by Jane Kindred
Dedication
For my fabulous readers, without whom the copulating demons in my head would be far more worrisome.
Pervaya
It would be an abuse of the term to call Vasily a submissive. Belphagor’s “boy” was about as submissive as a cat in a bathtub. You could hold him down long enough to accomplish the needful, but you’d damned near drown yourself when the contained outrage burst without warning from every limb, and you could count yourself lucky if all he did was draw blood. And yet he insisted this relationship was what he wanted, to belong so thoroughly to Belphagor that his will was no longer his own.
Belphagor sucked on the end of his burnt thumb, shaking his head at the firespirit glaring flame at him from where he knelt on the floor. Vasily’s red matted locks had been enhanced to a molten lava shade, making it seem an extension of his radiance. Not that demonic radiance was visible in Heaven. Something about the aetheric content of the air here seemed to dampen it, at least for the lesser orders of angels and their mixed-blood Fallen cousins. It wasn’t until one fell to the world of Man that the elemental radiance of the lesser Host could be seen, most notably in the pair of wings composed of one’s dominant element.
Belphagor had seen Vasily’s wings of fire on their last visit, and just the memory of his boy bathed in ruby light and soaring ecstatically against the northern sunrise with the magnificent wings outstretched was enough to send his own airspirit blood rushing to his cock with urgent need. Not that it wasn’t already. Vasily’s defiance this morning had him so riled he could hardly see straight. And Vasily knew it. It was a matter of perspective who was dominating whom.
All he’d asked Vasily to do was drop to his knees and service him, something Vasily normally seemed quite happy to do—sometimes more often than Belphagor could even accommodate. But this morning, the boy had some kind of bug up his ass and had taken the request poorly. A chuckle rose in Belphagor’s throat at the phrase he’d conjured. He had better uses for Vasily’s ass than putting bugs up it. The little sound of mirth made Vasily’s skin flush red with fury. He hated to be laughed at.
He’d knelt at Belphagor’s command but refused to open his mouth, and when Belphagor tried to open it for him, he’d gotten scalded by unrestrained firespirit spittle for his efforts. He certainly didn’t relish subjecting the sensitive skin of his cock to that. Vasily had excellent control of the level of heat he produced in his bodily fluids and usually kept them at a tolerable level.
“What exactly is your problem this morning, malchik?” The endearment, Russian for “boy”, usually softened Vasily’s demeanor considerably. Today, it seemed to do the opposite. He let fly with a string of obscenities in the language of Men so colorful that even Belphagor had rarely uttered them. Where in Heaven did he learn these things? There seemed to be no coherent message to the barrage of profanity other than a general recommendation that Belphagor ought to perform any number of violent acts upon himself, followed by heartily consuming his own waste. At least it was in Russian. That one tenet of Belphagor’s rules Vasily had chosen to obey.
“Are you quite through?” he asked at a lull in the verbal onslaught, noting with a rush of satisfaction that Vasily’s cock was fairly bursting from his pants.
“Poshel na khui!”
Lovely and erect as Vasily’s khui was, Belphagor was sorely tempted, but Heaven knew what temperature that would be right now. Instead, he picked up a large thornfruit from the breakfast tray, stepped in and shoved it into Vasily’s mouth when it opened on another imprecation. Purple-red juice burst from the ends and dribbled from the corners of his mouth into his long muttonchops. Belphagor suspected not all that was dripping was juice. As their name suggested, the skins were full of thorns.
“I’m going to eat this breakfast now.” Belphagor sat at the vanity. “Which I purchased this morning in the market for you while you were snoring away in my bed. When you’ve finished having your tantrum and are prepared to do as I’ve bidden you—without damaging me—you may take that out of your mouth and beseech me to let you. And then we’ll see about your punishment.”
He ate the curls of bacon as he spoke, licking his fingers and pretending not to look at Vasily, though he watched him out of the corner of his eye. There was no sign of capitulation, but Vasily was clearly uncomfortable, shifting position with one hand at his crotch to try to relieve the pressure of his jeans. “Go ahead and unbutton,” Belphagor mumbled with his mouth full. “Give it some air.”
