The Demon and the Thief

Peter thought himself lucky. He’d gotten away easy, having only to deal with an incision from the back of his tongue and all the way to its tip. His tongue never seemed to stop bleeding, and Peter grew queasy with the taste of his own blood. It kept pouring and pouring into his throat, and after the punishment, he retreated up to the bathroom where he found the bathroom mirror and studied the wound. It felt like his tongue had been cut in half, sliced on the long end, but it seemed to be only a minor cut. He’d been spared, and it would seem that he would live to stare at the bowels of Hell from the right side, the top side, just another day. He was unable to speak, and dribble mixed with blood seemed to find its way from between his lips at every unguarded moment. Peter stole away to the basement and huddled underneath his blanket all the while he waited for the bleed to stop. He was so hungry. His stomach growled, yet it seemed to have settled, not giving him anymore trouble. He put a towel beneath his head, and simply let the dribble and blood flow by itself, not attempting to stop it. His body was aching from the stress and the harsh treatment over the weeks, and Peter wished that he could sleep and sleep without worrying about demons or anything else. He awoke much later, to the sound of the basement door creaking. He gazed up to find it ajar, and he thought he heard meowing outside. Thinking himself trapped in another dream, Peter got up and climbed up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, he opened the door a little wider, and found, to his surprise, the black cat with the golden eyes looking at him, licking its lips. It sat down, and lifted up a paw, motioning with it, giving him some sort of signal. Peter tried whispering to it. It didn’t work, and he hoped the cat could read his mind also, like the demon could, so it could understand why Peter didn’t greet it. The cat leapt from its stead, padded back and forth, like it was upset, before it came to a halt in front of him, looking at Peter as if it asked if he was all right. Peter shook his head sadly, explaining to the cat with his thoughts that he only wanted to die. There was nothing to live for. The cat meowed soothingly to him, and crept up into his lap, seemingly wanting to comfort Peter. It was as if the feline understood. Peter thought it odd for an animal to behave in such a near human way, but he didn’t care because of the company the cat provided for him.
The demon was nowhere to be seen. It was morning. Peter was baffled at the idea of that he’d actually slept all through the night, and that no spectre had come to haunt him or rape him. Come to think of it, Peter actually felt ready for a new day. The only thing was, he was so hungry he was nearly out of his mind. He went into the kitchen, but did not dare to take food without permission, so he settled for yesterday’s leftover. He heard the cat meow in protest, and it leapt up on the table beside him, treading on the plate he wanted to eat from. Peter tried speaking to the cat, telling it he understood it wanted the food to itself, but he had to eat some first. The cat could go and catch some mice in the woods. The cat meowed again, apparently not agreeing with him. It hurt to speak, and the cat sat down infront of him, as if it was listening intently and with interest at what he was trying to spell. Peter had to give up. The wound nearly reopened. He resorted to a glass of water instead, understanding he wouldn’t be able to eat the chunks of fried chicken any way he tried, at the moment. He drank as much as he could, and didn’t stop even if he felt full. It was only water, and soon he’d be hungry again.
The cat hopped down, and sauntered along the door until it made it to the front door. Peter followed and let it out. He watched it steal off to the nearby tall grass, watching it strut away to its life in freedom. Saddened by the cat’s departure, he closed the door and went back inside where he began to clean up after the demon’s late night meal.
When Peter had nothing more to do, he all of the sudden remembered the issue of the groceries and his master’s tea. Perhaps there would be a way for him to win his master’s favour again, or rather, save himself from the master’s wrath to stand at watch Hell from the right side of the well another day. To be among the living another day, to smell the fresh air and listen to the chirps of the birds in the trees and enjoy the bleak sun on the wintry sky. Peter looked about for the credit card. His tongue kept burning, and his stomach kept churning, but he chose to ignore, had to ignore it in order to get things done, to rectify his errors. In the last minute, Peter decided to leave a note so his master would know where he went. ‘My lord. Gone to town to get your tea and some groceries, like you ordered. Your faithful servant, Peter.’ Not pleased with the note, he found a new piece of paper and tried again.
Got to have more feeling, Peter thought. So he wrote: “Dear lord. I have gone into town to purchase tea and other groceries for you. Please don’t be angry’. Peter contemplated his handiwork, before added: ‘I know I’m a failure and I’m trying my best to please you. I realize I got what I deserved last night, and I will never speak to you again. I only wanted to know your name so I you could tell it to your face that I think I love you despite my inabilities to be a good person. I know that you only wish to torment me, that this is my purgatory and that my life as I know it is over. I only wish I could experience one positive thing with you, like being able to gaze into your lovely brown eyes without fear of retribution of any kind, or real lovemaking with you, or that you just once showed real friendship, that we could just sit and talk over a beer. But you’re a demon. And you keep on hurting me although I try to apologize. I know now that it is futile. You don’t like the sound of my voice or anything else about me. I feel downright ugly and useless, and there’s no comparing me to your beauty. All I have is a hole or two which you seem to enjoy using. I’m trying to grow accustomed to it, and I’m might even enjoy it, but you keep hurting me and you fuck me so hard that there’s no pleasure in it, mostly pain. I’m so sorry I can’t be more to you. Had you been good to me, I would have loved to be your husband. Yours faithfully, Peter’.
