stone/satan, implied satan/god, pwp, nc-17
             Disclaimer: *hell* no, i don't own'em!
             Thanks: many thanks to the generous folks who wrote to tell me they
             the evil one on his knees and begging; and additional thanks to my
             wonderful friend and beta reader ashtareth. this story is for rosa,
             for her boundless enthusiasm, encouragement, and our late-night rants
             on irc <eg>.
             Warnings: here be some *serious*, big time, *extreme* blasphemy
             folks. also, some domination, submission and discipline.


             Sweet Surrender
              by kai  

             The moment his cum hit my face, I knew I'd displeased him. Saw it in
             the tense set of his shoulders, the uncompromising line of his
             sensuous lips. Quickly, I slipped my fingers from his ass and
             relinquished my firm grasp on his cock, shame replacing my fierce,
             momentary triumph.

             I am a fool.

             How many times had we tumbled upon this bed, limbs entwined, hearts
             pounding wildly, borrowed human flesh slicked with sweat and semen?
             And how many times had I knelt before him, head bowed, seeking to ease
             the ache of His abandonment in Ezekiel's compassionate, willing
             embrace? Illicit pleasure sought and received. Trust: genuine, yet
             uneasy -- dangerous for us both -- offered and accepted in this, our
             most private haven, sheltered from the prying eyes of heaven and hell.

             And now, true to my seditious nature -- damn Him for that! -- I'd
             pushed too far, violated our Game's cardinal rules. Sacrificed my own
             pleasure -- *our* pleasure -- in one context to assert my angry
             dominion over him, body and soul, in another.

             As I said, I am a fool.


             Earlier in the evening...

             After far too many hours spent 'rehabilitating' a few of the more
             rowdy denizens of hell, I squeezed into a body and dropped by his
             dingy little room to 'chat'. Just to keep him on his toes, to irritate
             him a bit, throw him off balance. At least, that's the fable I told
             myself. I figured that I'd earned it. After all, the bastard shot out
             my eyes and precipitously returned me to hell only a few weeks ago. 

             I am still pissed about that.

             He stood at the window, shirtless, pensively watching the approaching
             sunset. The runes etched upon his skin were faintly luminescent.

             "So Mr. Stone. O 'Detective Extraodinare'. Still recovering from
             your latest, rather ignominious defeat at the hands of Seth
             Macmillan?" I referred to a wily 19th century occultist turned serial
             killer who took a forgery of the 'Necromicon' far too
             seriously. Imagine his surprise when, upon fatally botching a
             so-called 'immortality spell', involving the sacrifice of young
             virgins, he wound up with private audience with me instead.

             Ezekiel turned from the window and glared briefly. No doubt he was
             still touchy from my Saint Valentine's Day taunts. Not to mention sore
             from Seth's enthusiastic -- and rather painful -- attempts to decant
             Stone from his resurrected body. I'd never admit it to him, but
             Ezekiel had me quite worried during that skirmish.

             Despite the glare, I could tell he was pleased to see me.

             "I don't pay you to brood, Ezekiel," I snapped into his silence. "I
             pay you to return these brazen escapees to me."

             Again, silence.

             The son of a bitch was ignoring me! I grabbed his arm and spun him to
             face me. "What's the matter, Mr. Stone? Tired? Demoralized? Ready to
             end our little agreement?"

             Looking me up and down, he quirked an eyebrow, "No." An echo of that
             devastating smile hovered upon his lips. "And you? Do you want to call
             a halt to our Game? Or are you just here to beg for another round?"

             Beg? *Me* beg? The bastard!

             Nonetheless, I flushed beneath his provocative stare and took an
             involuntary step backwards. Then another. Damn this responsive body!
             He stalked me across the room, his expression one of commingled humor,
             lust and deadly intent. My physical senses awakened, humming with
             sexual expectancy, disturbing my equilibrium.

             "Still can't admit that you want this. Need this. Can you?" He asked
             at last, pinning me into the corner. The heat of his body was searing;
             he was dead, but not cold. So wonderfully warm and so wickedly adroit
             at using this body's responses against me.

             "Need what, Mr. Stone?" I retorted loftily. "I am the ruler of hell. I
             *need* nothing!"

