lose.  You are sweet, and deserve sweetness in return.  Let me give it to you.”

“You can’t give me anything.”

Can’t I?”  He eases me up his leg so I am straddling him.  The fabric of my nightgown rides up above my waist.  Enfolded in his wings, I clutch at his shoulders, surprised.

“You mean…?” I exhale.  

He dwarfs me.  The idea is beyond preposterous.  And yet…

His blackened lips meet mine, and they burn hot like infernos.  Careful not to cut my mouth on his fangs, he sucks at my lower lip, then works his way down to my neck.  I gasp, and he groans against my skin – a low, wild sound that exhilarates me.

Hungry, he thrusts me down on his lap, grinding against me.  I am made painfully aware of his ridged, turgid cock as it rubs against my groin.  My clit aches as the friction builds, and I feel myself grow wet.

His hands knead my back muscles, as if reaching inside my ribcage for my heart.  The monster’s lips make quick work of me, fluttering over my skin, sucking and nipping as they trail down my collarbone to my breasts.  His breath grows heavy, and he tears my nightdress open. The monster teases the peak of my breast, flicking his tongue over my nipple, then kisses it hard, hands buried in my hair.  

“Oh god…” I say, clutching at the back of his head.

He groans again, hot breath raising gooseflesh on my neck.  Spreading me open below, his talons retract like cat’s claws, and he reaches deep inside me, thick fingers filling my core.  He slides them in and out. I moan, running my hands over the place where wings jut from his back. His red tail curls around my thighs, squeezing hard, and its forked end skims my lips, begging entry.  I suck at the hot tip, and he groans, burying his face in my breasts.

“Yes…” he hisses, teasing my breast’s peak.  He thrusts the head of his tail into my mouth, and my tongue curls around it like candy.  

He plays with my clit, taunting me, then takes his tail from my lips.  It shines wet in the glow of his eyes. Gently, he lays me down, and I rest against the leathery softness of his wings.  He arches over me like an omen, all muscle and sharp lines, and pins my hands behind me. Taking the thick tip of his tail, he slides it in between the folds of my pink wetness, filling me.  It darts in and out, the base of the tail’s head rubbing against my sensitive nub. I shiver beneath him, pleasure building in my solar plexus, and curl my hands around his wrists.

“More…” I moan.

He grins like a shark. Releasing my hands, he descends to pleasure me, prehensile tongue flicking over my clit like a serpent’s kiss.  I writhe beneath his working, hands buried in his hair, and he laps at my wetness like a starved man. His tongue spears me, and I am driven to the edge of orgasm.

“I want to take you,” he growls, voice rough.

“Yes,” I breathe, glancing down at his thick, alien cock.  Fear and exhilaration form a heady mixture in my core. Gently, he aligns himself with my slit, and his hot member penetrates me with agonizing slowness.  My legs curl up above his shoulders as he thrusts, careful not to hurt me with his incredible size. I stretch to accommodate him.

“Faster,” I beg.

“Are you sure?” he exhales.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yes,” I plead.  

He finds an inhumanly fast pace, and I grind against him, derriere slapping against his muscled thighs, riding waves of pleasure.

“Oh… oh!”  I moan.  It is exquisite, but my ass aches to be filled.  

As if sensing my need, he teases my perineum with the tip of his tail, lubricating himself in my juices, pounding into me all the while.  Then, tentative, he massages the rosebud of my anus with his tail’s head.

His eyes question me.  I nod yes, sinking into the orgasm that comes as he teases my anus open and thrusts his tail inside.  Doubly penetrated, I arch my back in pleasure, ecstatic in this strange angel’s arms.

Groaning, he flips me over so I am straddling him.  I ride him with abandon, breasts heaving. Our coupling stretches out like shards of white in a snow globe, endless, suspended in joy.  He weaves in and out of me like the tide, red flesh hot with wanting.

When he comes, his seed fills me, burning like a brand.  It courses down my legs in thick streams. He pulls me to him, groaning my name: “Helice,” he breathes, voice raw.  

Spent, he cradles me in arms like sin.  I breathe in the petrichor of the rain-spiced air.  I turn to my unexpected lover. He smells like musk and wildfires.  His irises thrum like the heart of a flame.

“That was… something,” I exhale, overwhelmed by lingering sensations.

He smiles softly, cupping my face.  His lips brush mine, and he kisses me without rush.

“You should rest,” he whispers.  

I yawn.  “But your name…”


“I don’t even know your name…”

He chuckles.  “In Heaven, names are unimportant.  Sleep, sweet angel,” he coaxes.