He looked at what he’d written afterwards. It was hard to make out the letters because of the blotches his tears had made on the paper. He crumpled the paper between his fists and threw it into a corner. He couldn’t tell the demon bullshit like that, all though every word of it was true. Peter had to stick with facts, he told himself, to sever himself from the turmoil of feelings inside. To cut out his heart and hide his emotions, bury them, kill them, suffocate them. They did not matter. If he was in purgatory, Peter mused, then feelings were of no use. And if he was the unintelligent puppet his master had told him Peter was, well then it was better to be without emotions, without thought and care, just existing only for his master’s needs. The world outside wasn’t true. It was an alternate universe, Peter decided, created by the demon in order for Peter to suffer. All of the people in Midsomer Mallows were probably demons themselves who had changed their appearances so that they could toy with him, play him and use him. Peter wrote as nicely as he could: ‘Dear Lord. Gone to town to purchase tea and groceries as ordered’. Peter hesitated, wondering how he should sign the note. He found a solution and wrote: ‘Your slave’. There. Peter Drinkwater the person had to be eradicated. He had to be buried, so he could be preserved like a nice photo which he could take out of his pocket and look at from time to time. He was now only ‘the slave’. Kind of like ‘the help’ or ‘the doorman’, or ‘the gardener’ or ‘the maid’. That near invisible person which moved around the house, continuously maintaining it and performing every duty, never voicing an objection, always being positive and diligent in his work. Peter left the house, feeling the credit card as a heavy burden in his pocket. It belonged to the master. It meant that Peter, uh, The slave, had no right to buy anything for himself that he could charge on the card. So the issue of lacking money still stood looming above his bowed head. He walked fast in to town, all the while his thoughts raced through his head. He needed money. How could he get money the legal way? His master would never let him get away with another theft. Get a job. Get a job where? As what? What skills did he have, other than functioning as a warm, wet hole for his master? None. He’d been a thief all his life, never studied anything after grammar school and all that. It had been straight out on the fast lane for Peter Drinkwater, lifting wallets, nicking cars and computers.
As he reached the outskirts of town, his thoughts drifted to other subjects. Like being in purgatory and what that meant. It meant he had a chance to think about his life, to clear his conscience. He’d lost his soul, and his conscience had taken substantial blows. He decided to take an alternate route into town, and walked into the street he knew his aunt lived. Her house was alive with lights, and smoke rose from the chimney. She was probably taking her morning tea by the kitchen window as usual. He looked for her as he passed the house, not sure of why he’d come in the first place. She wasn’t sitting at the window, and instead he found her on the side of the cottage, by the shed. She was piling wood onto her arm, but slipped and lost several lugs on her way to the front door. Peter decided to come to her rescue, and entered the property.
“Why, Peter, is that you?”
He smiled apologetically at her, pointing to his throat as if trying to explain why he couldn’t speak. On no account could he show her his aching tongue. He picked up the wooden lugs for her, and motioned to take the rest for her and carrying it inside.
“That’s all right” she said hurriedly, as he was making it for the front door, the tone in her voice determined and stern, “I can take it from here” she said, and suddenly coughed violently. What she actually said was: I don’t want to let you in to my home, you thief. “Oh this darned winter’s chill, goes straight to the chest. Not good” she added and coughed again. Peter smiled at her as nicely and understanding as he could, and decided to go the distance. He pushed the door aside with his left shoulder and manoeuvred his way past the wall and to the marble fireplace in the living room. He put the wood down gently by the fire, adding a few logs to the fire before clearing the rest away. He heard his aunt cough again. He walked up to her, and looked at her. He wished he could say something to her, something to comfort, but who was he to speak? She was clearly ill, almost feverish. He checked the tea pot, and found it to be empty. She hadn’t made her self any tea this morning. He filled the kettle and put it on the stove, turning the gas on before helping himself to two cups in her cupboard. He recalled that she liked her tea with lemon in it, so he made the tea and poured lemon into her cup. He felt her eyes nailed to his back all the time, as if she was anticipating him to rob her. He sat down in the opposite chair, warming his hands on the teacup, glancing up at her now and then, listening as she coughed.
“I’m so sorry” he finally whispered. She immediately stopped, and put the tea cup down from her lips.
“What?”
“I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult, auntie” he managed to speak/whisper, “I’m sorry for having been such a prick” he glanced up at her to see her reaction. Would it come? Would she turn out to be another demon, too? Was he going to have to watch her face melt and turn into a hideous interpretation on an old hag? Would she yell at him and say something like: ‘Get out of my house, you son of a whore, run back to your rat’s nest on Windy Whistle Farm, I hope you rot in Hell for destroying the better years of my life!’ Would she?
“Those are strange words coming from you, Peter. Never thought I’d live to hear them, or to expect anything except betrayal from you. Never the less, I’m glad you said it” she smiled at him, and then coughed. Her smile sent waves of warmth straight to his heart, and he became so happy he could have cried.
“You don’t look so good though, Peter. Are you sick, as well? Throat infection? Lots of that going around these days. Who’d expected it to be snowing? It’s only October” she coughed again, “could be a long winter if it goes on like this.”
“Auntie, listen” Peter cleared his throat, “is there anywhere in Midsomer Mallows that I might get a job? Do you know of any vacancies?”
“A job? A proper job for Peter Drinkwater? You really must be sick, young man. Try the Midsomer tribune, I know there are vacancies there right now, but I don’t know what kind of jobs there are” she coughed again.
“I’ll check by there later, then. Say, auntie” Peter continued, swallowing hard, “I was wondering if I could borrow a bag of soup from you? I don’t have money right now, but I promise to give you money for it” Peter spoke fast, not wishing to hear her turn him down.
“A bag of soup?”
“I’m a little short on cash. I don’t have any food in the house” Peter whispered. Pronouncing every syllable was painful to him. “I can’t afford the electricity, so I must find a job” he told her resolutely, staring at her carpet, fidgeting with his fingers.
He watched her get up without a word, and he felt his heart drop to his toes. She was probably throwing him out. He got to his feet, and made for the front door. He heard her rummage around on the kitchen, and as he stood by the front door, he turned as she said:
“Here, Peter. You look the way I feel today. I don’t’ know why I’m doing this” she sighed and handed him a can of food along with a twenty pound note. “I really want to believe that you’re straightening up, Peter. Don’t disappoint me, please” she added. A stern gaze fled across her face as she spoke the words, and in them was the truth. Peter thanked her again and again, clenching his fist hard around the twenty pound note as if some unseen power was trying to derive it from his palm. He stuffed the can into his inner pocket, before he said: “Will you be all right? You should see a doctor with that cough of yours” he whispered, genuinely concerned. She was showing him mercy, and he could have fallen on his knees and praised her right there and then.
