Instructions for Use
The living room was still, the air thick with the scent of sweat, cum, and something darker—something that lingered like the aftertaste of sin. Tommy lay sprawled across the laps of his three friends, his body limp, his breath slow and shallow. The evening had broken him open, stripped him bare, and now he was nothing more than a trembling, spent thing between them. Riccardo’s fingers traced idle patterns along his spine, Marco’s hand rested possessively on his hip, and Francesca—ever the nurturer—brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, her touch deceptively gentle.
"Tommy." Riccardo’s voice was a low rumble, thick with the kind of authority that made Tommy’s cock twitch even in his exhausted state. "It’s time to go to bed, little slut. Come on, get up!"
Tommy stirred, his muscles aching as he pushed himself up. His eyes were heavy, his mind still fogged with the afterglow of submission and shame. He glanced at the three of them—Riccardo’s smirk, Marco’s quiet intensity, Francesca’s soft but knowing smile—and felt something twist in his chest. A primal part of him whispered “I feel seen. They really are my Masters. I am owned”.
"For now you’re gonna sleep in your bed" Marco said, his voice steady but laced with something darker, something hungry. "Until we decide whether to make you sleep in a doghouse or in a cage."
Tommy’s breath hitched. The words sent a jolt of terror and desire straight to his cock, which twitched pathetically between his legs. He didn’t protest. He couldn’t. Instead, he nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
Riccardo chuckled, low and dark. "Don’t worry slut. We’ll let you know when the time comes." He leaned in, his breath hot against Tommy’s ear: "But you won’t get a say on the matter".
Francesca, ever the mediator, placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, her touch warm but firm, as she said: "Come on, let’s go. It’s getting late."
The house was quiet as they split up—Riccardo and Francesca disappearing into Riccardo’s room, their laughter soft and intimate, while Marco guided Tommy to his own bed. Tommy’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, his body still humming with the echoes of the evening’s torment and pleasure. He slipped under the sheets, his skin hypersensitive, his cock still half-hard despite his exhaustion.
And then—
The world dissolved.
The dreamspace was vast, a cavernous void where the air itself seemed to pulse with an unnatural energy. Tommy found himself standing—no, kneeling—before a familiar throne of blackened stone, its surface etched with Latin phrases that seemed to writhe under his gaze: Resistere futile est. Dolor tuus, voluptas mea. The words burned into his mind, their meaning searing through him like a brand.
And then he appeared.
Belial.
The demon was just like he remembered him… Monstrous in his grandeur, a towering figure clad in a crimson mantle that billowed around him like a living thing. The fabric was embroidered with scenes of writhing bodies in various states of submission, each stitch seeming to pulse with a dark, hypnotic energy. His throne, carved from what looked like obsidian, loomed behind him, its jagged edges casting long, menacing shadows. His lower canines had elongated into jagged fangs, glinting in the dim light, and his massive, clawed hands rested on the arms of the throne, each finger tipped with blackened nails that looked capable of flaying flesh from bone.
But it was his eyes that trapped Tommy—burning embers of crimson and gold, ancient and knowing, filled with a dark amusement that made Tommy’s stomach clench and his cock throb traitorously.
Behind Tommy, he could feel them—Riccardo, Marco, Francesca—standing in a loose semicircle, their presence a mix of awe and trepidation. They were fully clothed, a stark contrast to Tommy’s naked, trembling form. His cock was hard, betraying him, and he could feel the heat of their gazes on his skin like a physical touch.
Belial didn’t so much as glance at him.
"Ah," the demon rumbled, his voice like gravel and honey, thick with the weight of millennia. "Finally. I’ve been waiting for this."
Riccardo, ever the first to speak, stepped forward, his usual sadistic confidence tinged with something like reverence. "And who are you supposed to be???" he demanded, though his voice wavered just slightly.
Belial’s lips curled into a smirk. “Me?" His voice was a dark caress, dripping with amusement. "I am everything this little fag ever desired and feared. I am his God, his Master, his Destiny." His gaze finally flicked to Tommy, who whimpered, his cock jerking despite his terror. "And you three" Belial’s eyes gleamed. "You are his earthly keepers, his Masters."
Francesca’s breath hitched. "Keepers?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.
Belial nodded “He’s a rare breed, you know. A pure submissive slut, the kind born once in a million. His mind is so deliciously malleable, so eager to be reshaped. And now, you three will have to break him and rebuild him from scratch”.
