A disclaimer from the author: This story is a work of fiction, and is intended to be read for entertainment purposes only. It is not designed to be instructional, nor aspirational, and contains themes that some readers might find difficult to read about, including: incest, sex involving supernatural/horror elements, dubious consent, non-consensual recording/voyeurism, aspects of erotic mind control, and themes involving dominance and submission. Any resemblance to real persons and events is purely coincidental. Please consider your tastes and comfort levels and show discretion before reading, voting or commenting on this work.
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I.
Ever since Justin was old enough to contemplate the nature of his dreams, he had realized that his experience of the dreamscape was far from universal. Sleep had always been a peaceful pastime filled with mellow moments, delightful flights of fancy, and on occasion visions of frightening excitement that only served to thrill. He could recall no time ever, not even once, in his 19 years of life where he had been overcome with the feelings of terror and trepidation unique to nightmares. He had always been quietly amused at the stories of endless falling or naked, half-prepared presentations that seemed to plaque his over-stressed peers, and while a small, curious part of himself had wondered what it would be like to awaken gasping in a bed with sweat-slick sheets, the larger, more pragmatic side had considered himself lucky and never questioned his good fortune.
Those days were gone.
In the dream he was having, and bizarrely Justin knew that he was in a dream even before he was confronted with the unfathomable, he was lying naked in his bedroom flat across his bed, not a stitch in sight. He was aware, in the prickly, tingle running up your back kind of way you sometimes feel when you are being watched, that a set of eyes were fixated onto him and the raw nakedness of his young flesh. What was strange was, despite the vulnerability he endured, that the gaze didn’t bother him in the slightest. In fact, it felt oddly familiar, almost comforting in a way that was somehow exhilarating.
Deep in the fog of hazy childhood memories, Justin had the vaguest recollection of an imaginary friend who would visit him at night, but only when the sky was moonless and his bedroom was filled with inky blackness. He had never questioned this strange man’s appearances, or why he chose such queer hours to manifest himself. He had waved away these peculiar discrepancies of behavior with the same ease he afforded the more well-esteemed visitors such as Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. It didn’t matter how Santa knew if you were bad or good or what the Fairy wanted with those teeth. You just smiled, nodded along to the game, and pocketed their gifts and the cold, hard cash.
But, while his other classmates told stories about Bizzle the Flying Squirrel or Hopperpop the Dragon, Justin’s friend, if he could be called that, felt of a considerably darker nature. He never saw this friend outside of the spindly shadows that crisscrossed his room and he rarely spoke a word. The most he had ever gotten from his peculiar visitor was, after several nights of whining about not knowing his name, the shadow-cloaked figure had replied in a sticky sounding drawl, “Mr. Maraude”. To young Justin’s estimation, it was an extremely stupid sounding name.
Mr. Maraude, or whoever he was, never directly interacted with Justin. He never touched, just watched patiently, like a silent sentinel. There was something of a wild animal about him though, always sizing up potential prey. Justin, bunched under his covers, his heart beating in his chest, whether from fear or a confused growing excitement he could never fully figure piece together, knew his friend couldn’t be fully trusted. He would imagine, beneath the gloom, the smack of hungry lips on jagged teeth made for tearing meat from bones. Justin knew from experience how good succulent young flesh tasted, remembered bawling his eyes out when he found out the veal cutlet he was eating was made from a slaughtered baby cow. He remembered wanting second helpings and hating himself for that want.
But, here in his room with his special friend, his very own boogeyman, he felt perversely understood, because he knew without having to be told that Mr. Maraude had sampled and dined on flesh of all kinds, and in ways that even his young mind with its thirst for the forbidden didn’t know how to process. Somehow, he knew that his private shadow wouldn’t truly hurt him. Not yet at least. He wasn’t fully ready, was not yet a treasured vintage, and so with that discomforting thought he always slipped off to dreamland safe in the knowledge that he would live for another day and not get ripped to shreds overnight. As months passed, and nothing of consequence every truly occurred, Justin began to ignore the strange nocturnal presence and soon enough began to forget about him altogether as his hungry mind found new avenues to explore, until it was as if the strange creature had never existed at all.
Now, it turned out the boogeyman was no figment of his imagination after all.
No, he was all too real and no amount of praying or preening would save his bacon this time, especially now that he understood that you can harm so much without ever laying a finger on a person. After watching it prey on his poor father all week long, it was clear their special guest cared little for the succulent taste of a virgin veal cutlet. No, it had an appetite for something much heartier, the kind of meal that could only be cooked up with time and patience, both of which were plentiful in its abstract world. It’s men, and beneath the newfound terror Justin was sure there were others just like his father, were the ultimate vintage. Aged to perfection and ready to be supped upon at a moment’s notice.
So here he was, laying naked on his old familiar bed, which felt too much like a cage for his liking. His youth had abandoned him and he knew that if he looked in a mirror his reflection would be old and frail. He was paralyzed from the neck down, only able to crane his head up far enough to look down at the shadows that were beginning to slither up the bed toward his prone, sacrificial form. He realized, dimly beneath the erotic terror, that for once this demon actually wanted to be seen, It wanted to be watched as it took what it had so patiently waited for. Even then, as the blackness swept up his naked flesh, covering him like an oily skin, he thought to himself, I’m still too young. As the film came up to his face, he let out the breath he had been holding, a small sigh that doubled as a white flag of defeat. He saw nothing but black then, but felt himself being rolled and manipulated, gyrating like a marionette under the fingers of a master manipulator too strange for human minds to comprehend. It was a kind of torture and yet Justin could never remember being more aroused in his life.
When he came to, his bloodshot eyes bulging from his sockets in shock, he didn’t scream, not the way he had always fantasized happening as a child, but he was gifted all the same with that sweat-soaked sensation he had always secretly longed to partake in. It didn’t provide the thrill he had always hoped for, only a hollow terror that felt a chilly spike being stabbed into his heart. No, he decided, it had been better, much better, when he only dreamed happy dreams.
-----
II.
After peeling the damp sheets from his body, Justin sat up and pulled himself from the bed on too shaky legs. Fighting against the roar inside his brain, he took stock of his situation. His first instinct was to pretend like nothing had happened, to go back to his usual lethargic day-to-day routine and return to his carefree existence. An old Collins family trick if ever there was one. He shelved that idea pretty fast though. He knew in his heart, even if his mind wanted to deny it, that what he had experienced last night, and to a lesser extent the entire week, had been all too real. He had the documented proof.
He pulled up the file on his computer, hunching over to peer closer at the grainy moving image and watched in all of its perverse glory as his father was manhandled by the entity. The feeling of rightness was instant and groundbreaking. There was not the visceral terror that he had been expecting or that he had endured during his conversation with the creature. If anything it was like seeing the video footage simply confirmed a long held view he had always had about the world around him but had never dared fully articulate. The Collins men were truly special after all. They had their own demon haunting them to prove it.
What was more troubling was the wave of arousal that swamped him the longer he watched. It wasn’t just the sight of his father’s naked writhing body, though that was an image of glory all its own. There was something deeper, something more primal that his body was responding to that he wasn’t able to give a name to. It felt wholly familiar, like something he had been chasing all of his life and had never realized had been inside him all along. A kind of muscle, ancestral memory that was breaking through invisible barriers he never knew existed. It made all of his other fantasies pale in comparison and the sudden inexplicable loss of control of his very imaginative faculties shook him more than he could give words to.
Too far gone to stop himself, he stroked his aching morning (or was it afternoon) length, the slide of hand on glans a familiar, grounding comfort. He closed his eyes, imagined inky blackness watching him from under his lids and turned his imagination to his one truest desire. In his mind’s eye, Steven Collins moaned and begged as he was taken on his hands and knees like a bitch in heat. In his fantasy he imagined his old “friend” watching the show and smiling at a job well done. He spilled his seed into his hand, only wishing he could plant the seed into the one place worthy of his load. He opened his eyes and the glare of reality came crashing back into view.
Glancing out the window, he could tell from the sun alone that it was nearing midday. Outside it was bright and sunny, just another cheerful California day. If only that light was pouring into the rest of the Collins family’s life. His muscles ached and his head throbbed with a dull pounding that gave no signs of dissipating. Last night must have taken more out of him that he realized. He couldn’t recall falling asleep the night before, not at all. There were only two modes of memory in his mind: awake and not awake.
The dreams though, yes, he remembered those clearly in every vivid, deplorable detail. They haunted him almost as much as the demon itself. He had never given much stock to dreams, but who could say what was real anymore. After last night, all bets were off. He hastily wiped himself on his sheets, the stain deeper than any shame he should have felt. He had bigger things on his mind, like why the house was so damn quiet.
He walked down the hall toward his parents’ bedroom, trying not to make noise, worried like a child that he might awaken a monster. He hadn’t bothered to dress beyond slipping on his dirty underwear off the floor, a meager attempt at modesty. When he opened the door, it was as he suspected. A fully made bed, hospital corners and all. Not a stitch out of sight. Not even a hint of the debauchery that had gone on the night before. Steven wouldn’t want anyone to have even an inkling of what had gone down the night before, not even his own son. No big surprise there, sweeping complicated messes under the rug was an old family tradition, but even still Justin couldn’t shake the feeling of trepidation that hooked its claws into him. He did a quick sweep of the house, checking every room like he was looking for a lost set of keys, and finding not a single object out of place. The Collins house was as presentable as a 5-star hotel room waiting for the next paying guest.
What tipped Justin over the edge was the lack of signs of other life. No lingering coffee scent in the kitchen from breakfast, no damp, evaporated mist in the bathroom from a fresh morning shower. No anything that told him another person had been home this entire day. Trying to ignore the shaking in his hands, Justin hastily dialed his father’s office, his foot tapping away on the kitchen’s tiled floor. Rick answered, the last person he wanted to talk to. On any other day, Rick’s swarmy sex voice would have been intensely arousing, but today it only rankled him. He cut to the chase the first chance he got.
“I need to talk to my dad, Rick,” he said, not even noticing how he said dad instead of Steven as he normally would. Rick, caught up in his own fantasies of teen dick in his future, failed to notice the difference.
“No can do, pal,” he said, easy and lazy. “He never came into work today.” Justin could hear the faint shuffling of paperwork over the line, an effort to appear busy. “Guess he’s getting in that vacation time after all.” More shuffling, then Rick’s voice came back, deep and husky. “You know, I got the office all to myself today…” Justin didn’t bother to entertain the notion, just mumbled out a quick thanks, and hung up.
Pacing around the sparkling clean room, he made a few other calls, all token attempts at finding his father in a city that you could bury yourself in like an ant climbing down a colony. It was the same every time, like clockwork.
“Sorry.”
“Haven’t heard from him.”
“Have you tried-”
Just one dead end after another, and each disconnect of the line felt more and more like another nail in a coffin.