“I’ll be fine” she said, nodding to him. They said goodbye, and when Peter left, he felt his cheeks burn of joy. She’d accepted him in, they’d shared a cup of tea, and he had secured himself a meal, meaning he wouldn’t starve the entire day, at least. He made his way to the store, thinking of his aunt all the time, and got inside. He quickly found the items; tea of two different flavours, eggs, cheese and ham. Some fruit, did his master enjoy apples? No idea, let’s try with some. Milk. And perhaps some wine bottles. Dinner. A steak, yes he probably preferred it raw. Chicken and minced meat. Some broccoli and potatoes. Would he like it? Maybe. Peter stopped in the hygiene department. He stared longingly at the Vaseline boxes. Would the demon disapprove if he just got one? After all it was for …, no Peter couldn’t. It wasn’t strictly on his shopping list, so he let it go. He couldn’t afford to have his tongue cut open again.
On his way back, he stopped by the library. Peter couldn’t help himself, he just had to check. He asked the clerk about literature on the Sparrow Shipping Company. There was a section in a book on general shipping industry, and Peter sat down to read every word intently. The Sparrow Shipping Company was originally founded in 1663, as the Sparrow Salvage Company, by a former pirate captain named Jack Sparrow. Peter studied the images of old paintings of the Sparrow family members. There it all was, Peter thought in wonder as he gazed at the portrait of Captain Jack Sparrow. The chestnut brown eyes, the eyebrows, the wavy dark hair, the intense, almost hostile gaze, saying ‘I’m untouchable to you all’. The ex-pirate was wearing a three-pointed hat, pirate-style and all, and he had a moustache and beads and trinkets in his hair, staring triumphantly back at Peter like he was telling him: ‘Look at me, I’ve made it.’ There was no year of death, and the short text on the founder suggested he was lost at sea, on a rescue mission. Peter continued his reading, finding that the Salvage Company had, because of Sparrow’s background as a pirate, specialized in finding sunken shipwrecks and their treasures, using a prototype heaving mechanism and special trained swamp divers from Morocco. And then, some centuries later, they’d branched out into the shipping industry, building a considerable fleet. To day, the company was solely family-owned, with more than eighty offices spread out across the world. Then the text consisted of some blah blah about yearly income which amounted to an incomprehensible lot of money. Peter leafed back to the page on historic background, hoping to find a mention on the name Sparrow-Monterey. There was clearly a connection, but he couldn’t see it. He compared the photos of the various heads of the family as time progressed. The resemblance between the relatives was at best spooky, sending chills down his spine.
He pondered this on his way home. The men on the paintings, there was something about them he couldn’t set his finger on, and he kept re-opening the copy of the page he’d gotten, looking at the photos again and again as if hoping they’d speak to him and give an answer. Almost back at the farm, Peter stopped once more, and found the copy again from his pocket. He stared at them, and they stared back. Silent witnesses to the secret concerning his demon master. They looked as if evolution had stood still. The clothes varied of course, with the year they’d been in charge, but still, something was off. It was as if they’d all come from the same casting ladle. The features were the same, only the hair was pulled back, loose, short or long, curly, not curly. As if someone had taken a Barbie doll and dressed her up with different wigs and different dresses, still you’d be having the same face in the middle. Different smile, different gaze, pout etc., Normally, Peter thought, sauntering off towards the building, you’d have something different with every generation. Something from the mother, a different set of bone structure, facial features, small differences, tell tale signs suggesting new blood had been introduced, making the Sparrows evolve, instead of just copying themselves through a copy machine, like the photos suggested. A demon copying himself…! He shook the thoughts from his mind, took a deep breath and went inside the house which had become his prison.
He brought the bag of food unto the table, and as Peter sat it down, he stopped in mid-air, sensing the demon was in the living room. He glanced up and saw in deed his master pacing back and forth, reading on some papers. He stopped and glanced at Peter. Peter looked away immediately, noticing that the power was back on. The refrigerator was humming again, and the lamp on the wall near the door to the living room, was lit, bathing the kitchen in a warm yellow light. Peter heard crackling from the fireplace. It was a soothing noise, and he took of his jacket and then proceeded to clear away the groceries he’d bought for his master. His insides was growling with desire for food, and all though his tongue still ached, he was determined to get the can of soup opened so he could force it down, as soon as he was allowed. He had to eat.
Peter jumped as he noticed that the demon had moved closer, and was leaning in the door-way. Peter couldn’t bear to meet those beautiful yet scalding eyes, not after what he’d just done research on, not wanting his gaze to betray him if he looked into the eyes of the demon. Peter worked fast, laying all the items out on the table as if to show that he’d done the master’s bidding, and then proceeded to put them away where they belonged. He rather felt than heard the demon close up on him, coming up from behind, and he jumped as the demon put his hand on Peter’s hand, which rested on top of a package of ham.
“You look pale, pet, and your hands are shaking” the demon told him with velvety voice. Kindness. That was something new. Peter felt a tidal wave of gratitude wash over him. Being addressed with such tenderness was something completely new for there was no scalding in the demon’s voice, yet having his hand trapped beneath the demon’s slender fingers, skin pressed against skin, was like having his hand inside a mouse trap just about to snap shut across his fingers. He wanted his hand back, but withstood the impulse, not daring to invoke the demon’s wrath. “I wonder” the demon continued, “How do you intend to show me your gratitude for allowing you to sleep all night through?” Only then, with the question asked, did Peter dare to withdraw his hand. He started to undo his pants, and let them fall. Damn, he should have prepared himself, but too late now. He bent slightly forward, exposing his buttocks which were still numb with cold from having been out doors for so long. Peter couldn’t help but to feel ashamed. He felt the demon’s fingers on his ass, caressing the cheeks, sending shivers up Peter’s spine. A finger worked its way inside of him, and Peter breathed, customising himself to its presence once again. He felt the other digit scan the surface beneath, between where his testicles once had been, and found nothing. There was a disappointed sigh from the demon, and he then withdrew the finger from Peter’s insides. “You continue to disappoint me” the master said, “but for now I’ll let it pass. I’ll be having that cup of tea now.”