Tommy tried to speak, but his throat was locked, his lips moving soundlessly, Under Belial’s silencing spell. His cock throbbed, betraying him, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Belial ignored him entirely, his attention fixed on the three before him. "I grant you a fraction of my power," he continued, his voice dripping with dark promise. "Enough to bend him to your will. Hypnotic control over his mind, his body, even his awareness. You’ll learn to wield it in time." His grin widened, revealing those monstrous fangs. "I already got him muted. Now you have access to a bit of my dark power. Show me what you’re capable of”.
Riccardo, ever the sadist, didn’t hesitate. His voice was a whipcrack. "Piss yourself, slut."
Tommy’s body reacted before his mind could rebel. A whimper tore from his throat as his bladder released, warmth spreading down his thighs, the scent of urine thick in the air. His cock throbbed, his mind screaming in humiliation even as his body obeyed without resistance.
Marco’s jaw clenched, but when he spoke, his voice was steady, if strained. "Open your mouth and drool, fag!"
Tommy’s jaws unhinged, saliva dripping down his chin as he gagged on nothing, his body convulsing with the need to please.
Francesca’s voice was softer, but no less commanding. "Cum, my little faggot”.
Tommy’s body convulsed, his cock erupting without touch, ropes of cum splattering across his chest as he sobbed, his mind fracturing under the weight of his own desire and shame.
Belial watched, amused, as the three exchanged glances—Riccardo’s smirk faltering for just a second, Marco’s hands clenching into fists, Francesca biting her lip hard enough to draw blood.
"Good" Belial purred. "Very good”. “Mastering this kind of spell requires the absolute will to dominate someone’s mind. You possess a strong will, which is essential to break this faggot for good”.
Tommy was trembling now, his body curled in on itself, his cock finally softening as the horror of what had just happened crashed over him.
Belial sighed, as if disappointed by Tommy’s weakness. "Pathetic," he muttered, though there was no real malice in his tone. He turned those burning eyes onto Tommy, who was still gasping for air, his chest heaving. "You think you’ve lost yourself. But look at you." A clawed finger pointed at Tommy’s cock, which, despite everything, was already stirring back to life just by listening to Belial’s deep voice. "Your body knows what you want. Your soul knows. That’s why you’re so fucking delicious." He leaned in, his breath hot against Tommy’s ear. "Right now, you’re a slave to your own guilt, to your own fear. And that’s perfect. Because one day, when you’ve truly embraced what you are, you’ll learn to resist the orders you don’t truly desire. But right now you’re not strong enough." His laugh was a low, rumbling thing. "Not when your submissive heart is still so repressed and desperate to be free! That’s why the magic is so powerful: it draws its energy from the depth of your darkest desires… the more repressed they are, the more powerful the magic. Your concious mind and your morality stand no chance right now".
Tommy’s breath hitched. The words cut through him, exposing the raw, pulsing core of his shame—his desire. He wanted this. He hated that he wanted this.
Belial’s expression softened—just for a moment—before hardening again. "And the way you torture yourself after every command? Exquisite." He chuckled, running a claw along Tommy’s cheek. "But enough dramatics. You should be grateful for all the humiliation you’re getting. Did you enjoy it?”
Tommy whimpered, trying his hardest to speak, but to no avail.
Belial laughed… “Right, I almost forgot…” With a flick of his wrist, the spell holding Tommy’s voice hostage dissolved. The dam broke.
Tommy’s sobs tore through him, violent and uncontrollable. He collapsed to his knees, his body wracked with heaving cries, his voice a broken litany of despair. "I’m just a—just a sex toy," he choked out, his words barely intelligible between gasps. "I don’t—I can’t even control my own body anymore! I’ve lost my friends, my humanity—" His voice cracked. "You said you wouldn’t extinguish my light, but it’s gone! The worst part is I want this! I want to be used! All the efforts I’ve done in my life to be a good person that uses his talents to give a positive contribution to the world… and now I am just a vessel for sadists that wants to be broken!" His hands clawed at his face, his body shaking with the force of his sobs. "I’m disgusting. I’m soulless!"
The three friends stood frozen, even Riccardo’s usual sadistic gleam replaced by something like horror. Francesca’s eyes were wide, her hand pressed to her mouth, while Marco looked like he’d been struck. Belial, for once, seemed almost nonplussed, his usual arrogance faltering for just a second before he rolled his eyes with a huff.
