Chapter 4

Four

I was out of the lesser demon's range—or realm, as I imagined it was. It no longer whipped me, and the fog had moved in a way that once again I had been cut off from everything. Opaque and impenetrable, I could see nothing that would direct me to Asmodeus or my purpose, and instead I had returned to that desolate and solemn loneliness I had first encountered when entering Hell.

In this moment I sat and ruminated. The feelings I had were complex and layered. Shame still drowned me. Every time I thought of Bishop Jonah, I shivered. I couldn't be sure now about any memory I had of him. Had I always been attracted to him? Had the blasphemy and the corruption of an otherwise sexually innocent relationship been the thing to turn me on?

It was the blasphemy, wasn't it? I fiddled with my hands and closed my eyes, trying to ignore my nakedness the way Adam and Eve must have tried. In a way, this was my own Genesis. What I was learning of myself now I had never had cause to learn before .

I thought: if you are this person, who enjoys being degraded, who enjoys being filthy, perhaps you have never been a good person.

Why that mattered to me, I couldn't say, except that I was still struggling to unite my desire with what I had been taught. The reality of who I was still upset a part of me, even when the rest of me could get off on it.

I sat unmoving and unsure of myself for what felt like hours.

That was, until I heard the singing.

For all that I disliked about the institution of the church, I had been raised in it, and moulded by it, and spent altogether too much time amongst it and its community, to the point where the feelings it could elicit in me were inevitable. I didn't have to be in a gaudy chapel, or some grand cathedral with stained glass iridescent like scales, and incense clogging every corner, to feel God. I didn't have to prayer or take communion or wait for the Holy Spirit to bless me with His voice. When I was younger especially, I could feel him everywhere.

To thieve as a child and be caught, to have my whole life upended with the promise of my self-reform and eternal salvation, meant that in my youthful innocence, I trusted that God was on my side. I thought he had saved me. In those days I could feel Him in the warmth of the sun on my face, or the peace that might settle my anxiety when amongst the other members of the cloth. I found God wherever I looked, because he hadn't failed me yet.

Then the years stretched on and on and what had given me joy once now did nothing for my hollow heart. He had no interest in saving the soul of a would-be sodomite. He had no interest in releasing me from decades of torturous suffering; my cross to bear was my devotion to men, my love of the human body, my desire to partake in that pleasure. And the more I thought of what Heaven would look like—a place still so devoid of what I wanted, and instead filled with the love of a God who, by His own standards, could not love me truly—the less I wanted to go there.

You know the rest. You know how I got here. Tell me, then, why hearing that choral hymn ring out in the dry heat of Hell, that I thought:

Return to me, and I will return to you

Malachi 3:7

Return to me. Is that what was happening now? One last ditch attempt at saving my soul, a lifeline in Hell, a promise that if I crawled to Him, He would absolve me of everything I had done?

The singing was amorphous but beautiful. No single voice stood out to me. I sat like a petulant child, naked and warm in that foggy circle, waiting to see if I could understand the trick at play.

Because God would not be here. And if I was honest with myself, I did not want Him here. I had made my own path and I was walking it now.

So, as I crawled towards the sound of the choir, I said aloud: "I am not God's bitch."

Asmodeus in my ear, just a memory, whispered, "You are mine."

I crawled through that tunnel with my eyes closed and let the feeling of my righteous betrayal lead me on. Halfway between anxiety and joy, with a touch of rejection; I clenched my jaws and tried to remember what I was doing this for. That I had chosen myself and my own pleasure; that corruption and degeneration of the self suited me far better than piety and eternal, untouched goodness.

What had God ever given me?

Shame! Unrest! Unease of my soul! Guilt that felt tumorous in my chest and a rabid urge to tear myself apart just to make it all stop!

And the Devil? What had he given me?

Pleasure. An appreciation for my body. A gravity, an anchor for my soul, a reason to become myself.

Like that, with pleasure a mantra in my head, I crawled.

The song was unlike any I had heard, but it had the familiar high-pitched lilt and the serene call of a young voice echoing throughout a church. As I got closer, I could smell incense. Closer still and it choked me with its intensity, but I pushed through, until the wall of fog around me shifted in its consistency. No longer was I surrounded by fog but by much incense burning a cloud of haziness around me. I was in a church.

I blinked and in a second the space around me transformed. Rumbling from the ground, columns of stone and marble sprung up in spirals and reached high into the air, dotting the razed earth like giant spears left abandoned after some ancient war. Like a biblical miracle, I bore witness to this great sundering of the earth. Then, from some place beyond the haze, the rest of the church came together. Fragments of stained glass clanked against one another, fusing to form all manner of windows. It was an unfamiliar church, not one I had ever prayed in, and yet homely; it had all the same symbols and trappings of every other holy place I had visited, and by those ideograms, the concept of religion was once again conferred upon me.