Justin changed tact and did the one thing he was always terrible at. He waited. It wasn’t successful or pleasant. He tried burying himself in menial tasks. Doomscrolling, watching trash daytime TV, even going back to that tainted footage, looking for any scrap of a clue to clutch onto. Only minutes upon minutes of Steven Collins being defiled by this supernatural entity and his body’s aching response in kind. He found nothing new, just more of the same, and only ended up with sticky hands and more soiled sheets.
As the sun began its slow descent, filling his bedroom with a nauseous haze, desperation began to sink in. He thought, for the briefest of moments, about praying to God for guidance, but almost as soon as the idea entered his head, he dismissed it. God owed him nothing. He had never set foot inside a church in his entire life for anything other than a wedding or a funeral and he doubted that would change now, demon or no demon. He said a few words in his head anyways, less prayers and more murmured offerings and finely dressed apologies. He expected no response and was given none in return. If there was a Heavenly Father above, he was leaving the Collins family to their own devices.
Against the orange glow that poured between the windows blinds and ran across his laptop screen, Justin made a choice. This thing, whatever it was, had taken an interest in not only Steven but Justin as well. He was certain it had been around for far longer than a week, that it had been a tainted fixture in the background of his entire life. It had even plainly offered Justin to join in the fun, if you could call it that. This was no creature hiding his tracks, not anymore. His nemesis wanted to be found and God help him, he was desperate enough to start chasing. He closed his eyes, squeezing them so tight his face ached.
“I know you’re there,” he said to the empty air. “I know you can hear me.” He tried again. “I don’t know what you are or what to call you but...I know you know where my father is,” He could feel the rightness in the words, as if the universe itself was echoing a profound truth. He buried his pride and continued. “Please...just-just tell me where he is. Please.” For several long, drawn out moments there was no response of any kind and against all hope Justin began to think he would never find out what happened to Steven Collins. That even the devil himself was abandoning its prey.
Then he felt it. A hot, steamy sensation climbing down down his spine, the breath of a hungry, slobbering beast breathing fetid air onto his supple skin. He didn’t open his eyes, scared to death of what he might see, or likely not see. By the time the sensation passed he was already beginning to sweat, and could feel the coil of old heat in his groin. He reluctantly opened an eye. There was nothing. Whatever had been here in this room with him, real or imagined, was long gone.
Justin looked around the room, dazed, his hands, the palms slick, grasped onto the edge of his desk for leverage. He looked at the computer screen and froze. Where previously there had only been the looping footage of Steven Collins’ twilight defilement, blessedly silenced, there was now the blank white screen of a word processor program running. No, that wasn’t exactly true. There, on the screen next to the slowly blinking cursor, was an address out in Malibu, and then beneath it in cursive script…
See you soon, Little Lamb
-----
III.
Despite grappling with the horrors of California traffic, the drive to Malibu was still less than 3 hours, but it might as well have been 3 years. By the time Justin arrived at the lofty beach house, sweaty and white knuckled from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, the sun had already set behind the horizon, leaving only the faintest strokes of deep blues and purples in the evening air. He parked a little ways down the road, and walked as quickly as he could toward the property. He recognized Steven’s Lexus right away, his heart thumbing in his chest at the sight. So he really was here. Maybe there was still time. Finding the front door locked, he bolted around the side of the building, nearly slipping on the sand piled under the house’s stilts, until he reached a set of wooden steps slathered in chipped white paint. He took them two at a time, the old lumber creaking and protesting the treatment, but holding strong all the same, until he found himself standing on top of the deck.
Justin shoved aside a plastic lawn chair, barely noticing it topple over onto its side as he made his way to the wide glass screen doors. Bracing himself, he pushed and the panel slid aside easy as pie, almost as if he was being welcomed in. He didn’t trust this, it was far too easy, but he was grateful that he didn’t have to add destruction of property to his growing list of crimes. He would have gladly thrown that chair through the glass to get to his father, consequences be damned. Peering inside through the darkness of the interior, he could just make out more white furniture, a couch perhaps and what must have been a kitchen countertop. He hovered in the entryway, knowing that even with the roar of waves behind him and the fresh breeze of evening air cooling his skin, he was about to step into the lion’s den. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the threshold and entered Steven’s hideaway.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim, he started to take in more details of his surroundings. Once this might have been a shiny, fancy new home, perfect for a young doctor and his wife, but now it felt hopelessly outdated. Everything was white, functional, surprisingly cheap looking in a way that reminded him of the 1990’s even though he hadn’t been alive to experience that decade. By a glance, he could tell that much of the house might have still been original. Certainly no one in Orange County would have been caught dead with that kitchen, even with the newer appliances, which actually just served to make the rest look even older by comparison.
Dimly, in the back of his mind that wasn’t being consumed with worry about what he was about to walk into, he realized Steven, with his retail knowledge and intimate connections, must have bought this house for a steal, at least by California terms. A secret home all his own. Not a comforting thought. Trying his best not to make any noise, he looked for signs of life, any evidence that might clue him into his father’s wellbeing. On the kitchen stove he saw a half open pizza box, long gone cold, clearly Steven most recent meal. His last meal, an anxious part of him thought, and with the anxiety came the call to action. He knew where his dad would be, knew what that thing must be aiming to do to him if it hadn’t already started. He just needed to find the bedroom, and with such a small, open property, it was simple enough to locate the door behind the kitchen, swing it open, and barge into the room.
Justin had absolutely no plan in mind. During the 3 hour drive, he had dragged his brain looking for some solution, the quick and easy fix that always came so naturally to him, but in the worst of times his mind came up short. That hadn’t slowed him down. He had charged into this strange house, and now into this strange room, with nothing more than the intention of jumping straight into the lion’s jaws and prying them apart by sheer force of will. There was no time to think, no time to plan.
He saw the bed immediately, a simple queen-sized affair decked out in basic whites like much of the house was. Steven was there, as expected, and a tiny part of Justin breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t too late after all. He expected the creature, whatever it was would be here too. Maybe nothing more than a disembodied presence egging his father on, or likely the sticky blackness consuming Steven from head to toe as it had done last night. To his surprise, neither of those options were waiting for him.
There was a man sitting astride his father’s chest, pawing at Steven’s tanned flesh with a lazy idleness that spoke of a man amusing himself until the main event started. As Justin barged into the room, the man paused his groping to look over his shoulder, his grey eyes shining in the dim light, and smiled. Justin’s vision swam for an instant and a rush of heat began to spread through him. The man, clearly as naked as his father, turned back toward his captive.
“Look, Steven darling, our guest has arrived at last…” the words didn’t enter Justin’s ears so much as slide into his auditory passages like a hypnotic melody. Justin watched as Steven, his painfully erect cock standing proud against the man’s buttocks, peered around the man’s torso and spotted Justin for the first time.
“No!” he shouted in horrified panic. “Wha-what are you doing here!?” It was not quite the gleeful rescue speech Justin would have hoped for, but what had he been expecting exactly? The stranger, who looked only amused at Steven’s outburst, lifted a leg in an elegant arc to unseat himself from his father’s lap, and then walked, no, glided, across the room until he was standing right in front of Justin. The sheer shock of it froze Justin in place. He had seen the movement happen in real time, had only blinked once and there he was. It was as if this stranger moved through life at 1.5x speed while the rest of the world crawled behind at a snail’s pace. He desperately wanted to take a step back, but that would mean backing out of the room and leaving his father helpless with...whoever this was.
“Wh-who are you…?” he managed, and his eyes narrowed at the amused chuckle the man gave him. At this distance, he could make out more of the man’s appearance. Handsome Mediterranean features accented perfect skin that seemed to glow like fool’s gold through the pale moonlight coming from the windows. Despite his obvious beauty, there was something sharp about his features, most obviously in the severe widow’s peak that pointed like an arrow toward his toothy grin. The man reached one well-manicured hand out to grasp Justin’s own, holding it in his palms.
“Oh my. How rude of me,” the man said, tickled by Justin’s confusion. “You can call me...Salleo, but that’s an awfully big mouthful, isn’t it? Why don’t you just call me Sal.” Sal brought Justin’s hand up to his lips and kissed the back of the young man’s hand gently, almost chastely. Where Salleo’s lips touched, warm heat that almost burned remained in their wake. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Justin. In the flesh.”
Justin yanked his hand out of Sal’s grip, the hypnotic spell severing as he did so, but not shattering. This was no gentleman. The form was different, more pleasing to the eye, but he felt that same roiling sensation in his gut as he had each night this week. This uncanny man was the same creature. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Why do you look like this?” Justin demanded, feeling foolish for even asking, but he couldn’t help his curiosity. Sal, or the demon that Justin knew him to be, was not at all put out by Justin’s behavior. He had clearly been anticipating it and savored the opportunity to justify himself.
“Oh this,” he gestured to his manufactured perfection, “Tonight is an awfully special night, so I decided to slip into something more appropriate for the occasion…” His eyes roamed over Justin’s form, a butcher examining the quality of new livestock. “After all, it isn’t everyday I get to entertain father and son together...” He began to reach a hand out to stroke at Justin’s hair, when an angry shout from across the room drew them both toward it.
“Leave him out of this! This has nothing to do with him!” Steven cried and thrashed on the bed, his tanned muscles straining against empty air. His words were saturated in anger and beneath that something approaching desperation. Next to Justin, Sal turned back toward the prone man, tsking as he did so. Giving Justin a tedious look, he strode back toward the bed, but leisurely, like a cat about to play with an old toy. Each step gave Justin, intentional no doubt, an eyeful of his spectacular backside.
“Now, now, Steven, that’s hardly the case,” the demon said, an amused pout on his lips. “True, it may not be young Justin’s time, but he’s hardly uninvolved.” The demon bent down now, running a finger across Steven’s skin, and a twisted symbol on his father’s pelvis began to glow with an eerie purplish-pink glow at the touch. Justin gawked at the hereunto unseen sight, watching the unknown tattoo-like markings, like an inverted U wrapped in barbed wire, pulse at their master’s touch.
“It’s true, he has so many years left. Wonderful years, no doubt, but…” and here Sal’s voice dipped, slow and sultry, full of secrets. “We both know our relationship is one big family affair, don’t we, dear?” Justin saw the tense, clenched teeth look on his father’s face and knew the demon had struck a nerve.
“What is he talking about dad?” he asked, more hesitantly this time, dimly aware that he was stepping into dangerous territory. He felt not dissimilar to Pandora holding her famous box, deciding if she should take a peek or not. He watched Steven’s lips open, heard the shouts for Justin to run, to run and keep on running, and then Salleo ran a finger across Steven’s lips and his father was silenced, zipped shut with one smooth motion.