The heat from his body warms me, and I fall into the black pool of slumber, not giving a thought to the morrow.

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It’s All A Mindfuck

There’s blood and bandages in the prison cell, swirling ruby sparks and filth where rats feast.  Through the cell window the moon cuts the night until it howls in pain, and you’re chained to the wall, shackles on your neck and limbs, and you’re done up in linen bandages like a corpse, gore and claret red clinging to your bindings.  I stand outside the gate with an oil lamp, meeting the Devil at midnight to raise the dead.  You are writhing and roaring, the poisonous zuhama that flows through your veins a raging fire of wine.  Lanterns leak oily light of goblin green-white fire onto the cell walls, all granite and smeared with ichor, and you are speaking in tongues demonic and dreadful.  I take out a corpse key and unlock the door, and the floor is slick with your stains.  Your Cabernet eyes simmer like a witch on a pyre, and as I approach, I take a twisted delight in your suffering.  This is where you belong, caged in my mind, lunatic mad, my beast, my delightful toy.  We take turns tying each other up in bear traps and guillotines and rusty iron bindings, we are each other’s sacrifice, and whore ourselves out for the quickest fix.  Isn’t that how it is with demons?  As you are prowling, growling, licking your wounds with a tongue that would drive saints to sin (don’t you know the Devil gives the best head, I mean come on, look at how he sings), I sit cross legged and hold a staring contest with your mercurial acid pupils.  I flick my fingers through your blood pooled beneath me and my white cloak and white gown are stained.  I take out a pen and bid you near me, and then I write out the names of God on your soiled bandages, and you are shivering and crying, and I am triumphant over Satan.  There’s your wreckage of a heart, embodied in the form of a girl, and a weeping black void that holds the keys to eternity in your chest.  You are too far gone, eyes swirling with insanity, and you tear off my clothes as I raze my nails down your back and pick at your wounds.  We are bleeding together, the razors our hands, and we kiss with coppery mouths as we bite at each other’s lips.

To know God is to eat God, but at the end of the day, it’s you dead with your demons, in your own Hell for eternity, so why not make it fun?


War Games

On a lark, I fly to the lowest levels of Pandaemonium, where the most tortured souls are stored.  It is dimly lit, with long shadowed corridors, hideous salmon and blood tiled floors, balustrades soaked in grease, and a single experimental soul moving like a robot through the blackness.  My speech dies in my throat, and she begins to claw my eyes out – but I can fight back, so it is bruises and scrapes against this forsaken soul.  She struggles to speak past her curse, and I notice black blood flow from her wounds.  Utterly exhausted, we collapse to the ground and I heal her with the last reserves of my strength.  Then she is crying and whole, restored to humanity, not the devilry of her binding.

“Thank you, thank you!” she near screams, rocking back and forth as I hold her.

“Who did this to you?  Who put you here?” I ask, running a hand through her coal black hair.

“My lover.  He was a demon.  That’s their new plan: taking us after our deaths and turning us into… them.  It’s horrible.  They erase your emotions and replace it with bloodlust and hate.  They’re making soldiers out of humans, making us into prototypes of the new generation of demons.”

Furious, I gather Blair (the Damned’s name, she’s such a fragile thing, mousy with Thai heritage, bruised and cuts bleeding) and fly to the palace courtyard, my evidence in tow.

Mulciber is in the kitchen concocting new plans over coffee.  Asmodeus is drinking a mimosa.  It looks almost picturesque, but when I deposit Blair’s bloodied soul in the field, frenzy breaks out.

“Where did you get her?” Asmodeus shouts, slamming his cup down.  “She’s polluted.”

Fury breaks my face out in red.  “You did this to her.  Is this your new plan?  Swelling your ranks with your beloved’s souls?  Where the hell is Samael?”

Beelzebub steps forward to care for Blair, who is shaking, and gives her his coat.  He’s the only one I trust.  I storm off down the hallway to Samael’s office.

He’s shooting up with cocaine and there are ledgers filled with ink spilled over.  It smells like musk and cigarettes.  He gives me a shit-eating grin.

“Hello there, love.”

“You bastard!  You’re turning humans into demons!”

He quirks his head to the side and jabs the needle into a vein.  His pupils swallow his eyes.  “So?”

“So!  So is that what’s going to happen to me?  Is this some sick plan you have to increase your army  before the war?”

He holds his hands up in the air and laughs.  “Oh, my sweet, you caught me.  Whatever will you do?  Being a demon isn’t so bad.  After all, you’ve been one before.”

