Giant Mosquitoes and An Assortment of Other Demons

Author’s note: I hope you like this! This is my first real attempt at writing erotica. It takes a little while to heat-up, but I think the climaxes are worth the wait. Please note all characters are over eighteen years of age (and in some cases hundreds of years old!). Any feedback is greatly appreciated – please feel free to email me at [email protected], especially if you include a cute pic in the email as well hehe.

The author claims all copyrights to this story. No duplication or publication of this story is permitted without the expressed consent of the author.

…it does not pause 
for the seductive summer rains, 
millions of black, micro-winged demons 
playing violins at break-neck speed 
zipping through the air 
malicious 
flirtatious 
at home 
in the mosquito room

From Samuel Wagan Watson's “The Mosquito Room”

…Nights with her, I am loved for myself, for the succulent
Flange of my upper lip, the twin bellies of my eyelids.
She adores the easy, the soft. She picks the tenderest blossoms of insomnia…

 …Imagining the mating call in the vibrations of her wings,
And imagining, in the simple knot of her ganglia,
How she thrills to my life, how she sings for the harvest.

From Rodney Jones’s “The Mosquito”

Preface

This is a tale of contact between man and demon. It is one example of the dark and difficult relationships that have sometimes formed amongst the human race and those sinister, ancient beings who have always shared this planet with us, in a multi-dimensional capacity of course. Those who claim that the nature and extent of any interactions between the two parties is unknown are either fools or liars. Demons have interfered in – and had – human affairs since time immemorial. After all, the distinction between humans and non-humans is considered of minor significance in most of the greater spiritual realms. Many remote yet powerful memories of unnatural and supernatural unions linger in the spiral labyrinth of the collective unconscious. This is one such memory of the slippery, sticky flow of intercourse between demons and humans in both terrestrial and extra-terrestrial settings.

A warning: picture your mind as a beautiful cauldron (‘a cauldron full of seething excitations’ as Freud called the subconscious). Picture the pages of this story rolled up like a scroll or a freshly delivered newspaper, which one might use to swat a fly. But instead, it is being used to stir and swirl the cauldron’s bubbling, primordial witch’s soup. This story may cause things to lurch to the churning surface of your mind; a dilated, bloodshot eye bobs and ogles, a disarticulated tongue laps at the rim.

A warning: This narrative was a demon that possessed me, mind, body and soul, and could only be exorcised through the act of writing, through trapping it in the vertical and horizontal bars, strokes and stems of the letters on the page, its cage. Dear reader, peer in warily, read between the lines guardedly, lean not too close.

Finally, I bestow upon this text the mimshack (expansion and spreading) anointing, may this story be a vision serpent coiling up from the smoke of these burning, blood-stained pages, may it serve as a cautionary tale, a moral lesson, and may it reach and speak to the hearts of many in Jesus' name. Amen.

The Mosquito and the Demon Slayer

There is a particularly wretched species of demon born in the form of a huge mosquito. The renowned Queen Vexan was one such devil. She had a very large segmented body, three pairs of extremely elongated legs, and two translucent, veiny wings. She bristled with a smattering of black hair, which sprouted from an elaborate exoskeleton of protective plates. This thick, ornate armour gave an almost biomechanical quality to her appearance, and was finely coated with black scales, accented with a pattern of iridescent, silvery white scales. The glimmering white ornamentation adorned her bony legs in bands like bracelets. It also arched in a distinctive lyre-shape atop the tough carapace of her thorax, and curved in stripes across her long abdomen. Long tufts of forked, golden scales stood erect on her head, her own organically grown crown. And a white ruff of forked scales encircled her otherwise slender, membranous neck, resembling the stiff pleated collars once worn by the likes of queen Elizabeth I. Being a supernatural spirit of a mosquito, rather than a simple, faithful magnification, aspects of Vexan’s anatomy differed slightly from her tiny earthly counterparts. For example, her claws were distinctly more humanoid, bearing five curling talons, including an opposable thumb, instead of the typical two fingers.

Many years ago, Queen Vexan lifted the black banner of war in the spirit realm and drew after her a tide of destruction. Learning of this and knowing that she was the most ferocious of fiends, who respected nothing in the universe save fearlessness, a young demon slayer named Jason, a son of heaven, decided to do battle with her and her horde of infernal sisters.

