Disclaimers: "Brimstone" is owned by someone
with a lot more money than me. The following
story is written purely for fun, not for
* * *

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

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

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

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

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.


* * *


Contact the author

Return to story index