The Rise of the Demon King's Consort

Paris was hiding behind a large rock when he heard the commotion as the man in question was brought before the makeshift throne of the Demon King, since the party of demons and demons’ familiars were out in the middle of nowhere. Paris had just finished nature’s call. It was something he always had to do after having serviced someone, because of the stimuli upon his puckered entrance. He’d tried holding it back in the past, but several events had ended in disaster, so he usually tried to sneak off at the proper moment so he would feel better afterwards, preparing for more.

Mesthaphus and the Demon king snarled at each other. Paris heard them all the way over to where he was squatting, and he shut his eyes in shame as they threw curses at each other. The Demon King blamed Mesthaphus openly for the murder of his unborn child, the loss of a potential warlord, and for severing his bond with The Childbearer. It was a name the Demon King’s subjects often had used on Paris before he’d been disowned, a name signifying his status. He was The Childbearer to the Demon King. The Seventh Plane of Hell’s answer to the Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus Christ. And in their eyes, Paris had been the closest and most holiest one could ever hope to come to the Demon King.
But Paris took no note of this. So weary was his mind, that the second he’d turned and tip-toed away to the large rock to fulfil a most needed errand, he’d forgotten all about the Demon King’s sorrow and remembered only his fury. For anger and violence were about the only two elements left which Paris held in regard in other demons. To be raped or not be raped, that was the question, and whether or not he’d managed to invoke their fury which in ten out of nine cases led to said rape, was the essence of it all. Not fire without smoke. Paris did not care to contemplate on The Childbearer, assuming the Demon king meant someone else, for Paris was insignificant. He’d always been. All since the Demon king had told him to be a whore for his men and never look back. He wisely hid behind the rock until there was a sickening, squashing noise, then silence. No more arguing.

“To have the nerve” the Demon king shouted, “as to assume he knows The Childbearer better than I, his master! The Childbearer offering his thanks freely! Rubbish!” the majesty laughed grimly, picking up the dead subject’s decapitated neck. “Where is he anyway?” The king said, turning, looking for Paris.

Paris was quickly found, and then carried over to the Demon king in no time. He wished he’d had time to clean up a little, and kept his gaze to the ground as two giant guards gently put him to the ground. He fell to his knees, peering intently at some rocks in the barren sand. The Demon King threw the severed head at him, and it landed just infront of his knees, with dead eyes staring up at the molten sky. Paris looked away, finding the toes of a guard. It wasn’t Hephaisthos’ toes, but they’d do as a focus. Focus was important. It got one through the ordeal. Like a rape. Or torture, like branding wands or needles. The thoughts were many, leaping through Paris’ mind like sheep over a fence. They were drilled, practiced at countless times over the years, but they hadn’t really begun to live a life of their own until six months ago when he’d been surrendered to the common crowd. For everyone had wanted a piece of the Holy One. The Childbearer, to run their nails across his perfect bronze thighs, to behold his naked body which had solely produced such fine heirs, to smell his fears, sniffing it like exotic, expensive perfume. So Paris’ common sense had retreated, leaving behind the endless possibilities of Death and all its appearances. What was that? Remove his mask? Had someone spoken to him?

Rough large hands seized his neck and he immediately obeyed and froze, allowing whatever that as about to happen. There was a violent jerk, a slight bang, and soon the mask was split in two at the nape of his neck and unfolded. Paris felt like he’d been undressed, as he felt the air on his cheeks for the first time on half a year. His brown curly hair had grown to his shoulders, and it swung forward, grimy as it was with sweat and tears collected over months, and it tickled his nose. He wrinkled it, thinking how odd it was to have hair again and that he didn’t remember it to have been so dark. Paris did not dare to move, and kept his gaze to the ground, remembering how looking up at the wrong person at the wrong time once almost had cost him his vision. He was also lucky to still have all of his fingers and toes, and not least, his penis and balls. Come to think of it, he’d rather have his vision than his testicles if he ever had to choose, yet though if one—

“—I said, look at me, Nameless One” the Demon King spoke louder and more demandingly at Paris.

Nameless One? Paris glanced around to see if there was anyone else matching that phrase. Apparently not. Oh, it was him. He glanced upwards, resting his eyes on the Demon King’s chest, but then faltering, lowering his gaze again. Paris felt like running, felt his courage failing, felt his breath getting caught in his throat and the panic wrapping itself around him. He tried to control it, but then his hands and knees started to work on their own and he felt himself retreating, and he crawled away as fast as he could, looking for something to hide behind on the way. He was soon apprehended and dragged before the Demon King.

“I have but removed your mask and already you fail to obey. Tell me, slave, should I put this right back on and leave you with someone’s cock again?”

Paris didn’t answer. His vision was blurred, his throat drier than the dust he was staring at, and he felt queasy. There wasn’t a single clear thought in his head and he simply fell to the ground, waiting for the mask to embrace his head again, so it would perhaps ease the pain growing in his brain.

When he woke again, he was lying on a blanket. He was wet and maskless, and water was being forced down his throat. He coughed, coming around just enough to hear Hephaisthos in conversation with the Demon king.