My body reacted like I was truly standing in a church of God, naked, with the cum of some lesser demon still staining my mouth. My heart rattled in my chest and nausea flooded me. I cannot describe the intensity of that feeling: of shame and guilt and unnamed fear suddenly pooling in your chest, and no logic or reasoning can do anything to make it go away. God was in my head with His hands around my throat: Return to me!

Return to me, you whore.

God. . . or Asmodeus?

The unknowable voice echoed in the recesses of my mind, but the church itself fell steadily quieter. One by one, voices in that choir were snuffed out, until I could hear only the creaking of chandeliers swaying in the breeze. Where Hell itself was tinted a harsh red, a cold, blue night had fallen over this church. Everything had been cast in an oily blue-black shadow that dripped from every corner.

Shoeless, I crept over the marble. The sounds of my feet—a rounded plap of a footstep—distorted as it echoed, growing sharper on the marble corners of the structure. I felt so small, though not in that delicious way Asmodeus had made me feel. Discomfort ate at me.

Pews upon pews lined the aisle, and I walked down this central vestibule until I met the altar at the end. Old habit came into me and I genuflected, dropping down to give the space respect—which was laughable, given my nudity and everything else about me.

When I stood, I knew my cheeks were flushing from my internal chastising tone. But this upset vanished when I looked up and saw that in those few seconds my gaze was averted, the sanctuary and the altar had changed.

A giant wooden crucifix lay across the altar, large enough for a man to be strapped to. Jesus came to me then, naturally, and I wondered if He would be disappointed in me. In how I turned out.

But He was always the one to save degenerates , some tinny voice cried out inside me.

The issue I faced, of course, was that I still didn't want to be saved.

Still don't want to be saved, still don't want to be saved .

With the same echo of church bells, my own declaration rebounded aloud, as if I had spoken, in this facsimile church.

Something about being here naked at least made me consider what it meant to bear oneself wholly to God. Here was my soul, decked out with the iconography and paraphernalia of my faith, but rotten at its core.

I stepped towards the crucifix. It looked altogether normal, free of nails and blood stains, brand new for its crucifixion. The wood felt rough beneath my skin. I pressed the pads of my fingers into the grooves, waiting for splinters to split them open, or to become jammed beneath my fingernails. Neither thing happened, and when I pulled my hand away, the whole place shuddered.

A cold wind blew through the sanctuary and snuffed out the candles. I spun, expecting company, but no one and nothing appeared before me. Then, in defiance to the wind, the candles reignited—and the light expanded to encompass the whole ruin of the cathedral.

A deep and musical laughter rumbled around me, echoing off the marble and pillars until the sound felt spherical, its origin obscured. I cast about desperate, shivering nude and exhausted.

"Little lamb. . ." a voice cooed to me, and it wafted with the same cloying weight of incense, at once calming and suffocating. My chest relaxed. Minute muscle spasms were put to rest.

"Here you are. . ." called another voice, higher and mellowed, a voice that straddled neutrality.

I waited for the figures to resolve out of the shadows, but nothing changed. There was only me in that windy church. The human part of me was understandably frightened. I hugged at myself, aware of my nakedness the way Adam and Eve had become aware of it; gone was all that joyous pleasure that had come with my nudity, and I was left with guilt and shame once more.

"You seek something," the first voice said.

The second, in answer, "Well, you must seek something, to have risked it all to come here."

I asked, "Who are you?" and my voice shivered, stretched out by the expanse of marble and stained glass, until I could barely recognise my voice in the returning echo.

"Human," one whispered.

"Yes. . . little lamb, that's it. I can smell life in you. Have you opened the door to Hell? Have you let us out?"

The facsimile church bells rang in a clamour, echoing out around the scene. The shadows shifted but still I could see nothing wholly.

I told them, "I opened a door. . .the Cave of the Sibyl."

Some chatter happened then; in a language I couldn't comprehend. I felt it move through me in vibrations. My bones shook with the depth of the sound. But the beings did not share their thoughts with me, and by the time they were done, they had come to some conclusion that moved the conversation on entirely.

Behind me, a shadow shifted, and warm breath tickled up my neck. I flinched and cast about, and once more saw nothing. The disembodied voice said, "I smell something on you. . . someone."

"Asmodeus," I said quickly. My voice sounded like a bark, all defensive. Fear sparked in my gut. "Will you take me to it?"

"Is that what you are after?"

"It must be. The human smells of sex and lust; the prince has corrupted it."

Raucous, hearty laughter.

"I was told to come here. To find it."

"This is part of finding it!"

A growl accompanied these words, and I spooked. I stepped back until I hit the altar, my hand seeking stability in the wood of the crucifix. Then my arms were wrenched backwards.