             "Mmmm," he said, deliberately licking his lips, handsome face inches
             away from mine. "On the contrary," his whisper caressed my lips. "You
             most definitely need *this*." And then, he took my mouth, ravaging me
             with talented lips and tongue. Pleasant sensations washed along my
             skin, evoking memories of other loving 'hands' that had created,
             nurtured and punished me. Weak-kneed, slumped against the wall, I
             moaned desperately as arousal sang through my blood, as I became
             reacquainted with the sensual responses of this body of living clay.

             After a time, he pulled back, breathing heavily, hands carding my
             hair, cupping my chin. He tilted my face upwards and I braced for
             another searing kiss.

             "Ezekiel, I don't think -- " I began breathlessly, desperately.

             "That's right," he affirmed, eyes dark with lust. "You *don't*
             think. Not here. Not now. *I* think; *you* serve."

             Tearing a page from my own book, he disappeared our clothes; they are,
             after all, merely a trick of light and electrons.  I gasped, and in an
             eyeblink, found myself on my back on the bed, with my cock in his

             For long moments he teased me, with hands, lips, tongue, and teeth. He
             licked the length of my cock, poked my hungry hole, pinched my nipples
             until they ached and I writhed.

             "Please!" I moaned uncontrollably, when he withdrew his mouth, leaving
             me wild-eyed and disheveled, clinging unwillingly to orgasm's

             I am so pathetic.

             He laughed and shook his head. "My pleasure before yours." His lovely
             chuckle vibrated the length of my body, loosening my limbs. Were I
             still standing, I would have crumpled unceremoniously to the floor.

             Then, he straddled me, sat on my chest and shoved his perfectly formed
             cock down my throat. I'd taken a liberty or two when I'd resurrected

             "Suck me now," he said, voice roughened with passion. "But remember, I
             want to finish in that perfect ass of yours." And then, he began to

             As he thrust into my mouth, as I worked him with my hands and my
             tongue, mutinous thoughts arose. My undoing, as usual. The day's
             lingering anger and frustration, combined with my annoyance at
             Ezekiel's insolence seeped into my enjoyment of his pleased moans, his
             loving touches of my hair, his powerful, knowing hand upon my cock. I
             rule hell, damn him! I'm not some rent-boy to scramble anxiously to do
             his bidding! He belongs to *me*! I could so easily force my will upon
             him, rend and crush his spirit. There are so many ways I could torment
             and torture him. Eternally.

             If he only knew!

             And, in my anger, my acid rage, I forgot the pleasure he'd tacitly
             promised me, forgot our agreement, forgot than he knew me with an
             intuition and intimacy that would have stolen my breath had I normally
             possessed lungs to breathe. I kept him moaning, on the edge, for what
             seemed like hours. And finally, as I milked his cock with one hand, as
             I licked and sucked, I wickedly stabbed two fingers from the other
             into his ass, unerringly finding his prostate.

             He glared down at me once, convulsed and then came, shouting, spilling
             his semen, hot, slick and burning with hellfire, across my face. For a
             single triumphant moment, my anger was assuaged. And then, the
             disappointment in his eyes struck me hard, like a fist to the belly.

             As I said, I am a fool. 

             A fool with poor impulse control.


             Now, seated on the edge of the bed, Ezekiel looked over to where I
             sprawled across the pillows. He patted his thighs. "Come here."

             Angry pride warred with shame and I seethed inwardly. I *hate* this
             act. Mostly. It has always evoked complicated, unsettling memories.

             He watched calmly, with a slight smile as I wrestled with my unruly

             "Come here," he repeated softly, a bare hint of steel in his voice.

             Closing my eyes, trembling with conflict, on the knife's edge between
             rage and consent, domination and submission, I slid towards him on my
             knees. He gripped my wrist firmly and sharply pulled me face down onto
             his lap. Furious and humiliated, I squirmed. His warm, rough palm
             smoothed over my ass cheeks, held me firmly against his knee.

             "Count them for me, Morning Star." His tone was even, dryly amused. He
             had *known* I'd disobey him, the bastard.

             Naked and vulnerable, turned over his knee, I pressed my face into the
             rumpled bed clothes and counted.

             "One." Smack.

             "Two." Smack.

             And so on.

             Trembling across his lap, my aching cock clenched tightly between his
             thighs, I knew I'd earned more than the light, stinging, swats across
             my narrow human backside. Teasing strokes that inflamed my memory,
             left me aching for the holy wrath -- *His* wrath -- that had flayed my
             spirit, lacerated my heart, dominated and dictated my existence so
             many millennia ago.