“Hush now!” the demon chided, the first real sign of annoyance in his voice. “The poor dear has no idea what’s happening, does he?” Sal shook his head, drawing back on his form which seemed to fray along the edges for an instant, then the lecture was back. “After everything you and your brother went through with your own father…” He shrugged and shook his head again, a “What am I going to do with you expression” on he face, before moving to straddle Steven’s chest once more. As he did so, Justin watched that strange purple-pinkish insignia flare back to life, responding to the demon’s physical touch. Sal pivoted his body until he was facing Justin, eyes dark and mischievous. He leaned forward and patted at a space between his father’s thighs.
“Come here, Little Lamb,” he said, eyes blazing as he rested his chin and palms on Steven’s inner thigh. “Come here, and let Salleo tell you the true history of the Collins family…”
-----
IV.
Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom called Ireland, there once lived a poor farmer by the name of Jeremiah Collins. Jeremiah was a fine man. Thick-bodied, hardworking, and full of vigor. He was Black Irish to the letter, a proud husband, and an even prouder father of 8 children: 4 boys and 4 girls. Maintaining the small plot of land he rented from the local lord was hard, grueling work but Jeremiah was a man of faith and family. He couldn’t help but meet each day with a smile and in turn felt blessed by the Lord above.
One day, his wife Sarah, a woman of more nervous stock than her husband, shared the good news: she was pregnant once more. At first, Jeremiah was elated, for how could he feel anything but joy at the gift of another child, but the pained look on Sarah’s face squashed those feelings.
“Jeremiah…” he said to him. “How on earth will we ever be able to care for this child!? We are barely surviving as it is!” Good Sarah spoke true. The Collins family, for all of their hard work, were merely subsisting, and with the land ravaged by drought and famine, they made due with the meagerest of portions. One more mouth to feed seemed almost unthinkable.
Jeremiah had no answers for his wife, but since he loved her dearly, he whispered sweet nothings and pretty lies into her ears until the worst of her fears left her and she settled back into her household chores. When he left his wife’s side, he found that every drop of mirth had left his body and he couldn’t shake the feelings of discontent he felt. Why must he and his family suffer so? Weren’t they good people? Didn’t they deserve a chance at happiness? Taken as he was by his emotional ordeal, Jeremiah did the same thing he always did whenever he was faced with an emotional struggle. He set off to an abandoned plot, far from his land or that of the other farmers, to spend some time alone with his thoughts and perhaps offer a prayer to the Almighty for some guidance.
Few ever set foot on Devlin Hill, and none dared go there alone, even though it overlooked much of the kingdom. There were all kinds of tales told about the place amongst the neighboring villages. Tales about strange and unnatural goings-ons that occurred when one least expected it. Jeremiah ignored these warnings, rounding them up to local superstition or else they were made to scare children from the place. He didn’t believe in devils or changelings or the fey folk. He had been to the hill many a time in the past and he had never encountered anyone or anything, supernatural or not.
But this time was different.
At the top of the hill, on a green-grassed portion that gently plateaued to form a pleasant, if sometimes chilly clearing, he found a strange man leaning against a particular stump Jeremiah liked to sit on and think his deep, naked thoughts. The man was peculiarly dressed, draped in all manner of gaudily dyed garments, in purples, greens, reds, and golds, that covered him almost from head to toe. With his dark skin and lanky form, he looked almost nothing like the locals in body or fashion. At Jeremiah’s approach, he saw the man’s eyes open in delighted surprise.
“Oh! Hello there, stranger!” the man said with a cheery accent Jeremiah couldn’t quite place for he knew little of the world beyond his simple village life. “I didn’t expect to meet anyone else around these parts!”
Taken aback by this strange new man, Jeremiah hastily introduced himself, and the stranger did as well, describing himself as a traveler of foreign lands seeking new forms of treasure and life experiences. Jeremiah, never at a loss for words before, knew not how to react to such a creature. A vagabond life of traveling across the world, from sea to mountain and back again, was as preposterous to him as flying with the angels in heaven on a Thursday afternoon. Yet, this stranger was clearly no local and had no obvious reason for lurking in the wilderness, so what other explanation was there for his sudden, unexplained appearance? Was he just a wealthy merchant with a taste for the eccentric? Or something more peculiar?
“Where do you come from?” he asked the man, watching the jewels he wore glint off the sun’s light. The man smiled back at him, his eyes shining just as much.
“Oh, good Jeremiah, I have no land to call my own, not anymore, but once…” he leaned forward to whisper to the baffled farmer. “Once I was a prince of my very own kingdom!”
At those words, driven by years of conditioned servitude, Jeremiah dropped to his knees, barely noticing the ache that rattled his bones.
“Forgive me, lord.” he said, doing his best to show proper grace to this handsome stranger, “I should have realized the first moment I laid eyes on you.”
Jeremiah heard the man laugh then, but it was not a scornful or harsh laugh as he was expecting, not like the other foreigners from neighboring kingdoms like England often were. Rather, it was filled with a good-natured levity that did much to set his mind at ease.
“Now, now, good Jeremiah,” The Prince chided. “I’m just a lowly man like you. Still...your fealty is appreciated.”
The Prince, always one for a bit of merriment, produced a bottle of fine red wine. Jeremiah was hesitant to sup on the offered gift, for he had always struggled not to overindulge and had even sworn off the stuff at his wife’s insistence, but the smell of fermented grapes, the desire to please this fine man so different from anything he had ever imagined, and the promise of a few moments of blissful escape won him over in the end.
The Prince produced two goblets, pouring them both generous portions of the maroon liquid. Jeremiah hadn’t recalled seeing the goblets when he had first arrived at the hill, nor the wine for that matter, but he quickly decided they must have been nestled away somewhere out of sight, perhaps on the other side of the tree stump. It was a trifling detail that seemed scant worth worrying over.
As they drank together, The Prince regaled the sunburned farmer with one lavish tale after another, each more outlandish than the last. Tales of far off kingdoms, buxom maidens, daring doings, and treasures not meant for man poured from The Prince’s lips as easy as the wine poured from his generous bottle. They were all the stuff of fairytales and not meant for grown men. Jeremiah was not usually one for such tall tales, there was little room for such lights of fancy in a life such as his, but with the added benefit of the Madeira he couldn’t help but be charmed by The Prince’s wild imagination.
“You’ve lived quite a life, my lord,” he said, accepting another helping of wine. “I could never live a life like that.” The Prince raised any eyebrow.
“Truly, good Jeremiah?” he inquired, his breath smelling of fine alcohol and something spicier. “I think you underestimate yourself.” Jeremiah couldn’t help but laugh at that, the grapes doing their work on his inhibitions.
Emboldened by The Prince’s wild tellings, Jeremiah began to share the details of his far more mundane existence. He told the meager stories of the life of a farmer, the small mercies he and his wife prayed for, the little gifts of fortune that meant so much, and the looming specter of crushing poverty that drew closer with each passing day. As he finished his last tale, Jeremiah took the wine bottle from the Prince and refilled his goblet without asking, barely noticing how the stout bottle was still full after so many glasses.
“Dear friend,” The Prince said, his voice suddenly serious to Jeremiah’s pickled ears. “Your plight has struck me in my heart in ways I had never expected. Surely there must be something that can be done to ease your burdens.” Jeremiah laughed humorlessly as he sipped on his drink, the wine going down more bitter now.
“The only thing that could save me now would be a miracle,” he said. “Like something from one of your stories.”
The Prince said nothing, simply studied Jeremiah intently, his eyes gleaming brighter than the gems on his fingers. The scent of fine, foreign perfumes waffed off his clean form, and Jeremiah was filled with a kind of envy he had never known even once in his life. When The Prince spoke again, his words were slower, more meaningful than before.
“Friend,” he said, lowly. “What if I could offer you that very thing you desire?”
Jeremiah stared at the Prince as if the enlightened man had fully lost his wits.
“You speak as if miracles grow on trees!”
“Good Jeremiah, I can promise you this. One day, a day not long from now, I will have a kingdom once more, a place to call home and settle my weary feet, but there will always be one thing I desire more than anything else in this world. Something that could never be bought with gold or a title. A constant companion in all things. Someone who is mine for all eternity.”
At first, through the fog of booze and boorishness, Jeremiah missed the Prince’s intimations. When it dawned on him, his eyes widened in surprise, and he burst into laughter at the ludicrousness of the Prince’s words.
But the Prince wasn’t laughing. He leaned forward, his eyes blazing.
“Just say the word, friend, and its all yours. Your family will be provided for in all ways that matter to you…” Jeremiah swallowed, his face no longer red just from the sun, and let The Prince’s sweet words sink in.
“What you are offering, my lord,” he said slowly, his tongue feeling thick from the wine and his confused thoughts. “You...You would take care of my family?” He could see it then in his mind’s eye. Days full not of sweat, scabs and thin soup, but playful leisure and bread and butter and a babe on each knee. It was something out of a dream. He shook his head, trying to dispel the image. “You are a mighty man, my lord. I have no doubt about that. But some things are beyond even your powers I fear.”
“Think again, good Jeremiah,” The Prince said, nearly touching the farmer he was so close. “I’ve seen so much, learned so much more than you could possibly imagine. I contain multitudes, dear friend, and I have the powers to give you what you want. Give you what you need.” His words were almost as sweet as his breath. “We just need to settle on the terms…”
“What terms?” Jeremiah said, anxious any time matters of a legal nature reared their head. “What does that mean-?” His protestations were quieted by one royal purple gloved finger on his lips.
“Calm yourself, dear friend,” The Prince said. “I supply your family’s needs in perpetuity and in…” The Prince looked up considering a fair equation. “let’s say, 20 years, I come to collect you to fulfill your end of the bargain.” The Prince smiled again, pleased with the arithmetic. “You would be 50 then, nearly an old man! You would have lived a good, full life, kind Jeremiah.” The Prince ran the finger across Jeremiah’s bottom lip. “What say you, Jeremiah Collins? Are you brave enough to do what must be done?”
Jeremiah Collins was hardly the most worldly of men, but even he understood the implications of the Prince’s words. A life of manufactured comfort in exchange for becoming the Prince’s consort. The idea was insanity, a twisted form of wish fulfillment. That was just it though, what if it was real? What if this crazed man from another world could make his family happy, healthy, and wealthy. That would be a gift he would sacrifice himself for a thousand times over. He nodded, his bearded mouth set in determination.
“Alright then, good sir. I agree to your terms.” Everything changed.
The Prince, who had seemed effete and harmless in his finery, now suddenly sprang to life, mere inches from Jeremiah’s face. He licked his lips when he looked over the man in front of him and Jeremiah, suddenly feeling apprehensive, nearly backed out of his agreement. But before he could speak his concerns, The Prince was already working his magic once more.
“Gifts such as these require a contract, a formal agreement between all men involved…”
The Prince reached underneath his layers of velvet and produced a long roll of parchment, rolling it out seamlessly across the grass. Jeremiah knew not how to read or write, and yet as he looked down at the piece of paper, he found he could understand every word that was written. The Prince, who had moved behind the man, draped an arm lazily across Jeremiah’s chest, a familiar action that should have felt invasive and yet somehow wasn’t.
