The Demon and the Thief

The very next week. Peter was out. Out of tea, out of soap and out of about everything of canned food and fresh vegetables. The electricity had been shut off, and outside, the summer had turned to autumn. It would be winter soon. He had no money. His master came to see him, demanding his usual cup of tea, and Peter did not know how to bring him the news since he was not allowed to speak. In his desperate situation, the solution became a short letter, explaining in detail how Peter was broke, with only but a few pennies left. Instead of a cup of tea, the demon received a cup with a note in it. To Peter’s joy, the demon read the letter, glancing up at Peter once in a while.
“No money left, ey?” the Demon commented after a while, not bothering to look up at his slave, “come. I want you” the demon said, actually sounding nice. Peter felt a tingle in his stomach. He had the demon’s attention. He sat down between the demon’s legs, daring himself to glance up into his handsome features; the slightly unshaven cheeks, the way the hairs arranged themselves neatly in a thin moustache on the demon’s upper lip, the colour of the lips, the hairless chest lurking beneath his shirt. All these sights were hidden pleasures to Peter, but the greatest pleasure of it all was the demon’s beautiful nut-shaped brown eyes. Like looking into the eyes of a sparrow. Peter hastily gazed downwards, eyeing the hidden erection of the demon, feeling a slight tingle in his own abdomen. He had to learn to like this, he simply had to learn how to enjoy it when the demon took his pleasure from him, or he would suffer a fate much worse than this. He could not help to whimper though, as the demon produced the mouth-ring.
“Pl..please...” Peter whispered, whimpering, shying away from the dangling, hurtful object, “pl—please, I—, you don’t have to—, I won’t—“Peter strived to find the words, knowing he was on thin ice.
“—turn around and be quiet. I have no need to hear words coming from such a filthy mouth as yours. Think of all the curses, the deceitful words and broken promises you’ve spoken! I sometimes wonder what keeps me from removing your tongue. Turn around, I said! They all know, you know. Everyone, down to the very last little imp in all of the planes of Hell. They all know about your whoring and your stealing—“
“—stop it, please! I made a mistake...!” Peter begged in his own defence. He gritted his teeth as his wrists were tied tightly together, the coarse rope cutting into his flesh. He groaned in suppressed pain, and turned around to face his master. “Please, no” he begged towards the demon. His stomach churned at the thought of having to take the demon’s erection in his mouth again, and he shuddered at the sight of the mouth-ring. Peter tried to relax while it was strapped on into his mouth, forcing his jaws to stay open. The wounds from last week had still not healed, and he was getting tired of the constant burn whenever he ate. He forced his tears back, told himself he had to stay strong. He didn’t want to go to Hell. It broke his heart that this was all the demon wanted. Peter was getting desperately lonely, wanting to talk and touch, not have his mouth stuffed full with demon sperm. The crystal clear rejection and obvious desire to exploit and make him feel miserable, was driving Peter crazy, and it somehow made him think of Caroline. Sweet Caroline. Peter tried to hold on to the soothing image of the innocent girl in his mind, all the while the demon fucked his mouth, tried to escape the blizzard that were his emotions. He had betrayed her. Used her, and then crushed her dreams, just like the demon was crushing his now. She’d wanted to marry Peter. He remembered those words clearly, remembered how he’d lied and told her he’d bring her with him to London. All to have a warm, wet hole, of course, until he tired of her and got someone better. But he never told her the truth. She thought he loved her. The weight of regret hit him dead in the stomach. He could have been living with her by now, could have had her warm body to come home to every night, maybe with a toddler running around in the living room. Peter shut his eyes at the inner sights of what could have been, feeling tears press on. That, and shame. Endless shame over having behaved in such a manner against the one who’d ever really loved him. Now, he’d never see her again, forever trapped in the web of an abusive demon. The demon’s hot sperm spurted into his mouth, running down his throat. Peter gasped as the demon pulled Peter’s head back violently.
“There. Let’s make sure it all runs down. Not a drop should go to waste, savvy?” the demon flashed his fangs in a grin, and removed the mouth-ring and the rope. “I sense that you’re harnessing your anger towards me. Good. Control of the emotions is often the key of survival. Now, about the money problem: You’ll go to the The Midsomer Gazette tomorrow and apply for a desk job there, and you’ll start working as soon as a contract is in order. I want you working there during opening hours, and then you’ll return straight home. I’ll be horny and impatiently waiting for you. Then, you’ll cook dinner and make sure the house is in order. A word of caution: Should you try to elope or tell anyone about our little...understanding, I’ll know, for my eyes are everywhere, and I can snap my fingers to open the Gates of Hell in an instant.”