“Fuck you!” I launch at him, pummeling him, which he easily avoids, for I am a vole fighting a rattlesnake.  “You only have a third of Michael’s forces.  You’re going to lose.”

His face hardens as he catches my hands by his wrists and pulls me to his chest so I can smell his alcoholic breath.  “I will do whatever necessary to ensure my people’s survival.  The particulars shouldn’t matter to you.  You’re our little pampered princess, you think Michael would ever let anything happen to you?  And I will win.”

“No!” I scream, kicking him in the groin.  He winces, but not by much.  “I’ll fucking fight you.  I’m not letting you torture another human!”

He sighs and deposits me on the bed.  “You know torture comes in our line of business, Allie.  You’ve ignored it for so many years, but you went searching for it, and so you found the less glamorous sides of a demon’s job.  You  have to make peace with that.”

“Like fuck I will.  I don’t know about this Messiah shit, Daughter of Zion shit, but I’ll defeat you and plunge you into a fiery lake if you touch another demon lover’s hair on their heads.”

He pushes me down onto the bed and kisses me to shut me up.  I struggle beneath him, but it’s useless.

“Messiah?  That’s crackpot talk.  There’s no one to save humanity at the end of the day.  am the truth.  am the ending this world deserves.  I will end it in fire.”

He bites my ear and then starts sucking on my neck.

“I met Christ on Good Friday and he anointed me!  I saw him risen on Easter and he laid hands on me.  He’s real, and he’ll serve your ass to you.  And whatever you do, I will save youSael.”

“Your fucking savior complex is really annoying.  Who says I want to wash the poison from my veins?”  He pauses from ministering to me, and there are tears in his eyes.  Hot, venomous tears, and the blue of his irises could drown entire Navies.

“Oh Sam.  It’s so obvious to even the densest demon.  Who, in all these centuries, has had the common decency to pray for Satan?  Twain was right.  He who sits at the pinnacle is loneliest.”

He looks away as I lay under him, tries to get it up, but the blues hit, and he lays beside me, me in his arms, and looks out at the full moon.

“Save me, and I’ll hate you forever,” he chokes out, then buries his face in my hair, and that is enough for a time.

Sixty Nine in the Speed Lane

“This vodka is shit,” Samael says, swilling his shot glass in another of Asmodeus’ dive bars.  This one has succubi draped across the men and women like jewels, breasts hanging like necklaces from their chests.  I’m cozied up to the Devil on his lap – the crown of the Prince of Darkness is a bubbly blonde ditz.  I’m laughing at the ladies of the night and drinking one of those fruity fizzy red cocktails that Sam fucking hates.

“Want mine?”

“Hell no, tastes like a strawberry fart.”  Samael chugs the last of the stale vodka and tips his glass then flicks it so it rolls off the counter onto the beer-stained black carpet.

There are black lights flashing, bio luminescent demons and daemons and dreams.  They dance in cadence with the bass of the moon, sinuous and arcing as lips lock and hips gyrate.  I bob my head to the music, stroke Samael’s shoulder, and this is a place no angel besides the lost would dare step foot in, the perfect place to fall into sin.

“Your lips will have to suffice for my intoxication,” Samael whispers, razing a claw down the back of my dress.  He puts out his cigarette and scoops me up and carries me out of the dive bar – not before I grab a fry to crunch on.

“You’re boring, grumpy, and old…” I murmur, teasing.  “Not hip enough to party anymore, eh?”  I’m cradled in his arms and my red dress swishes in the vespertine wind.  He deposits me on the back of his pale steed – a white crotch rocket, hands me a helmet, and tilts my chin up with his thumb.

“Eternity is best spent with the ones you love – the novelty of Hell wears off when you’re a permanent resident here, and then it’s governing and judging souls during the day, reaping the dead, and quiet nights by the fireside with the other half of your soul.  Why do you think we spend every other night in my library?”

I hug his hips as we speed off down the rainy street.  It’s an almost-summer storm, with a light gray drizzle.

“Because you’re a recluse!” I shout, laughing.  “And you can’t hold your liquor.”

Samael speeds past a red light.  He never cares much for the laws of traffic, and we arrive at his estate on the borders of Pandemonium, which backs up into the backwaters of the galaxy, where the woods grow wild and dangerous.  It is a towering, sleek, obsidian castle, with pins of towers and blades of turrets that cut blood from the sky.

“Right, and even more right,” he parks under a willow tree and Pallor – his steed – reverts back to a horse.  He strokes Pallor’s braided mane and ties his bridle to a trough.  “But I hold it better than you, Miss Streaker.”

