The Rise of the Demon King's Consort

Paris spent the morning alone, and a servant girl slipped in at midday. She gave him water and wine, and fed him cut up bits of melons, oranges and dried salted meat. He made for her to untie him, bucking and wriggling to get loose. He commanded, pleaded and threatened, but gave in as she stuttered out an apology.

“I dare not untie you, my lord, for you bear the mark of the Demon King. I fear you will ravage me and doom me to eternal damnation if I do—“

“The Demon King—“Paris stopped in his tracks. The ritual last night. They’d sacrificed him to the Demon king? He slumped back at the pillar, sighing dejectedly. Would his misery never end? “Fear not, little girl, for it is I who is damned. Not you.”

“They say your body is his temple now. That you’re holy. And that some time soon he’ll come and claim you, possess your body, that you—“

“—enough! I know what the legends say. The Demon King, the tormentor of the souls of the dead who are on their way through the Kingdom of Hades. You need to untie—“ Paris kept his mouth. There was shouting far down in the corridor leading to the room, a heated quarrel and Paris recognized the voices. It was Menelaus and Agamemnon. “Hurry now girl, untie me!”

“No I dare not! They’ll slay me! I was only to feed you then be on my way!” she hurried out of the room, leaving Paris behind. He heard her startled scream as they probably caught hold of her, and he felt terror growing as he heard her scream. Then came a guttural cry, and it was cut short. Then a light thud to the floor. She was dead.
Moments later, the two kings entered the room, their voices still heated, still bickering.

“—just one last time, Menelaus, let me have him one last time!”

“Look here, the lamb is awake. You got off easy last night, Prince Paris. But it will not be so easy tonight. You’ll serve at our little party this afternoon, serving drinks and yourself to anyone who might fancy a bite, understand?” Menelaus consequently ignored Agamemnon who hovered over Paris like a dark thunderous cloud, his hands absentmindedly rubbing his own crotch. Menelaus took hold of Paris’ legs and forced them apart. They were full of bruises and cuts, and he was sore and stiff. He had no way of stopping Menelaus, who then took Paris’ dormant cock in his hands. “We need to do something about this” he laughed at Paris who struggled to get out of his grip. He could not deny the pleasure though; shrinking away from Menelaus rough hand holding him, feeling himself grow hard, for Menelaus had begun pumping him. Paris looked away, to the ground, to every where else but into Menelaus eyes, not wanting to admit the warmth filling his loins.

“You see, brother? No harm done. He won’t mind another good pounding!” Agamemnon moaned.

“No, my brother. We must respect the gods and they have spoken. Paris of Troy is no longer among the living, he’s destined to spend eternity in Hell, and we cannot spoil the Demon King’s prize. Do you know what the stories say about the Demon King?” Menelaus grinned maliciously, pumping Paris harder, watching the boy struggle with a lump in his throat, his eyes watering over. “They say the Demon King sports a great harem of pleasure slaves. And that he cuts off their arms and legs so they can’t escape. All they can do is to lie there, helpless, and that he keeps them in small alcoves on display, helping himself with their holes whenever he feels like it. And there’s not a thing they can do! “the King of Sparta laughed sarcastically, “and to think, my beautiful Prince, that you’ll soon be one of them. Now that is sad! You should enjoy your final days, or perhaps hours, who knows, for soon it will be over!” Menelaus revelled in the sight of the terrified and crying prince. Terror and lust displayed as one was such a magnificent facial expression. The prince was close to coming, his breath moving faster, his body unconsciously moving to help achieving its goal. But Menelaus stopped just in time, restraining the orgasm within Paris, tying the base of his cock with a leather strap. It prompted Paris to scream out in anger, wriggling desperately to get free. Not again!
Menelaus seated himself on his legs, restraining his movement, and tied the knot, giving the head a thorough lick, taking the head into his mouth. Paris moaned his resentment, struggling with the rope holding him fast to the pillar. Menelaus then leaned forward, kissing Paris passionately, before Agamemnon tore away his brother with a snarl. He clenched Paris’ jaw and forced his mouth to open, forcing his erection into his mouth. Holding the young prince’s head fast, he pumped, coming soon after, moaning out his delight. He pulled out, and Paris choked, coughed and spat out most of the sperm, crying a curse on Agamemnon.