It goes without saying that no one loves mosquitoes. And conversely, Vexan loved no one. If you had asked Vexan before the day of the infamous battle between Jason and her mighty army, if she even understood the concept of love, and especially love at first sight, she would’ve scoffed and hissed at you. The mechanical reaction to stimuli is all that can be attributed to insects. And in Vexan’s opinion the same could be said of men and even demons. On the day of the confrontation, the sly, bug-eyed queen hid in a cave overlooking a vast plain, a spiritual plane, a cradle between a dark sea and low-lying mountains. On this field her monstrous insectoid army swarmed Jason.

In truth, at the moment she’d first laid compound eyes on the man, she’d been in the midst of idly drinking from the head of the giant snake named Valga, cloistered with her in the dim of the cave. Like her mosquito friend, Valga was a huge demonic version of an earthly animal – the python – her distinguishing characteristic being the lamb-white colouring of her scales. Perhaps it was the anaesthetic qualities of Vexan’s saliva, or perhaps it was Valga’s extreme strength and resilience, but either way Valga didn’t even wince when Vexan quietly jabbed her beak in between the serpent’s scales and started imbibing on her cranium as they watched the battle together. Valga and Vexan had developed a symbiotic relationship; a diabolical alliance of forces on the condition that occasionally Vexan would be allowed to feed on Valga’s blood in such a manner. As Vexan drank of Valga, the snake queen was simultaneously absorbing the bodily juices of a defeated demon slayer. A lower portion of her long body bulged, indicating where the human was currently located along her digestive tract – so at least Valga’s lost blood was being quickly supplemented. Valga’s black slit pupils were fixed on Jason, the sclerae of her hate-filled eyes (typically white in humans) were a dark, stony grey matching the rocks of the cave formation in which they hid. But something different glimmered in Vexan’s multi-faceted ruby eyes, something new stirred inside her armoured thorax. Young Jason was the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen. A formidable, hot-blooded animal. The epitome of young, virile, red-blooded manhood, one who had performed the impressive feat of successfully finding an inroad between the spirit world and the earth, between the deep and the shallow. A superior being, who have found favour in the sight of God, and at the same time, a lonely wanderer in this lost, sunken country. The two eyes in his head were as vivid as blue ice. Yes, somehow his young face was the site of two timeless ponds. Even from so far way, even as he was lost in the heat of battle, her magnifying vision could see the sky reflected in the clear waters of those mysterious lakes.

Vexan knew by demon law Jason was her father, for his actions planted the seed that had led to her creation. And by demon law, a man-eating he-giant whose body (albeit unintentionally) carried and released her, was her mother. It was from the flames of the pyre on which the blessed Jason, still only a boy, had burnt the mountainous hairy giant (to ensure he remained dead this time) that she had emerged. From the coiling tongues of flame, from the wafting fragments of black ashes, she and her huge squeeter sisters had unfurled. They were a blending of psychic forces and living matter, a magical mutation that flew away with the explicit goal of plaguing mankind, of using their sharp proboscises to puncture holes in things, even in the very fabric of the world. So, she came from Jason’s fire, from his sword, and to his fire, his sword, she now knew she must return.

Demon law would not prohibit intercourse between Vexan and Jason, for all that was right and wrong, especially regarding creature’s nether regions, was reversed in the netherworld. But Jason would surely despise her. To him, she was nothing. She was no better than a fly born out of a piece of rotting meat. No better than an eel born of mud. No better than her miniscule kin, the children of the marshes, cesspools, soggy rot-holes and sewage catch basins. Yes, she knew all the ways a union between Jason and her would be implausible, but she wouldn’t let that stop her. She was a sucker. And when faced with a wind tunnel, freely flying mosquitoes always move against the current, like salmon swimming upstream.

Jason belonged to a secret order containing a peculiar hybrid of Hellenistic and Christian beliefs, a clandestine operation that can be found in all the contemporary human colonies, where their old knowledge has been continually adapted and re-interpreted by generations of guardians. Like his namesake in Greek and Roman myth, young Jason also dressed in classical-period armour and was a mighty hero. But perhaps the figure of ancient myth he most closely resembled was Adonis (or perhaps Brad Pitt’s iteration of Achilles from the film Troy) in his unbelievable beauty. Like a plastic action figure of He-Man or Conan the Barbarian, he was well-muscled and a little too polished, too shiny and new, too superb to be eventually ruined by endless battles. Instead of being spoilt by war, Vexan felt he should be one of the spoils of war. Herculean, Christian warriors like the holy Jason were required to maintain a vow of celibacy for the entirety of their service. In the spirit realm physical beauty, youth and chastity are all credited with highly supernatural functions; the generation of certain magical energies especially powerful against the impulsive, debased and lascivious beings that are demons, who seek to have sexual intercourse with humans to satisfy their lewdness. The combination of Jason resisting temptation, that built-up, repressed lust, combined with his immense physical beauty being squandered and not enjoyed, created a samson-like divine power in the otherworlds which he could wield to topple mighty demonic foes. This strange spiritual science was carried on to Jason by his ancestors, those survivors of a past age, who had maintained this same vow until marriage.

