The Demon and the Thief

I open the door and find myself facing a dashing looking Detective Sergeant Troy. He’s standing on the door step, flashing his badge. I take my time, and stops his hand as he’s about to put away the badge. I take a closer look at his badge. It’s showing a slightly younger edition of the Detective Sergeant. His hair’s looking a little shorter on the photo, than in real life. I snort quietly. I hate men with short hair cuts.
Behind him there’s a man introducing himself as Chief Inspector Barnaby. A little old, but extremely wise, with the eyes of a hawk. Hawks hunt sparrows. I must be careful with this one.
They ask after my name. Then they ask to see my slave. Concerning the stolen goods all of the sudden returned. I smile knowingly before I reply that my ‘boyfriend’ is ill, down with a fever, as it were. And about the stolen goods? I look down to the ground, as if I am contemplating an answer, before I look up at them and say: We had a little chat about that, Peter and I. Since he knows who did it, we decided it was best if he made them deliver it back, or I and he would be history. I’ve been away for a while you see, in London. And so he took off for a couple of days and when he got back, he said it had been done. End of story. Never been an issue again.
Peter’s not off the hook yet, the Chief Inspector reply, if another burglary happens again, he says, Peter’s door will be the first one he’ll come knocking on. I tell him I understand, getting weary of the dry conversation. I gaze at Detective Sergeant Troy. I don’t like him. Don’t like his name. It reminds me too much of the past which lay buried in ancient Turkey. Bad memories.
A vision flash before my eyes. I see similar ruins in Hell. Of what used to be our second home – the madness still circling the ruins like sea gulls on a floating corpse. No. I do definitely not like Detective Sergeant Troy. They want to chat with my ‘friend’ when he gets better. Aye, I reply, I’ll be sure to let my ‘friend’ know. The Chief Inspector’s gaze dwells on my person. I can tell he’s not quite convinced by my performance. A hawk circling his prey. Another vision. A watchman’s house and a lighthouse white against the dark horizon. The sky littered with dark grey storm clouds. At the top of a cliff. Rose garden and picket fence. A magnificent view. I linger as I recognize the ship anchored up in the seas by the cliff. A ship with black sails. One of a kind.
The visitors walk away, and I close the door. Only then do I realize how fast and hard my heart is beating. Like I went through some kind of test, fighting for something important. Fighting for Peter? I find myself tiptoeing up to check on him. There he is. Asleep, looking beautiful yet troubled in his sleep. I stare at the bonds holding his arms. I untie them with my will, so he may be more comfortable. He’s going to need food, but there isn’t any. I return to my father’s ship unashamed, finding him standing at the helm. I go to him boldly, throwing away all pride, and I ask him for food.
Like a dog trapped in a sealed barrel thrown over board which is slowly beginning to take in water. That’s the reply I get. I stash a sack full of food. Cheeses, dried salty meat. Canned food and fresh bread. I bring a bottle of wine, and some milk.
Thank you, Father.
Whatever. Don’t ask me again. Just do the right thing. Too bad, really. A bag of gold used to do the trick, before. It’s lost its charm. Now it’s all about a piece of plastic, savvy? Hmph.
I smile at him as I accept the credit card. His gaze lingers at me for a moment, before he returns his attention to the horizon. You always were a hateful child, he says to my back, headstrong and determined to deal out death and judgement to those who deserved it. Your grandpa still don’t like you, thinks you’ve too much demon blood, or that I didn’t raise you with a stern enough hand.
I know, I reply, still standing with my back to him. It hurts to think of grandpa.
He’s always burdened with the next offspring, you know. There’s no room for grandchildren in his life. It’s as simple as that.
He treats me as a child. Like I don’t know anything. But I do know the wickedness of men. I see it every day.
But right now, you don’t know, do you, son? You’re in uncharted waters, knowing love for the first time, my father objects. An unmarred soul in such an unlikely place.
I leave my father through a portal, taking in a deep breath of fresh salty humid air before I travel through to find myself in the living room of my slave’s house outside Midsomer Mallows.