“You dare to spit out what most men and women gladly welcome? You should be glad for this gift, prince of Troy, for soon you’ll be no more than a human sack of rotting potatoes, the demon’s little whore. Two holes and a pair of ears, for I hear he also blinds them, his damned, limbless slaves!” Agamemnon slapped Paris heavily across the face so the young prince saw stars. Menelaus ushered his brother out, arguing loudly, telling him to forget about the prince.

The slap rang in his head still and his cock ached. Paris could still hardly sit, and he remained lying on the floor. He also had to piss, but no flow was allowed from his erection. The words of the kings haunted him. He twisted around until he found himself lying on his stomach, and grinded himself against the stone floor in desperation, as there was nothing else to grind against. He howled in despair when there was no relief to be found, and twisted back. After a good while, Spartan soldiers came for him. Paris immediately backed up. He didn’t recognize any of them, but it felt as if the entire Spartan army did him that evening, and Paris no longer held any trust in any man. He scrambled to his knees, drawing close to the pillar while trying to protect his ass, squeezing towards the pillar. They hardly dared to touch him, loosening his ties, forcing him to go by the tip of their spears, gazing worriedly at his right palm with the symbol glowing angry red. Paris had hardly paid it any heed. He’d rather it didn’t exist, didn’t want to know it was there. They treated him like a leper; the rumour of the Thyrion grazing him with his attention had obviously spread like fire in dry grass. He was led to a kitchen, where a bucket of water and a towel waited. The cook, a buxom man with apron ordered him to clean himself as he was to serve drinks and needed to look proper. Paris gave in, and grudgingly cleaned himself in front of everyone. They all knew. The hot water ran down his taut chest and belly, serving to build greater pressure in his cock, and Paris felt like untying it, but the stern gazes from the standbyers and the bent heads of the Trojan slaves among them made him stop. There would be severe punishments if he tried anything. He was then given a large urn filled with wine, and was told to go pour wine in everyone’s glasses.

The small dining hall was filled with music, laughter and much talk. The guests, mostly generals and their concubines and male lovers were lounging casually among pillows on the floor or they rested on ornate Hellenistic benches, eating meat, berries and drinking wine. Paris circled the room while he tried to hide his straining cock behind the huge ceramic flask. The women giggled as he passed by and the men widened their eyes, touching his cheeks as he walked past them. He stumbled nervously on, afraid someone would actually get the idea to approach him and take advantage of his puckered entrance.
There were other allies as well, foreign kings and queens Paris never had seen before, and they were obviously not from the Greek speaking area. They sat in chairs, flirting with the Spartan king, or they discussed impassionately with Agamemnon. Paris felt King Agamemnon’s eyes on him the whole time, as if the king devoured him from top to bottom. Paris avoided him all until Agamemnon rose and held forth is cup while saying demanding voice:

“Will not the prince of Troy fill up his master’s cup?”

Paris turned, his heart in his throat, and walked over to Agamemnon. All eyes had been on him for a second, and he felt shame crushing through at being stigmatized in such a way. The Prince of Troy, heir to the Trojan throne, serving wine to the King as a common serving wench. The shame! Just as he’d filled the cup, glancing up to see Agamemnon lick his lips in anticipation, the king seized his left wrist, relieved him of the goblet and threw him against his chair. Paris recognized it. It had been his father’s chair, the chair of kings, and before he could rise, Agamemnon grabbed him by the neck and bent him over, forcing his head down on the plush pillow still warm from Agamemnon’s ass. The king spread his legs and opened his tunic, just as Menelaus stood:

“Brother, this is unwise of you! The Demon King—“

“—isn’t here, is he? Best to keep the young whore’s hole warm for him until the Demon King shows up!” the king smirked, earning himself a laugh from the crowd, as he pulled Paris’ cheeks aside to reveal a swollen, rose-coloured puckered entrance.

Just then, as Agamemnon revealed his throbbing member, a lone figure which had been standing at the left side of the room with his back to the crowd whilst Paris had been attending the guests, turned to stare a the spectacle at the thrones.

“You called, King Agamemnon?”

The Demon King’s deep voice filled the entire room like the sound of a mighty copper bell in a church spire. Paris stood to gaze, his heart filling up with fear. The Demon King was…unbelievably beautiful to behold. His raven black hair, beaded with gold, framed a perfectly chiselled face, and his golden eyes glowed at him in the half dark of the room. He wore a crown on his head. It was made of polished, slender and elegantly shaped ebony decorated with dark jewels. His milky white skin was like skull-white bone against his dark tunic ornamented with gold embroideries and white beads. His hands were elongated into clawlike fingers, and he reached out his left hand currently holding an empty cup.