But like a stagnant, vibrant green pool, Jason’s celibate body in the prime of life provided prime breeding conditions for Vexan; a refined, high-quality yield of one liquid ingredient crucial for reproduction. If only she had been born a beautiful, humanoid nymph. Then she could harness her beauty to lure Jason, and not have to resort to darker sorcery to ensnare him. But she reminded herself that she put the suck in Succubus. Yes, her allure wasn’t visual, it was tactile, chemical. The power of the bite, the suck, and the itch. And besides, she told herself, it was handsome Jason who was the nymph, wooing her.

From her high position in the cave, atop Valga’s neck, her kin looked the size of mosquitos in the human world. Her high-speed camera eyes captured the stark silhouettes of her sisters and their beating wings as they whirled around him in a frenzied attack formation. Calmly and gracefully, beautiful Jason cut her soldiers down one by one. Seeing the ease at which he defeated them made her feel as small as her earthly counterparts. She waited in the cave until the bloody massacre was complete, and then, against Valga’s hissed protests, she crept out, and quietly followed Jason who, seeing that the army had been defeated, headed up through the rugged mountain terrain.

Jason re-entered the human world through a dark portal in a mausoleum. Although further from his home than some of the back-alley manholes and drains that he sometimes used to enter and exit the netherworlds, this passage was favoured due to being far less dirty. In the cemetery he relaxed, and looked up at grey dusk sky. Vexan slunk far behind him. She noticed the tiny larval forms of her earthly brothers and sisters swimming in the murky water of a cemetery vase in front of a tombstone. The flowers in the vase were large chrysanthemums, still blushing in bright pinks and reds.

Still wearing the enchanted ancestral garb of an ancient centurion, Jason caught a bus to his apartment. Commuters gave him puzzled looks. He simply replied with “costume party” and a cheesy, charming smile, and the commuters’ quizzical stares melted into soft reciprocating beams. Vexan, flying far above, lost him at one point in the chaos of the city at night. But she was able to trace the plume of her host’s delicious scent, a series of odours, packets and filaments of blood and sweat and spit, clouds of his flavour mixed and dispersed by the wind that blew between the art-deco skyscrapers. She flew upwind in a zigzag pattern between buildings, in a flight path that held her within the fragrant plume and brought her closer and closer to the source. In the final stages of relocating him, she made visual contact once more, her composite eyes discriminating between the fast-moving human forms, beneath the harsh street lighting, and the brightly contrasting colours of neon signs.

She perched on a building across the street from his studio apartment. Along with the lifeless statue of a large grimacing gargoyle, she crouched and watched from above as he removed his armour, his muscle cuirass and battle skirt, until all he was wearing were leather straps on his wrists and ankles, and a taut, very informative wrapping of bulging loincloth. His tight, full torso looked as though it was commissioned by Zeus and carved by Michelangelo. He paused to inspect his body for bruises or wounds, and finding none, unravelled those final strips of material. How she longed to scrape the oil and sweat from his wet, naked body with her bare claws. She recognised this uncovered, underlying layer of Jason – the ripe, riparian clay of his exposed chest, limbs, pelvis, and buttocks – as the perfect substrate for her. Jason turned to look out the window, and so she slipped away. In the morning only the visionless eyes of the stone gargoyle gazed upon him as he adorned a well-fitted business suit, the costume of a typical human life. He played the character of a fresh-faced but awkward office worker with ease. He modelled himself after superman’s alter-ego, Clark Kent. The perfect disguise of a shockingly handsome, yet otherwise unremarkable, glasses-wearing everyman. But when he returned to the apartment that night he burned with lust, at a temperature and intensity even stronger than usual. He swore he could taste the testosterone in his mouth. To his horror he found himself struggling to wrangle his ravenous sexual appetite. So Jason, now long accustomed to finding grace before the heavenly father, prayed aloud, asking either the fire be cooled, or that he be released from the burden of celibacy. The phone rang.

“Hello?” He answered.