“What is this?” Jeremiah managed, his head feeling confused as The Prince’s hand snuck beneath his shirt pawing at the man’s chest. The action was undeniably intimate and Jeremiah had never even entertained the notion of another man touching him in such a way, yet he found he couldn’t voice the words to tell the other man to stop. The Prince answered him, his words floating around Jeremiah’s head like a swarm of flowery butterflies.
“It’s everything you asked for, my love,” The Prince said, and Jeremiah’s eyes widened a fraction at the last words. “Everything will be provided to your family in perpetuity as we agreed. You just have to sign…”
The Prince procured a quill, long, crooked and razor sharp at the tip. He jabbed it into the palm of Jeremiah’s right hand, who barely flinched in his daze, and let the instrument suck up the red fluid that seeped from the tiny wound that formed.
Jeremiah’s eyes stared blankly at the paper and his hand trembled where The Prince had slipped the pen between his fingers. The tip hovered above the aged parchment and a drop fell leaving a single mark of red on the ungarnished document.
“Do it, my love,” The Prince hissed, excitement dripping from each word. The tip of his tongue touched Jeremiah’s earlobe as he spoke. “Be a man, and then take your rightful place beneath me.”
Jeremiah’s mind wavered in its battle. A dim part of the man, fearful and timid, screamed that something was wrong and not to trust this strange trickster of a man, but at the feel of a featherlight pinch on his nipple, his eyes closed, and when he opened them again, he found his own hand finishing the swaying motion of a signature.
Jeremiah Collins. It was written right there, a deep red rapidly turning black. Behind him, The Prince smiled in delight.
“You’re mine now, love,” he said, and Jeremiah experienced something he never expected, or wished to experience, in his entire 30 years of life. A kiss on the lips from another man. He didn’t push The Prince away. He let himself be kissed, let someone else take control, if only for this moment, and even though everything he was ever taught told him this was wrong, he discovered that a part of him enjoyed the experience all the same.
When the Prince pulled back, his eyes glowing like amber against a fireplace’s light, Jeremiah was more aroused than he had ever experienced. The Prince knew instinctively, the way only one’s beloved could and stroked his new paramour’s cheek, before bringing Jeremiah’s bleeding palm to his lips and licking the tiny wound clean. Jeremiah gasped, but his fears were quickly quelled when The Prince’s own palm, crimson with his lifeforce clamped over Jeremiah’s lips. His eyes widened as royal blood touched his tongue for the first time, and perhaps the rumors of royalty being of purer stock was true, for the world around Jeremiah’s eyes began to sing and dance around him. He could see the sounds the birds in the distance, could hear the colors of the overcast sky above them, and could taste the bristling grass beneath his feverish back. All the while, The Prince traced a symbol onto Jeremiah’s thigh and even though he felt his flesh being cut as if by a blade, there was no sharp sting of pain, only a winding pleasure that seemed to travel up and down his leg through his veins.
“We are one now, in body, if not in flesh. The day will come when that will change, my love, I promise you that, but preparations must be made and you must be allowed to live the rest of your mortal life.” Jeremiah let the words settle in, familiar and yet meaningless at the same time. He was too aroused and too thunderstruck to care.
“I know you yearn for it, my love. As do I.” The Prince said, looking over Jeremiah’s form with a lascivious hunger. “We can’t fulfill the true relationship yet, but perhaps a taste of the pleasures to come is in order.”
The Prince gifted his new fiancee with a new unexpected treasure. Jeremiah, who had thought himself versed in the ways of love, was completely unprepared. For the first time ever, he experienced the shocking sensation of a warm, wet mouth of his genitals, suckling on him like a ripe fruit plucked from a lord’s finest tree. Jeremiah knew he should feel disgusted. He knew he should hate what was being done to him, especially by a man, but as his seed was sucked from his sexually languished body for the first time, he came to understand that this was no ordinary man. This was The Prince, the one he had just betrothed himself too, and he was proving to be a man as good as his word.
-----
Jeremiah lost count of the orgasms, lost count of the spilling of his seed. The Prince had an insatiable appetite, and with each draw of the white fluid from his loins, he found himself less and less inclined to fight The Prince’s advances. The Prince was a true gentleman, never demanding anything from him, and never asked him to participate outside of providing his release to The Prince’s eager mouth. Eventually, his exhausted body succumbed to the tension and weariness of the day and he drifted off to a pleasure-soaked oblivion, his last image was of The Prince smiling around a mouthful of his aching length.
When Jeremiah came to it was late afternoon and he was fully clothed. There was no one else around him. No wine, no tattoo, no Prince. For a long while he said nothing and made no move from his spot on the ground. A small part of him felt betrayed, as if he had been handed a lifeline and had it pulled away at the last moment. It was all a cruel trick of his dreaming imagination. Worst of all, he remembered the end of the dream, the orgy of sinful pleasure that would have damned him to hell if it had been real. Best to forget about that most of all. He sighed, straightening himself out as best as he could. He wasn’t looking forward to the lecture Sarah was going to give him after his lengthy absence, but he went to meet his maker all the same.
The next day came and went, not a miracle in sight, and Jeremiah had all but buried his imagined encounter with The Prince, when Old Man Devonshire beckoned him to his home. Jeremiah had only been inside the Big House a handful of times and always under the most pressing of circumstances. Today was no different. Sir Devonshire, his face grave as a rainsoaked cemetery plot laid it out plain.
Sir Devonshire, after years of being a landowner and suffering the whims of dire fate that seemed intent on the destruction of anything truly Irish, had finally decided enough was enough. He was selling his land, chartering a ship with all of his earthly belongings and heading out in search of greener pastures in the New World. Jeremiah nodded grimly. Life was always once series of misfortunes after another. He would weather this one just as well. There would be other lords to serve.
“Aye, as you say, Sir.” he said, head bowed in respect. “I’ll make due in your absence. Perhaps the new landowner will keep me on…” He raised his head at the sound of a loud cough and flinched at the harsh glare Devonshire gave him.
“Are you deaf and dumb, Jeremiah?” the old man chided. “You’re coming with me, you fool. Who do you think is going to help me with the day-to-day operations of my new venture?” Jeremiah, stoic by nature, could only stare at his lord, never having expected this behavior in a million years. It was unprecedented.
“Truly, sir? But, my family-” Devonshire waved an irritated hand at Jeremiah.
“They come too, obviously. So tell that wife of yours to start packing. We leave first thing tomorrow morning!”
Sarah was as shocked as Jeremiah was when she was delivered the news, but being the practical woman she was, she jumped into action straight away. Jeremiah could scarcely believe it. What were the chances that the landed gentry would abandon his property, negate their contract, and take them along with him for his new business? His mind briefly went back to The Prince and his touch that felt like liquid fire, but he pushed those thoughts back down deep where they belonged.
-----
After 3 months of harrowing travel, Jeremiah reluctantly discovered his sea legs, and the group finally landed in the small town of Kingsport, Massachusetts where Sir Devonshire quickly set up a fishing and cannery business. This was completely uncharted waters for all involved, and at first the operation floundered, kept afloat only by Devonshire’s previous business acumen and sheer force of will. As the pair set about trying to turn water into wine, Jeremiah learned, despite having barely touched a finishing pole in his life, that he had an unknown but apparently natural talent for sea fishing.
Initially, Jeremiah handled the sweaty and salty matter of getting the fish from sea to market, but as the months passed and Sir Devonshire’s rebellious sons showed little to no interest in the running of the family business, Devonshire began to teach Jeremiah about the books and how to pinch the most from each penny. Despite having little head for numbers in the past, Jeremiah was an avid student who took to his new lessons eagerly. Over time, the business managed to grow past its teething phase and before long the profits started to roll in. Jeremiah saw only a fraction of the new money, but it was a far cry from the pittance he had always contended with in the past. Life was full for Jeremiah, nearly as much as when he practiced farming, but he felt a sense of accomplishment and worth all the same. Soon he and his family were no longer scrambling to make ends meet and though he and Sarah bickered over the demands of his new role, life was as good for Jeremiah as he could ever imagine it becoming.
When Old Man Devonshire died a few years later, Jeremiah fully expected one of his entitled sons to take over and he would have to juggle the demands of a new owner. He was shocked to discover that Devonshire had instead chosen to leave the entirety of the company to Jeremiah, claiming that Collins was the only one who “understood a damn thing about the business.” Naturally, Devonshire’s sons fought for the company in court and a long, ugly legal battle ensued, but with the help of the company’s lawyers and a bit of luck, Jeremiah and his descendants were now the new owners of one of the most profitable fishing businesses on the eastern seaboard.
The next decade and a half passed in a flash. One financially sound decision followed after another, increasing the Collins family wealth and renown by leaps and bounds. In a few short years, anything of material value they demanded was within grasping reach. They never truly went without except for in the one area that money couldn’t buy: constancy and love. The running of the business became Jeremiah’s biggest obsession and with it his relationship with his wife slowly eroded, until by his late 40’s they were married in name only, both content to live separate but socially acceptable lives when possible. Jeremiah had his work and Sarah had the social life of Kingsport to keep themselves occupied with.
Jeremiah’s relationship with his children was little better. With each year, his children became more and more like strangers to him even as they excelled in their own goals. His daughters all married renowned suitors, easily securing their future. One or two of them even took up their own businesses as well, and while Jeremiah bristled at the idea of his well-to-do daughters working, a small part of himself was proud of their accomplishments nonetheless. His sons thrived even more. One became a doctor, one a lawyer, one an esteemed professor, while the last two learned the family business. All was set for his family, and yet, Jeremiah couldn’t help but feel like something was missing.
On his 49th year the dreams began. At first, Jeremiah couldn’t remember them, let alone understand them. He only knew he would awaken with a hardness that would have put him to shame in his youth, which should have made him feel proud but accomplished the opposite. Soon however, the images became clearer and with this clarity, the nature of his dreams more explicit. The Prince, long forgotten and dismissed as an idle fantasy of yesteryear, was back and he was coming to collect.
Jeremiah ignored the siren’s call as long as he could, first dismissing it as the product of a bored and reckless mind, but on the week leading up to his 50th birthday, he began to see The Prince in person at the most inopportune times and he could no longer deny the reality of what was happening. The sex moved from dreams toward his waking nights, and he would feel spectral hands grope and tease his aged and eager flesh. It was the most delightful torture he had ever experienced, even more pleasurable than that afternoon on the hill all those years ago. On his 50th birthday, The Prince appeared to him fully in person, draped in his finery and looking as magnificent as ever. He had not aged a day and yet Jeremiah was not surprised. He knew now that The Prince was no ordinary mortal.
“Hello, my love,” The Prince cooed. “It’s been too long.”
Jeremiah began to shake, the fleeting images of a long ignored promise coming back in clear and stark colors and following came the memories of forbidden pleasures that no mortal man was meant to endure. When he finally addressed his would-be suitor, his voice cracked.