“Now, my prince. Bring me a drink” the Demon King said to Paris, smiling, revealing a perfect set of white vampire teeth. Paris felt himself move almost against his will, as if he was controlled by some otherworldly force. He picked up the goblet and carried it over to the Demon King with everybody’s eyes on him. He met his gaze, and felt the floor spin, for it was the most beautiful pair of eyes framed in thick dark lashes which met him, and they held no malignance.
Paris made as if to pour wine in his cup, but the Demon king said: “It is not wine that I want.”

Paris took a step back, startled as he saw a small, wrinkled witch at the Demon King’s side. An old wrinkled hag. Not before he’d seen her, had the Demon King laid fingers on his restrained cock, and the leather band loosened by itself and fell to the ground. Paris stared in awe at the Demon king, unsure whether or not he should fall to his knees.

“Now, pour me my drink, if you please” the King said, smiling again, this time a little wickedly while nodding in direction of Paris’ cock. The prince took the cup, and made as if to stroke himself, but found it next to impossible with all the bystanders. But he couldn’t risk the wrath of the Demon, so he closed his eyes and focus, directing the cup infront. Something made him open his eyes and gaze at the Demon King as he came hard, his semen spurting into the cup shortly after. Tired and spent he handed the cup back to the Demon King, who immediately tasted its contents.

“An excellent vintage. A little young perhaps, not quite of age yet” the Demon king’s voice sounded throughout the room. He presented the cup to the small hag next to him. She took the cup, rubbed it between her hands, approached Paris and circled him while she tasted the sperm, examining him all the way around as he circled.

“Someone” she began, her voice sounding like shredding paper with fingernails, “has robbed you of his virginity, my King”. She looked over to the Spartan kings, before she then continued, “but I sense great opportunities here” she stared at Paris again, coming over to smell his skin, “I see the beginning of a mighty kin of Warlords. He will give you powerful heirs, should you choose it so—“

“—heirs? Why now would I need heirs?!” the Demon King snorted.

“—he is the Destroyer of Kingdoms, and if you are to rule all of Hell, you will need minions, my King.“ She gazed up at the King knowingly.

“Heirs?” He said, walking over to Paris, felt the young man shiver as he caressed his chin with his index finger, “should the Prince of Troy be *man* enough to give me heirs? Is he strong? Courageous? Willing?” Paris felt really dizzy, the captivating yellow eyes like an ocean of gold to drown in, the Demon King’s voice deep, enthralling, his fingers warm and dry, caressing his cheeks, holding his waist, drawing him close. The King smelled of incense, opening Paris’ senses, filling him anew with desire, and quite unaware of it Paris hitched his hips up, pressing his abdomen against the demon’s, earning himself a satisfied chuckle in return. “Oh yes, you *are* dangerous, my child. I do in deed see my future as well as my downfall in your delightful eyes. Paris,” the Demon King cupped the youth’s face in his hands, “sweet Paris, given to me by Hades for my services, I condemn you to eternal life in my service. Thou shalt live forever and may thy belly always be swollen with child, and not just any child, but my children. Thou children shall lord over my armies, and all of Hell shalt be mine! May all who touch thy body without my permission first, from now whither away and die.”

Agamemnon leaped forward in anger, drawing his sword.

“My King, I beg to differ! King Menelaus here may have given him to you, but I did not allow this! I’m not through with you, boy! He’s to be mine!” Agamemnon seized Paris by the arm, intending to rip him away from the hands of the Demon King. In the instant he did so, Agamemnon’s arm started to smoke, and soon it imploded, rotting away to dust from the insides, collapsing in to the very bone. Agamemnon screamed, dropped the sword and turned to Menelaus for help, but his brother was as petrified in his throne.

“You dare oppose the Demon king? Well here's punishment for you. I'll be seeing you in Hell in not too long” the demon said, raising his voice at Agamemnon. Agamemnon turned to stare as the small hag chuckled then vanished in a haze of smoke, as the demon grew wings from his back. It was a beautiful pair of black feathered huge wings, and he all of the sudden wrapped his arms around Paris, forcing him with him out of the window, flying away at great speed into the night.