“I can answer your prayer, I can release you. But I’m very ugly, hideous, putrid even. Is that a problem?” The strange, effeminate voice was phlegmy, nasal and lisped, difficult to here through a whining and buzzing. Bad reception perhaps. He looked out the window. A snarling stone gargoyle stared down at him. Lit from below, it looked as though it were laughing.

“But I promise to give you the greatest pleasure you’ll ever know.” The voice quickly added a caveat “say yes, and I will come upon you, when the time is right for me, whenever that may be”.

After a static-filled pause he heard himself say “yes” and with that the phone call abruptly ended. On a grimy street below, Vexan hung up, squeezed her head and forelegs out of the flickering, dim phone booth and flew away.

The Bite 

Ah, the sweet aroma of his sweat. Ah, the warm, moist exhalations of his breath. After sleeping for a few hours, Jason awoke in the soft lamp glow naked and sprawled out, lying on his stiffening member. But hadn’t he been dressed when he’d dozed off whilst reading the bible in bed? He realised his hands and feet were bound to the bed with rope. Drool heavy and sticky like honey glugged down the twin mounds of his buttocks. It heightened the prickling sensation of hot breath that exhaled onto his rear. Feathered feelers tickled his back. He started shouting and clawing at the sheets and in response the stiff stems of those same antennae whipped him. “Be silent!” the sound burst behind him as though blown through a wet clarinet. Four hook-claw hands traced his restless arms and legs, before clinging to the thicker portion of each. Like a gecko, his captor’s palms were covered in hairy pads and feathery scales. They stuck to his smooth surface with a rough, velcro-like grip. A prickled heel-like swelling at the base of each claw excreted a sticky substance, further helping his conqueror adhere to him.

He slowly, apprehensively lifted and tilted his head to look over his shoulder. A giant proboscis, that most obvious feeding structure of the mosquito, was pointed at his posterior. It was thick, enclosed in a skin sheath like a sword’s scabbard, covered with a pattern of black and white scales. The proboscis enlarged at the end into a split bulb, puckered with fat upper and lower lips. This was surrounded by a moustache and beard of fine hairs. These exquisitely sensitive whiskers would help find a suitable piercing spot on the helpless host. A thinner pink tendril flicked out from the tip for a moment, like a snake’s tongue tasting the air. Jason tensed and clenched, braced for the sucker’s protractible teeth to bite down on a buttcheek and drink, performing a macabre liposuction of sorts. The mosquito’s snout would be a needle swiftly bursting and draining the round water balloons that were his well-muscled buttocks. His youthfulness would be greedily vacuumed up through his rear, leeched until he was nothing but a dried out, skeletal husk.

But instead, the vampiress touched the thick wet tip of her trunk to various morsels of his physique, as though she were kissing him. Surely, she was just drawing this process out to torment him. Or perhaps she was still assessing his edibility with the long, sensory filament of her mouth. No, she was just probing for an optimum site, the greatest convergence of easily accessible blood vessels, detected by her trailing feelers. His herculean body trembled as she followed his nape around to his splendid jawline, his perfect face. She somehow loosened the ropes slightly and turned him on his side. He tried to devise a way to escape as her nozzle landed on his lovely, full lips. He nearly vomited upon initially making contact with her moustached, warm and puffy maw. But then a chill ran up his spine. His bare skin broke out in goosebumps. His fine blond body hair stood on end. He couldn’t help but reciprocate a little, to let his lips part, initially for the fluttering, butterfly-tongue tendril, and then for a thicker inner portion of her long flesh sword as she tried to push it into his mouth, exploring deeper, dribbling down his throat as he began to gag. Dollops of sputum trickled down his impulsively gulping gullet.

She withdrew and moved on to another opening like an ear or a bellybutton, or some sweating pit or fold. Or instead of a corporeal recess, she’d settle on one of his body’s many protuberances­­ of muscle and tight skin, such as a limb or nipple-capped pectoral. She whispered strange pillow talk:

“I’m a saline breeder. I need your salt, your sweat, your tears.”

Her dribbling proboscis worked like a turkey baster, her flicking tendril tongue like a brush glazing a delectable stuffed pig, until his entire body glistened with spittle. Like a housefly feeding on sugar, he felt as though her saliva was dissolving his body, and eventually she would simply suck up the remaining puddle of liquid. In fact, her spittle was spiked, enchanted, loaded with a naturally secreted love potion of sorts. It entered his bloodstream and circumvented his body’s typical physiological responses, instead triggering a magical hormonal cascade, acting as an ecstatic drug, a numbing agent and an aphrodisiac.