             I can still clearly recall the agony and fear as He tore me asunder,
             scattering my atoms to the galaxy's far corners to vibrate
             desperately, abandoned, aching for reunion. There I waited, screaming
             soundlessly for my brothers, my Creator, terrified of dissolution, of
             final oblivion. Once I'd learned my 'lesson', I was lovingly
             reassembled and then comforted with the briefest touch of His essence.

             Until my next transgression, of course.

             Those memories haunt me still, in any form -- human, animal or spirit
             -- I take; there is no rest for me from the echo of that torment.

             Had I had flesh then, His mark would be scoured across my back and
             shoulders indelibly. Instead, I carry those hard won tokens of Eternal
             love close, hidden, cherished. After all, there are some advantages
             offered by a discorporate existence besides immortality: bruises don't

             And yet, though I surely deserve it, though I provoke him at every
             turn, Ezekiel refuses to whip me. Always refuses. Refuses to yield to
             his darker urges. Refuses to do more than shake his head with
             disappointment, withdraw his approval and then lovingly warm my ass to
             a rosy blush. A color he claims to like.

             Abruptly, my free-floating rage and rebellion coalesced, found
             murderous focus. Damn him! How dare this doomed human slave, this
             vile, lowly creature think to discipline me, insult me -- the First
             Created -- with these stinging lashes, this petty, contemptuously
             meager punishment.

             As I struggled internally, my rage overflowed and my human form began
             to fray. I could hear the Void's seductive, chaotic winds singing
             in my ears. The outlines of the room blurred and began to stream away,
             his voice, the strength of his hands my sole anchor.

             "Remember, Luciel," he called softly, sadly, into the raging chaos
             wrought by my disintegration. "Your choice. You can always say the
             Word; call His name and this ends here and now."

             Choice. *My* choice.

             One Word. One Word only, and I'd be again as I was meant to be: proud,
             arrogant, cold. Alone. Never again to bend my head to anyone. Secure
             in my dominion over hell and Stone. Ruling him forever, deftly, with
             mercy enough to make my twist of the knife all the more sweet when I
             finally betrayed him. As, of course, I would.

             Betrayal is my nature. Isn't it?

             And the moment spun out, ruthlessly revealing the other consequences
             of that choice. One single Word, yes, and I'd also forever lose the
             right to experience the compelling warmth engendered by his
             company. Never again to experience the bright cascade of sparks
             generated by our continual conflict, tempered with no little

             "Let go," he murmured into the maelstrom of my indecision. "I promise
             I'll catch you. Keep you safe." The warmth and concern in his voice
             stunned me.

             Suspended between cohesion and dissolution, between the bleak memory
             of Greater love and the possibility of unconditional human love, I
             realized that I'd never before had this choice. Had never known I
             could be as I was -- as *He* had created me -- and yet still be cared
             for, respected.

             Perhaps one day, even cherished.

             "Please." My human voice was choked, overlaid with trembling harmonics
             of my greater Voice. I fiercely asserted my will and shrank,
             condensing into flesh. "Continue."

             "Pleasure is a far better teacher than pain," he said with approval,
             after a slight pause. Then, he parted my cheeks and shoved a gelled
             finger deep in my ass before withdrawing for the next smack; I
             couldn't control my pleasured scream.

             And as he continued my discipline, and as I counted, I had the
             strangest, most unexpected experience.

             Each stroke across my ass was so careful, so loving, that unbidden,
             tears seared my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. *My*
             cheeks. *Me*. The ruler of hell, author of infinite torments and
             sublime cruelty, reduced to tears over gentle, heartfelt, generously
             offered discipline in lieu of force and unyielding coercion.

             Not one of my brothers had ever offered half as much. And no lover had
             ever been so honestly unintimidated and amused by my rages, my
             idiocyncracies, my unvarnished self.

             And so, amidst the tumult of my emotions, in the fiery crucible of his
             promise, my sullen rage transmuted, like lead into gold, into the
             sweetest of surrenders.

             "Shh," he soothed, rubbing the small of my back gently. "It's
             okay. Only a few more." And swallowing tears, emptied of ancient anger
             and fear, I counted out the remaining strokes.


             He raised me from his lap and gathered me into his embrace. Exhausted,
             I lay in his arms, head resting upon his shoulder. My sore ass brushed
             against his thighs and my breath caught.

             "Promise me you'll try harder," he said softly into my hair, stroking
             my back slowly.

