Author: boyd (boyd@crl.com)
             Series: brimstone
             Pairing: stone/satan, implied satan/god
             Rating: nc-17
             Category: pwp
             Archive: sure
             Summary: a short pwp for the slashkink 'as i sucked his cock' challenge
             disclaimer: *hell* no, i don't own'em!
             Thanks: many thanks to panther, for her brilliant insights and to ash
             for her encouragement.

                               perfect submission

                                  by kai


                As I sucked his cock, I dimly wondered how I'd come to be here.
             Kneeling between his spread thighs. In this dingy, musty bedroom. Arms
             behind my back, properly crossed at the wrists and eyes carefully
             lowered. Uncomfortably compressed into this bag of decaying, mortal

             I'd forgotten the tastes, the textures, the glorious sounds and scents
             of mortal passion. Forgotten the dark heat of arousal that roiled in
             my belly and slithered down my spine, tightening my balls, lengthening
             my cock. Was unprepared for the wild sensations that swept through
             this borrowed body: heart pounding, blood singing painfully in my

             "Suck me," he had commanded.

             Commanded *me*!

             And I'd complied, powerless to resist, dropping to my knees in perfect

             How had he known?


             "You should get out. Have some fun," he admonished, sandy hair bright
             in the slanting sunlight.

             I laughed, annoyed and yet mildly intrigued. Curious to know what my
             pet detective, my pitiful blue-eyed slave might consider 'fun'. As if
             his innocent notions and my dark ones would ever coincide. Given a
             thousand years, Ezekiel Stone would still never be of hell, merely one
             of its less suitable tenants.

             Later that evening, curious despite myself, I returned to continue the
             conversation. "Fun, Ezekiel? I don't have *time* for fun. Besides, I
             doubt you'd like my definition."

             Eyes twinkling, he smiled. Shyly? Slyly? I couldn't tell. "You never
             know." His voice was low and smooth, like well-aged wine.

             I'd seen that speculative gleam in his eye before. Caught his lazy,
             sidewise glances. Had seen compassion, unfeigned curiosity and
             interest in his gaze. Had never seen the expected loathing. And now,
             once again, I felt that strange internal heat. A warmth I'd grown
             accustomed to feeling in his presence. An echo of a greater, brighter
             flame, radiant and fierce, that I'd felt so long ago. Love. It's
             memory faded and tattered. My final vision of heaven before I'd been
             discarded, cast away for an eternity. Love. A flaming incandescence
             that imperiled my carefully cultivated icy detachment and holy rage.

             He approached me, eyes serious, shadowed in the darkening bedroom. "Do
             you trust me?"

             Trust? Ezekiel Stone was quite likely the only trustworthy soul in
             hell. "What?" I asked, confused.

             Slowly, he circled me, evaluating, his intense gaze nearly palpable on
             my skin. Unbidden, each nerve ending awakened, every sense thrummed
             with his nearness. Goose-flesh prickled my limbs, followed by an
             intense wash of heat along the length of my arm as he brushed
             past. Confusing sensory messages clamored for attention, a typhoon of
             sensations. I reeled inwardly, trying desperately to find the storm's
             calm eye.

             "Ezekiel," I said sharply, forcing myself not to rub damp palms
             against tense thighs. "I don't have time for games."

             He faced me, feet slightly apart, braced. So close I could feel his
             body heat, smell his clean human flesh, tinged with the slight acrid
             tang of hellfire.

             "I asked, do you trust me?" he said again, placing a strong,
             callused hand against my chest. His voice was firm and compelling.

             I thought to laugh, to wave his question away. But something in his
             gaze, his touch, stopped me. Stopped the breath in unfamiliar lungs
             and set my heart pounding. Compelled me to answer honestly.

             "Yes," my own voice was hoarse, cracked. "I trust you."

             His gaze was level, direct. Serious. "One hour, then. That's all I

             One hour? What was this game he played with me? Didn't he realize that
             I'd played them all? Invented most of them? And didn't he know that
             'you can't beat the Devil'? I'd certainly told him frequently enough.

             "Ezekiel. Exactly what do you think you're --" He stopped my words
             with a touch, finger tips lightly brushing my lips. I shivered.

             "Yes or no?" he asked simply, gently caressing my cheek with his thumb.