“I-I never thought you were real. I never thought you would…” The Prince brought a finger gently to his new lover’s lips, an echo of that day long ago, silencing him with one motion. The other hand cupped Jeremiah’s cheek with an affection Jeremiah didn’t understand.
“Surely you didn’t think all of those wonderful gifts happened all on their own,” The Prince said, the finger tracing the line of Jeremiah’s haired chin. “I upheld my end of the bargain and I must say, dear thing, you took full advantage of those gifts.” He said these last words without a touch of envy or irony, truly happy at the success that his mate made in just 20 years.
“It took a long time. I had affairs to get in order and you needed time to sort your family out, but I’m here now. It’s time for us leave, my love.” As The Prince took Jeremiah’s hand, the old man pulled it from his lover’s grasp, his eyes wide and concerned. He knew he was about to cross a threshold of no return and with it would come the end of the only life he knew.
“Wait! I can’t-I-I’m not ready! There’s too much-” But the Prince, who was well used to the excuses of his paramours, shushed his jumpy bride-to-be once more and whisked them away together in a flurry of heated wind that blurred the lines between fantasy and reality. Overcome by the phantasmagoria, Jeremiah collapsed upon the ground and when he came to, he was naked on a bed of crimson silk, a sultry fireplace burning nearby, overheating a decadent, baroque attired room.
Jeremiah was sweating but not from the fire. He didn’t see The Prince at first, but he could feel his beloved, could detect his presence in the shadows like a divining rod. His skin seemed to burn brighter with each step that The Prince, now gloriously naked, took towards him. Jeremiah could see the fire in The Prince’s eyes and the passion jutting from his dark legs. He understood immediately what was about to happen. By the time The Prince climbed onto the bed with Jeremiah, settling between the man’s furry thighs, the human was visibly trembling.
“Please…” Jeremiah said, shaking in a tangle of fear and lust. “I’m not-I’ve never.” As The Prince’s sigil burned into life on his thigh, he realized the words didn’t matter. Jeremiah Collins had been remade for this purpose and nothing was going to stand between him and his betrothed.
The Prince took what belonged to him, piercing into Jeremiah Collins’ virgin flesh. The pain was a sharp pinch that settled into a grinding burn, before it was finally swallowed by an all-consuming pleasure that was unearthly in nature. His cries echoed throughout the luxurious splendor the room, reverberating his body’s pleasure back to his disbelieving ears. When The Prince leaned forward to kiss him, Jeremiah didn’t fight, even as overwhelmed tears leaked from his eyelids. When orgasm struck, it was like getting hit by a lightning bolt, and though Jeremiah knew nothing of electricity, he experienced it all the same, his body jolted by powers not meant to be felt by mortals.
When The Prince spilled his seed inside Jeremiah the pleasure reached a crescendo that the human had thought impossible. It was a pleasure nearly indistinguishable from pain. In fact, so great was it, that Jeremiah’s heart finally gave out and his soul left his body altogether. He discovered first hand why it was called “the little death.”
Later, once his disembodied spirit came back to the wedding bed and the full reality of his new life began to settle in Jeremiah asked the Prince with trembling lips,
“What of my family? My boys? Will I never see them again?” The Prince, all too caring and aware of Jeremiah’s plight had planned for this as well.
“Be still, my love,” he said, quietly calming his frightened spouse. “All has been handled. You will see your sons as soon as they are ready to join us.”
Jeremiah looked at The Prince, eyes filled with dreaded confusion, until The Prince reminded him of the nature of their agreement. The Prince would take care of the Collins men IN PERPETUITY as long as they maintained the contract.
“I know how much family means to you, my love,” The Prince said, planting a kiss on Jeremiah’s bearded chin. “I’ve made arrangements for each of your sons to enter our agreement on their 30th year, same as their beloved father.” Jeremiah shook his head violently, no doubt in denial that such as wonderous gift was possible, but The Prince had already produced the contract to show his beloved the good news.
The crinkly paper was just as Jeremiah remembered it. There was his own signature at the bottom, clear as day. His eyes widened when he saw that there were two more names below his: Liam Collins and Ian Collins, his two oldest boys. There was plenty of extra space below them for more.
“Once your sons, and their sons, and their sons, and on and on, fulfill the terms of the agreement they will join us here and share in our love together. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Jeremiah Collins, always of stern mind and body, was so overcome with gratitude that he wept tears of joy, enough to fill all the rivers in the world, until he could cry no more and soon the only sounds that came from their bedroom were the echoing sighs of heated flesh on flesh…
-----
V.
When Sal finally finished his story of the perversion of the Collins family, Justin could do little more than stare slack-jawed at his family’s longtime tormentor until finally the words came rushing out of his mouth like a purging volcano.
“That’s insane. Diabolical…” he said, face wan. He chanced a glance at his father and saw he was just as pale, but there was no matching look of shock on his old man’s face, just a look of weary rocognition. Steven Collins knew this story well it seemed.
“Now, now, Justin,” Sal chided, brushing a stray strand of hair from Justin’s face, the trail of the finger tingling the skin all the way, “Aren’t you being a little dramatic? Haven’t I given your family a most marvelous gift, generation after generation? It hardly sounds like a bad arrangement to my ears...” Justin’s eyes narrowed, harsh and wary.
“You’re trying to enslave our family. Tricking us all with a tainted gift we never asked for!” Sal’s hand dropped from Justin’s face, his smile tight now.
“Young man, you’re mistaken,” he said, accentuating the last word. “I offer you all the same deal, the same choice, on your 30th birthday, just as I did your progenitor. Each and every one of you.” His grin loosened. “I’m not a monster.”
Justin stared at Salleo, blinking multiple times as he wrestled with this new revelation. He didn’t want to believe, because the implications were too ghastly to contemplate, but there was no hint of deception in the demon’s words.
“Then...that means,” he glanced around the swarthy form of their family’s twisted benefactor to look at his bound and aroused father. He waited for a response, an explanation, before Salleo, with a smile that could almost be called shy, remembered to release his bind on Steven’s throat. As Sal snapped his fingers the words spilled out of Steven’s throat before he could stop himself.
“I’m sorry, Justin! I’m sorry!” Steven babbled, somehow more pitiful now that he could talk again. “You don’t understand! I had to. I had to!” Justin stared at his father, the weight of this particular betrayal burning deepest yet. It was one thing to be preyed on by a wily predator. It was quite another thing to offer themselves and their family up on a platter and hand the demon a menu. He turned away from the bed, his shoulders shaking with a rage he could barely contain. When Sal’s arms reached around to hold him, he didn’t even bother to fight the demon off.
“You Collins men always scream and shout when the time comes, but when the offer is made how quickly you all cave in,” The superiority in his words was thick enough to choke on. “At the end of the day you are all creatures of greed and lust. When the mind is weak the body always follows.” During his pretty speech, Salleo had begun to divest Justin Collins of his clothes, one piece at a time. As he slowly peeled the pants off of the young man, he continued. “It pains me to say it, but sometimes you Collins men need to be reminded of your place in the grand scheme. A deal is a deal and I will always collect what I am owed.”
Justin ignored the demon taking him apart at the seams and stared at his father. He needed to know the truth, no matter how ugly, and he needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
“Justin, please listen to me,” Steven said, the strain in his voice evident. “I only wanted what was best for you all. I wanted you to have a better life for yourselves. You weren’t supposed to ever find out about this…” His voice cracked as a tremor passed through him and he shook on the bed, his weeping cock bouncing off the branded mark on his pelvis. “Please...just go before he…” Steven couldn’t finish the sentence, the unspoken words too barbed for his throat to handle, but Justin understood all the same. He began to shake and not from fear alone.
“Don't…” he said, hating the pleading tone in his voice. “Don’t take my dad away.” He knew even as the words left his mouth that they were useless. This was an old battle, one fought for actual centuries, and by the looks of things the Collins family were on the losing side. Sal’s breath, hot and spicy, hummed pleasingly against his ear, oddly calming, and Justin began to slump back against Salleo’s steady form.
“Now, now, Little Lamb,” the demon said, in a tone Justin assumed was supposed to be sympathy. “A deal was made, marked in blood, sweat, and seed. A man’s word is law, is it not?” Justin, his head made of lead nodded slowly, robotically. A well-manicured hand began to touch and grope his body, which quickly inflamed with each stroke of his tormentor’s nimble fingers on his young flesh. Dimly, he was aware of the sounds of shouting coming from behind him, and a tiny voice whispered that was his father screaming to him, but the sounds seemed far away and unimportant, like an echo in a long tunnel he had plenty of time to cross. Words mattered little compared to the heat embracing him so tightly.
“Why are you doing this…?” he heard himself ask, that dim part of his brain still trying to communicate even now. In response, the arms around his torso, iron strong, somehow became tighter than a vice. The breath on his ear felt like it was going to burn his mind to cinders.
“Why do you humans keep dogs and cats as pets? It’s simple really. To love them and be loved in return.” Justin wanted to scoff, that’s how ludicrous that sentence sounded, but all that came out was a feeble huff of air from overheated lungs.
“This isn’t…” his words of protest trailed off when one long-nailed finger dipped into his belly button, stroking along the puckered rim as if digging for buried treasure. Salleo’s mouth closed around the nape of his ear, teeth biting into the tender flesh, just on the edge of painful, and Justin’s mouth gaped, saliva threatening to trickle out.
“Isn’t it, Little Lamb?” the voice said around his mouthful of Collins flesh. “Doesn’t this feel better than anything you ever dreamed of?” The demon, for all of his perfumed words and unnatural touches, wasn’t wrong. It did feel good, so good a part of him wanted to sink into the pleasure and let himself drown. That sudden realization was like a splash of cold water on his brain, and with an effort that felt positively gargantuan, Justin managed to retch himself from the demon’s grasp, feeling as if he was losing a layer of skin in the process.
“Don’t touch me!” he barked, more panicked than truly angry. He backed across the room now, all concerns of anything but his own wellbeing far from his mind. His waist collided with a dresser and he pressed himself flat against a corner, barely noticing the throb of a forming bruise. He was hard and throbbing in his underwear, harder than he had ever imagined being. He waited for the demon to pounce on its new toy, but Sal wasn’t offended by Justin’s outburst. If anything he seemed amused, almost tickled. The demon held his hands up in faux surrender.
“Forgive my lack of manners, young Justin,” he said, in way of apology. “I just can’t help but find you Collins men-” He was suddenly right in front of Justin, who nearly fell on his ass in shock.
“-Irresistible.” Justin hurriedly looked around the room, his eyes darting in panic, but there was nothing there to help him. His only ally was in even worse shape than he was.