Peter didn’t utter a word. All he could see was the demon’s member which was already at half mast again.
“Aye” the demon said meaningfully, “I am going to have you again, your other hole this time, but you can postpone the event by conjuring up that blasted cup of tea I wanted!” he growled at Peter. The thief got up to his feet and made his way over to the kitchen, understanding perfectly what it all meant. He searched through every nook and cranny of the kitchen, and his face lit up as he found what he was seeking: One last tea bag. Lipton’s Yellow. The demon hated that one, but it was all Peter had, and hopefully, the demon would keep his word and give Peter a chance to prepare himself. He made the cup of tea with shaky hands, serving the steamy drink with gritted teeth, then waiting to see if his master was pleased. No acknowledgement. What had Peter expected really? A parade? Of course not. He wasn’t worthy of that. Not even worth being pissed on. The demon was drinking his tea. Good. Peter bowed respectfully, like he’d been taught to do, and ventured upstairs. He found some Vaseline, and coated his entrance with it, stroking his puckered opening, stretching it with his slim fingers, stimulating the muscle, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. He removed all three sweaters he was wearing, for it was freezing, and ventured between the sheets of what used to be his bed. Now it was reduced to a place of terror, where Peter was being forced to perform all kinds of demeaning acts. He tried not to think of the things that had happened. There were far too many for him to ever feel comfortable in it again. He missed the soft mattress, God how he missed it, but he would not bring it downstairs to the basement. It harboured too many painful memories. While he lay there waiting, fighting to remain in control of the tears which were brought on by another pang of loneliness, he tried to motivate himself for the task at hand. Maybe he wasn’t being cooperative enough. Maybe the demon would look at him differently if Peter tried to enjoy it, getting aroused. Would he be allowed to touch himself? The trouble was that Peter went weak in the knee and every other body part every time he laid eyes on the demon. But what if Peter tried being in control? What if he tried to take initiative? To be a little forward?
The demon entered, and he began to remove his shirt with slender fingers, revealing a taut and sun-tanned chest. He untangled himself from the waistband, and let his trousers fall, standing in front of his slave, displaying his might before Peter. Peter forced himself to get off the bed, and came to kneel before his master, then directing his gaze up at him. His heart was beating hard in his chest, beating in fear as he, on impulse embraced the erect demon cock with his right hand. He leaned towards the demon’s thighs, and licked the shaft with a careful tongue. He did not dare to look up. The demon would either explode, or ignore his efforts. As no reaction came, Peter licked again, this time lingering with his tongue on the chrome. Peter ventured to put the head of the erection into his mouth, sucking on it gently, trying to prove to the demon that he could be trusted. “See?” Peter said afterwards, not daring to look up though he wanted to, because he wished to behold the beautiful human features of the demon, “there’s no need for that...thing” Peter said softly, licking the erection again. “I wouldn’t dream of biting you” he ventured further with trembling voice, letting his tongue trace the erection down to its base, fondling the tightening balls, licking the shaft some more. The demon always smelled of soap and salty waters. Peter was feeling more confident, interpreting the demon’s silence as an agreement to what Peter was doing to him. “Would you...?” Peter begun, fondling and stroking himself ever so slightly, “would you mind if I also....came?” Peter spoke softly, attempting to establish some kind of friendly connection. It was his first attempt at taking initiative with the demon, and Peter struggled to hide his nervousness.
“What’s that I hear? Is the little snake hissing something? Trying to talk the language of men?” the demon spoke gingerly, his words reeking with contempt.
“It could b—“
“The snake is indeed trying to talk, he, who is but an insect, a bloodsucking parasite on civilized society. No I don’t think I want to behold it spill its useless drops” the demon said, looking down at Peter with lust in his eyes.
“I’ll be quiet, I promise” Peter replied, sensing it all was about to go wrong.
“I’ll cut out your tongue soon if you don’t shut up, that *I* promise. You’re but a worm, and worms have no needs.” The demon ended his speech with slapping Peter furiously. The blows came many and they came hard, a manifestation of the demon’s sudden rage. The demon then grabbed Peter by the throat and forced him onto the bed, bending him over the mattress, mounting him quickly and without further preparation. The violence had Peter immobilized with fear. His nose was bleeding and his cheek burned from the slapping, and his neck ached as the demon held him in a tight grip, forcing his head into the mattress. Peter was glad he’d prepared himself somewhat. And knowing he’d made sure to do so, eased the pain a little, made it bearable. Then the demon pulled out, and made him turn around to lay on his back, mounting him again before Peter had the time to find a good position. The demon poured over Peter, and the thief was overwhelmed to feel the warm naked chest of the demon press against his own. It brought tears to his face to feel such soft skin.
