The Demon and the Thief

He awoke to find himself lying naked on the living room floor. Pain shot through his torso as he moved, instantly reminding him of what had happened. He looked around, shaken and nervous. There was not a sound to be heard in the entire house. His body was stained with blood, smeared with dirt and sticky semen. The first thought in his head told him to leave, now, before it was too late. He strained his weary muscles to get up on hands and knees to crawl out to the kitchen. As he got there, he found the keys to the car in the side pocket of his leather jacket. Just as he fished them out, a voice behind him asked:
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Peter froze, recognizing the voice. He clutched the keys tight in the palm of his hand, and almost against his will, he turned around. He was surprised to find the same man he’d only caught a few glimpses of, leaning casually against the door case. He gazed into the brown eyes of what seemed to be his peer, perhaps he was some ten years older, in his thirties. His eyes looked ancient though, as from another age, another sphere. Peter felt himself go weak, like the very last remains of his strength was being sucked right out of him.
“Aye, it’s my doing. So you won’t be able to escape” the man looked at him contemptuously.
“Wh-who are you?” Peter heard himself say, his voice rasping in his dry throat, his lips trembling with anxiety.
“I’m your master” the man replied, approaching Peter lightly, gently touching Peter’s chin with two fingers, “and you are my new toy”.
Peter could hardly believe his ears, shaking violently as he was getting increasingly cold and something else, aroused. He tried to fight it, feeling resentment and hatred building inside against the man and the unwanted desire.
“Ah, lust in its purest form. Beautiful, isn’t it? Is that anger I’m smell? Good for you. You’ll learn to hate me real good. In the end though, you’ll be begging me to kill you, to finish you off like a fox caught beneath the hooves of a mighty stallion. You’ll learn to obey me, and obey me good. I’ll have you grovelling at my feet in no time” the stranger whispered seductively through lush lips mere millimetres away from Peter’s. Without warning, Peter shoved the stranger backwards, trying to get his feet to make it for the door. He was immediately caught again, and dragged by his feet into the living room. Peter watched in horror as the telephone wire came alive, coiling itself around his wrist, forcing his hands together, tying them. He looked to the stranger for help, but screamed as his face had turned hideous again. The monstrous looking man grabbed Peter by the wrists and hauled him over the sofa, exposing Peter’s buttocks. He watched in horror as the stranger with the now skull-like head fetched the belt from Peter’s leather jacket. He strung it between his two hands, allowing a panic-stricken Peter to understand what he was about to do.
The first lash fell on his buttock, the leather belt coming down so hard on him it made a whipping sound through the air. Peter screamed out of surprise and pain, trying to elope as a lamp cable pulled out from the electric socket in the wall and coiled itself over Peter, strapping him to the couch.
The second lash fell. Peter screamed again in agony.
“You are a whore, a thief, a deceiver and a disrespectful piece of droppings!” the stranger shouted at him, lashing at his buttocks again. Every blow burned, and Peter’s buttocks were soon getting red from the spanking. Once in a while, the belt buckle would graze his soft skin, causing red thin lines to appear, and they stung badly. “You will learn that you have no place on this earth, for you are worthless!” The stranger whipped again and again. By then, Peter was sobbing, begging to be released.
“Please!” he wailed, “let me go!”
“You heap nothing but misery on others, stealing their things which are most dear to them, giving yourself away without thought to anyone willing to pay a few pounds to fuck you. A bloody whore and a thief!” the stranger continued to lash at him, “and the one who has set all her hopes on you, you treat with disrespect!”
Peter’s vision was spinning and blurring by the minute. Soon he was going to lose consciousness again, and he prayed it would happen soon. But then the stranger stopped, and Peter was untied. The stranger began to lash out at him, getting Peter to move, and Peter felt himself herded upstairs. It was demeaning, yet he was so afraid he did his best to elope by moving up the stairs. His throat was yearning, screaming for a drink. Upon reaching the end of the stairs, he immediately made for the window, but was abruptly pulled back by his hair. It hurt, and he screamed, clutching for the hands pulling him back. He clawed and thrashed at the hold in his hair, and he could but follow into the bedroom, kicking and thrashing in protest. The door was shut behind them by unseen hands.
I toss him easily onto the bed. He’s got a frail and taut frame, his body virile and capable, young and fresh, though not so clean anymore. He snarls at me, growls out his protest like an animal in one minute, then begging and demanding to be released in the next. I chuckle at his feeble attempts to command me, before I lash out at him. My fist hits him dead in the face, and he tumbles backwards with a bleeding nose. I display my fangs, knowing he sees them through a haze as he’s in a lot of pain from the blow.