As he lay trapped on his stomach once more, her tickling, feathery antennae tiptoed to the hole between his firm buttocks and brushed and pressed, trying to probe further. This must have been the unknown biological bullseye on his body that she’d longed for all along. All he could do was lay still on the bed, poised in wait for the intrusion of the thirsty monster’s wet, hairy muzzle inside his rear-opening. He was shocked to discover he couldn’t resist the urge to arch his lower back, to push his backside up invitingly. And she obliged, slobbered over his second mouth with her first. A very long, mobile and sticky shoot rushed out from inside her siphon and made a puncture through his wrinkled ring of muscle. She was encouraging the camera aperture to open in preparation for a much wider shot. She held herself at a forty-five-degree angle in the pose her kind adopt when supping blood; her head-down, tail-up, long back legs elegantly raised off the bed, pointed out into the air behind her.

Her body stiffened and her lips peeled back as she began to bore the drill into that soft, most-private spot on his body. The outer layer of her mandible split slightly and buckled in a surprising way, bending down and back into a bow shape. It acted as a guide for the straight inner maw, like a bent arm and fingers to a billiards stick. This outer sheathe became progressively bent as she squeezed the thick flesh-sword deeper. Jason noticed inside him that her weapon was not a simple dart, but packed in along with the large shaft were four thinner tentacles. These four feelers wriggled and squirmed like worms along the surface of his now overcrowded insides, equipped with specialized sensors at the tip of each (along with as-yet-unextended saw blades) seemingly searching for an ideal place to tap for a blood source. After this frenzied writhing, they glued to her large, central pipe, bundled tightly together to form one veiny phallus. It began pumping copious quantities of drool inside him. Soon he realised that a consequence of him receiving and ingesting great servings of her lucent vomit through both ends of his digestive tract was that his typically slim waist and six-pack had ballooned into a swollen, pregnant gut. His new beer belly made him feel grotesque, but also wonderfully drunk.

Clearly the time for feeding to commence was fast approaching, her excessive stimulation had caused the blood to rush to his pelvic region. Surely now she would eat her blood meal, needed for her to begin the process of egg development. How horrifying to think that this blood offering would make him, by demon law, the simultaneous father and grandfather to those incestuous offspring. But he’d never realised that the addition of a hard beam such as her shaft to the soft elements inside him could resonate so pleasingly. To his surprise, instead of finally unfolding her swiss army knife teeth and making an incision into his tender insides, she started moving her head backwards and forwards. Her rod rubbed against the walls of his tunnel, pressed against his prostate gland. She kept up the steady frequency of skin-tight thrusting. Her knees bobbed gently up and down as she moved. He groaned in time with her hard prodding.

Eventually, whilst still inside him, she cut the ropes with an effortless slicing of her talons, and carefully turned him over like a pig rotated on a spit. She took the opportunity to appreciate every angle of him with her many-lensed eyes, to let his sizzling hot body burn further under the heat of her red gaze as he turned. Now he was facing her. She clasped tighter, braced herself on his thighs like handrails, and pulled her long tube apparatus out of him completely. She curiously caressed his extremely engorged member with her fledged antennae, tactilely investigating is shape and length, tasting the sticky clear fluid that was dripping from the tip. The bloated demon slayer tried desperately to resist the urge to ejaculate. Suddenly the palm and fingers of Vexan’s slimy gecko-grip talon wrapped around his erection, and she squeezed and pulled him like a milkmaid would an utter. Jason, glimmering with spittle and perspiration, started to scream, a hideous battle-moan, the kind of cry he would’ve released if he’d ever faced imminent defeat in a heated struggle. She slid her large shaft over his large shaft, down to the base, like a living flesh light. The tight stretching interior of her proboscis was surprisingly silky, the suction incredibly powerful. Jason couldn’t resist any longer; he convulsed and intuitively thrust his crotch, clenching and unclenching his buttocks, a muscular pumping. Mixed with his cries were the deep, guttural sounds of her gulps and slurps. This was the bodily fluid, the liquid diet she’d desired all along. This was the nectar, the honeydew, the sap. She was filling her sack with the gloop from his sack. Her transparent gut inflated, frothed and swirled with white foam like the window of a frontload washing machine. He couldn’t believe the quantity of seed he was rhythmically squirting like a hose. Her previously slim body started to bloat until it covered most of the bed, her fully distended abdomen almost bursting with semen.

Once she’d drained every drop from inside him, she slowly withdrew her probing hose-nose, and wiped it carefully with her furry, black and white armour-plated forelegs. Somehow it was dawn. She slunk off the bed, crouched on the large window seal. She turned back to him lying naked on the bed, trembling.