I look at the time, grasping at lucidity.  Some impossible number: 13:11.  How time works in Hell, I have no inkling.  We walk hand in hand through the rose garden to the mote, then over the bridge.  He picks me up and flies up the stairs to the den, great bat wings feeling like warm leather on my cheek.  I imagine he has the wings of a dragon, and that is one of his forms.

“Hey Sam, you know that Russian movie, He’s a Dragon?”

Samael groans as he stokes the hearth.  “Not another one of your shifter romances.  Read a philosophy book, for fuck’s sake.”  He settles into a leather armchair and pulls out a cigar.

“Hey!  You’re the weredragon – stealing princesses and antisocial and shit.  Also, very gruuuuuumpy.”

I bounce onto the bed and roll about, nesting under black wolf fur.

“All you read in my library are illustrated grimoires and romance novels written by demons.  Picture books and drivel.”  He puffs on the cigar.  “You’re a creature of comfort.  And I am not a “weredragon,” shit, I’m the Beast.”

“Not that Crowley Revelations shit, ugh!  Just admit it, you’re a shitty paranormal romance novel protagonist.”  I flip so I’m sitting on my stomach, kicking my feet in the air and watching the fires flicker.  They dance in the shape of snakes.

He laughs.  “If I, Satan, am supposed to be a romance novel protagonist, I don’t have high hopes for your race.  I’m much too twisted for all the middle aged women reading Fifty Shades.  Unless they enjoy being dissolved alive in a cloud of the abyss or fucking corpses.”

I throw a pillow at him.  “Are you kinkshaming me!”

“I can’t lie,” he sticks out his labret pierced tongue.  “I can only tell twisted truths, or flat out drag you.’

I grumble and roll onto my back.   Samael grins like a shark and comes over to me.  Gasoline, hungry hands that are gentle with their talons, rip off the dress, rolling and turning hay.  I inhale expensive spicy cologne and graveyard dirt, thirsting for a mouth that tastes like aqua vitae.  I make a list in my  mind of what he drinks: whiskey and vodka and absinthe on occasion.  We are Taninver.  We are Leviathan and She-Leviathan.  We are Rahab churning the primordial waters of bodies of unborn souls.

I burn and I sate myself with his blood.  Suckle at the red at his wrist as he sinks his fangs into my neck.  Blood from the heart, blood from spurting arteries, christening the bed damp with iron and hemoglobin.  It tastes like providence.

More,” Samael growls as he descends to feast, and I ascend to suck the generations out of him.  I am Lilith stealing seed, I am Lamashtu eating children.

“Fuck, oh god,” I whisper, then I can’t breathe, then it’s all stars and the rocking of an ocean of black, in and out, crash to shore then recede in foam.  Burning, freezing, all.

The fire flickers as we lay in each other’s arms.

“Let’s have more nights in.”


They say, if you reach for your reflection at midnight, you can step out of your body and into the Devil’s arms.  Touch the quicksilver of moonlight limbs and kiss the serenade of swans embodied by bruises and feathers and stars.  Taste angel food cake, eat a demon’s chocolate heart, become one with the wind of the universe and caress mortality.  To know oneself is to know temptation and your Kryptonite – what is your greatest weakness?  Is it a rambling gambler that plays the piano and has fingers like thieves?  Is it a tall dark and dangerous black coffee haint who buys souls at New Orleans’ crossroads half-price and sells stock in the Damned?  Does he listen to a Tribe Called Quest and rap elegies of good old days long gone?  So many masks, so many lies, and the shards of the mirror are bitter on my tongue as I swallow glass.

I was lost a long time ago, and honey, wasps lay their larvae in the prettiest of butterflies, wouldn’t you know?

