UNSPOKEN
by sidewinder
I find him sprawled on his
bed, watching TV
and looking even more morose
than usual. Must
be the after-affects of
his last successful
hunt. I was pleasantly surprised
to find
Alfred Millicent, number
twenty-seven of my
one-thirteen, knocking on
the gates of Hell
today. I hear he killed
seven children
during his return performance
here on Earth.
I think I shall enjoy finding
new ways to make
his ever-afterlife as miserable
as
possible.
But poor Ezekiel, he does
look worse for wear.
Must be brooding over the
fact that he didn't
get to Alfred fast enough
to stop that last young
girl from being led to slaughter
this morning.
If I were in the mood for
it, he'd be ripe for
a fine goading right now.
I could pick at any
of the scabs covering his
emotional wounds,
watch them bleed anew. I
could remind him of
all the other demons out
there running loose
while he sits on his ass,
sulking and nursing
his guilt. Or I could remind
him of all his
past sorrows--his wife's
brutal rape, his act
of vigilante rage that lead
him to me, even his
continued failure to capture
Ash, leaving that
bitch to continue planning
her own unique
Hell On Earth.
I could. But not tonight.
He looks up at the sound
of my entrance, sees
me but doesn't say anything.
He waits for me
to speak, but I have no
words for him tonight.
Soon enough he understands.
He knows what I
want when I come to him
and do not speak, when
there are no teasing or
taunting words
springing forth from my
lips. He rises from
the bed and walks to me,
his expression muted
but not quite so morose
now. He looks almost
relieved that I'm here.
Given the state he was
in when I arrived, perhaps
he needs this right
now as much as I do. I would
like to think as
much.
He stands close and lifts
his hands, bringing
them up to my face. It's
a pleasant, almost
worshipful feeling, the
way he runs his
fingers over my cheeks,
across my lips...I
like that. As his fingers
slide into my hair,
I close my eyes and give
myself over to the
sensation, enjoying the
simple pleasure of his
warm touch. I could take
any soul in my domain
and make them my lover,
but Ezekiel, his touch
is so different...so gentle.
The others never
seem to think I would want
that--there is no
place for gentleness in
Hell, I suppose. My
Ezekiel, though...he is
different. He just
seems to understand.
The first time I came to
him for this, I
expected him to resist.
But he didn't give
even a token struggle as
I closed the distance
between us and kissed him,
as I'd contemplated
doing so many times before.
It was as if he'd
been waiting for me to do
it all along, which
could very well have been
the case. He kisses
me now, again with a gentleness
that is almost
infuriating, at first. Impatience
and anger
flares within me for a moment
but somehow he
drains it away; it is lost
in the warm, moist
depths of his mouth. How
long has it been
since I came to him for
this? A month, almost.
Too long.
He breaks the kiss and begins
undressing me.
My suit jacket falls to
the floor, and then he
starts to work on my tie.
He is naked to the
waist already, which I appreciate
as it gives
me the chance to admire
his body while he
works. It is a fine body,
lean but powerful. I
chose well in making him
my agent here on
Earth, for he is smart,
strong,
aggressive...sometimes defiant,
but
controllable. A good man,
save for that one
moment of passion and rage
that led him to
damnation.
Too good for me, if I were
to be honest. Of
course I'll never tell *him*
that.
My shirt, at last, joins
the jacket on the
floor. Running his hands
over my chest, he
gives me a questioning look.
I answer with a
glance down to the floor.
Clever boy, it's all
the instruction he needs.
He sinks to his
knees before me. I struggle
to hold back a
moan as he rubs his hand
over the front of my
pants. His eyes don't leave
mine as he
unfastens them. I could
simply make all this
foolish attire disappear
but I rather enjoy
making him work for it,
savoring these moments
of anticipation. He guides
my fabric slowly
down my legs...very nice.
Even nicer is the
press of his lips against
my thigh, the brush
of his stubble against my
skin. He teases me
but not excessively, knowing
not to play games
with me for too long. Soon
his lips are on my
cock. I sigh at the most
welcome sensation,
the warmth surrounding me,
so good. The simple
pleasures possible in this
human body I wear
for him have their definite
merits.