While the demon drank his tea, Peter stole downstairs to his spot in the basement. It was getting colder in the basement, and he wrapped himself in a blanket and ate the contents of the can with a spoon. Peter thought of his aunt while he ate, feeling grateful for every spoonful he managed to pour down, adding a pleasant warmth to his belly. So what if the soup was cold and somewhat chunky? It was food. When finished, he decided to keep the can. It could become useful some day. There was other things to be done, and Peter began to work in the half dark of the basement. As long as the door was open, there was enough light for him to see. He needed to make a makeshift latrine of a bucket and some boards which was left over from the previous work he’d done with the floor. He decided he would dig a large hole in the ground. There, he’d be able to take a piss during the nights, and a lid made out of wood would stop the smell. The piss would immerse itself into the ground, and he’d use the bucket for the other necessary ‘errand’ he would have to do once in a while. He’d find a moment during the day to empty and clean it. This chore of making lids and digging a hole made him able to think of something else besides his fear, keeping his feet on the ground and his mind practical. He’d need to round up more blankets. It was going to get cold during the winter. When the makeshift latrines were built, he went upstairs to find paper and pen. It was in a drawer in the kitchen. Caroline had doodled on the paper, drawing hearts with the initials ‘P.D.’ in them. Peter stopped and stared at the doodles. It was a piece of his past, a past when he’d been loved by someone. Caroline. Beautiful Caroline. She’d made those doodles in affection, made them for him as a gesture of her love for him. She’d signed the doodles with ‘Mrs. Drinkwater’, with elaborate spindly handwriting. She’d never showed him. She must have made them while waiting for him on one occasion, and probably forgotten about them. He felt thankful over having been able to experience such bliss during his apparently final days, which these had to be. Peter took the pen in his hand, and began to write.
‘Dear Lord. May I take a job? I have been offered a part-time job at the local newspaper office. It’s for a few hours, for two or maybe three days a week, just so I can earn some money to pay the bills. Your humble slave.”
Nah, too long. Keep it simple.
‘Dear Lord. Got an offer about a part-time job at the local newspaper. Two-three hours, maybe three days a week. Your humble slave.
Peter looked over the text again and again. Was it short enough? Informative enough? Had he signed it properly? Dear Lord? Or dear master. Big m? Small m? Would he be punished for handing it to the demon? Probably. Peter folded it, and peeked into the living room. The demon was on the move. He’d gotten out of his chair, which had used to be Peter’s favourite chair, and was standing by the living room window, studying that document again. Peter braced himself, and walked into the living room, stopping about two meters away from his master. He kneeled, and waited. It didn’t take more than a second for the demon to turn to look at him, and Peter felt his blood freeze as he knew the gaze of the demon was upon his shoulders. Not finding any other way to present the letter to the demon, he put it on the empty floor between them, before he got up and bowed his way out of the living room, retreating to the basement and his blankets. He did not want to stick around to see the demon’s reaction. The whole house seemed to be holding its breath, as if it already knew the outcome, anticipating the mayhem to begin at any second. The walls kept whispering about his downfall, taunting him and laughing at him, telling him he was an idiot for believing that his master actually would indulge upon him and grant him his wish. ‘A slave has no desires. He has no will of his own. He is but an object. A chair. A hole to fuck. A hole to fuck, the walls kept chanting.
“Slave?” it was the demon’s voice demanding his presence. Peter scrambled to the foot of the stairs, where he knelt, folding his hands in plea, trying to show his humbleness in all ways, not wanting his tongue sliced again. It would be his way of answering his master’s call, he resolved, a slave’s way to show his love. To speak, though without words. Before he knew it, his master was making his way down stairs, and Peter shuffled himself backwards, still kneeling.
“Don’t you know that having a job, any job, require some level of intelligence?” the demon laughed, and spat at Peter. The saliva hit Peter in the face, and dripped down on his folded hands, but he made no move.
Only when the demon had done up his trousers and had closed the door to the basement, did Peter dare to move again. He collected his legs with painful moves. His knees were raw from having been grinded into the floor, and his puckered entrance hurt from the sudden intrusion. Peter sat and massaged his wrists. They were always sore from supporting his weight at every thrust made from behind. He fumbled but found his way back to his soft spot, his nest made up of blankets and cushions. He lit the candle, filling the cold basement with just enough light for him to see where he’d placed the latrine. He was going to be In need of it. His rectum was made thus, that whenever stimulated to such a point as it was whenever Peter was taken, it would perform its original task as soon as chance led to the occasion. As Peter used the makeshift latrine, he could see the shadows on the basement wall shape into demonic faces whispering ‘no intelligence inside, no intelligence inside his head, he he!’