             "Yes, I promise," I sighed against his sweaty neck, feeling light and
             curiously cleansed. Weakly, silently, I both cursed and blessed him:
             for his intuition, his insight, honed nearly to perfection by decades
             of sparring with the ruthless, the evil; those like me. For knowing
             exactly what I need.

             "Lie down."

             I was shifted to the bed and turned onto my stomach, my legs spread
             wide. The mattress dipped slightly as he settled between my thighs and
             considerately slipped a pillow under my hips, lifting my ass for his

             Rough gun calluses skimmed across my sensitive skin as his hands
             kneaded taut muscles, calmed my lingering shivers and soothed my
             stinging backside. Face turned to the side, partially obscured by the
             curtain of my hair, I sighed deeply, enjoying the sensations. Eyes
             half-closed with pleasure, I watched silently, bonelessly, as the
             ruddy sunset swiftly became indigo, through the open window.

             Heated kisses trailed down my spine and wet heat painted my skin,
             swirling around my tailbone. I moaned softly and shifted to
             accommodate my painful erection. Fire and ice skated along my skin as
             he spread me open and swept down my cleft with his rough tongue. I
             shivered deliciously as he gnawed tenderly upon the sensitive rim of
             my anus, slowly licked the sensitive flesh, and then delved deep,
             dilating me.

             Warm hands guided me to my knees and he entered me slowly, with
             exquisite care. Despite his occasional anger, his occasional need to
             fuck me hard, he never forced me. Never consummated this act in pain.

             At his urging, I rose from my hands, closed my eyes, and leaned back
             into his arms. Legs spread wide, shifting his smoldering length
             deeper, I rested my head against his shoulder, gasping quietly as he
             caressed my balls and stroked my cock. The runes on his chest, wrought
             by my hand, etched in painful detail, seared my skin and flared along
             my ribs as he embraced me. With fingers twined in mine, resting over
             my heart, he moaned sensuously, writhing deep inside me, raining
             loving kisses upon my neck.

             And when, at the moment of climax, as I was filled with the heat of
             his passion, as I spilled my own into his claiming hand, my tattered,
             painful memory of Greater love crumbled to ash. Upheld by loving arms,
             I relinquished the ancient pain and surrendered to the future's


             Night had fallen and a slight, warm breeze sighed through the open
             window, ruffling the moth-eaten drapes. In the circle of his arms, his
             chest against my back, I quietly watched a rectangle of light from the
             street lamp as it creeped along the wall. The warmth of his
             exhalations teased the short hairs on my neck.

             Sometimes, I wondered what he honestly thought of this arrangement, our
             Game. Wondered how he knew to play it so well, where he'd acquired his
             devastating virtuosity. Wondered how he felt about having sex with a
             man; although I am not, precisely speaking, male. What he felt about
             fucking the most evil of spirits.

             In darker moments, I also wondered if he thought about his beloved
             wife as we satisfied our carnal desires. Or, if he secretly,
             triumphantly gloated. Wondered if his love and affection was real, or
             an illusion borne of my millennia of anguished loneliness and exile.

             I have carefully never probed his thoughts to confirm or deny my
             suspicions; I doubt that I ever will.

             "Sleepy?" he asked, tightening his arms briefly, stroking my belly
             with a strong, callused hand.

             I shook my head silently. Sleep was neither possible for me, nor
             required for him. Nor, strictly speaking, was breathing, although he
             persisted in maintaining the fiction. Nostalgia, I suppose.

             Restless with my thoughts, after a moment, I turned in his arms, to
             face him. He raised up on one elbow and looked down at me, fingers
             gently brushing the hair back from my forehead. In the near darkness,
             to my greater Sight, the runes, my mark upon him, sparkled along his
             torso, reflecting in his eyes like the starry night sky. Some day, the
             last of those runes would dissolve and I'd release him from my
             service. And face another bleak eternity alone.

             "One of these days, you're going to admit that you like this. That I
             give you what you need." His voice was low and warm in the darkness.

             And, in this time, this protected space only, I would admit the truth;
             to myself, if not to him. "Perhaps," I smiled wryly. "But, I guarantee
             you'll have to work for it."

             He laughed and I thrilled to the rich sound, answering with my own.
             My reawakening passion, tingled through my limbs, filling my cock as
             he rolled me to my back and slipped a knee between my thighs.

             "I wouldn't have it any other way," he whispered, and leaned down to
             steal my smile with a kiss.




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