I wonder when he learned
to do this so well--
certainly it was not during
his mortal years on
Earth, where he followed
a strictly straight
and narrow path when it
came to carnal
delights. I suppose my minions
in Hell taught
him these things, for one
as pretty as he
rarely avoids such attentions
from my more
libidinous demons. I wonder
if that is why he
gave himself so willingly
to me from the start,
because he was trained to
do this without
complaint if he didn't want
his suffering
increased hundredfold. I
like to think it is
more because even through
his hatred, he
cannot deny his desire for
me. I could simply
look into his mind and find
out if wished;
for now, I choose not to.
Let it stay a small
mystery between us.
He's looking up at me, still,
and I know he
wants a reaction from me--a
sigh, a groan,
some sign that he's making
me lose control.
I won't give him that, not
yet. I can't let
him become too assured of
himself and his
talents, lest he forget
his place as my
servant. He won't have me
begging for *his*
touch--not unless that is
a game I decide we
shall play, and I'm not
certain I can trust
him enough for that. I made
that mistake,
once. I won't do it again.
And so I limit my encouragement
to stroking
his hair while he pleasures
me. I find
watching him do this almost
more stimulating
than the physical sensations.
My Ezekiel,
kneeling before me, taking
me inside him. His
lips wet and glistening
with saliva, open wide
to accept me, to service
his master. His eyes,
always on me, now bright
with his own rising need.
Yes. It's a wonderful sight.
Only a single, sharp gasp
escapes my lips when
I come. He is the one who
moans, as he drinks
in the reward for his efforts.
I pull him up
from the floor and kiss
him with no gentleness
this time. He aches for
his own release, his muscles
tensing under my every touch
and caress. I
could give it to him in
any way I desire--even
with just the right kiss
I could leave him
trembling and spent where
he stands. My powers
may be limited in this world,
but I can still
do things to him that no
mortal could ever imagine.
His skin is damp, so hot
under my touch. I
push him down onto the bed,
on his back, so I
can feast upon the sweat
covering his skin,
lick it from his chest.
He tastes of sulfur
and blood, demon sweat.
He is not so silent
now, as I remove the last
of his clothing and
descend upon his erection.
He makes the most
delightful sounds--whimpers
and moans, so
anguished and full of need.
I take my time in
pleasuring him this night,
enjoying seeing him
so helpless and abandoned
under my touch--and
my mouth. I want him to
need me, and for
tonight he does.
He moans, and to my amusement
calls out "Oh,
God!" when he comes. What
irony. Did you hear
that, my Lord? Does it enrage
you, or sicken
you, to hear your name cried
out in passion by
*my* lover? I hope so. I
sense Ezekiel is
afraid he's angered me with
his outburst, for
he is suddenly quiet and
tense. I stroke his
trembling flesh and lick
him clean, and soon
his fear is lost in the
last echoes of his
pleasure.
I work my way up his body,
until I reach his
mouth for one last, lingering
kiss. I think I
would keep him forever,
if I could. Just for
this. But every soul he
returns to Hell brings
him closer to leaving me.
I try to lead him to
believe otherwise, that
his soul is not worthy
of redemption and that he
was never destined
for Heaven, but I'm sure
he knows that's not
the truth.
I lie down against him, head
on his chest,
appreciating the momentary
satiated peace between
us. Still we say nothing,
but that is fine.
One night, in these quiet
moments, I may tell
him of the things I think
of when we are
together like this. Not
tonight, for I would
have to admit to the solace
I find in his arms,
and how much I fear I've
come to need him. How
in moments like this, I
feel as close to
Heaven and His touch as
I have since the day I
was cast down into Hell.
No, not tonight.
Ezekiel is drifting asleep
now, relaxed, at
peace, Alfred Millicent
and all the others
momentarily forgotten. I
have work to do, a
million other places to
be and torments to
inflict, but I wait until
I sense he is lost
completely into his dreams.
I slip from his
arms and spend a moment
studying his body and
my handiwork--the marks
that hold him bound to
me until he returns the
last of my one hundred
and thirteen. Before I go,
I trace a pattern
over his heart, where someday
I would like to
write one final name.
Mine.
* * *
End