“I-” he began, and honing in on a flaw, he mustered up his courage. “Why am I here!? I don’t have a deal with you!” His eyes narrowed, razor-thin slits. “I won’t sit here and watch while you rape my dad.” It was a lie, and they both knew it. Justin had watched that very same thing happen all week and the stained bedsheets back home said all that needed to be said on the matter. Justin had no real power to stop this monster in human form, but “gentleman” that he was, Sal didn’t challenge Justin’s naive assumptions. Instead, he hit the young man with a rebuttal Justin never saw coming.
“You have it all wrong, Young Collins,” Sal said, words dripping with honey. “I didn’t invite you here to watch me claim what’s mine. I invited you here to share the experience with me. After all, you’ve dreamed of an opportunity like this for so long...” Justin’s world froze, an ice age of terror spreading through his mind as he heard the demon open the closet door to his most secret and shameful desires out and speak them out loud right in front of the object of those very same desires. Justin couldn’t see Steven’s reaction clearly around the demon’s lithe form, but he could faintly detect the way those toned legs tensed and how the air began to fill with a new kind of anticipation at the revelation.
“I’m not interested,” he said, feeling the shape of the lie cutting into his lips. He was more than interested if the twitch in groin was any testimony. Sal, back to seduction mode, took one of Justin’s sweating hands and brought it to the boy’s chest.
“There’s no need to lie to me,” he said, quiet and sweet, a bee before the sting. “I don’t judge.” He licked his lips. “In fact, I approve.” He was behind Justin again, pushing Justin forward, that same head resting on Justin’s vulnerable shoulder. “Look at him, Justin. Look at how ready he is. How eager.” Justin looked. Oh, did he look. He couldn’t have turned away if his life had depended on it.
Steven was almost painfully aroused, same as he had been since Justin had so haphazardly barged into the room. Justin couldn’t read his mind, was terrified of what he would find there, but whatever Steven thought of his son’s illicit attractions, his body wasn’t complaining. Steven Collins was as hard as Justin had ever seen in a man. The length of his cock, which dipped on occasion to drip onto his sharply defined abs, was glistening with precum in the dim light all while Steven tacitly avoided the gaze of the others in the room. It was one of the most horribly arousing sights Justin had ever witnessed and he hadn’t even touched his father.
“What have you done to him?” Justin asked weakly, knowing without being told that this lust coursing through them both was anything but natural. Salleo’s chuckle rolled across Justin’s body like a drumbeat and Justin’s skin broke out into goosebumps.
“Steven wears my mark. His body knows that it belongs to me. What I want it to feel, he feels. Where the flesh feels joy, the soul soon follows.” Justin had noticed it, that strange tainted mark and now he understood. It was more than a brand, it was a tool of brainwashing, made to condition the demon’s prey into a more suitable form. The unnatural purple glow seemed to beckon Justin closer.
“Steven, darling,” Salleo said, his voice soaring across the room to address the bound father. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Why don’t you show young Justin what could be his?” Two fingers lifted, and with that small, simple gesture, Steven strong arms, previously bound as if by tape, reached down and grabbed his own ankles. As if on puppet’s strings, Steven lifted his own legs bringing them back until his ankles rested upon his tan shoulders.
Justin couldn’t look away, not even if he tried. There it was, the one thing he had dreamed of seeing in all of its naked, puckered glory. Steven’s buns, tightened from his rigorous workout routine hid very little. There was not even a dusting of hair to blemish the trail. It was all smooth skin, lighter in tone than the rest of Steven’s well-tanned body, but only more alluring because of it. The hole was tiny, pink, almost dainty and completely unguarded. Justin managed to sear his eyes away from that sight for a moment to glance up at his dad’s face and saw that Steven had turned his head to the side, his eyes forcibly shut, as if trying to shut himself off from the rest of the world. It did nothing to wane his erection, which was somehow collecting even more pre on the ample tip which threatened to cascade down the shaft.
“Perhaps you would like a closer look,” Sal whispered hotly, dragging Justin as if on a leash to have a closer look at his father’s supine form. When they were only a foot away, the demon stopped, the movement sudden and jolting. Then, in a move that made Justin’s jaw drop, he lifted his arms and spread his hands out in opposite directions, fingers clawed as if prying apart the air. In front of them, Steven’s asscheeks parted, pushed almost flat against the rest of his body and that hole of his, undoubtedly virgin, opened as if pried apart with a crowbar. Justin could only stare in awe-filled horror while Steven gasped in shock and humiliation as his asshole gaped for the audience on display.
Shaking now, Justin leaned forward, his eyes taking in the sinful sight. Steven, a fastidious eater, maintained his body like a sacred temple and his rectum was no different. He was clean as a drum, his slick red walls pulsing to the rhythm of his straining heartbeat and quivering desire. It was the most obscene and most arousing thing Justin had ever experienced. “He’s all yours, Justin,” Sal whispered, a literal devil on his shoulder beckoning him toward sin. In one final, minuscule attempt at rebellion, Justin pushed back.
“I don’t want to hurt him…” It was true, in a sense, but false in all the ways that really mattered. Salleo tapped his own head, laughing softly, as if to a humorous anecdote Justin had just told.
“How silly of me,” he said, chiding himself. He brought two fingers up to his face, parted them into a V-shape, and then his tongue, like a charmed snaked, whipped, danced, and writhed between the open space. On the bed, Steven was writhing too, his open hole clenching and vibrating to an unseen ministration.
“Ahhhhhhhh-” Steven bit down on his lip, desperately trying to stem the obscene sensations roaring from his anus, but he couldn’t stop the aftermath. Justin watched, slightly disgusted, but no less aroused as a warm gush of clear, slimy fluid began to coat Steven’s already damp walls until it gushed out in a wet deluge between his exposed cheeks. Sal stopped, closing his fingers, and Steven’s hole snapped back shut, still wet but cherry tight. Sal’s hand landed on Justin’s shoulder, the grip more demanding now.
“Go on, Little Lamb,” Salleo said, his voice deeper, more commanding. “Don’t squander this gift.” The implications behind the words were clear enough, and for all of his feeble protests, Justin couldn’t truly say no. He didn’t speak as Salleo pulled his underwear off freeing him from the useless, confining garment. His body was ready, had been ready for the entire week, if not longer, and it throbbed in want as he approached his father’s open form, the way a warrior would approach a sparring partner.
He felt the bed dip beneath his knees as he crawled onto the mattress and settled between his father’s legs. No man’s body was ever as willing and needy as the one before him, and the fact that it was his father only made the desire burn brighter. He brought his aching length up to the tight wet heat between Steven’s thighs, paused, and looked up at his dad.
Steven was looking at him, as if truly seeing his son for the first time. His eyes glistened with unshed tears and the irises seemed to be accessing this new man who had taken the place of the little boy he had always imagined Justin to be. Justin was not deterred.
“Are you ready?” he asked, giving Steven one last chance to defend himself from the oncoming onslaught. He worried that Steven wouldn’t be able to speak, that the demon wouldn’t let him voice and object, but he was wrong about this too. When Steven finally parted his lips, the words were clear and untainted.
“Yes, son,” he said, resigned to his fate. Justin pushed.
He expected a tight entry, and it was tight, literally virgin tight, but as if through some act of magic Steven’s body opened up for him, the push smooth and silky. Both men hissed at the entry, but for very different reasons. Justin tried to go slow, but as his cockhead brushed against his father’s inflamed prostate and he watched a splurt of cum shoot from Steven’s cock, that plan went out the window and with it Justin’s patience. He sheathed himself to the hilt, bottoming out inside his father’s virgin passageway with a shuttering grunt.
If he thought he had it bad, Steven was in even worse shape. The older man, busy holding his legs up for his own desecration, could do very little but lie there and take the punishment. Justin didn’t know exactly what his dad was experiencing, and he doubted his old man could put into words what it felt like being broken in by his own son, but he recognized the look on Steven’s face. It was a peculiar combination of shock, awe, and undeniable pleasure, no doubt amplified by the knowledge that the man causing these experiences was his own son. His thighs shook at the pressure of maintaining his composure while his son took his anal virginity.
Balls deep inside, Justin leaned forward, his eyes only inches from his father. The combination of the angle change and the slide of his son’s stomach across his tortured length drew another small orgasm out of Steven, and Justin watched with no small amount of satisfaction as a tear escaped the globe of his father’s eye and rolled down the side of his cheek. He looked at his father, communicating with his eyes as best he could, wanting to have at least something that was just between the two of them.
I’m sorry, I can’t help myself. He tried to say. There was no recrimination in Steven’s eyes, just a wary resignation that felt as bad. Please show me you are ok. Somehow. Some way. He didn’t know what his father made of his looks, didn’t trust there to suddenly be a newly developed familial telepathy between them, but when Steven did look at his son, looked him square in the eyes, Justin recognized the look. He had seen it many times on his father’s face. It was the look that said, Whatever makes you happy. Even this. Burying his self-hatred, Justin began to thrust.
The tightness was exquisite, but that wasn’t the thing that drew Justin’s attention the most. No, it was the look on his father’s face. Dumbfounded was the first word that came to Justin’s mind to describe the wide-eyed, gaping, luststruck expression on Steven’s face, but somehow a word that basic didn’t do it justice. It was the look of a man who was having his world unraveled inch by throbbing inch, all by the very person he loved more than anything else, and rather than be destroyed by it, he was being rebuilt into something, new, strange, and hungry.
Steven tried to hold back his moans, tried to hold down the tide of sinful pleasure that was rising from his netheregion, but Salleo’s machinations and the perversity of the moment was proving too much for him to overcome. The tears followed freely now, sobbing for the man he used to be and making space inside himself for the man he was rapidly becoming. Justin, who was a little bigger than his father, brushed up against his prostate again. The levee broke and he sobbed openly, truly overcome by his downfall. The little room filled with the sounds of a bouncing mattress, the thick grunts of a son on a mission, and the desperate heated moans of a father being cunted. Across from the bed and the gyrating hips, Sal was sitting on top of the nearby dresser, watching the show with a casual intimacy that felt perverse for such an event.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Justin?” he asked, his voice dripping with pleasure. “The sounds of a virgin bride discovering the joys between her legs.” He sighed, embracing his flair for drama. “Truly music for the soul.” Justin ignored the demon, too engrossed in the impossible heat of his father’s rectum to care about Salleo’s ranting. As horrible as the much of the last week had been, living this tainted moment with his father almost made it worth it. He would have what was his. He wanted to see Steven come. He wanted to see Steven come undone for him.
“You feel so good,” he hissed, his voice already strained as he held back the true depths of his pleasure. “I wanted this for so long…” He didn’t give Steven time to complain, and truly Steven wasn’t going to. Salleo was many things, had whispered many a pretty promise into a gullible young man’s ear, but the truth of his words were beneath Justin’s thrusting body. Steven Collins, a man Justin knew in his heart was thoroughly heterosexual, was enjoying being taken by his own son. It was depraved and unnatural, fueled by desperation and demonic influence, but Justin couldn’t deny the gift that was laid out for him so wantonly.