“I’ve had my fill, now I must leave” she hummed, “and don’t worry,” she added, “soon you shall close up and heal. And soon I shall return”. 

“What is your name?” he stammered.

“Vexan” she answered. A string of dribble from her mouth shimmered as it caught the first rays of morning light, which shone through the thin, partly drawn curtains. The sunbeams also illuminated motes of fine dust and cast the flaring shape of the window onto the bed and the polished floorboard. Jason was no longer bloated. His wet, chiselled abdomen glinted as the warm light reached out and caressed his body, as well as the spit and sweat-soaked bed he slouched on. She squeezed her abdomen through the window and flew away. He licked his lips.

Jason had been stung. Pricked. A bite victim left fingering a puncture-lesion – his anus. And the front of his trunks stretched tightly over a painful, bulging lump, which when unfurled was revealed to be a weepy, tubular tumour of a penis. Both were attended with deep, intolerable itching, a craving to be stroked and rubbed constantly. Likewise, his swollen lips and sore throat burned with irritation. His eyes were also red and puffy – from crying. The morning after his encounter he hobbled to the shower. There was a sticky gum covering his body, trails of mucous, left by the monster. He washed himself for over and hour, guzzled and gurgled the falling water, snivelled as he stroked his enflamed genitalia and tentatively explored his red, raw hindquarters. Hideous parasite. He ran over the previous night again and again in his mind, how she had swooped down and seized him with her daddy-long legs. With silken wings that barely rustled the curtains, she had slipped through the open window and into his bedroom as he’d slept. The gentle, noiseless touchdown on his bedsheets achieved by her long, impact-absorbing legs, ensured he was not alerted to her presence until she was ready. And then she had reached down and pierced his animal tissue with surgical precision. So likewise, he would find her, drive his sword in, and kill her. He pictured her body, how she looked so strangely beautiful in her black and white armour. He remembered how her transparent abdomen flaunted the white, stolen cargo as she turned away from him and left. His anger was further fuelled by a deeper, barely-concealed hurt when she failed to return the following night. And did I mention that he itched? An excruciating, unstoppable itch.

For weeks Jason searched the underlands. But he could not find Queen Vexan. His days were dark and disturbed. A constant hallucinatory buzzing, a mad whining, rang in his ears. During evenings he was unable to concentrate on supplications and prayers. The techniques of prayer were still open to him; where and how he should sit, what words he could use, the passages of the Bible upon which he could focus, but all these actions were disrupted by the incessant, infuriating niggling. In the night he lay awake in bed, unable to sleep, gasping with longing. Had that insectoid lilin sexually transmitted some disease to him? A poison germ perhaps, contained in the bulb at the tip of her proboscis, that long root that took inside him? An injected infection that inflamed his loins, causing swelling and redness whenever he thought of her? She had robbed him of his beautiful smile, of the jauntiness of his step, of relaxation. He needed someone to scratch his itch. And one stormy night, someone did.

King Morgag the Heinous

Night rain tapped on the shut windows of Jason’s studio apartment. Having toileted and bathed, eveningwear was an afterthought, a plain grey top, gym shorts. Bible in bed, passages from Jeremiah. He came across chapter 46, verse 20: “Egypt is a fair young cow; but a biting insect has come onto her...” He put the good book down. Obscene images wriggled and whirred before his mind’s eye. Vexan’s long sting, her deep, penetrating bite. And he, her fair young cow. His excruciating itch flared. He felt dizzy, found himself crouched on elbow and knee on his lonely king-sized bed, head tucked down, crying once more, reciting a prayer. Suddenly, an awful red-faced creature seized its opportunity to slowly rise up from beneath Jason’s bed, finally towering at a height Jason had to crane his neck to see the top of. Upon standing fully upright, the figure’s large horned head nearly reached the ceiling. He was possessed of a leering, skeletal maw masked with deep wrinkles. Deflated sails of old, loose skin hung down from his throat. This droopy neck craned between narrow, knobbly shoulders. The thick, triangular-based horns curved in in a semi-circle over the old red man’s hairless scalp, and gave his looming figure, which was over 8 feet tall, a decidedly monstrous appearance. As did glittering blood-red eyes, eyes that gave nothing away of his thoughts or intention. Wide eyes that seemed to protrude with the same force as the figure’s large hooked nose, although they were fastenedd amidst worn folds and crinkled bags of red skin. Somehow, they set Jason’s blood on fire. He felt himself sinking into them, like a stone into quicksand. It took huge effort to look away, to instead follow the withered, ugly visage’s leading lines down to steak-knife teeth protruding from a grinning mouth, impishly biting into a fleshy lower lip. Lower still, and the figure’s loose neck rumples guided Jason’s gaze to a lanky physique of hard, wiry brawn, coated in a leathery red hide.