I fell with a strangled yelp. In a flurry of movement, and in no more than a handful of seconds, I was dragged up the crucifix by a force I couldn't see. Splinters pricked at my skin and glided easily beneath it, splitting the skin—but I barely felt the pain. The sudden horizontality had me nauseous and distracted. The church became suddenly warmer as braziers shuddered into existence, their heat spreading in comforting waves to every frigid corner, and my body instinctively relaxed even as the crucifix shifted. Grunts sounded around me as the figures moved it, and then?—

I screamed.

Nails punctured into my palms to keep me secured to the cross. Instinctively, I threw myself back against the wood, as if fusing myself to the crucifix could somehow relieve me of the pain. As if somehow in this mirroring of Christ's death I might transcend the bloody torture.

But I tell you: it hurt. It hurt in the way that bludgeoned back all pleasure—it hurt primarily, firstly, overbearingly. Even as another part of me can look back at this moment and see the sensuality in it, that version of me was only suffering.

I whimpered loud and writhed, but every movement tugged at the nails tearing through my flesh, and I had to fall limp just to keep new sparking hurt from jolting up my wrists. The demonic presence seemed to enjoy the noises I made, though: appreciative sounds echoed around the church like a hymn. I could smell incense on the unnatural breeze. God, I had been a fool—and yet through it all, my cock twitched with interest.

Shifting, grunting; again, some unseen force lifted the cross, and the burden of gravity slowly encumbered me, until all my weight was pressing at those two nails. If I listened closely, I could hear the tear of tendon in my palm. I kept myself limp, which meant that breathing become difficult and shallow.

"As holy as your lord," one murmured to me when the crucifix had been righted.

I took a shuddering breath, desperate for more oxygen.

"I do not worship him—not anymore!" I shouted, voice cracking with the force. I wanted to be absolved of God's love. I should have been tainted in a way to make these creatures my kind; I had abandoned so much of goodness already. And yet, to have ever worshipped God seemed too large a sin in the eyes of demonkind. I could not shake it.

"We cannot have you lurching your holy body through Asmodeus' realm like this. Still reeking of life and goodness. The church has made its mark upon you; your soul is better than it should be."

"It will not do," the other, higher voice agreed.

"Goodness and piety and shame and guilt—an interconnected sin you will spread like disease should you carry about through its realm."

I didn't understand and, past the pulsing pain in my body, they must have sensed my confusion. Clarifying, the voices said in unison, "You are in Abaddon, little lamb."

Abaddon. An angel of the abyss, or a doom-ridden plane. Revelations says of it:

"They have as king over them the angel of the bottomless pit. His name in Hebrew is Abaddon, and in Greek he is called Apollyon."

But some believed Abaddon was not an angel, but a place.

"Asmodeus rules Abaddon? He is Prince of this realm?"

I couldn't comprehend demonic politics. I was not here to comprehend demonic politics. I was there for debauchery and wickedness and nothing that required much use of my brain. But I required help in finding my master, my prince.

"You misunderstand the point of this place, to think them princes in their own right, and not prisoners," one of the voices tells me.

"But the human has opened a gate."

"I have heard no trumpets. No call to rally. Have you?"

They let the silence stretch so long that I wondered if they expected me to answer. Before I had a chance, they told me, "Asmodeus is not only the Prince of Lust, little lamb. It is also a force of revenge. In Hell, there be nine degrees of demonic legions as contrary to nine orders of angels. And that legion belonging to Asmodeus are named the Revengers of Wickedness."

A term I had never heard of before.

"Is that who you are?" I asked, and they hissed in happy agreement.

"What do you want with me, then?" I whispered. "My revenge on the church and God and everyone in my life is to become Asmodeus' completely."

Again, in unison: "Then let us help you realise that reality, little lamb."

They resolved, then, finally. Two shadows sundered from the umbral dark that hid in the corners of the church and shivered into two distinct forms. The first was so tall its body curved over itself in an insectile posture. It had four arms with gnarled, curled fingers flexing around nothing. Two leathery wings sprang from its back, skin so thin dim light glowed through the translucent flesh. They drooped useless, grazing the back of its hind legs, which had two pivot points like a goat's, but were meaty and thick with hair. Small nubs of horns jutted from its otherwise bald head. The skin stretched taut here, too, seeming as thin as the glassy, vein-infested wings. Both its skin and the furry legs were a wash of dark blue grey, a faded colour with all the vibrancy sapped out of it, which made its yellow eyes hang sullenly in shallow eye sockets. Its mouth was oddly wide and grotesque, and it grinned at me in greeting, splitting half its face apart to bare its jagged yellowed teeth. It had two tongues. Both lolled over its teeth as the creature panted heavily at me.