“You will learn your place, thief! You will learn to kneel and kiss my feet and make love to my whip! You’re not much to look at, but I’ll enjoy having you many a time. You’ll learn to hone your skills in bed, and you’ll please me as I see fit. Then, and only then, may I decide if you have some worth after all, and I might spare you the long way through all the planes which is Hell. Until then, you’re nothing, and you’ll do as you’re told!” I growl at him, reaching for him and grabbing his ankles. I pull him to me, spreading his legs in the process, assessing my handiwork. His posture changes as he realizes what is about to happen, he becomes desperate, and begs, wanting to escape my grasp. I grab him by the throat with my left hand, and I squeeze just hard enough for him to start breathing labored. I feel my way up to his puckered entrance. He wants to fight, tries to squeeze his thighs together. I squeeze even harder around his delightful throat, and I say: “Think of this as your purgatory. If you pass the test, you get to stay in the world of the living a little bit longer. If you fail, I’ll send you to a hell where there are demons far crueller than me. And they play a lot fouler games with the souls of the damned than I ever could hope to fabricate. So be glad you’re here with me, and obey. Now spread your legs!”
Peter looked the stranger square in his chocolate brown eye. The young thief squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed, reluctantly giving in, knowing the stranger was right. Peter had seen too much, felt too much of the darkness which lurked inside this man. He’d never been so frightened and humiliated before, and he spread his legs while gasping for air. The demon skirted around his entrance with skilled fingers. Peter kept his eyes closed, his face a sincere mask of disgust over being touched in such a fashion. He was so tired, completely ready to succumb to everything just to get some rest. He just wanted it all to go away, wishing it was all a bad dream. He whimpered and writhed in pain as the demon’s fingers touched some of the spots which had just recently begun to heal.
“Just touching you almost makes me come” the stranger whispered to him, releasing the grip on Peter’s throat ever so slightly. “You’re in luck, though. You’re hole is in worse condition than you yourself are. It’s going to take some serious patience just to leave you alone until you’re fully healed. It’s quite commendable. Your virgin hole is completely broken. I like that. It’s time you got some rest” the stranger whispered almost lovingly.
Jack Dorset didn’t get to talk with Peter for the next week. He’d go out to Windy Whistle Farm every single night, and upon wandering around the house, he’s spotted Peter a couple of times by the kitchen sink, peeling spuds or cleaning the sink, looking gloomy and sad, his brown eyes darting about in a troubled manner. But Peter never answered the door, no matter how much Jack Dorset banged at it or tried to reason with him. He searched for the stolen goods, and to his surprise he found it to be exactly where he’d watched Peter stash it. It didn’t make sense. Why did “the boyfriend” lie? And why was Peter acting so weird?
Two weeks later in the afternoon, it was almost time to close up the shop when Jack Dorset eyed Peter’s slim and hooded figure across the street. No one was at the shop, so he ventured outside, shouting out for Peter’s attention. He saw Peter come to a stop, gazing over to where Jack was standing. His mate simply bowed his head again, shielding it beneath the hood and walked on, a little faster than before. He was carrying a plastic bag of groceries. Peter Drinkwater grocery shopping?
He tried phoning Peter again that night, but as he expected, Peter did not pick up the phone. Not once had he done so in two weeks now. Jack Dorset couldn’t help becoming increasingly worried about his pal. Peter was a scam, a cold-hearted thief and a cheat, yet they’d connected as friends. Peter was the mastermind behind it all. He’d been the one to come up with the idea of burglaries. Having spent his childhood years in the depressed areas of London, he’d learned from the resident criminals there, and then nearly bored himself to death when his aunt and guardian moved to Causton to get him away from the bad influence. Then she’d insisted to move to Midsomer Mallows, to live in a house, an inheritance from some uncle. By then, he was eighteen and legal, and the relationship with Peter was so sour that she’d distanced herself from his shady escapades. She’d tried. And failed. And Jack? Jack had simply fueled Peter’s ambition, as he’d nearly drowned in the same boredom as Peter. He did not quite share the same disrespectfulness towards other people and authorities as Peter did. That saved him many a time. Now, Peter could be downright arrogant and hateful, but he was nevertheless Jack Dorset’s mate. And something was up. He decided to go see Peter’s girlfriend, Caroline Devere. A blue-eyed girl, in the metaphorical sense, not Jack’s kind of woman by far, and in his opinion not even worth looking at for anything but to shag. Which was why Peter had probably chosen her in the first place. It was Caroline who’d fallen for Peter, for his brown eyes and quick smile. They all liked to comb their fingers through his curls, these numerous women that Peter had to his disposal. He met up with her outside her house, politely shaking her hand whilst knowing her parents were glaring in the window above. She was distressed, the rim around her eyes red from crying.