The Bone Zone

There’s a haunting in the graveyard, where bats flock to higher ground when the dam flows over and coffins float to the surface.  I can smell the rot on my tongue and see the decaying rose petals adrift in this land spill of toxic waste and wonderlands.  I take a coffin, kick out the corpse, and row with a femur to your mausoleum as I navigate delta waters to the hell mouth.  Your edifice, Crypt Keeper, is tainted with ivy and is the only thing left above surface in this lake of the dead, a stone angel spreading her acid rain-washed wings to the glory of some decrepit heaven.  There is a black mist fine and pungent, fresh from the kill and bloated with pussy gases.  The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out.  The ones that crawl out are fat and stout, and they are feasting on the engorged limbs that have detached from their bodies, and there is a rat king, triple tails entwined, nibbling the corpse of some lawyer dressed up in his Sunday best, only it’s his Sunday worst, because he is filthy with the diseases of waste and ruin, slandered by Father Time, and honey, death is hell on the body.  Your loved ones will lose their teeth, grow out their hair, yellow their nails, mummify or dissolve, but when the waters come to take us home, we all end up in the sea.  That’s the truth of these matters – we are mostly water, and to liquid and stardust we return.  So I’m rowing my coffin through the remnants of your Grim Reaper’s harvest, all to find you, sweet cadaver.  Death smells like old garbage and sulfur and roadkill.  But sometimes, he smells like roses.  The crypt is tall and Roman styled, with the gloriana angel dolorosa, tears in grime on her eyes, and I tie my coffin to the angel with a bit of floating cloth, and scale the mausoleum.  Inside is an ossuary – the bone zone.  Huh, punny, that.  Inside you lay resplendent amidst bejeweled saint skeletons and artifacts of another time – holy relics, a pinky from St. Catherine, a liver from St. Pancras, oh, don’t forget that lock of hair from St. Teresa, my favorite.

Bones are sharp, they can cut, but words are just as much like razors, and I’m praying for a beastly tongue, an empty gun.  Death looks like someone you love, don’t you know?  He can mask himself in darkness and equally in light, in the wolves and crows and snakes, but now he is redeemer, savior, my unholy temple.  I climb inside his coffin and we entwine, and the black stretches out like a womb, and the silence of the deep is all-knowing.  Death, omniscient.  Death, omnipotent.  Death, omnipresent.

There is not much difference between Death and God, and many of us worship false idols, but the truth is, is that endings are painful, and the dearly departed haunt us.  But what to be haunted by Death himself?  Thorns and broken glass to puncture your fingers and feet, stanzas of poetry and prose that are like caged madrigal nightingales in your brain, and you crack your head open on a cliff to see the blood diamonds he planted inside you.

I am one with Death, we are Death and the Maiden, and as he raises his scythe, I know my tithe is the dearest thing to me: the lie of separation.

That I am anything more than Death.

For to write is to make love to the self, after all, and morbid curiosities become terminal in time.

So I kiss myself, and kill myself, and my corpse joins a million other lost girls.

Lost girls that dreamed they were part of some great narrative, when really, this is the world of ghosts, and it is only in dreams we are alive.

Drunken Hysterectomy

Skull breaker, marrow sucker, lover of lies and the wetness of spilled blood.  Bite me, fight me, delight me, speared on you is the perfect way to let viscera hang from your impalement, and as you fuck the wound I wonder, is death so exotic as to be cheap as the whores of Mammon?  You know, those cocksuckers Lilith, Agrat, Eisheth and of course cymbal-banging Naamah, who drank her fill of the Grigori and Tubal Cain and found a perch in Azazel’s soul.  Sell your soul, rent out your body, isn’t that prostitution?  I write these jagged words and my fingers on the keyboard rival the greatest of magicians, summoning the caterwaul of the abyss as we’re making love, but only in my mind.  I feel fingers, tongues, hair, more, sweet seed like a hot summer night and saliva that burns with enmity.  Curses between Eve and the Serpent, Nachash shed his skin, don’t you know?  The Shining One is king of husks, but he flies up the Sephiroth zig zag like lightning, and the first step to enlightenment is to fall from high above.  Heaven’s a lie, Hell’s a lie, all there are are orifices of Hellmouths and Heaven’s Gates and Zion and Pandemonium are just mirrors of states of mind.  Beelzebub said, Mulcibur, build a castle for Satan’s coal mine canary, to cage his yellow bird, for hope perches in the soul, and to spring from Lucifer’s heart as the Lapis Exillis makes you the incestuous daughter Sin, who in Paradise Lost (and Paradise Eventually Found) is serpent from waist down with guts chewed on by wolves.  Their progeny Death, their son Qayin, the Bloodline of the Dragon you won’t shut the fuck up about, Christ to Cathars to Merovingians and Samael, you’re a fucking troll, so shut up about Anunnaki.  I gave a tithe to the Witchfather and all it did was make me realize Hannibal Lecter is the perfect Satan.  Cannibal, eater of women, you played Type O Negative’s Wolf Moon and jeeze, you’re a walking stereotype.  I can taunt and tease you but really you’re the one chewing on me, crunch of phalanges, sucker of spirit (Souls through the eyes, Spirits out the mouth, you said) and my  heart is on loan from the Devil, and babe, as long as I live, you die.