Its compatriot stood stouter, its form misshapen and gargoyle-like. The face was bulbous, almost a ram's, but with undeniable human features that flung the whole thing into upsetting uncanny territory. It had both horns and tail that reminded me of its master—our master—Asmodeus, though it lacked the Prince's grandeur. The eyes on this creature were feline-like, the pupils pressed thin, and they glowed with the iridescence of a cat at night stalking prey. Beneath its gaze, I shivered, and another part of my body stirred. It assessed me as I assessed it: I took in its muscled form, which made its arms wide and its trunk thick, though its lower ribs pressed through the flesh when it inhaled. Its tail was thick and smooth, without the trident tip Asmodeus' possessed, and the first wicked thought I had was about that thing pulsing inside me. How it might feel wriggling and warm as it worked its way inside.

I flushed, and both demons cackled. The whole church echoed that laughter back, and a confusing deluge of emotion flooded me. Shame and embarrassment, and then the monstrous delight of seeing these demons as they were, their desire plain and devoted.

"Tell me again," I said, for my own benefit. "Tell me what you have to do. Tell me what you mean to accomplish by touching me now."

"We will make you a vessel for his pleasure," the first demon said.

"A wanting, greedy whore."

"God and church and sacrilege and fear still steal your attention. "

"Which won't do for our debauched prince," the second assured me.

"If you are to be his toy?—"

"—then you must be his completely."

The first, the taller of the two, moved forward. It outstretched an arm—I realised then it had four that I could see—and pressed the sharp nail of its thumb beneath by chin, edging me up to look at its eyes. "But you will have to move through the ranks before you can reach the Prince again."

I shivered and waited for more. Here is what they revealed to me:

That Hell had a complex hierarchy. That they were demons so low they had been given no names. That the lowest named tier were the Presidents of Hell, above which came the Knights, then the Earls, the Marquises, the Princes, the Dukes, and the Kings; and that Asmodeus, though named a Prince of Lust , was a King of Hell in his own right. One of nine. They told me that I had not seen Asmodeus in its true form, for I was not yet worthy of it, and that how it had appeared to me on earth was only a shadow of its usual glory and power.

They said that I would need to prove myself to Asmodeus; that it could see all of me and what I experienced as I wandered through its realm. I did not know if they were lying and could not ascertain whether demon loyalty to their Kings was as righteous as I hoped. But in the end, even if they were lying, I reasoned that this had been what I wanted.

Sex.

And even if part of my heart longed for Asmodeus, a baser and more feral part of my soul desired anything that would have me.

Snakes hissed and writhed around the pillars, and the braziers burned hotter. Incense clogged the air, reminding me of holy sermon; if I closed my eyes, part of me felt as I had once in amongst my brethren, deep in prayer, waiting for God to touch me. But it wouldn't be God who touched me now.

Two sets of hands pressed upon my skin with an eagerness that had me shivering.

"Open your legs," one commanded, and I did it without thinking. I spread them as best I could whilst hanging from my bloodied palms, feet scrabbling for a foothold in the air and against the splinter-filled crucifix.

Both demons pressed forward and each took a leg, which they pushed high, high into the air, folding me so that my feet were pressed up near my hands, my legs spread wide and my cock and hole exposed. I flushed—and then realised they meant to suspend me there.

"W-wait!"

They did not wait, and two sharp bolts of pain shuddered through me again as they nailed my feet to the wood.

My entire body convulsed. The feeling was confusing. Layers of dread and pain washed over me, and the sparks of sadistic pleasure throbbed beneath them. It hurt. The animal part of brain wanted it to stop. But me, Alessandro, who had done so much already to come here? To have these creatures laughing, slapping at my pale thighs, teasing the underside of my twitching cock with their long-nailed fingers?

That me. . .almost liked it.

Sticky blood dripped from my hands and feet and ran down my arms. My breathing became erratic; I looked down at the hungry eyes of the demons, fear and desire both competing for a place in my stomach.

"Hush, little lamb," the taller one said.

The other moved forward silently. "Let us remove the dredges of your faith from you."

I felt God in me, then, the way He had never been. This lingering remnant of the Holy Spirit, now a corruptive force rather than a shield or a protector. Years of teachings and shame of my true nature still clung to me—one good fuck by the Prince of Lust, one measly murder, one giving up of one's old life—none of it was quite enough to dislodge something as insidious as shame.

But at the end of this, whatever this was, the pair of these demons promised I would have no regrets.

There was nothing else to be done.

I do not think they needed my consent, and yet they seemed to wait for it. They wanted me to commit to this with honesty and glee. In the end, it was an easy thing to offer.

"Yes," I said, and the three of us shivered as the air in the church shifted. "Yes, make me a creature of lust."

The taller one leaned forward and kissed my neck. Both its tongues slid over my body, and its four hands roamed, teasing at my nipples, pulling at my hair. The other creature reached up and pressed it hands against the cheeks of my ass.

It spread them open.

Spread me open for devouring.