Peter stirred in his sleep, dreaming of stairs and demons with hideous faces pushing him off the top of the stairs. He awoke with another cramp in his stomach, finding himself lying on the bed, covered with a blanket. A lamp was alight in the far end of the room, adding a soft and warm atmosphere. The door out into the hallway with faded wallpaper, was wide open, and he heard a noise coming from the kitchen. Maybe the demon was hungry, he mused, and managed to get out of bed. Being drowsy and dizzy, Peter made his way out to the stairs. The demon – Peter stopped to contemplate, trying to focus, to have one straight thought in his head – the demon…, Peter looked at his wrists, must have cut Peter’s wrists before he attempted to throw Peter down the stairs, only, Peter only got mid-way, and then he’d been hauled back to bed, tied and raped. Peter distinctly remembered seeing the demon standing by his bed after his arms had been tied, and his stomach had begun to churn again. Then the blackout. Yes, that was it, Peter decided, that had to be the correct turn of events.
The demon was busy with something in the kitchen, and as Peter approached, he cleared his voice discreetly and said: “My lord? I’d like to apologize” Peter said, sighing heavily. He stood on weary, shaking legs. Just as the demon turned, Peter looked down, so he wouldn’t have to see its hideous face. He had to hold on to the threshold to stay upright, wetting his lips while trying to shape the words. “My lord”, Peter said without looking up, “I’m sorry for…being an inconvenience…to the…” Peter’s knees gave way, but he managed to right himself up. He looked down to his toes, and saw thin red lines of blood running down to touch the floor. His first idea was to clean it up. “Clean…li-ness first” he muttered to himself, making his way over to the sink. Peter found the kitchen cloth, and noticed the trail of red droplets along the floor. He noticed the plate of food on the kitchen desk, before he bent down to wipe the stains. The motion was too much, and he toppled over. “I’m—I’m sorr..sorry” Peter apologized again, realizing he’d stained the sleeve of his shirt with the blood. A shirt? Hadn’t he been naked? It was all taking too long. He was dabbling, making a fool of himself infront of his master. Why couldn’t he seem to get to his feet? He watched as the booted feet of his master moved closer, and Peter braced himself for the blows which were bound to come.
“How long have you been bleeding like this?” the demon master asked. Was there annoyance in his voice? Peter couldn’t tell, deciding it wasn’t worth sticking around to find out. He began to crawl away in a staggering manner. He noticed the bandages around his wrists. “We’re going to have to stitch them up, I think, they’re pretty deep” the demon said, as if he had picked the thoughts about the severed wrists, straight out of Peter’s head. The realisation hit Peter dead in the chest.
“I—I’m sorry I thought ill of you, ma—master” Peter stuttered, “pl—please don’t hit me, see I can be willing, see..!” Peter continued. The words stumbled out across his dry lips, and he turned around on the floor to face the feet of his master. He spread his legs. He saw the thighs smeared with blood, but thought nothing of it. In his delirium, all he thought of was to avoid being hit, and to avoid the mouth-ring. He did not dare to gaze upwards, in case the demon’s face was twisted into something evil. “See?” Peter repeated his words, “see?”
I stare at the blood between his thighs. I stand as bewitched, looking at the gaping wound. His testicles have shrunk away, looking like dried grapes. The sack is nearly gone, sucked into the skin of his pelvis. The aroma of virgin blood fills my nostrils, seduces me. His penis has diminished, looking like the penis of a teen. It will continue to diminish, I can tell. I realize what I’m staring at. An abomination, some would say. A punishment from God. But I see only sweet allure. A gift presented to me by nature herself. I fall to my knees before him, staring in awe from his crotch, to his face and back down. There is no response from him. No understanding of what has begun to happen to him. If I lay with him, the gods will curse me. The demons in Hell will be angry, and my grandpa will disown me. What my father will do, I’m not really so worried about. He’s always supported me.
The black magicks of the Sparrows are in Peter’s blood. He’s becoming ripe for the taking. For me! Once he’s truly opened, and I mount him, I will own him completely. It’s a blessing! I forget that he’s lying on the cold and hard floorboards in the kitchen. Through a haze that is lust and delight, I hear him scream in pain, and writhe helplessly beneath me. The opening is still narrow, still somewhat immature, yet I cannot control myself. The scent is overpowering me, and I forget time and place in true bliss until I spend myself inside this newfound cave, the very portal to his soul. When I come to my senses, he’s lying limp on the floor, his eyes staring at the roof. His face is a mask of fear and pain, and he sobs quietly. “The…the roof” he whispers, “won’t sto—stop spinning” he wails. I move away from him, remembering the food I had made for him. Peter turns on his side. I watch as he vomits on the floorboard right next to him.