“—not drink all day.”

“Why not?”

“There was nothing to spare, my lord. So he was ignored.”

“And yesterday? Did he drink yesterday?”

“He traded himself to someone for a mouthful of water. And—“

“—this is ridiculous!” the Demon king spat, his saliva turning to gold the instant it hit the dry ground, “and what?!” he demanded, calming himself for a moment. Paris glanced up at the severed head placed on a pedestal in the midst of the camp.

“—and then, later in the evening he begged me for my sperm, so he could feed on it, for he was starving”.

The Demon king rubbed his face in his hands in a rather unmajestical fashion, a clear example to all that he was in an extremely foul mood. Paris looked around for his mask, not liking where the conversation as going, fearing he’d be the target of the king’s retaliation. He’d be safe behind the mask. No one could reach him there, for behind the mask he was not Paris. There he was The Nameless one, who didn’t feel nor think. But where was it? He got up on his hands and knees, crawling unsteadily towards some embroidered bags in search of it. He peeked into them all, finally finding it in the last bag. He uncovered it and quickly surveyed the locking device on the back near the neck. It was broken in two, forced open with a pair of pincers. Damn. He put it up to his face; felt the cold metal of the insides against the flesh of his cheekbones, closing it around his head. What a relief. A moment’s safety. To be all alone and private instead of out and about in his open where everybody could read his face.

“Paris!!” someone shouted. Then “Paris!!!” again. He turned to see who the king shouted at, and found himself locking eyes with the Demon in person, staring straight back at him. “Put that down immediately!” the Demon King snarled at him.

Put down what? Paris looked at his empty hands, and soon the mask fell off and down into his palms with a heavy clank. Bugger. He put it back into the bag and intended to flee. Crawling past the bags, out from the blanket and towards the outskirts of the camp, right into the hands of the waiting guards. Paris turned on his heel as they came towards him, crawling backwards but staying away from the embroidered blanket, crawling towards the heap of the maimed slaves. His hair was in the way and he could hardly see through the thick curls, but he moved on, driven by panic. He crawled to the other side of the heap, waiting to see what the guards’ next move would be. Paris’ head felt like it had been split in two, and he shivered from exhaustion, his mind playing a fictive line of events for the rest of the night. In all thirteen guards, he counted quickly. Thirteen overly large erections to take. Thirteen fucks, thirteen different ways of torture. Then there were the members of court, a total of eleven demons. Let’s see, eleven plus thirteen. Hm, there was certainly no sleep to be had for sure. That was as far as his mind got before they lifted him by arms and feet, carrying him like a child over to the Demon King.

The King sighed, his dark hair cascading about his shoulders, framing a beautiful set of jaw lines. He motioned with his right hand, and the ground some metres away from the camp site trembled, imploding and then the vacant spot filled with fountain water.

“I will not touch you before you’ve cleansed your body of the filth of others. I do not wish to smell their smell on your skin as I re-claim you as mine” the Demon king told him. Paris heard him speak as he gazed at his own blemished toes, weary and raw from the day’s toil and march. A moment in silence passed, and Paris waited for whomever it was the King had addressed, to start moving, to come and drag Paris off to wherever it was he wanted Paris to serve him. How wonderful it would have been to have a bath, Paris’ mind rambled on, to soak away the weariness and find some comfort. But such pleasantries were not for him. He looked over to the water, allowing his eyes to feast on the sight. Clawed fingers found his chin, and his gaze was led upwards until they rested on the yellow, wondering eyes of the Demon king. Paris jerked backwards in surprise, seeing how puzzled the king looked, frowning at Paris as the young prince tried to move away, held in place by the guards. Paris panicked anew, and his knees buckled beneath him. Holding the Demon King’s gaze was more than he could handle this late at night. He tried to stay upright but to no avail.

“My lord”, Hephaisthos intervened, “if I may, clearly the, uh,....”the giant looked for the correct phrase while trying to mind all rules of proper etiquette, “the, uh, slave is too weary to bathe on his own. If I may escort him, and assist him—“

“—yes” the Demon king nodded, “do so.”

Hephaisthos slid into the cool water with Paris in his arms. The frail man was but a feather in his strong arms. There were no significant muscles left on Paris’s arms and thighs, and from a first glance he could easily be mistaken for a female. Paris hardly acknowledged the cool water flooding across his legs. Hephaisthos let him down, supporting him as he tried to get Paris to stand, and he had Paris lean against one side of the small water-filled hole which was just large enough to hold both of them. The surfaces of the pool had melted into glass, and Hephaisthos could distinguish the sand and rocks through it. The water woke Paris little by little, enough for him to understand he was in the water after all. But sensing someone behind him made him automatically spread his legs, and he crossed his arms, resting his head on the sand on the ledge above the water. His headache lightened a little, and he quickly fetched handfuls of water, drinking greedily. The intrusion into his rectum never came, and he was surprised to find Hephaisthos standing behind him, rubbing the small of Paris’ back.