I flinched away, jolting back, but of course there was nowhere to go. It cooed to me, told me to calm; that it would ruin me in due time, but that there were other sensualities I had yet to experience.

It pressed forward into the cleft of my ass with its tongue outstretched. I felt its warm exhale drift over my skin. And then it licked.

I whimpered.

This was—worse. Worse than anything I had experienced. Panic flared in me, and I jolted away from the demons warm tongue, but it pressed hard. My back gave out as I tried to jump away, still folded upwards and impossibly exposed. An ache spasmed through my neck—I couldn't get away.

"Please", I said. "Please stop."

It only laughed. "This is for you. This is your pleasure."

Which it was. And it did feel good. But in me there was a resistance, a disgust, a rejection. I realised I had never fantasised about this kind of lust. In my mind, I had always been had; fucked mercilessly, used for someone else's pleasure. I found it was so much easier to have it taken than to receive it. So much easier to be used and used without mercy. I could conceive of a world where I was nothing but meat to be fucked, a set of holes for cocks to slide in and out of. I could be used until my body gave out and that would make sense to me. I could find pleasure in that degradation.

But for something to try and give me pleasure? I had never felt so guilty. I had never felt so—wrong.

My cheeks burned with infernal flame. Both demons moved slowly, the first with its roaming hands, fingers gently circling my nipples, plucking at them, and then slowly sucking, each tongue long enough to reach both simultaneously. The pleasure pulsed down through my body as if everything was interconnected: touching the nipples felt the same as touching my cock. This, combined with the consistent roll of the other's tongue over and into my hole, made me hard in seconds, straining high and leaking precum with such intensity it appeared like I had never touched myself before now. I squeezed my eyes shut like that would be enough to block out the indecency, but two hands pressed against my face and a voice whispered—commanded—"Open."

It sounded like Asmodeus.

I opened my eyes immediately. Reflected in the iris of the taller demon, I saw it; it loomed distended, speaking through the eyeball, in the same form Asmodeus had taken when it had first come to me. I saw it sitting on a throne surrounded by flames, the heat dancing in the eyes of the lesser pawn that debauched me now. I knew an order when I heard it.

I kept my eyes open.

The taller of the demons saw my determination as my expression settled, and it laughed at me, opened mouth and gleeful. "Do not think so highly of yourself," it warned me just as the other one pulled its mouth from me; I felt it leave a slick trail of saliva behind, my hole shamefully wet. Hands pulled my ass apart, long-nailed thumbs digging in with desire. One hand moved and a spit-slick thumb pushed inside. I bucked forward with a groan, and the taller demon's clawed hand latched onto my cheeks.

"Ah—" Pain seared through the meat of my cheeks and my mind went gloriously blank. If I closed my eyes, I was once again being had by Asmodeus.

The demon spat on me. I closed my eyes just as warm saliva spattered over my face.

"You are nothing more than a wet hole and a warm mouth. For us, for a hundred other demons to use—you are our broodmare. A cocksleeve. You are not special to a king of Hell, the Prince of Lust."

I groaned. Halfway between shame and arousal, those words made my cock jump. I locked eyes with the taller, trying to maintain some semblance of composure as its spittle dribbled down my stinging cheeks, and its brethren fucked in and out of me with its thumb. I squirmed and grunted, and wanted to close my eyes—God, how I wanted to look away, to enjoy this without shame

"Say it," the demon growled.

"I am your cocksleeve."

A tail whipped over the underside of my thighs, once, twice, three times. I writhed. Pain—pain sharp and bright and stinging—made me yelp and scream. A confused mix of pleasure and pain collided in my brain as the other's demons thumb kept working in and out of me. It had me squirming. More—that was what I wanted. They called me their cocksleeve but teased me so torturously with only a thumb and the sharp whip of a tail. I wanted them to prove it. I wanted them to split me over their cocks, the pair of them; I wanted to be broken and pathetic and whimpering for more. If they were going to fuck shame out of me, then I needed to forget God. I needed sex to be my religion, an altar I could worship at, or be fucked over, communion the gift of their cocks on my tongue.

I said: "You better ruin me. The both of you—soon. I want?—"

A sharp slap to the face. My head lurched to the side and a thin line of drool dripped from my mouth as I bit down hard on my tongue. Neither of them let up, one still finger-fucking me and the other whipping at my red raw flesh. I quivered, whole body tense.

"What you want," one said, their words punctured by the whiplash sounds and my answering whimpers, "does not fucking matter."

I don't recall how long they kept me like that. My body shined with a layer of sweat so thick my back slid against the crucifix as I bucked and rolled my hips. Fingers began to scissor my hole open, and then the way Asmodeus had done, the taller one's tail pushed inside me. At the same time, its dual tongues lapped over my swollen cock.

"A… fuck. . ."