Vasily’s head shot up, his cheeks now pink with embarrassment at being caught out in his arousal in the midst of his fury. As if anyone could have failed to notice that. Belphagor chuckled to himself, starting on the buttered porridge, and was rewarded with a strangled sound behind the thornfruit that was no doubt a curse trapped on Vasily’s tongue. But despite his state—or perhaps to spite Belphagor—the firespirit dropped his hand to his side and stared straight ahead at the wall.
Belphagor finished the entire tray of food—well more than he’d have preferred, particularly with an untended hard-on, and still Vasily hadn’t given in. Those thorns had to be stinging like mad now with the acidic juice soaking into the wounds. He had to resist the urge to relent and take the fruit from his mouth. Vasily knew it was within his power to end his suffering, and sucking cock wasn’t exactly something he hated. Whatever his problem was, it undoubtedly had nothing to do with the actual request and everything to do with the delicate firespirit feelings Belphagor was forever unintentionally wounding.
But Vasily would have to tell Belphagor exactly what he’d done if he expected to get an apology. And in the meantime, the hard, bare chest heaving with anger, the orange glow of fire in the normally hazel eyes and the furious hard-on Vasily was refusing to acknowledge were driving Belphagor delightfully mad. He could wait all day if he had to. And it seemed he would.
Belphagor let out a long sigh of disappointment and rose. “I have better things to do than wait for you to behave civilly.” He drew aside the curtain in front of the makeshift wardrobe, took Vasily’s prized velvet frock coat from its hanger and put it on, knowing it would infuriate him. It hung ridiculously long on Belphagor and the shoulders were far too wide, but fashion wasn’t the point at the moment. Showing Vasily who owned him, on the other hand, was. “Stand up.” He delivered the abrupt command in the hard tone that always prompted instant obedience.
Vasily rose, glaring a good approximation of actual hatred down at him from his superior height. Though it might have been more impressive without his gob stuffed with thornfruit. Belphagor busied himself with yanking Vasily’s belt from its buckle and zipping it out of the loops, enjoying the deep intake of breath this induced. “Hands.” There was a slight hesitation before Vasily extended both fists, held together at the wrists to make Belphagor’s job easier. So obeying Belphagor wasn’t the problem. He’d knelt, he’d risen, and he’d given his hands to be trussed without resistance. It was just sucking cock he was taking issue with.
Belphagor bound his wrists and drew the end with the buckle through the top with a sharp jerk, spinning Vasily about to hang the buckle on a hook above Vasily’s head. Having to climb up on the chair to accomplish it took some of the edge off the action, but when he stepped down, he was gratified by a little tremor shunting down Vasily’s spine. He kissed the center of Vasily’s back, causing the firespirit to jump and then shiver as Belphagor’s lips lingered there. It was good to keep the boy on his toes.
“I’m not going to punish you yet,” he murmured against the warm skin. “You’ll get that when you’ve decided to behave.” Belphagor placed another kiss below the first as he reached around Vasily’s waist and be
gan unbuttoning his pants. With another kiss just above the waistband, he pushed the jeans down so the top of Vasily’s ass was exposed and his cock was free. A groan escaped Vasily as Belphagor closed his hand around the inflamed erection. Belphagor placed one last kiss just above the cleft of the firm ass.
“I could make you come,” he said, his lips lightly brushing the skin. “And leave you here, spent and angry, to think about whether you want to do as I say.” He gave Vasily’s cock a firm stroke and felt the hot blood throbbing in the flesh against his palm. Vasily’s stance widened, as if to brace himself to be tossed off. “But I think I prefer to imagine you squirming against the wall trying to relieve yourself while I’m out.” He dropped his hand and straightened, adjusting the collar of the frock coat. “If I’m to have no relief, neither will you.”
Vasily moaned, trying to speak behind his gag.
“Too late for appeals, malchik. I expect I’ll be gone awhile.” Belphagor kicked the chamber pot between Vasily’s legs. “I imagine this will come in handy at some point today. I don’t need you pissing on my floor.”