"Dramatic little faggot," he grumbled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He shifted uncomfortably on his throne, his massive frame seeming to shrink just slightly. "It’s not that—" He cut himself off with a growl, clearly out of his depth. "Consoling isn’t my forte." He waved a hand, and the air itself seemed to ripple. "Fine. If you’re going to be such a whiny bitch about it, I’ll call in the other one."
A blinding light erupted in the center of the room, and suddenly he was there—
Luciferiel.
The Angel of Light was a vision of radiant, almost painful beauty. His body was sculpted like a Renaissance masterpiece—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, muscles defined but not exaggerated, his skin glowing with an inner luminescence that made Tommy’s breath catch. His blond hair cascaded in loose waves down his back, catching the light like spun gold, and his face—God, his face—was all sharp angles and soft curves, his lips full and his eyes a piercing, endless blue. He wore a tunic of white linen that clung to his form, the fabric so fine it was nearly translucent, revealing the faint outline of his muscular torso beneath. His feet were bare save for simple leather sandals, the soles calloused but his toes long and elegant, and Tommy felt his cock twitch at the sight, his mind flooding with the sudden, overwhelming urge to kiss them.
Luciferiel knelt before Tommy, lifting his chin with gentle fingers. His touch was warm, almost electric, and Tommy felt something inside him settle, as if the Angel’s mere presence could soothe the storm raging in his chest.
"Belial is many things," Luciferiel murmured, his voice like honeyed sunlight, "but he is not a monster." He glanced at the demon, who scoffed but didn’t argue. "He is… complicated." His gaze returned to Tommy, soft and knowing. "And so are you, sweet, scared faggot slave."
Tommy’s breath hitched. The words—faggot slave—should have been a slap, a humiliation, but the way Luciferiel said them, with that voice, that look… it sent a jolt of heat straight to his cock. His mind reeled. What the—?
Luciferiel smiled, as if he could hear Tommy’s thoughts. "Yes, little one," he murmured, his thumb brushing Tommy’s lower lip. "Even the divine knows what you are. And it’s beautiful."
Tommy’s chest ached. The Angel’s words were a balm and a blade all at once, soothing the raw edges of his panic even as they stoked the fire of his desire. "But I—I don’t know how," he whispered, his voice trembling.
"You will," Luciferiel promised. He turned to the three friends, his expression growing solemn. "And you—" His gaze swept over them, and suddenly, they all felt very, very small. "You hold his soul in your hands. That is a gift, not a toy." His voice hardened just slightly. "You’ve done what was necessary. You’ve shown him the truth of himself. But remember—first, you are his friends. And if you forget that, if you let power corrupt what you have with him…" His eyes flashed. "Belial will ensure you regret it. In this life, or the next."
Belial, who had been sulking in his throne, suddenly grinned, his fangs glinting. "Oh, that would be fun," he purred, his voice a dark promise.
Luciferiel ignored him, his focus returning to Tommy. "You’re not lost," he said softly. He pressed a hand to Tommy’s chest, right over his heart. "You’re exploring. And you’re not alone." His fingers traced a pattern in the air, and suddenly, four auras materialized—Tommy’s, bright and fractured, a storm of light and shadow; Riccardo’s, a swirling mass of crimson and gold; Marco’s, deep blues and steadfast greens; Francesca’s, warm amber shot through with threads of violet.
“The light of light is still there," Luciferiel said, his voice firm. "It represents your empathy, your heart, your intelligence, your clarity. It’s a very powerful light. Even now, despite your feelings of hopeleness, it shines bright. You’re stronger than you know Tommy. But your darkness is also very powerful. And you know… that’s not a bad thing." He smiled, and Tommy’s chest ached. "Darkness can be beautiful, if you learn to wield it. If you learn to integrate it."
Tommy swallowed hard, his eyes flicking between his own aura and Luciferiel’s serene expression. "But I—I don’t know how," he whispered again.
"You will, over time" the Angel repeated. He stood, his wings rustling like silk. "Now. When you wake, your new life as Tommy, the faggot slave, begins.”His gaze flicked to the three friends. "You’re gonna have to work together with Tommy to find a routine that works for everyone… you three are gonna push his limits, but remember—his limits matter."
Belial stretched, his form beginning to dissolve into smoke. "And don’t forget," he added, his voice a dark chuckle, "if you abuse the gift I’ve given you… well. Let’s just say you won’t like the punishments I have in mind."
The Angel nodded once, his light flaring before fading into nothingness. The dream shattered—
And Tommy jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat, his cock half-hard, his heart pounding with a question that hung in the air like the last echo of a scream:
What comes next?