It came out like a sob. I had never experienced pleasure even close to this. On the back of a stinging pain, with demons grinning at my stifled pleas, I felt myself straining against the nails in my feet, urging myself to spread my legs even wider.

With the fingers and the tail moving differently, there was not a single second of reprieve from the rigorous fucking. Both pulled back to look at me, and ordered I look back: "Look at us, filthy priest!" they commanded, and my head lolled down, bouncing between my shoulders as they moved without mercy. My body was hot, and the consistency—scraping against my prostate, fucking ceaselessly—had me coming quickly, pumping into the air.

Bliss .

My head rolled back as I rode out this protracted orgasm, my hole clenching and unclenching around the things pulsing inside my body, until I clenched around nothing. Dizzy from orgasm, I hadn't noticed them both pulling out, until I looked up in time to watch the larger of the two feeding its fat cock into me.

They hadn't opened me up enough.

The pain felt like this: sharp, severe, localised, a little alarm ringing in the cleft of my ass. I strained and jumped away, edging my hips higher into the air, but the four-armed demon hauled me down and kept me in place as the other repositioned itself.

My breathing was erratic and shallow. Fear had laced my desire; I wanted it, and I didn't want it. In a flurry I said, "Wait—! Wait !"

Panic overrode pleasure. My spent cock flopped useless and dripping in the air as I fidgeted, but the demons whispered to me.

"Stay still, little lamb," one cooed.

"You wanted this. You begged for it."

"Please," I whispered, meeting the eyes of the one holding me in place.

"See?" The pair of them laughed, and I flushed so hot from their rancour. "There you go again, begging like a bitch in heat."

And those four rough hands became six as the other demon held onto my thighs and pulled me onto its cock.

I didn't open easily. My hole shuddered apart, and I screamed, eyes disappearing in my skull so hard that my vision whited out. I felt nothing but the girth and the warmth, my hole spasming as it adjusted to the sudden size, but the demon didn't wait for me to relax. It started grunting short and fast, ramming deep into my guts, its grip tight around my thighs .

At first it felt sharp, but soon my pleasure doused that pain, and I ground my hips down to meet each thrust.

The other one lifted its four hands from my body and used them instead to tease my nipples and cock at once. Overstimulation hit me almost immediately. I forgot what I had been concerned about. I forgot to be embarrassed. I let myself get fucked, let the demon's cock slide in and out of my dripping hole, and I rode the pleasure that pulsed in waves up my spine. The demon's cock wept precome into me and with every thrust my hole became looser and wetter. When it tired, the fucking turned slow, but each thrust stayed brutal, balls slapping against my taint and cock scraping deep.

I must have been whining and crying out, for the other one turned my chin towards it and kissed me. Both tongues met mine, and my body dipped into a new state. I felt drunk, my head woozy. I suddenly couldn't see straight, with everything fogging in my periphery, a vignette of pleasure focusing me on the two demons touching every inch of my body.

"Such a cock slut," a voice said, and it echoed back with a choral harmony, near angelic in how it made me feel. Yes, I was a cock slut. Yes, I was desperate, and pathetic, and perhaps I had been born to be used for the pleasure of demons. That was my entire purpose.

"Aren't you?" three light slaps against my face, calling my wandering attention back to them. "Say it, slut."

"I am such a cock slut," I breathed out. "Yes—I. . .I am meant for this. I am meant to be used."

They clicked their tongues at me.

"Pathetic."

"Good boy. You want another cock in you, don't you?"

Part of me winced—no, I can't, I cannot, I will break— and this part of me, in its blasphemous manner, almost called out to God for His mercy. But there was no mercy in Hell, no mercy from these creatures, and even if begged for it, I knew I would be betraying the seed of purpose I had unfurling in my stomach. Because it was not a ‘want'. It was a craving. A necessity. Lust burning as hot as hellfire—I begged, and my voice sounded foreign, belonging to some other, braver man as I called out, "Fill me. Break me on your cocks."

The whole scene around us sighed. There was a great unfurling, as if there had been a shared tension in all of our bodies, and my plea had popped it open. A rush of warm air swirled through the church in a barrage, and there was a clamour of bells that rang in echoes with great intensity. All thought collapsed beneath the sound. And when the demons leaned forward, their eyes predatory with lust as they kissed me, my mind left my body.

Perhaps it was my soul detaching itself from the flesh. It floated up with my consciousness—the priest monk who had spent decades marinating in his shame—and I let it go. Left behind was the animalistic urge, the pull to pleasure, and an eagerness I could not ignore.

Yes, this was right. I had been cowardly for too long, unable to commit in spirit to what my body had already done. But now, with the shackles loosened, I could slip free. God could not see me here.

Only Asmodeus could.

I flexed my hands and feet against the nails plunged through them. The blood had already crusted around my palms, but the soles of my feet remained sticky and slick. At this angle, my spine twinged in discomfort, and I knew even the most minute of thrusts could be enough to dislodge something significant or could cause great pain. Which frightened me as it would any man—and yet also. . .