             I stared at him, lips tingling, knees weak. Damn these traitorous
             human bodies! I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth wash through
             me. Felt the internal thaw that heralded my bitter defeat. When had it
             become desirable that I please him? He was *mine* damn him! Belonged
             to *me*, now! Body and soul. How had this hideous, vile, bittersweet
             moment come to pass?

             When I reopened my eyes, I was struck by the gentleness of his
             gaze. The tenderness, compassion that melted my rage and called forth
             ancient memories of love and security. Emotions I'd learned to
             distrust, which were so easy to counterfeit in hell. Yet, in Ezekiel,
             they vibrated with sincerity, ran clear and cool. Pure. Untainted by

             Mouth dry, tongue thick, I rasped, "Yes."

             His strong hand slid along my cheek and into my hair, his smile
             soft. "Then trust me to give you what you need."

             Breathlessly, I nodded, glancing at the clock. 11:18 PM.

             His fingers tightened in my hair, pulling my head back sharply, and
             then his lips were upon mine. Plundering. Electrifying. Incendiary.
             Lush sounds, sharp tastes and scents assaulted my senses. His touch
             inflamed me, ignited my body and flayed my soul.

             Hands stripped away my clothing, left me naked and shaking before him,
             infuriatingly needy. I reached for him then, but he grasped my wrists
             behind my back.

             "No," he said firmly, grip tightening painfully. "I didn't give you
             permission to touch me."

             I moaned in frustration, but obeyed.

             "Spread your legs."

             And I did, standing before him, hands crossed behind my back,
             shivering with anticipation and confusion. My head reeled and I lost
             track of time, awash in the sound of his voice, his powerful,
             commanding hands on my body, the sweet press of his lips against
             mine. It was so hard to think this way. To recognize this man as the
             same doomed soul who still pined for his mortal wife. Harder still to
             willingly recognize myself -- the ruthless, merciless ruler of hell --
             in this trembling, willing slave who shamelessly begged for a pleased
             smile or a kind word. But then, of course, I'd forgotten. *I* hadn't
             invented *this* game at all -- *He* had.

             A knowing hand stroked my leaking cock, while his casual voice bid me
             to suck the fingers of the other. His moist lips deftly captured and
             swallowed my pleasured moans as one hand slicked pre-ejaculate along
             my length. Then, his fingers breached me, slipped inside my tight
             anus, roughly stoking the simmering fire, acid that seared my
             veins. His voice burned my soul, "I know what you need."

             My eyes slid shut and I surrendered to the feelings, his mastery, the
             pleasure offered by this sack of carrion, my weak, eternally damned
             human slave. Weak and yet subtle, flexible, powerful enough to erase
             my own millennia-old habits of domination and strength.

             Abruptly, he pulled away and I staggered, panting, bereft. His smile
             was wicked. Still fully clothed, he turned. Sat on the end of the bed
             and unzipped his jeans.

             "Suck me," he commanded.

             And I complied, powerless to resist, dropping to my knees in perfect
             submission. How had he known I could be undone by love? Human love and
             compassion. A mere shadow of that greater love I still crave -- *His*
             love -- that haunts my waking dreams and torments me with longing.

             He thrust roughly into my mouth, cock hard and heated, his scent
             overwhelming and his fingers painfully tight in my hair. And, with one
             sharp cry, his passion filled my mouth. I drank it down, moaning,
             arching towards my own traitorous release. Greedy. Desperate for words
             of love and praise. For that sweet, wry smile, the gleam in his eye
             that meant I'd pleased him.

             He gripped the base of my cock roughly and I gasped. "I didn't give
             you permission to come," he said, eyes fierce.

             My sight grew crimson with thwarted lust and my stomach roiled with
             rage and shame. My flawed human body trembled, my eyes stung and my
             heart contracted painfully, a sudden stab from an impersonal
             blade. Loving him. Hating him. Desperate for release, but trained from
             birth -- by the ultimate Master -- far too well to object.

             Full lips captured mine, once more, stealing my mortal breath. His
             slick tongue dove deep and I tasted the fiery tang of his semen and my
             blood, where his teeth had cut my lip. And then he withdrew, eyes
             again gentle, hand cupping my chin tenderly.

             "Perhaps next time."

             Furious, aching, consumed with unwilling longing, I glanced at the
             bedside clock -- 12:17 am -- and, hating him, loving him, hating
             myself, I whimpered.




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