“I can’t believe it. I simply refuse to believe it!” she cried at Jack after having told him how that stranger had opened the door instead of Peter. And when she’d asked who he was, he’d presented himself as Peter’s boyfriend, telling her that he and Peter went way back ever since his days in London, and that they’d decided to give it another go. Sorry babe, you’re out, oh and don’t set foot here again, it’s quite upsetting for Peter.
“He won’t even speak to me...!” she wailed. There was hurt and anger in her voice. He’d promised her the world, and then some stranger had dumped her on Peter’s behalf on the very doorstep.
“Something’s not right though. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something not quite right. I get this eerie feeling every time I go there. It’s like stepping inside this huge block of ice.”
“Of course you get an eerie feeling!” she retorted, “they’re two men living together, sleeping and doing God knows in Peter’s bed. It’s disgusting!” she barked, flailing her arms angrily.
“And you don’t get to be a part of the fun, is that it?”
“Are you kidding?! Peter’s not like that. He’d never touch another guy. I just can’t believe it. The whole idea is sickening.”

The fluid tones of the violin was the only noise in the living room. The Demon was sitting in Peter’s armchair, his gaze wandering dreamily across the worn wallpaper all the while he stirred his cup of tea with a spoon. He was sitting casually with one leg resting across the other knee, listening to the radio concert, enjoying the play of the violin. It was soon joined by the tones of an orchestra, and the Demon sipped his newly brewed tea in afterthought, as he looked down to behold the slave which was kneeling by the demon’s feet.
“My father plays the violin” the Demon said to Peter, “and he plays it with such ferocity that even Prince Lucifer must dance to it. There’s nothing like a fine play on the strings of a well-tuned violin. Now, I want to come in your mouth. ”
Peter swallowed hard, sighing heavily, feeling a lump already building itself up in his throat. He crawled closer to the Demon, saying: “please, I get so sick...!”
“Turn around, dog. You know the drill.” the Demon cut him short. Peter grudgingly did as he was told, and he felt tears welling up. He couldn’t start to cry! It would make it downright impossible to perform.
“Please, I’m so cold...!” Peter sobbed, “it hurts so much, I get these wounds in my gums, please, they hurt so much, I can hardly eat..!” he continued to wail while the Demon produced a rope. He tied Peter’s wrists together, before he proceeded with the mouth-ring, forcing it into Peter’s mouth, opening his jaw’s wide. Coming face to face with the Demon’s manhood made Peter sick to his stomach. He’d learned to hate the mouth-ring so badly, so intensely, for it prolonged the torture by giving him pain in addition to the sickening feeling of having a cock in his mouth. And just to finish it off, he had to swallow down every last drop, washing away every shred of dignity, littering his insides with a horrid, bittersweet taste.
The Demon was already hard, again. Not thirty minutes had passed since he’d been all over Peter’s ass in the kitchen. He’d had Peter from behind, and Peter had resisted, feeling weary and faint from far too little sleep over the past weeks. So Peter had been tied up in such a manner that his ass was exposed in the air, and then the Demon had raped him with a bottle of whiskey, forcing the bottle inside his anus and emptying the contents there. Then, the Demon had taken him hard afterwards, demanding an apology from Peter. The burning sensation and a sense of drunkenness had almost overpowered him, but Peter had managed to stutter out an apology, not understanding what he was apologizing for. But it obviously helped, for the Demon stopped and said: “There you go, not so difficult was it?! Pray you remember to obey next time, so you won’t have to suffer this again. Now, I want my tea. It’s almost time for the concert.”
His hole still burned.
Peter knelt between linen-clad thighs, arched his neck and bent down towards the waiting manhood. He glanced up for a moment, and was startled to find his master’s face having changed hideously again, a distorted figure of human face, a death mask grinning at him. Strong fingers grabbed the back of his head and pulled his head down violently, impaling him on the demonic erection. Peter felt as if he was about to choke. He could not control the sobs and the growing lump in his throat, and he struggled to maintain his balance every time the demon pulled his head down, burying himself into Peter’s mouth, enjoying the gurgling noises from his slave. It took about twenty good and long minutes before the demon finally came, burying himself deep into Peter’s mouth with every spurt. The demon fell back to the armchair, chuckling to himself, closing his eyes and sighing, a satisfied grin on his lips. The smile quickly faded as Peter’s sobbing did not stop. The boy was looking bewildered, his nose and eyes running, and his dribble collecting in streams along his thighs. He looked up at the demon with pleading eyes, finding his master to be annoyed. He was shoved backwards, falling heavily unto his back, and he tried to get up as quickly as he could, not wanting to expose his sore bottom. He squirmed about in rising panic as the demon got up from the chair and walked over to Peter. The thief managed to get up on his knees, and attempted to elope by staggering away towards the stairs. A futile run, of course, but he still screamed as his neck was caught in a crushing grip from behind.