Vasily made a strangled roar and banged his head against the wall. He was in a serious state. But it would hardly take any effort on his part to pull the peg out of the wall and work his hands out of the belt, and he’d made no attempt so far. As enraged as he was about whatever Belphagor had done, he wanted this.
Without another word, Belphagor went out. The difficulty would be staying away long enough to convince Vasily he’d been forgotten. It was the state of despair he could reduce Vasily to, the feelings of abandonment he wrung from him, that ultimately led to his surrender. And the sex afterward was mind-blowingly intense. Belphagor himself had such a deep-seated fear of abandonment he couldn’t even imagine how Vasily could stand being pushed to this edge again and again. But it seemed to be worth the joy and release of being reclaimed by Belphagor for him to experience it.
At the gaming tables of the Brimstone, the den of iniquity where Belphagor and Vasily rented their room, there was always someone about for a game of wingcasting, even at this hour. Taking some poor fellow for his last facet seemed like a pleasant enough distraction from the ache in his groin. Not that there weren’t also plenty of rent boys on the street who’d be happy to help him with that more directly.
“Nice duds,” said the demon shuffling a deck of cards at the first table.
“Armen.” Belphagor grinned. “Haven’t seen you in ages.” They locked arms for a friendly but masculine greeting. Armen knew of Belphagor’s proclivities and didn’t make a fuss about it, but was always conscious of how he was seen, making sure no one mistook him for one of Belphagor’s kind.
He supposed he couldn’t blame the demon. It wasn’t quite the stigma here it was in the world of Man, but it was considered the province of young aristocratic angels and even younger demons of opportunity. Someone like Belphagor, who maintained a preference for his own sex throughout his life, was suspect and oft derided. Why make one’s life any more difficult than it had to be?
“Do you still cheat at cards?” Armen shuffled idly as Belphagor sat across from him.
“Do you still use that cheap accusation in an attempt to throw your opponent off his game?” Belphagor took the cards from him and gave them an expert shuffle of his own. “And does anyone still fall for it?”
Armen laughed. “Only amateurs.”
“You wound me,” Belphagor sniffed as he began to deal. “Lumping me in with amateurs. As if you’d ever be able to tell if I cheated.”
He left Vasily on his own until well after noon, when he couldn’t stand another minute of thinking about the way the tugged-down pants had exposed the cleft of the firespirit ass. Vasily stood where he’d left him, his head hanging and his cock echoing it. Poor boy was getting nothing out of this but misery. When he didn’t lift his head at the opening of the door, Belphagor lost his own erection.
“Malchik.”
Vasily’s shoulders rose with a deep breath, but he didn’t turn. Belphagor slipped the belt from the hook and gave the hunched shoulders a firm but gentle push to prompt him onto his knees.
“Turn,” he ordered. “Face me.”
Vasily walked himself about on his knees, looking up at Belphagor with resignation. The thornfruit had bathed his chin in sticky juice, but the thorns had drawn little pinpricks of blood around his lips. Belphagor shook his head and held his hand out for Vasily to spit the fruit into it. Vasily’s mouth stayed open, waiting for Belphagor to fill it, and his eyes were defeated.
“I don’t want your mouth. I want you to tell me what made you so angry.”
Vasily looked up at him warily, his chapped lips still parted. Belphagor poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the vanity and held it to Vasily’s mouth, and the young demon drank it with obvious relief.
Belphagor put the cup aside. “Well?”
“What difference does it make?” The gravelly voice was rougher than usual. “You win.”
“I don’t want to win, you silly boy. I want to use you because you want me to. And you clearly didn’t want me to this morning, so I’d like to know why.”
The defiance kindled once more in the hazel eyes. “Because,” he growled. “My mouth is only good for one thing as far as you’re concerned. You didn’t even kiss me good morning.”
Belphagor nearly laughed at the simplicity of it, but he restrained himself, knowing how laughter would go over. “That’s what made you so angry. That I didn’t kiss you.”