“Th—that feels g—good” Peter lied, forcing a smile through the haze that was pain as the demon rode him relentlessly. Peter tried making eye contact, tried to get his emotions under control. The demon was so beautiful. How had Peter not seen it? Compared to the hideous, monstrous face he sometimes put on though, any man would be beautiful. Peter reached for the perfectly taut chest of the demon, placing a shaky palm against the skin. The nipple was erect and nicely shaped, jutting out at Peter’s palm. Peter forced a smile again, looking up at the demon to meet his gaze. The demon did not smile back, and he promptly removed Peter’s palm before he clutched Peter’s head with both hands. He then bent down, seeking Peter’s right ear with his tongue. At first it tickled, and Peter laughed a short laugh, trying to lighten the mood. The sensation sent shivers down his spine, prompting him to buck beneath the demon. But then the tongue seemed to move inwards, forcing its way, morphing, becoming thinner and more fluid, like a worm snaking its way inside a labyrinth. Peter began to struggle, feeling himself becoming hard all the while the tongue twisted its way past his inner ear. He had a clear perception of it snaking its way deeper in than possible, and Peter screamed as he clearly felt it move inside his brains, felt it writhe just behind his eyes. He gasped for air and flailed his arms, but it was no use. The demon was unmovable, and no matter how much he clawed and struggled, he could not get loose. His head was stuck in the demon’s grasp, and the demon kept on pumping in and out of him. Just as soon as it had happened, the tongue retracted, and the demon let go off Peter’s head. Peter writhed and wailed, clasping his head between his own hands, sobbing, swearing to himself that he could feel the tracks of the worm in his mind, seeing black tunnels where it had been digging its way around. The demon came, and he chuckled afterwards, pushing himself into Peter one last time before he pulled out, and said:“Just as I thought. You’ve got nothing in there.”
Peter’s last defence seemed broken. He sobbed silently, gazing about in the dark, his eyes pleading for help to every empty corner, the spiders, the phantoms dead by the basement walls, the coarse wooden railing leading up to the ground floor, where the demon rested. Sadness weighed him down like an anchor around his neck, and he moved about on his make-shift mattress, not knowing what to do with himself. His mind was broken, shattered by a multitude of black tunnels through his brains. He had nowhere left to flee. The demon had invaded him in mind, body and soul. Peter was utterly trapped, bound and blindfolded. He kept moving restlessly, circling about on his blanket like a restless dog not able to settle for the night. He didn’t want to live, silently cursing the day he was born, asking questions to his phantom mother in the dark, why, oh why was I born? Now, it would seem, he was an utter failure. A slave to evil, and no escape was to be found. Peter crumbled on his blanket, and cried violently, his tears wetting the make-shift bed. There was a part of him that was angry as well, burning with fury of being so completely lost and at the mercy of a much stronger entity. He’d had a life, he’d loved it, and now it had been taken from him. The unfairness of it all tore him a part, until he wished he didn’t have to feel, to know what had happened. His mind was working frantically to come up with positive things, solutions which would keep his head above water. Were there any bright spots to be seen? Anything at all to live for? He ignored the churning of his stomach, tried to ignore the cramps which came unevenly in his abdomen, as if even Peter’s own body was turning on him, wishing him nothing but pain. For some reason, his mind started going through memories of the past as Peter had been trying to do away with the demon, charging at him with kitchen knives, in despair and rage. The memories kept playing in slow motion, until Peter realised what it was about. Knives. Cutting. Suicide. Why not? What else was there to live for? He’d tried so many times to call out to people passing by the house, to Jack Dorset and Caroline, who’d come around the house inquiring about him. Jack had turned out to be another enemy. And in his mind, he saw Caroline scalding him, for being a liar and a thief. A worthless worm. He truly believed that now. His mother must have known she was giving birth to a lowlife, a son who would not outlive her. Why else had he been abandoned?
Peter lit the candle and watched the soothing flame light up the surroundings. He found the hidden Bible, and began leafing through it, looking for some kind of sign. He stopped his aimless leafing of pages of John the Revelator. ‘And all that liveth on Earth, shalt worship the Beast’, Peter read with blurred vision, the letters in the book melting together. He read the entire section, and all of the sudden, everything somehow made sense. He looked around, and found what he looked for. A small scythe. Like the angel sweeping his scythe across mankind. The edge was a bit blunt. Whatever.