Peter lay down to sleep with his clothes on, wrapping himself in every blanket he had available. It was freezing, and it felt like he spent hours lying awake because he was freezing. He eventually began to fall in and out of sleep, dreaming of returning to the Newspaper building the next day. He was ready and motivated to go to work, wanting to make a good first impression. But soon enough, he was taken aback by the tell tale signs of the people working there, that they did not approve. He was set to the task of putting letters into envelopes and then seal them and put them into a basket. In his dream, Peter managed the task just perfect, he thought, matching the folding of the letter to the size of the envelopes. But soon, the editor stopped by his office, shaking his head disapprovingly, telling him he wasn’t doing it correctly. Peter tried to make them show him just how, then, should they be folded perfectly, and that he needed to be told what was wrong in order to be able to correct himself. But they all shook their heads angrily, pouting and replying that, ‘no, I can’t, for you’ve got no intelligence’. He got the same answer from them all, and it left him dumbfounded and hurt, knowing in the back of his mind, that those were the words of the demon, and that they probably were on the demon’s side and not his. Peter woke at 3 a.m. to the sound of the creaking of the basement door and the footsteps of certain demon he knew all too well. Peter was still clouded by the emotions spurred from the dream, feeling all alone and abandoned, knowing that now even the people in the local newspaper had turned against him. Peter remained still, but upon remembering that he was fully clothed, he began to twist and turn to get out of the clothes before the demon had made it down to the foot of the stair. He almost had the last item off, his shirt, as the demon seized his arms, and locked them by twining the shirt tight, so it held Peter’s head and his wrist fast. It made Peter uncomfortable, sensing that a part of his air supply was cut off. He just wanted the shirt to be clear of his head, and attempted to move his arms and head to achieve this. Then, a rope was fastened around his arms in addition, and they were tied to the end of the stairs, making it completely impossible. He fought the urge to plead for help, but couldn’t help the sobs escaping his throat. The demon sat down on his torso and completely immobilized him, and Peter jumped as the demon pinched his left nipple between the thumb and index finger. A searing pain flailed through his nipple as what could only be a needle, perforated the sensitive, pink skin and Peter cried between gritted teeth, flexing every muscle in his body. It ached and throbbed, and he felt something being attached, something heavy. Soon, the pain came anew as his other nipple was up for the same job too, and Peter clenched his eyes shut, breathing hard to withstand the pain jolting through his right nipple. Then, the demon shoved his legs violently aside and forced himself inside Peter, thrusting into him hard, for what seemed like eternity. Peter found some consolidation in the midst of all the pain, some revelation. It felt good to have his face covered. His emotions remained hidden to the demon, and he could look straight through the cloth, look at the fuzzy image of the demon’s face behind the veil and behold his beauty, the warm breath, the heaving of his half naked chest and the way the neck-long hair floated back and forth with the moves. Peter could count every straw of hair, gaze at every detail without fear of annoying the demon. And Peter could weep in silence without being scolded for his tears, his weaknesses, loving the demon, fearing the demon and loathing the demon as he pleased, giving him some freedom. And should the demon’s face turn, then the veil would be between them and Peter wouldn’t be able to see the hideous mask clearly. Once the demon had finished, he let his fingers slide across Peter’s body, and Peter felt the equivalent of bliss. A caress! Ouch, a little painful though, as the demon dug his long fingernails into the flesh of Peter’s hips. He’d have to learn how to enjoy those caresses, and ignore the pain, for it would be the only kindness the demon would show from time to time. Appreciate it, appreciate it, Peter told himself, also reminding him that his body was just a tool for them both, so the demon got his satisfaction while Peter got the opportunity to sift out a misplaced caress which the demon now and then bestowed upon the tool. For it was the tool the demon appreciated, not Peter’s mind and non-existing intelligence. After all, Peter said to himself, Peter was dead, and the current placeholder in his head was just somebody who now paid for Peter Drinkwater’s mistakes, existing only in the head, and had nothing to do with the body downstairs. Yes, this was the truth. It had to be. Only when his toes began to seriously burn of cold, did Peter wake up from his delirious thoughts. He was lying on the cold floor, still tied up and it was all quiet around him. He limbs hurt, and he needed to go to the lavatory again, due to the relentless use of his anus. A very long time passed, and the aching in his nipples did not go away unless he lay completely still. But that gave him an ache in his back and in his arms, so he was forced to twist and turn, constantly shifting his position. After what seemed like hours, the door was opened anew, followed by familiar footsteps. Peter wanted to hurl out a plea, a threat, anything just to be untied. He shifted helplessly, whimpering. The demon ignored him, only turning him unto his back and sitting on him again, pulling at the items now attached through Peter’s nipples. The slave whimpered, prompting the demon to chuckle. He poured something cold across the nipples, massaging the swollen buds gently with the liquid. It burnt. Peter was then relieved to be untied, and eager to see what had been done to him. He was not prepared though, to find his nipples having been pierced with golden ringlets. And to each ring was there attached an ornate doubloon. Peter tried to swallow the shame and the hurt upon seeing this.
“And thus is how a master brands his harem slave. The weight will ensure that you are reminded at all times of your foremost task, which is to please me. Second, it will ensure that you’re in a constant state of arousal, so that your hole will be large and wet for me to slip inside whenever I feel like it. If you attempt to remove them, I’ll cut off one of your ears.”
Peter cowered before the demon, and whimpered as he retreated back to his makeshift bed for comfort and warmth. His nipples ached, God, how they ached! And no matter how he turned and shifted, the weight of the doubloons continued to hamper him, to drag and pull at his nipples. His instant reaction was hate, and a desperate need to be rid of them. The thought of retaliation from his master kept him from doing it, and Peter tried instead to find a good position as to go back to sleep, trying to suppress the anger burning inside. Such anger was harmful to him, downright dangerous. It would coarse in his veins from time to time, and he’d be thinking of murdering his master and all the various ways he could do it, but in the end, fear of being found out and punished for it, made him suppress it, knowing the demon from time to time would read his mind, picking stray thoughts if Peter was getting too emotional. And why bother? Peter thought to himself, why bother when the body from the neck and down is a tool and nothing more, no longer belonging to Peter Drinkwater? Just forget the anger. Learn to live with it. Get used to it, he tried telling himself. But sleep wouldn’t catch him, and the nipples ached, and his hole was very sore. The state of ‘the tool’ wouldn’t let him escape into dreams. Peter hated it for not letting him, just hated it so very much, loathing it for being so imperfect on one hand and an object of the demon’s desire on the other hand. Peter directed his thoughts elsewhere – to the kitchen needing a clean-up in the morning. The toilets and probably the floors. More blankets, he reminded himself, need to find more blankets. Think ahead, stay ahead, and find yourself out of Hell for another day, just one more day. And breakfast, need to find a way to get breakfast. Perhaps a letter, yes, that was it. He’d beg for a slice of bread and ham, maybe some milk to gulp it all down with. But not having a job was a problem. Maybe he could travel to the truck stop outside Causton, up north there, and give someone a blowjob. But that would be adultery. He was going to have to write another letter and explain about the issue concerning job equals money equals food. These thoughts of something safe, meaningful and practical managed to soothe Peter just long enough for him to doze off for some time. He dreamt of his vision being filled with hands reaching out for him greedily, wanting to tug at the gold doubloons hanging from his nipples. He dreamt of being tied on hands and legs and hoisted into midair, where his head was trapped inside a heavy golden mask. Then he was taken in all kinds of manners, one dick soon replaced by another, all of the shooting their load inside him until a pressure kept building up, and sperm began to dribble out of his rear entrance. But the dicks kept on coming, and his thighs were gripped by coarse male hands all the while his nipples were fondled savagely. Peter tried to struggle, finding himself to be very much annoyed, not because they were taking him in such a way and because he was frightened to find himself in such a restrained situation, no he was annoyed because he was horny, and no one would help him come, they all just wanted to take advantage of him. But he dared not speak, not for a second. Through the crowd of men, and through the haze of lust, Peter thought he spotted a man which stood apart from the crowd. He strained to look out through the visor of the mask, breathing hard as he saw a tall male figure, with a magnificent crown and huge black wings, like taken straight out of a fairy tale. The man was grinning, displaying fangs much like those of the demon in the house of Windy Whistle Farm, and he was looking at the crowd while leaning against the brick wall behind him. So handsome, so undeniably charismatic, yet surrounded by an unmistakable aura of evil, making Peter feel like he wanted to be nowhere near that man. He was in charge, no doubt. Peter felt all of the sudden overcome by an immense grief which was not his. He mourned for someone, or something, but he couldn’t for tell who or what. But it had to do with the crown-bearing character standing by the wall with his arms crossed in an ‘I-told-you-so’ manner.