“You’re not Vexan” is all Jason could quietly splutter in response to this foul apparition. He didn’t move from his vulnerable, supplicating position on the bed.

“No,” the stranger had a deep, rumbling voice. “I am an ancient king who has heard far and wide of your great fame, and of course, your magnificent physical countenance, and have come to see for myself.”

The red man stood there topless and long, with a tightly muscled chest relatively small in comparison to the rest of his lengthy body – he certainly wasn’t wide chested and broad-shouldered like some of the mighty demons Jason had battled. But still, clearly this foe was durably built. Yes, despite being a gaunt, bald creature, with a knobbly, protuberant skeleton jutting out at certain junctions, he was somehow surprisingly well-muscled. His limbs, quite elongate yet nonetheless sturdy in their own way, ended in very large and bony hands and feet, alerting Jason to the strength to come, as did (when Jason’s eyes wandered down the rippling abdomen) the powerful musculature of his loins. The ghastly intruder was wearing a black thong, which he slowly slid off as Jason silently watched. A more-than-ample appendage flopped out and dangled weightily between his thighs. It was marked with a raised embroidery of bulging veins, the blood vessels remaining permanently enlarged, almost to bursting. This conspicuous, long, down-turned spout was bejewelled at the tip with a clear, glistening blob of excreted bodily lubricant, replaced in succession by another, as its predecessor fell onto the floorboards with a loud tap. The dripping member started to lift its neck and head as Jason’s gaze lingered. It quickly puffed up, becoming as hard as bone or stone, so stout and big it was gruesome to look at.

“I’m embarrassed to admit it’s shrunken a little with age.” The elderly ghoul delivered this remark with a dangerous smile. There was something camp, almost effeminate about the way he held his hands, the way he moved.

“You’re very… red.” Jason was so stunned he couldn’t think of what else to say.

“Nothing is redder than the fox, nothing blacker than the crow,” replied the demon. He licked his joker lips, scratched the deeply drooping folds of his neck and added “your figure is assuredly fine.”

He rubbed his bony knuckles expectantly, and gleefully crept to the foot of the bed, behind the grave and handsome young man. He curled his fingers around the gym short waistband, and gently pulled the garment down to Jason’s knees. Jason didn’t resist.

“I must confess,” the quietly excited devil continued, “I was sceptical, but upon close examination, all my doubts and objections are dissolved and forgotten, mmm.” He firmly groped the young man as he drew close, exhaling hot breath and spitting stinging droplets of saliva onto Jason’s cheek as he whispered. “And you have found favour in my sight. If you grant me my wish, I shall grant you yours: To see Vexan, again.”

Jason was greatly appalled at the demon’s horrid form, but took courage as well as he could. In reply to the monster having clearly asked if he would bed him willingly, he answered “Y-e-s”, trembling.

The old red man chuckled. “You are a young man of courage, are you not? That’s it, closer, we shall grapple together.”

Slowly he stretched his huge, knobbly middle finger into Jason’s hindquarters as Jason gasped and groaned. At last, the itch was being scratched. The points where each phalange joined in the offensively long finger were extremely bulbed. It was a series of bony, tough balls along the length, moving from smallest near the tip to largest at the knuckle, so as to act like anal beads. At first, Jason’s strong sphincter muscles closed tightly over each newly swallowed knob of finger-bone, as though he wished to trap the stroking finger inside him. But then the orifice started to relax, loosen and stretch wide open with every consecutively larger node. A pleasant popping sensation was created as the red finger moved back and forth. Jason’s excited penis secreted long strands of his own clear, viscous fluid, wetting the bed sheets beneath with a little sticky puddle.