I felt both their cocks pressing against my hole, their heads kissing the twitching open thing. United, they pushed forward, and pressed me open.

In some kindness, they moved slowed enough that I did not lose consciousness. I clung to the blurry vision of their gleeful, delirious faces to ground myself, even as my flesh twitched and stung and rebelled against the press of those too-large lengths. My body fought it, but also loved it—my already spent cock jumped back to life between my legs, slick with precum. I shivered when their hands roamed over my chest, trying to calm the animal response my body had towards the panic and the pain. But as they kissed and slid further in, and as I opened, as my body relaxed around the thick mass of them, my mind—broke.

Not enough to forget who I was. Not enough to forget wholly where I had come from. But enough that, as they impaled me, my head tingled so intensely that I lost all meaning except for this act. And by the time they were all the way inside, cocks twitching and pushing up into my guts, and I was rendered nothing more than a vessel for their pleasure, my mind and body had accepted its fate.

I felt with an almost intrinsic glee that I had been born for this.

I had been made completely immobile. The position they had me in meant I was pathetically exposed. Easy to stretch. Like that, I knew how I must have looked. Pink cheeks, flushed to red. Sweat pooling and dripping down my chest, my hair a ragged mess. With my limbs forced above me, I hung weakly and open. I could offer no resistance; I was a hole to be used without end; I could die here and not impede their pleasure. Fear jolted through me and turned to a corrupted kind of pleasure—I was nothing but a piece of fuck meat, and whether I wanted this or not, they would take me.

They fucked into me. I knew I was warm and wet and tight, opening more and more with every out of sync thrust. They each fucked forward independently, so at every second an entire length of cock was inside me, and every second I had no break, I could barely contain myself .

Both took advantage of the angle, so they could move in me at the same time, and they thrust up hard ?—

"Go—"

Old habit overcame me. I flung my head back, biting off the last of the sacrilege. I would not call to God. Not anymore.

"Hn—"

Pain buckled and gave way to a pleasure so profound, every thrust felt like they were touching the back of my brain. I felt so wholly had , so gloriously used, and my body melted into a sexual oblivion.

No more fighting. No more resisting.

I ground my hips back and they laughed up into me.

"That's it."

"Entertain us, little lamb. Show us what you have abandoned your God for."

I could barely do anything but thrust weakly, but I did what I could, groaning and begging. My pleads were little more than incoherent whimpers, the occasional complete please slipping through the flurry of incomprehensible moans.

One of the four-armed demon's hands made its way to my mouth. Silently, it urged me to suck on its clawed fingers, but it kept pressing deeper and deeper until I was gagging on its slick digits. Its thumb grabbed the underside of my jaw and held on as it pumped into my ass. I bit down and it made no reaction except to move its hips faster, harder—until I was gurgling a scream into its hand, my eyes lost in the heavens.

"Fuck—fu.."

The church smelled of sex. Like an unholy incense, it spread cloyingly to every corner; the smell of precum, of sweat, of the demonic sulphur and whatever naturally left my body. Condensation fogged the stained-glass windows and the light dimmed. I could see nothing but their panting faces. I was nothing beyond this moment, which stretched out the way my hole stretched, destroyed so completely I could never be anything more than this.

I start to lose consciousness before they were even done milking me. Slipping in and out of this blissed out state, I know they used me for hours, until all resistance was gone and I was broken.

I came suddenly, and more than once, spilling into the air, and later jerking, releasing nothing from the tip. But they had none of a human's limitations.

When they came, the first time, I thought I would burst. I felt the warm splatter inside me, and groaned from that unique pleasure. Only the fluid didn't stop.

I waited, and moaned in waiting, and when still they showed no sign of stopping, I panicked. I flung my head forward, because their come had splattered deeper into me now, and for the first time in my life I could feel something traveling to my stomach from the opposite end.

I squirmed. Panic made me jolt and writhe, and they both laughed and kept me still, even as my stomach began to grow distended, bloating with their cum. Hanging as I was, I could see the definitive rise of swollen belly

"Fucking cow," one said. It cupped my chest, ran a hand over my aching belly, and returned to thumb my nipple, twisting as it spoke. I jolted and moaned. This demon, the shorter of the two, slipped its cock from me slowly. I watched its wet cock flop down between its legs. "You look so good like that, little lamb. So pretty."

The discomfort didn't let up. I rolled my hips over the remaining cock in me. This demon locked me in place with its four hands and grinned, sliding its softening cock in and out a miniscule amount. That motion was enough to slosh the cum in my belly, and I whimpered.

"Pl—please," I whispered, but I didn't even know what I wanted .

"You want release?" the demon above me cooed.