Peter woke, quickly sitting up. He was breathing hard and fast, finding himself aroused and in desperate need of release. Peter dug his right hand inside his trousers, and was shocked and appalled to come in contact with nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He’d known, in the back of his mind he’d known, he’d just pushed the notion away, not wanting to think of the horrifying change taking place down below in his trousers. There were so many other, more important things to care about, for example, how to get through the day and remain alive to see another dawn. To get through the next assault, the next rape, to prepare for winter and figure out to acquire the next meal without too much suffering. He felt tears press on again, and he wiped them away furiously, mourning his lost sexuality, his manhood, taking in the idea of having to continue his existence in purgatory without his dick, his balls, everything which made him a man. Just a tool, he kept telling himself, you’re just a tool. Your feelings don’t matter, they don’t matter! Hunger was burning violently in his stomach, and Peter ached for some kind of release. Again, thoughts of death started to circle in his head, like vultures over a man half dead in the desert. He put on his shirt, desperate to conceal the doubloons dangling from his nipples. He stumbled upstairs, only to find the door locked. Now what? He thought to himself, but suddenly heard steps coming towards the door. Peter began to retreat, making his way down the stairs, stiff-limbed and sore everywhere. His master was approaching.
I tear the basement door open, and catch him just as he is about to descend. His courage failed the minute he became aware of my footsteps, I sensed that two metres away. Courage all but a part of his past. Now fear and pain governs his actions. Good. Still, there is much left of his education before his skills as a slave are complete. But he can become more humble than he is now. Oh yes. I seize him by the arm, and drag him up and into the living room. He’s fighting with a lump in his throat; I can hear his repressed sobs. His effort not to speak pleases me. A slave may be seen but not heard. He has understood that. I let him go, and he drops to his knees, showing his obedience.
“You’ll learn to achieve orgasm on my command. It will help enhance my pleasure as I take you. All other feelings are irrelevant” I tell him, emphasizing the word ‘feelings’. For a swift moment, I recall his letter of love, which he’d written and then thrown away. All my snakes come to a point where they mistake love for something else, turning all their hopes on one thing; their master. I have my present slave living in a dream state, not knowing whether he’s awake or asleep, dreaming some horrid dream. I’ve seen the signs before. And how beautiful he has become. He blinks away curly strands of hair from his eyes, his thick dark lashes a delicate outline against the pale, near bluish skin beneath his eyelids. His lips quiver with anticipation, or perhaps it is fatigue? Will he try to speak? He is wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, clears his throat, and I let the blow against his cheek fall prematurely, more sudden than I actually wanted. He cowers, bends his head further down. I watch him crane his beautiful, fully exposed neck. A drop of blood falls from his nose and onto the floor. I watch as he immediately wipes it away with the hem of his shirt, not caring that he’s staining it with blood. A foresight strikes me, and I sense he bears on hidden truths.
I watch him dig his fingernails into the floorboard, like he’s refusing to run and hide as he’s always done. Aye, he’s controlling his fear, mastering his emotions. He’s trembling with fear. I feel something, and I touch my face. Oh, apparently I had turned. His shirt has slid up on his back and his buttocks are exposed. I trace the delicate, rounded shapes with my eyes, and I feel myself growing unbelievably hard. I cannot help myself, I undo my trousers to reveal my rock-hard manhood, and I plunge into him, filling him with my hardness, thrusting with speed and force, thinking only of his wet hole. Whimpers escape his lips, and he struggles to stay on hands and knees, for my thrusts are so forceful they nearly knock him to the ground. Touching the skin of his thighs is like touching something which just died, a dead person whose temperature has begun to drop. It appals me, and I tell him so.
“Now, if you don’t achieve orgasm when I tell you to, you’ll be punished. For every orgasm failed, you’ll receive ten lashes from my whip, savvy?” I add, as I keep on pounding into him. He nods his head. “So go on” I continue, “you may begin, and mind you I’ll be tagging along, feeding off your emotions, so don’t even think about faking, savvy?” I hear him sigh quietly, before he reaches between his legs.
Five hours and ten lashes later, Peter kept looking out the window. Pristine and immaculate snowflakes came drifting down from the twilight sky. Peter blinked away his tears to get a better view of them, straining his neck to be able to gaze outside. He lay tied on the bed upstairs. The bed which had once been his own. He’d made love to someone in that bed, but he could no longer recall her name. Angry red stripes decorated his buttocks, and he tried not to move too much. Instead, he gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the snowflakes sifting down on the midnight sky, imagining them to be people, lovers maybe, like miniature fallen angels who quietly fell from grace, accepting their fate. Then the demon showed, untying him. Peter scrambled from the bed and into the shower, not caring if the water was freezing at first. Getting rid of the salt in his wounds was what concerned him most. When he got out, the demon grasped his right wrist.