Having learned his father’s body better now and charted its unexplored depths, he set about his task. Each thrust was angled specifically at his father’s prostate, a continual pummeling that was shooting sparks of overwhelming pleasure the older Collins man had never dreamed was possible and had never desired until this moment. The entrypoint, already wet, now began to make sloppy noises as the targeted thrusts did their work turning Steven into breeding stock. Now, as his son’s sweat dripped upon his own damp body, he didn’t think he would be able to say stop even if it was possible.
When Justin’s hands, previously holding onto his father’s hips, roamed north, exploring the contours of Steven’s statuesque torso that had been dangled so tantalizingly for him for so many years, Steven could feel something changing within himself. It was a deep, rolling buildup inside him, a boiling pleasure that was threatening to overflow and consume him entirely. Scared now, he tried to shake his head, tried to warn his son to stop, before he was consumed entirely, but Justin wasn’t paying attention. His son could only see and feel his own pleasure, deep under his own tainted spell.
When Steven finally had his orgasm, a true one, it felt like a part of him crumbled inside, the old part of him anyway. As he splurted his lust onto his abs, ignoring the way his son watched the pale, white fluid drip and seep into the gutters of flesh, he felt himself become pliant as never before. There was no fight left now and there had barely been any to start with. He lay there watching Justin through half-lidded eyes as his son took pleasure from his body and despite his recent orgasm he could already feel the lust rising again inside his hole and shooting through his veins. He wasn’t going to cum again, not like he just had mere moments ago, but the pleasure was far from over.
Justin’s rutting, hardly dignified to begin with , became increasingly erratic now that he had gotten one of his wishes granted. He needed to nut, needed it badly, and Steven’s welcoming insides were doing the job just fine. He chanced a glance at his father’s face, and didn’t find the scorn he had feared would be there. There was an indecipherable expression on Steven Collin’s face, something enigmatic and knowing in those eyes, as if he had finally developed a taste for his son’s particular brand of depravity and surprised himself by how much he enjoyed the flavor. Steven didn’t speak, couldn’t speak with the overflow of physical energy coursing through his veins, but he was open to his son like he had never been before. The tension in his body was gone completely.
The orgasm was different for Justin. Where with Steven, it had felt like it was being dragged from his bound form by a demented puppeteer, for Justin it was a claiming of the one thing he desired more than anything in the world. He didn’t scream, didn’t shout, didn’t mark the occasion anyway other than to bury his face in his father’s neck, breathing harsh mouthfuls of Steven’s fragrant flesh as he emptied himself inside Steven’s new sex organ. The reaction from Steven was more notable. His bowels, as if on instinct, sprang to life and his anus furiously gripped his son’s appendage. When Justin could finally take no more and began to withdraw, it was like trying to pull his fingers from a glove that was several sizes too small.
The pair lay together, son on top of father, the conqueror and the conquered. There were no words between them, no language that could put into terms the profound shift that had just occurred in their relationship. Two had become one, married in a pit of flesh and spunk. Nothing would ever be the same. The moment of near perfect tranquility was shattered by the sound of dry clapping across the room. Their eyes opened then, two pairs staring at each other and realizing the trouble had just begun.
“Bravo, Justin!” Salleo said, still clapping, the pleasure radiating from him like a torch. “What a magnificent show! I haven’t been that entertained for many, many years…” Justin didn’t look behind him, didn’t turn his head away from his father’s. He heard the footsteps, knew something awful was going to happen and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt hands, tense and spectral grip his shoulders and he was wretched from his father’s warm heat, the older Collins calling after him.
When he crashed against the heat of Salleo’s earthly form, not a hair out of place on that uncanny skull, he felt sick to his stomach, but he didn’t protest when the demon’s hands wrapped around his torso. That breath, sugary and sweet and faintly rotten like an overripe fruit hit his nostrils and this time, perhaps due to his recent orgasm, he wasn’t so nearly entranced.
“Let me go,” he said weakly, but didn’t struggle. To his surprise, Salleo did as he asked, the grinning man stroking his cheek with evident affection.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” he said, once again amused, and then as if reading the darkest fears of Justin’s mind, he responded. “I’m not here for you. Our day together is far in your future, young man.”
Justin turned to look back at his father, still holding himself open like some kind of free use slut, and saw the tears glimmering off his face. There was no more delaying. The demon would have his feast. Salleo nudged Justin with a free hand and he cried out as his body, seemingly of its own volition, slid across the room until his back hit the wall where he stuck to it as if glued in place. The demon wasn’t paying any attention to him anymore. He was focused on the main event.
Sal lifted his palm up and to Justin’s horrified gaze, he watched as his father’s body rose up off the bed, levitating in the air. Wet spunk and drops of sweat dripped from the divots of Steven’s flesh as he was rotated in place until he was facing the floor. Justin could see Salleo’s cock, hard and impossibly large, the kind of phallus that fist-lovers chased after in their dreams. As Steven’s hovering body inched closer to his soon to be owner, the elder Collins looked over at his son, his face frantic.
“Don’t look, Justin!” he begged, voice torn, eyes blazing. “For God’s sake, don’t watch him-” He never finished the sentence, because he was pierced on Sal’s cock and the room filled with the sound of a scream just as piercing.
Justin watched, thrashing in place, his mind and face numb as the demon ravished his father. Words were a thing of the past for Steven Collins, only guttural screams and groans poured from his throat now. With each inward stroke, his entire body shook. He would have undoubtedly been flailing like a wild animal if his arms and legs hadn’t been suspended at perfect crisscross angles. Drool ran down from Steven mouth, his lulling tongue dripping the wetness past his chapped lips where it began to slowly puddle on the floor alongside the building collection of semen and sweat beneath them.
With each inward thrust, a trickle of cum dripped from Steven’s long spent cock, which only weeped even more at the touch of demon flesh on his tender insides. Justin stared, hardening despite his recent orgasm, as his father was taken in a way that was impossible for mere mortals. He could only guess what his father was experiencing. Where he had been overcome by his son’s claiming of his formerly virgin passage, the demon’s descent, and whatever magic flowed within that slab of shaped meat, was destroying his father from the inside out. Steven Collins, unhappily married straight man and father of 2, was nothing more than a cunt for his new master.
Sal’s form seemed to twist subtlety, a slight shift in the edges of his esteemed gentleman costume that felt like a trick of the light but was more than likely the consequence of their tormentor losing his cool. That could mean only one thing. Justin pushed harder against his restraints, dreading what was about to happen and filled with an unspeakable, possessive rage that rose each moment. It was to no avail. He could barely move a single finger. Across the room, Steven’s cries had died down completely. The only sign he was even conscious was a barely perceptible grunt that would escape his lips with each punch into his ruined guts.
His thrusting pace never changing, Salleo’s hands, looking more like claws now, gripped Steven’s tender hips hard enough to bruise, and yet Steven’s pleasure never waned. The brand glowed brighter, in erotic sympathy with its creator and the feeble flesh responded in kind. But all mortals have their limit and some pleasures were not meant for human souls to endure. Justin saw it then when Sal sheathed himself within his father’s writhing form, and while he couldn’t see what was happening inside, he knew without a doubt that his father was being bred. The result was catastrophic.
Steven’s mouth stretched open obscenely wide, fixed in a silent scream. There was no sound from that gaping maw, just a horrible gaping lip movement, like a fish suffocating on land. Then, a sound. A deep shriek, in a low keening pitch that pierced the ears and Steven’s body began to convulse, fullbodied seizures that wracked his floating form, like a boat caught in the waves of the world’s worst storm. Steven’s eyes rolled back into his head, until there was only white, and his cock swelled to a painful hardness, spilling white seed like a runaway hose, white stripe after white stripe in endless succession, until nothing but clear fluid, devoid of even a hint of seed flowed from his body.
Even then it didn’t stop, and Justin watched as his father’s bladder gave out, slipping its wet cargo onto the messy collection of fluid on the floor. Salleo pulled out, and a burst of demonic spooge poured from the wound that Steven’s asshole had become, splattering onto the ground in a steaming pile.
Done, Sal tossed Steven Collins across the room like a used-up rag. Steven hit the bed hard, landing on his stomach, where he bounced on the mattress with a huff of air, the impact shooting another humiliating jet of mixed semen from his wrecked passage which landed like a white-tinged blood splatter onto the mattress sheets. Justin watched from his web as his father, thoroughly spent continued to twitch, his gaping hole blossoming like a prize rose, until suddenly the tremors subsided and an eerie stillness settled over his father, deathly and calm. Justin’s eyes widened. NO
Through all of this Salleo, his cock wet and dripping, ignored the younger Collins man, stepping closer and examining Steven’s defeated body. He was looking at the flesh of Steven’s body with such intensity Justin was almost convinced he was looking through him. Bypassing the worst of the damage, Sal pressed a hand to the back of Steven’s back where his heart was and pushed. Steven came back to life, a deep gasp of air filling his lungs and the shakes came back now, almost stronger than before. Sal rubbed along his prey’s back, shushing him like a frightened dog.
“It’s done,” he said, as simple as that, then turning his attention back to the near forgotten Justin, he released the young man from his bonds and Justin collapsed to the floor in a heap. He dragged himself to his feet, freezing in place when a set of arms, now becoming familiar in their touch, gripped him. Salleo was beaming as Justin rose to his full height, feeling smaller by the minute. He walked them over to Steven’s prone form with a casual grace that felt obscene after what he had just done to the poor man.
“I believe our work is done, Young Collins,” Sal said, with affection that almost felt real. “Dear Steven is well and truly bred. A broken bride ready for the saddle. What a marvelous night it has been.” The demon leaned forward, dipping a finger into the bubbling cauldron of Steven Collins’ wrecked hole and sampled the gooey concoction with a self-satisfied smack of his lips.
“Mmm, delicious. A fine brew if ever there was one,” he said, with a preening power. He dipped the finger back in for seconds, ignoring the appalled expression on Justin’s face. “Here, young Justin, try some.” Justin opened his mouth to protest, realizing only too late the mistake he had made as Sal’s dripping digit settled on his tongue.
For a moment Justin thought he had blacked out, that was how powerful the sensation was. His vision swam and filled with a kaleidoscope of unearthly colors. This was what a single drop could do. What must it have felt for Steven? He began to swoon, an instantaneous drunkard from a single sip, and Salleo caught the young man with a suspiciously gentle laugh.
“My apologies, Little Lamb,” the demon remarked. “I forgot how intoxicating my seed can be for you poor mortals. Isn’t that right, Steven darling?” On the bed, Steven Collins was in no condition to acknowledge let alone respond to the demon’s words, and for his part, Justin didn’t much care what his dad thought about it. He was too busy sucking on the demon’s finger, pulling every grain of salt he could from the digit. When Salleo pulled away, he whined in protest, not having the energy or state of mind to form a coherent phrase. As he collapsed to his knees, his cheek resting on the bed, he dimly felt the demon pat him on the head, like a new favorite pet.