“Where do you think you’re going, little snake?!” the demon snarled, ridding Peter of the mouth-ring. Peter tried to get a grip, tried to get his anxiety under control, tried to breathe through the pain of the hold the demon had on his neck. “It was all going fine here with tea and everything, but you couldn’t manage to shut up, could you? Sobbing will do you no good. It’s a sign of weakness. Like stealing, that’s a weakness, too. And you know all about that, don’t you? Now, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you in the cellar?”

I didn’t want to throw him down there. I waited patiently for an answer, I watched his jaws and bleeding lips work, but the only sound escaping those dry and cracked lips, were whimpers. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was the fact that I was still horny, and hungry. It was a fire building up inside me, and the fuel were those beautiful brown orbs of his. With his eyes wide open with fear, I could see them clearly. The light of the lamp glittered in them, bathing them golden, and for a minute there, I was reminded of my father. I let go of this beautiful yet pathetic creature.
“I...I..” was all he managed to stutter at me. This mindless babbling makes me angry, and I lash out at him. He falls to the floor, his nose bleeding. I undo the strap around his wrists. His wrists are blue and red and purple, his hands sweaty and stiff from clenching and straining.
“Too late. You had your chance. It’s the cellar for you, mate” I say almost reluctantly, scolding him with another demonic apparition of me. I take him by his hair and lead him to the door which leads down to the basement. I shove him inside. He’s pleading and struggling. I ignore him, all though I’d rather have him upstairs. Mindless company is better than no company. I shut the door, and he bangs on it hysterically. How one small man can make so much noise? I go back to my chair, sit in it and I turn up the sound, listening to Mozart. A great composer and a prick. A downright immature, spoiled child and a charlatan. Well, we can’t all be so fortunate. I close my eyes, searching out my slave in the basement. Ah, he’s found his usual spot at the foot of the stairs. He’s made himself a small nest there. A blanket to lie on, like a dog. An old, worn cartoon comic book to read in. Some bread. He finally manages to calm down, and he puts a blanket around his naked shoulders. No clothes inside the house, that’s the rule. His body my temple and all that, father would say. I watch the thief feel his way across the dirt of the floor until he finds the matches he thought he managed to smuggle down unseen yesterday. He lights a small candle, and warmth and life returns to his face. He finds an abandoned sweater from last week’s tumble with me there. I tore it from his body and tossed it aside before I tied him up and conjured up a small band of spiders to cover his body. It was such a laugh to see him writhe and scream, struggling with the illusions for hours. I watch him stare at the candle. He has the sense not to check the stone walls anymore. He tried that last week too, searching for a way to get out. But then I raped his mind, creating dead, half-rotten bodies lying about the walls, staring at him with black cavities instead of eyes. He only stares at the candle and nothing else. Its warmth and vividness gives him comfort. It’s his only light in life, quite literary. I allow him to keep it, knowing it will prolong his life if he has the slightest glimpse of hope. Prolong his suffering. More fun for me. He thinks of her. He lies down and blows out the candle, holding it tight as if it was a lifeline. He tries to sleep, tries not to think of the dead bodies he thinks lurks in the corners of the basement. So tired, so restless. I move my spirit closer, listening to him mutter in his sleep. He begs for mercy! All those words that should have come across his lips before me! It angers me that he cannot find the strength to beg to my face. I feel deprived. Angry. Stabbed in the back. I visualize myself sitting at the foot of the stairs, taking on the form of another, of his friend, Jack Dorset. I hear my slave awaken from his restless slumber, watch him sit up, but not in time. I melt above him, hushing him, saying: “Peter, it’s all right, it’s me Jack” I whisper, chuckling inside, knowing I’m bringing his hopes up.
“Jack!” he wails, his hands feeling its way across the mask of Jack Dorset.
“It’s all right, Peter” I say again.
“You’ve come to rescue me! Thank God you’re here, we’ve got to—“
“—it’s all right, Peter, no need to act like a horny wench on me here—“
“—what?!” my slaves replied, staring dumbfounded on what he thinks is his friend.
“It’s all right. I’ve come to rape you. It’s all right” I say, my voice light and positive.