“Sit” he ordered the slave, dangling a cluster of delicious looking green grapes above Peter’s head. Peter immediately obeyed, and ate greedily when the grapes were offered to him. The demon threw a loaf of bread to him as well, and Peter bent down to eat it, like a dog, stuffing his mouth with food. More food followed, delicious cheese, and Peter was beyond gratitude, mixing the tastes in his mouth. Every time he bent down, the doubloons inside his shirt would fall too, hitting the floor with a clanking noise, like a bell around a sheep’s neck.
“Now, back on the bed. You’ve got thirty minutes to figure out how to achieve orgasm” the demon told him sternly. Peter obeyed, and warily made his way back onto the stained bed, noticing that the demon didn’t leave, but instead chose to stay, leaning against the bedroom wall, all the while watching Peter. Peter had been fed. He felt less delirious with hunger, and resolved to sit down, with his back towards the demon, and try to figure out how to complete his task. He made himself spread his thighs, and while sitting on the edge of the bed, he gently reached between his legs, hoping for a miracle. It was awkward to touch. There was simply nothing there, only a very sensitive, soft spot of hairless flesh which reminded him of a mini-penis, like the penis of a small child yet to come of age. It resembled more a ‘knot’ of flesh than anything else, and it distressed and repulsed Peter to think that it was all that was left. He wetted his fingers on his tongue, and reached down again, willing the lump in his throat away. Unwilling fingers soon found that spot, and he felt his entire body immediately respond. It was like harnessing a horse. A gentle push would cause it to grudgingly embark unto uncharted waters, waters Peter had no desire to explore. But he pushed on, knowing the demon was watching. If Peter rubbed faster, then he found himself trapped between impossible emotions in an instant, feeling his body rearing into the air with lust, for then to writhe in shame and self-loathing, to a point where Peter could not go on, for it brought him to tears for reason he could not name. If he simply groped the spot and rubbed it as hard as he could, it produced mostly pain. Peter guessed he’d have to learn to harness this horse, or more flogging would come unto his buttocks. He could hardly sit as it was at the moment. His mind kept calling to him, urging him to stop, for it felt so wrong. Peter felt no desire to go through with it, yet he forced himself to keep rubbing, to make that good feeling linger. The process he was undergoing, scared him. Peter could feel the terror to the very bottom of his heart. For so long, he’d cut himself off from his emotions, living only with pain and learning to deal with that. But now, it felt like he was forced to have sex with someone he didn’t like, as if a gun had been pointed to his head and he’d been ordered to rape a child. He was betraying himself somehow. Perhaps because the rubbing of the spot made him feel so damn good, all against his will. He shouldn’t be feeling so good. He shouldn’t be enjoying it. Not at all.
The further he peaked, the more he rubbed and rubbed that knot of flesh, and the more his cheeks began to burn, the more he hated himself, and before he knew, Peter was reduced to tears. He slid to the floor beneath the bed, sliding for a moment out of sight, out of immediate reach of the demon, and for moment Peter felt relieved to have absolute privacy. It didn’t last for long, for the demon soon enough looked over the edge of the bed, startling Peter with his hideously twisted face, a mask of absolute evil grinning furiously at him. Peter was grabbed by the neck and dragged up on to the bed. He breathed hard and fast as he was being tied up again.
The first lash fell. Peter whimpered into the mattress, trying to shrink away, fighting the ropes with every muscle in his body.
The second lash fell, and Peter was surprised to find it rather mild on his flesh. A sharp sting to it, yes, but it burned on his buttocks and ignited a tingle in his groin.
The third lash fell, and Peter felt that he might actually be able to endure it, provided the lashes didn’t strike any harder. The tingle was growing into butterflies, or something else, and to his shame he felt like spreading his legs. But he didn’t. He fought the impulse as best as he could.
The fourth lash fell, drawing out a slight moan from Peter. Remember, he told himself, remember he’ll cut out your tongue if you speak.
The fifth lash fell, and it fell a little harder than the previous one, prompting Peter to think it was punishment for him making a sound. He spread his legs a little, as to say he was sorry for upsetting the demon.
The sixth blow struck his buttocks, and Peter was beginning to feel sore. But it felt so good, so indescribably good, and he unconsciously spread his legs some more, breathing a little harder, fighting with himself, biting back the moans which wanted to escape his lips. He had to endure this in silence, or he would lose his tongue, remember that, slave, and remember that, Peter kept chanting inside his brains.
The seventh lash fell, and Peter breathed faster, arching his buttocks up a little, seeing it in his mind, craving to have the demon’s cock inside, pounding into his backside, over and over.
Ouch, the eight lash fell, and Peter breathed hard, shutting his eyes, surrendering to his lust, arching his back, hoisting his ass up in the air while spreading his legs as far apart as he could. If he only dared to plead, he would! He would throw away his shame and pride like ragged old clothes and plead the demon for his cock up his entrance, please, he’d say, please have me!
The ninth lash fell, caressing the flesh near his entrance, and Peter let out a yelp in surprise. He immediately regretted it. He heard the demon snicker.
Then, the final lash fell, and Peter was, in his mind, reduced to a trembling wet hole just waiting to be filled. His lush lips kept forming the word please, but it was never spoken, and he kept pushing his buttocks up from the mattress in an attempt to signal to his master that he was ready, that he for once wanted it. The demon loosened the ropes around his ankles, and Peter managed to hoist himself up on his knees, while still being tied on both hands. Finally, finally! Peter was filled by a groaning, stone-hard demon. He slid easily into Peter, immediately pumping away. To Peter’s surprise, the demon reached forward and began to fondle the knot. The sensation was mindblowing, sending Peter bursting, the orgasm spreading throughout his body like wild flames on a rampage. Every muscle in his body stiffened, and he heard the demon chuckle maliciously. Peter strained to keep quiet, fighting the internal tidal wave washing over him, drowning him in lust, clogging his hearing and his vision. It lasted and lasted, and everything began to blacken in front of his eyes. Strange creatures materialized straight out of thin air, and the room swirled and darkened. Peter closed his eyes as he sobered up, yet his lusty body drove him forward in time with the forceful thrusts of the demon. The demon eventually came, and sighed heavily whilst he lay on top of Peter’s back. Peter could feel the frantic beating of the demon’s heart, and feeling the powerful beats broke something in him, telling him that the demon did in deed have a human body, but an unhuman soul. Peter had lost the possibility to be loved. That heart would never beat for him, probably never even though he tried his best. Peter could not hold back the tears. To be able to peak so high just to fall so swiftly, almost like mourning the sudden loss of a lover, was too much. Already exhausted from too little food and sleep, Peter let the tears fall, sobbing silently, wishing himself to be without emotion, without life.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Peter saw no other option but sneaking away into town, taking stray jobs, helping out his aunt whenever he could. The stray jobs paid a little, so he could buy food for a day or three, and his aunt paid for his company with food. Peter felt badly about operating in the hidden, and he would relieve his conscience by writing letters to his master on the inside of empty cartons, on toilet paper and napkins. He never sent them, always hid them away in fear of retaliation. Only objective, impersonal messages were given, such as ‘Dear Lord. More soap is required. Your humble slave.’ Peter often saw the demon sitting in the armchair, taking tea and reading the same piece of paper which Peter had seen him pour over earlier, again and again. He wondered what kind of document it was, but never dared to ask.