“There, there now,” he said, patronizingly. “Just take it easy, young man. Though…” and here the demon leaned forward to whisper into Justin’s ear, “If you have the taste for more there is plenty waiting for you right there…” Sal stepped back, apparently done with his torment for the moment, the results of his short presence all too clear.
“This is normally the point where I would take my bride back with me so we can start out new life together,” he said, a hint of whimsy returning. “However, you have given me a most generous gift young man, so I intend on returning the favor.” The next words came out loud and clear, with no hint of the demon’s typical levity.
“Steven Collins has been claimed and he will come with me back to my domain in exactly 24 hours. I suggest you fulfill any lingering promises you two might have.” He bent forward and kissed Justin squarely on the lips making the young man’s head swim. “I’m looking forward to the day you reach your 30th birthday and we can form our own special bond. Until then, young Justin, enjoy your family time and dream of what is to come.” Justin watched from his vantage point as Salleo, in all of his glory slid back into the shadows of the room and disappeared from view completely.
Justin just lay there, his breath coming in harsh gasps as his fragile mind tried to reconcile what he was going through. He could feel it deep inside, despite the demon having taken his leave. A hunger, a need to taste, all sparked by that tiny fingerful. He could smell it, like a bloodhound, more of that seed that beckoned him like an addict, and when he risked glancing up at his father’s backside he was a goner.
He didn’t eat his dad’s ass so much as dive into it face first, his lips stretching wide to cover his father’s blown out hole as his tongue began its dirty work. He pushed his face in as deep as he could, tongue and nose digging into the crater of Steven’s being. Thick rivets of white, sloppy goo covered Justin’s face, but he didn’t mind. If anything, the feel and scent of that thick, viscous fluid only inflamed his ravenous desires. He never experienced rimming like this before. Every dollop of fresh spunk, every quiver of Steven’s abused folds, made him hunger for it more.
He couldn’t remember how long he feasted. He forced himself to breath when he could, gasping in a quick harsh intake of air before inhaling his meal once more. There was no response from his father, just the long shallow breathes and the occasional quiver of a body being rewritten from the inside out. Semen was everywhere on Justin. On his lips, on his tongue, his nose, cheeks, chin, ears, hair, and nothing seemed to be enough. Not even the burning of alkaline in his eyes stopped his voracious appetite.
Slowly, the way a bear’s being shifts after gouging on its meal, Salleo’s seed began to do its vile work on Justin’s body and the young man felt the siren’s call of desire arise anew from his loins. He couldn’t cum anymore, surely not, yet he was hard as ever, so hard his cock felt less like an instrument of pleasure and more like a painful tool designed to bludgeon a victim. He climbed onto his father’s back, mumbled out a feeble “I’m sorry, dad.” and aimed true.
There was no squeeze, no pinch of resistance. Steven was too far gone for that, his defenses shattered by his double claiming. What he was though was wet and hot, so hot inside it was like sticking his dick in an oven. Justin pummeled his father’s weakened body, drawing only the most shallow exhalations of air from the man trapped below him. He pushed Steven deeper and deeper into the mattress with each thrust, semen and slobber and what must have been tears of overstimulated humiliation smeared across his length and his father’s shoulders as he rubbed himself out inside his cunted father. When he orgasmed it felt less like pleasure and more like jabbing a needle inside himself. Justin gritted his teeth as he spilled his meager offering to collect with the rest of the vile pool.
Shaking from the force of his exertion and the dawning horror of what they had done, Justin dismounted. Steven’s hole didn’t even bother trying to close up, just hung open waiting for whatever pleasure-filled horrors awaited it next. The shame seeping in now, Justin wiped his cock off best he could on the sheets, fumbled for his discarded underwear on the ground, and stumble darted across the room, reaching for a door he prayed led to a bathroom.
As he plunged into the dark room, he slammed the door behind him and let himself slide down the length the wood. He was shaking now, the fever beginning to dissipate and in its place the full gravity of his actions filled in the recesses. He groped along the wall, until his hand tapped against a switch and the tiny room filled with harsh florescent light. He blinked for a moment and stared at the figure in the mirror.
Justin felt like he was looking at a stranger, a wrecked and debauched creature that wasn’t worthy of the Collins name. He laughed at that, a sharp, humorless bark. The Collins name. What a joke. With shaking hands, he turned the nozzles on the sink and plunged both hands into the icy water. He let it run for a few moments, and then began to splash the clear fluid onto his face, scrubbing as well as he could with his bare hands, trying to rid himself of the remnants of his actions. It was a futile effort, and he could still smell the stink of forbidden sex on his skin, but the cool water helped to clear his head, enough at least for him to brave the bedroom again.
When he opened the door, his nostrils were assaulted by the overwhelming stench of man and sex, and his cock twitched in excitement, already well trained. He ignored his body’s reaction and forced himself to move, more like crawl, across the room where his father still lay having not moved an inch since Justin had last seen him. Blinking back tears, Justin reached a shaking hand out to touch his father’s shoulder and give it a gentle shake.
“Dad,” he said softly, the voice of a little boy. “Wake up.” There was no response at first, and it was only when Justin’s shakes graduated from gentle to strident that his father reacted. One eye, looking bloodshot, opened a crack taking in his son’s appearance but saying nothing. Biting his lip, Justin turned away from that subjugated gaze and darted back for the bathroom. He returned a few moments later carrying a dripping wash cloth in his hand.
Hovering over the bed, looking down at his father’s ravaged body, Justin wavered, but ultimately brought the wet cloth down upon his father’s back and began to gently rub away at the slime and grime covering Steven’s body. It was a slow, dirty job and Justin had to make several trips back to the bathroom to rinse out the cloth and wet it anew with a fresher catch of water. It didn’t help that Steven was nearly unresponsive, not saying anything or making any attempt to help or hinder his son’s progress. When it came time to clean Steven’s front side, Justin hesitated, unsure of just how to proceed, then mustering up his courage, he gently rolled his father onto his back and gasped.
Even after the hours of abusive debauchery, Steven Collins was still erect. Not just a little either, but painfully so. His cock lay hard and aching against his stomach, an angry red color from hours of forced overstimulation. That wasn’t the only thing that caught Justin’s eyes either. The brand, the twisted mark was still there. It didn’t glow the unearthly purple that made his head ache to look at, but it was there all the same, clear as day, crisscrossing black lines, a permanent tattoo of ownership.
Justin went about his work as softly and quickly as he could, scrubbing away at his father’s flesh, but unlike his father’s backside, where he had mainly feared and avoided the gaping hole between Steven’s legs, here there was a veritable mindfield of erotic pressure points to stumble upon. A few were obvious and Justin chided himself when he brushed across Steven’s nipples drawing a sharp hiss from his father. Steven’s eyes were shut tight, but he could imagine what must be going on behind those heavy lids. He was more than a little grateful his father was sparing him his judging glare.
Ignoring his father’s crotch, Justin moved to the legs, cleaning soiled muscles with little resistance from Steven. The feet were a surprise though. The tiny pants that slipped from Steven’s lips every time he groped a toe were not lost on Justin. A foot fetish, huh? If only the circumstances were different, he could have showed his father such pleasures. But something like that seemed more impossible than ever before. Finally there was only one place left, the most dangerous of all.
As expected Steven’s groin was a mess, wet and sticky with cum and pre and maybe something worse. He tried not to think about that. At first, the wiping went as well as could be expected, but when his fingers grazed over the branding, he thought Steven was going to convulse. Giving into curiosity, Justin ran a finger along the design, feeling his own cock throb as his father gasped in pleasure at the tracing drag. He pulled the finger away quickly, partially afraid of making Steven orgasm again and ruining his work, but more because he was afraid of what he might do to Steven if he continued. Instead, he turned his attention to the pillar below.
Taking a deep breath, he wrapped a hand around Steven’s length, and gently stroked up and down, trying to focus on the act of cleanliness, but no doubt having the opposite effect. He could tell by the panting that Steven was going through that this might be the most pleasurable thing for his old man yet. He stopped, and Steven hissed, this time sounding like he was in pain. One of Steven’s hands, the grip surprisingly strong wrapped around his son’s hand, beckoning him on. Justin’s eyes narrowed and he glanced up to his dad’s face but found only those pained, scrunched up eyes.
“Steven,” he began, his voice sounding far more sure than he felt. “I can...help you. But only if you tell me it’s ok.” He said nothing more, but watched his dad intently, looking for any sign of life, yea or nay. Eventually, he got it. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod of consent. It was enough. He began to stroke up and down Steven’s length with intent this time, tight smooth strokes designed to bring his old man off, give him the relief he so desperately desired. It should have been erotic, should have been the dream of a lifetime, but Justin couldn’t help but feel like some kind of fucked up nurse emptying the wound from a particularly sick patient.
When the orgasm came, it was barely more than a dribble, a weak splurt that didn’t feel worth mentioning. It was something though, and now as Justin turned his ministrations back to cleanliness, his father’s moans were softer, less charged than before. He had settled the beast down, for the moment at least. Deciding he had done as much as he could, he tossed the rag across the room where it landed by the door to the bathroom with a wet clump.
“That will have to do for now,” he said, shuffling in place. He gave his father one last sorry look. “I’m going to go into the next room, sleep on the couch.” As he walked to the door back out into the living room, out and away from the proof of their mutual insanity, Steven choose that moment to speak.
“Wait.” One word. That was all it took to stop Justin in his tracks.
Justin turned around, face full of apprehension. Steven was looking at him now. He was still hard, unnaturally so as always, but his eyes were more clear than before. He was more himself. He weakly held a hand up. “Come here.”
Justin hesitated and then the old desire, long buried, to please his father and curry his favor came back and he was soon standing next to his father’s bed side. Steven gestured next to him.
“Lay down with me,” he said, his voice sounding more raw up close. At Justin’s concerned expression he added, “Please, son.” Again, Justin couldn’t say no, not when Steven was like this. Keeping his underwear on, the one barrier that existed between them now, he rolled his father onto his side and crawled onto the bed next to him. He hesitantly wrapped an arm around his dad’s torso, an attempt at intimacy, and to his surprise, Steven took his arm, pulling him closer, his hand wrapping around his son’s, their fingers entwined.
Spooning his old man, Justin simply lay there, unused to this kind of intimacy with much of anyone, until he heard gentle, rhythmic exhalations coming from his father’s mouth and nose. Justin raised his eyebrows as he realized his old man had fallen asleep and was snoring. How on earth could he be sleeping after all that had happened, especially while he was being held by one of his tormentors? As he pondered his thoughts, he failed to notice his own eyelids begin to droop and soon son joined father in the Land of Nod.
The room was silent now, except for the sounds of father and son breathing in harmony with one another. Outside, the distance sound of waves crashing on sand reached the windows of the house, aiding the pair in their slumber. For the first time in an entire week, both men slept soundly. Neither one dreamed. Tomorrow the waking dream began anew.
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