“If I’d known all you cared about was my ‘talented tongue’, I’d have stayed on the streets, where at least I got facets for it.” Ah, there it was. Belphagor had touched a nerve. Vasily’s self-worth before he’d come to Belphagor had been measured in the unique oral skills that had him in high demand among angelic and demonic patrons alike. Last night, Belphagor had inadvertently triggered Vasily’s defenses by remarking after a particularly lovely fellating that he almost felt selfish for keeping that “talented tongue” to himself. Almost.
Belphagor crouched in front of him and released the belt around Vasily’s wrists from its buckle. “You’re right.” The shocked look on Vasily’s face was almost comical, but again, not the time for laughter. Belphagor cleared his throat. “I’ve been greatly remiss in failing to show my appreciation for what else your mouth is good for. And you gave an excellent demonstration of that with the invectives you hurled at me this morning. Perhaps I should keep you permanently gagged.”
As furious heat rose in Vasily’s skin, Belphagor hooked a fist in his locks and held him still, taking his mouth in a rough kiss that stunned Vasily into silence. He savored the smoldering heat and the smoky flavor of the firespirit tongue, slick and willing despite his boy’s anger. A slight whimper reminded him of the thornfruit, and he eased off, nipping gently at the wounded lips, and then sucking the plump lower lip into his mouth just to hear Vasily whimper again.
When he let him go, he pressed his forehead to Vasily’s and held his gaze. “You have the right to take exception to perceived mistreatment—whether I perceive it as such or not, and whether I choose to give you more of it, which is my privilege—and to tell me when I’ve hurt you in ways I don’t intend. And even to refuse to comply with a request that upsets you. But you do not have the right to fail to use the word we agreed upon for such matters, allowing me to continue to wound you without my even knowing it, and then to blame me for it.”
The angry red in Vasily’s cheeks dissolved into an embarrassed pink.
“Do you remember your word?”
Vasily nodded, and when Belphagor yanked his hair, he burst out, “Seraphim!”
“Khoroshiy malchik.” Belphagor kissed him again on the whispered words. “My very good, very lovely boy.” Vasily moaned as Belphagor traced his thumb along one cheekbone above the rough patch of a coppery sideburn. “Now, which shall I punish you for first? Your failure to use the safe word, or my failure to recognize your distress?” From the periphery of his visi
on, he noted with satisfaction that the invocation of their perverse arrangement—that Vasily should take the punishments for both their failings—had provoked the customary response. The magnificent firespirit erection had resumed its former vigor. Belphagor’s had done so the moment he’d sparked Vasily’s defiance and gotten the truth out of him.
He tapped his lips with his finger, as though contemplating. “I think the punishment for not using your safe word will be to deny you the privilege of cocksucking until such time as I deem you to have earned it back.”
“Nyet, pozhaluista.” The little gasp escaped Vasily before he could stop it, and his eyes widened with dread at the realization he’d spoken out of turn, but the use of the Russian “please” and the genuine dismay at being denied Belphagor’s cock was so gratifying that Belphagor decided to let this one slide.
“And for my transgression…” Belphagor paused for a moment to think while he unlaced his pants and stroked himself to give Vasily a reminder of what he’d be missing. “You’ll watch someone else provide that service for me when I require it.”
Outrage and panic warred on Vasily’s face, but he managed to keep quiet.
Belphagor lifted Vasily’s chin with a finger hooked beneath the one relatively smooth spot he shaved. “Need I remind you that you have the right—and the responsibility—to tell me if this punishment is too much for you to bear?”
Vasily’s eyes were stony as he answered, “Nyet, ser.”
“And do you wish to do so?”
Fire kindled behind the stone. “Nyet, ser.”
“Good.” Belphagor rose and went to the door. “Because I require it now.” He opened the door, noting with pleasure that Vasily remained where he was, exposed cock and all, despite the entrance of a stranger. “This fine fellow claims to be quite good at it.” He cupped the pretty rent boy’s cheek. He was a half-angel bastard about Vasily’s age, blue-eyed and blond-haired like the Fourth Choir Host, but with a soft cocoa hue to his skin that made him quite striking.