I sense trouble in paradise. I don’t know why I am upset, but I haste back through a portal, to Midsomer Mallow, to the living room of the Windy Whistle Farm house. I tear up the basement door and head down stairs. I find him lying in a pool, with blood seeping from his wrists. His breath is hitching, his cheeks wet with tears. They run down to mingle with his brown curls. His eyes stare blankly at the cobwebbed ceiling, his pupils dilated. I stop dead in my tracks, amazed to finally be able to gaze at his soul, as it is no longer veiled behind his eyes. We stare at each other through the keyholes which are his pupils. The translucent apparition floating about in his shell, is shimmering with bright untainted light, and as our eyes lock, I know I have lost. I cannot help it, cannot stop myself from bending down, kissing Peter’s cold lips, feeling the drain of power as a portion of my soul is sucked into him. The colour of his skin immediately brightens, his cheeks become less pale and his lips grow warmer. I ghost a kiss on them, looking into his eyes again, and just before his eyes come alive, I see my soul mingle with his on the other side. Inside him. The vision blurs and he blinks. The moment is lost. I notice the Bible next to his left hand. It’s open, drenched in blood, and I get the feeling I’ve made a mistake with this one.
I bind his wrists with makeshift bandages and carry him upstairs to the bedroom. He’s calm, his eyes liquid and lethargic. Without hope. He stares at the walls and the ceilings. Not at me. I see fear in his eyes, fear of being taken again. His eyes are red with fatigue, his eyelids swollen and blue from lack of sleep. I start to remove his blood-drenched shirt. He whimpers, thinking I’m about to have him. The thought is tempting. His hair has grown a little, become longer, and I’m beginning to find his looks more agreeable. I leave him be, and go to find a wet cloth. I cannot get the images of seeing his soul behind his eyes, away from my retinas. I have in truth seen him for the very first time, and I know now that his real name isn’t Peter Drinkwater. I feel like I’m wading in high grass filled with poisonous snakes. There is a hidden truth lurking. One that I fail to see.
I stand in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror while I wet the cloth. I feel naked and exposed. His soul saw me, truly saw me and not this flesh that I’m wearing. It claimed me, unconditionally, as if we were meant to unite. I need answers. There’s a bang from the bedroom, followed by a heavy thump. I turn to see, and after long seconds, I see Peter dragging himself out from the bedroom and through the hallway, making his way to the stairs. I walk towards him, wondering what he’s up to. He staggers to his feet, positioning himself at the top of the stairs. He’s sobbing again, his face bright with determination, his jaws set, knowing he’s about to throw himself down the stairs. He’s given up. He’s finally broken, wishing he was never born, trying to end it all, not wanting to face another hour —. Hang on. Throwing himself down the stairs?! I stand in shock to look as he turns his head to gaze at me one last time, the look in his eyes saying ‘ demon, you got what you wanted. Hell cannot be that much worse’. It’s the usual last look I get from my victims once they’ve decided to do away with themselves, as one last clear independent decision they’ve managed to make amidst the horror and the craziness. Usually I would just stand by without a word, and watch with glee as they kill themselves. Now, I find myself leaping forward, catching him as he bends to let himself fall. I grab him, and we tumble backwards, his naked body on top of my clothed chest. I hold him tight, feeling the blood rush in my veins. To my surprise I discover that my hands are shaking, smeared with Peter’s blood. He gasps, sobs, gasps again and squirms to get off me, making the sounds of a terrified puppy. He throws himself to the top of the stairs, slides of the edge and bumps and falls inelegantly down until he stops midway in the stairway. I feel my anger flourish over his determination to do away with himself, and I set down after him with my heart caught in my throat. He’s bruised and hurt, and the bandages around his wrists are soaked. I curse out loud in an ancient language only demons speak, as I haul him up to his feet. Slowly, we make it up the stairs and I haul him into the bedroom.
“No! No more” Peter sobs out loud. His feet would not carry him, and his left side ribs ached. His arms felt heavy and his fingers were numb, blue and void of blood. The demon had a solid grip around his waist, and he hauled Peter onto the bed. He would not even try to fight if the demon decided to take him while he was in such a state. Maybe, hopefully, it would be enough to kill him, Peter mused. He lay limp on the bed, watching through a haze as the demon tied his arms to the bed and cleansed Peter’s wrist wounds before he wrapped them with fresh bandages. It felt almost awkward to be treated with such care, and the demon made sure to even give him a drink of water. It could only be a lie, Peter mused on, half asleep from exhaustion, the demon was healing him so he could heap more pain on him later. He was obviously meant to suffer more in this surreal purgatory. Peter drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a slaughtered lamb on two legs, wearing a crown of gold on his head, with a two-edged sword coming out of its mouth.