Following this slow and meticulous preparation the demon – long-horned in more than one sense of the word – had used up what little patience he possessed, and so in a sudden fury and with a clicking and popping of old bones, he crouched over Jason with bent knees, like a basketball player riding a Shetland pony, and without warning drove his demon-manhood into the demon slayer. Gradually thrusting his most extreme extremity faster and faster, he roared with laughter as the bed started to shake and shudder under them. It was a mischievous laugh that nearly drowned out Jason’s loud whines and the clapping sound of pendulous bull balls slapping against the young man’s haunches and smaller scrotum. Doggedly he humped Jason like a Great Dane would a yelping Jack Russell. At another point the unsightly fiend joked that the grotesque scene playing out was a depiction of one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse riding his loyal steed. Jason, still firmly erect, bore the intense thrusting with great effort and courage, dominated by the disgusting incubus’s sheer size and the force of each squeezing lurch and heave. And even with this long usurper on his back, even with his own manhood fully risen, even in the midst of a second demonic possession (this time by no less than a patriarch of hell), he strove to honourably bow his head low in a moment of prayer between his grunts and groans, a prayer to his first, heavenly father, begging for mercy, for forgiveness. All the while the monster’s blood red face remained twisted in a hideous mask of unfettered delight and cruelty. The demon pressed the warrior flat onto the bed, still poking away, wriggling and squeezing deeper and deeper. He arched his long neck down over the young man’s shoulder, to lick his ear and say “oath-breaker, harlot. My fat satanic cock is inside you. You love it, don’t you?”

In a whimpered reply Jason awkwardly confessed he loved it, before the demon’s lips clapped over Jason’s pout, and a thick tongue wormed its way inside. At this point Jason’s eye’s bulged and he let out a shocked, stifled cry, muffled by the devil’s firmly secured, slurping lips and dexterous tongue inside his mouth. Jason ejaculated suddenly and violently, further sullying the bedsheets beneath him, this time with a hot puddle of semen. But this went unnoticed, the rutting continuing unabated. The demon eventually, reluctantly tore his mouth away from Jason’s. In between plunges and the clenched teeth of his wide grin the monster explained “my name is King Morgag the Heinous, my semen is a serum with magical, wish-granting qualities*.”

The demon jerked and spasmed as he forced a great mass of this enchanted semen inside the now graceless Jason, who felt convinced that he had just received a particularly thorough, personalised and invasive version of the fabled and feared ‘devil’s baptism’. Then the satisfied monster slid his wet, dreadful phallus out of Jason, and collapsed on top of him. Jason disappeared, overpowered and deeply crushed into the buckling mattress under the demon’s outsized body. Morgag cackled. All he had to do was remain there, firmly pressing down as he was, and Jason would suffocate to death beneath him, naked-rumped and emasculated. The humiliated young man struggled initially, before realising he had no choice but to remain in his embarrassing, bare-bottomed position, intensely squashed as he was. There was a tiny pocket of warm air trapped between the demon’s old, hard pectorals, and thankfully Jason’s head was nestled in this slight central cavity, allowing him to breathe hot air, at least for the next minute. But panic began to set in. The litres of glutinous spunk that now clogged and bloated and fouled the deepest inner parts of him obviously had no wish-granting qualities. He had been outwitted by a demon for a second time in his relatively short life. But Jason drew on his training to calm himself, to empty his mind. Instead of trying again to desperately, hopelessly struggle beneath his larger opponent, with great effort he pulled one of his feet free from the gym shorts around his knees, and slowly stroked and tickled the demon’s inner thigh and crotch with a back and forward motion of his foot. The ancient king was amused and a little turned-on by this unanticipated response, and so slithered off Jason’s smooth back. He continued to chuckle in surprised delight as he reached down and plucked his slinky black thong off the floorboards and slipped it up his coarse legs, between his bony buttocks and over his crotch. His now flaccid member looked heavy and cumbersome as he lifted and wrangled that length of muscle, forcefully packing it back into the tight stretching pouch of his thong. He slunk back under the bed, already moving on to his next conquest, his chuckling fading into the distance.

Jason remained on the bed, regaining his breath and savouring the sensation of being satiated. He had no idea how long their unnatural coupling had lasted. Time had seemed to cease the moment that devil, who had clearly crept up from the blackest maw of the evil earth, had lifted his ugly head out from under the bed. The demon semen that trickled out of his rear sparkled and shone like molten metal. Perhaps it truly was imbued with magical properties. Without even wiping up his wet, sticky legs, he stood up next to the bed and shook the shorts from his ankle. Standing on two feet he felt as though he’d turned back into a man with some semblance of dignity, even more so when he concealed his wet crotch and pronounced posterior with a tight wrapping of loincloth. For he knew that now, despite having just been so gratified by the incubus, now was the moment he must make his wish, before the magic faded: to see Vexan once more.

*The notion of wish-granting semen might seem strange to you, dear reader, but is the concept really that foreign? After all, to a sex-worker, a sugar-baby, or a woman hoping to be a mother, a man’s ejaculation is wish-granting.