Then Peter began to really feel tired. He would wake up during the nights feeling nausea and an unfamiliar pressure in his belly. The first night he woke up feeling like this, he managed to crawl and hands and knees over to the latrine, puking inside it. It scared him, for he could not afford to get sick, how would he manage to perform sexually, to achieve orgasm on command, how would he make it into town and work? These thoughts stayed with him the following morning. He made it up the stairs and shuffled off to the kitchen like a sleepwalker, too sleepy to think or do anything for himself. The master would be asking for his morning tea. He put the kettle on, and leaned across the desk, fighting the nausea inside. Just as could be expected, a portal opened in the living room, revealing his master, surrounded by an air of fresh salty wind. His hair was partly wet, glittering in the winter sun beaming in through the kitchen window. Peter rather felt the hungry look than actually seeing it in the demon’s eyes – he felt no urge by staring resolutely, or even exchange glances with his demon master. The prize could turn out to be way too high right now. Peter simply kept his tongue, staring into the ground, or away, any where but into the demon’s brown nut-shaped eyes which he only dared to dream about at night. Peter arranged the cup with skilled fingers, getting the tea bag, adding the proper amount of sugar and then pouring steamy water into the cup. God, how he missed having a cup of coffee in the morning. As custom dictated it, Peter carried the cup out into the living room, placing it on the exact same spot on the table as he’d done since the beginning. He then turned and immediately went for the stair, bowing shortly to the demon, making it to the stairs. He had to sit down, feeling completely dissolved. Peter crawled his way upwards, step by step, not knowing the demon was watching every step his slave made, with curiosity. He remained standing whilst he saw Peter vanish into the bathroom. He also stood still, listening to Peter as he vomited. Then silence. Then Peter emerged again, and slowly made his way down on shaky legs. Peter went straight down to the basement where he curled up in his blanket and shut his eyes hard, desperately begging God to make him well again.
The weeks dragged on like this, and Peter suffered his way through nausea, orgasms and doing his domestic chores. Then, one day, something kicked inside his stomach. Peter was cleaning the living room floor, wiping up his own blood which had dripped from his nose after a well placed blow. The demon had lost his temper. And Peter hadn’t been fast enough. Upon feeling the tiny, lively kicks again, Peter immediately understood that he was somehow with child. It was demon spawn, growing inside him, feeding off him. Peter often lay awake after the first realization, pondering, feeling, searching for another sign of life, trying to make out whether the child was malignant or not. Did it hate him just as much as his sire hated Peter? Did it harbour any feelings? It would certainly kill Peter, for Peter was inevitably a man, and there seemed to be no way out for the child once it was to be born. Peter concluded grimly that the child would probably be some hideous little thing, and it would probably tear its way out of his belly in due time. Thus, Peter Drinkwater would die and embark on his final voyage to Hell. Until then, what else could Peter do but to try to pour all his unanswered love over on the child? Maybe it would understand that he meant it no harm, and maybe it would find another way out of him? Maybe his love for the baby would exonerate him from his sins? Why not love it, when loving its demon sire seemed impossible and brought him nothing but heartache and longing? The child was obviously, if not overall, a piece of the demon. An actually, physical piece of the demon’s heritage. Something for Peter to love shamelessly? Yes, he decided, if he could not speak his emotions, then he would act it on the child’s behalf. Then Peter thought of responsibility, the actual meaning of having a baby, envisioning what it would be like to be a father with a toddler running about his legs. But then again, he would probably not be allowed such happiness. The child would be somewhat an incarnation of anti-Christ, it would be taken from him, or it would kill him upon the day of his birth. But hypothetically, IF, Peter thought, just what if, then what sort of father would he try to be? A good and loving father, first and foremost. He’d be there whenever the boy needed him, and not be absent, like his father who spent his lifetime in jail for triple manslaughter. That meant he’d had to stay out of trouble, and get a proper job, a job that paid. The child would have to be clothed and fed…! Peter fell asleep, drifting away from slumber into deeper sleep, dreaming of a life with a small boy in his heels, hearing the laughter, sensing the smiles. All would be fine as long as he did not look at his face, for it was a distorted demonic face meant to frighten and sadden him. The ghost-like child kept running around in the living-room, being a normal child one minute, for then to stop and act as if possessed, growling and speaking in tongues, cursing Christ and calling his father a whore. Peter awoke to darkness, sweat pouring down his forehead, and the image of the wicked child lingering on his retina. He checked his watch. It was 3 am. The witching hour – meaning that the demon probably sat upstairs, diving deep, prying and splitting his memory, raping Peter’s mind again, blurring his childhood memories, or filling them with images of him as a part of it, gazing, grinning, watching, touching Peter’s fair, childlike sex without his consent, staining the innocence. Peter sat up, to find himself a drink. He was thirsty, minding not to look to the walls and the corners, knowing the dead ones lingered there, watching him with their contemptuous, dead stares. He sipped from the bottle, then laid down again, forcing his eyelids shut.