The other moved close to lick at my ear. It sucked on my lobe and opened its breathy mouth to whisper, "How long can you keep our loads inside you?"

I flushed. I didn't know. It was uncomfortable. My skin strained, and stomach ached. But the thought of being forced to hold the semen of demons, to carry loads so large they had deformed my stomach, made my cock twitch once again back to life.

The smaller demon moved to work both its hands up and down my shaft painfully slowly. I gasped and thrust, hole still plugged tight by the other demon's cock. I can't recall how many times I came that day, but it was enough that every stroke of the demon's hands felt at once pleasurable and aching. My poor spent cock came quickly, with only a trickle of translucent cum to show for it, and I was riding that final blissful wave, the taller demon slid itself from my hole with a wet plop.

It wasn't immediate. For seconds my hole twitched and clenched over nothing but air. But then I felt the warm cum leaking out of me. The demons watched, and the church had fallen so silent we could all hear the plap of cum dripping onto stone.

Fuck.

"Push it out," one commanded.

The other gave an answering laugh. "Yes," it said. "We want to see you struggle."

Flushing, but too far gone to feel embarrassed, I listened to the order. My hole twitched. The air felt cold around the entrance, made warm only by the exhales of the demon closest to it and the dribble of cum leaking out. I strained to push out their loads, grunting and aided only by gravity. They watched hungrily, and I had no hope of covering myself. They could see it all with my body exposed like that. I pushed, and cum expelled from my gaping hole. I took breaks, pushing over minutes, and in time my stomach slowly deflated. Sweat dripped into my eyes from the effort. Fuck, it felt like work, and like pleasure, and like something that would have destroyed my younger self; every second that I was displayed like that on the crucifix was further proof of just how precisely ruined I had been. But this version of Alessandro felt a blissful and certain calm, head foggy and mind suspended in a state where I was nothing more than this. And if that was the case, if the creatures here expected nothing more of me than to take their cocks and their cum, then it was Heaven, not Hell, I had wandered into.

Before I was done pushing them out completely, the taller of the two stepped forward with clawed fingers outstretched. It hummed appreciatively at what it saw and played with the cum leaking from me. It pushed it back in, wiggling its fingers over my prostate—to which I yelped—and it stared in fascination at the mix of cum and whatever other bodily fluid of mine had mixed with theirs, scissoring its fingers apart inside me. Then it reached over me and smeared its cum-covered fingers over my glistening chest before it dug back inside me for more. This time, it decided to feed me.

"Taste us," it murmured. "All three of us. Taste your ass and our cum. Taste pleasure."

And I opened my mouth with thanks for the meal I was about to receive. I sucked dutifully on those fingers, tasting the salt of sweat, the tang of their cum, the earthy undertone that must have been my own insides.

"Good boy," it whispered, licking my cheek. "Such a good boy."

I moaned, happy and sated.

They both stepped back from me, and the ruins of the church dissolved back to their desert-shaped nothingness. In this wilderness, I remained suspended on the crucifix. With its tail, the tailer demon leveraged the nails from my extremities, and without ceremony I fell into the waiting mess of cum, saliva, and sand at the base of the cross. Crumpled like that, I lay exhausted and spent, with consciousness fading.

"Well done, my little priest." It was Asmodeus' voice, echoing to me through the voices of the two demons before me. I strained to look, but exhaustion made my lids so heavy I found it difficult to do anything. The scent of cum and sex pervaded my nose. Cum began to dry on my cheek. I thought about sleeping here.

"My pathetic Alessandro, you are not done yet. You have far to go before you prove yourself worthy of being my toy, my pet, my lover in truth. Do you understand, little priest? You will give your hole to any demon you encounter. You will whore yourself out, let yourself be defiled. My realm is lovely, lustful, and deep, and you made an oath to me, a promise you will uphold. So come to me, little whore. Come to me."

The command echoed out around me, prayerful and comforting, and all I could think of, all I could say, was: "Yes."

My journey into Hell began like that. The unnamed demons who made a valiant attempt to rid me of my shame had told me of Abaddon's hierarchy. There were generals and dukes and princes of this plane; demons with bodies I could not conceive of, lying between me and my Asmodeus, Prince of Lust, King of Abaddon. I had not even seen its true form yet, if these two were to be believed. I had so much more pleasure to learn of.

The prospect of so many bodies, so many configurations, so much untapped pleasure stretching out before me—I felt near mad with the possibility .

But there it was. The thing I had been searching for me entire life.

Purpose.

A purpose I could achieve. A purpose that would fulfil me, would satiate me. One I could dedicate myself to with true and happy glee—yes.

With consciousness fading as I lay in the viscous remains of my sex, I remember thinking, "I will come to you, my lord, if it is the last thing I do."

And like that, Alessandro who had once been ‘Don', who had once been priest, who had once been God's, now belonged to Hell.