“You should clean yourself, Paris” Hephaisthos spoke low, “the King demands it.” Hephaisthos opened a bag left on the sand next to the water, and littered the water with jasmine petals. He then opened a jar, soaking his fingers in the green substance and rubbing it out on Paris’ shoulders. Paris jumped at the touch, smelling more jasmine. He was so tired he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and resigned to Hephaisthos’ ministrations. His touch was soothing as always. No matter what Hephaisthos did to Paris, it was always done with a careful touch. Hephaisthos had been there for him since the beginning, been by his side as his bodyguard and friend through both pregnancies and assisted during the births. They’d fended off enemies of the Demon King together, had shared joys and pains together. And when Paris had fallen from grace, Hephaisthos had refrained from torturing him, only taking Paris from time to time, mostly to shield him from everyone else, never doing him ill, always giving him pleasure as well. But Hephaisthos couldn’t be there for him all the time. As warden of the guard, he had many duties, leaving Paris to himself and into the hands of others.

“How can I – I..., how can I... give in return, good Sir?” Paris slurred, half asleep from sheer exhaustion. His mind was completely overloaded now, slumping back and forth into dreamland. Hephaisthos worked his body with practice, rubbing the scented soap into Paris’ skin, inch by inch. When he came to his crotch, he turned Paris around and hoisted him up to the ledge, seating him there. Paris fell backwards, minding to keep his legs apart so Hephaisthos could help himself. Hephaisthos paid particularly heed to the pelvic area, cleaning the penis and the testicles carefully and gently, not missing a millimeter. Paris writhed absentmindedly underneath him, and he opened his eyes as Hephaisthos drew back his foreskin, washing the sensitive tip of his penis. The limp member started to grow, and Paris closed his eyes again, sighing wearily, wishing his lust away. Hephaisthos stopped as he caught eye of the Demon King who stared intently at them, and he washed away the soap around the pelvic area with nimble fingers, dragging Paris down into the water and turning him around again, not wanting the Demon King to get the wrong idea. He hoisted Paris up again, washing Paris’ buttocks, rubbing the entrance slightly with his thumb before washing away the soap. Paris sighed again, wailing in his half-sleep, not wanting another intrusion. Hephaisthos washed Paris’ hair, dragging his fingers through the curls, untangling them carefully, massaging the scalp to the best of his knowledge. Paris blinked, opened his eyes in horror as he, in his exhaustion imagined he was about to die, imagined it was the moment when Hephaisthos would crush his skull with his bare hands. He’d seen other demons do it with their unfortunate victims, seen them scream as the last thing they heard and felt was their own skulls cracking, the grey gore sputtering, oozing out from between the claws of the demons. Paris shuddered as Hephaisthos let go off him, lifting him up unto the ledge again. He then climbed out and lifted the young prince up in his arms, carrying him over to the Demon King’s tent.

“He’s exhausted, Sire, he should rest” Hephaisthos said to the King.

“I can see that” the Demon King replied quietly, frowning in concern at Paris who was asleep in Hephaisthos’ arms. The young man was shivering slightly, curling up as best he could in the giant’s arms.

“Put him under my blankets, there”, the King pointed over to his collection of pillows and blankets. Hephaisthos obeyed, putting Paris down gently. The Demon King disrobed, revealing his perfect, skull-white body before lying down next to the boy, removing the crown in the process. Paris woke to the rustle of blankets, and stared with wide eyes as the Demon King lay down next to him. He immediately got out of bed, hurling himself at Hephaisthos’ feet, clinging to his ankles.

“Please don’t leave me!” Paris exclaimed in terror. The Demon King stood, obviously annoyed.

“I take you to my bed again and this is how you reward me? You run?!” the King’s voice thundered. “Do you wish to stay a whore?!” The Demon king clenched his fists, staring at Paris maliciously. Paris could feel his gaze burn in the back of his neck.

“Please, Hephaisthos, I beg you!” Paris continued, ignoring the Demon King. “Please, I just want to sleep. Lend me your embrace for a few brief hours, please!!”

“The Demon King wants you. I cannot. I’m sorry.”

“Please, Hephaisthos, please, do not leave me alone with him! Please, I don’t want to lose another child...!” Paris exclaimed between sobs. His headache was back with a vengeance and his eyes were sore. He felt powerless and alone, laying all his hopes on Hephaisthos.

The Demon King gasped as the truth behind Paris’ words struck him. The young prince feared him, not because of the horrors and rapes he could do upon Paris, but because he held the power to make him with child again. It dawned on him that perhaps it was he, the King, who needed forgiveness, and not Paris. He began to see the result of his decision about surrendering Paris to the crowd. Paris’ fears had, during the months they’d been apart, multiplied by millions, and the Demon king was filled with regret. And sadness. Perhaps it was beyond repair. He no longer recognized the battered and bruised slave which once had supported the King’s every decision. Now the man shied away, seeking shelter somewhere else but the King’s arms. The King sat down, concern clouding his beautiful golden eyes.

“Hephaisthos” he began after a while, “take him to the fire” the Demon King motioned to the nearest hellfire just outside the royal tent, and let him sleep there in our midst.”

And so it was done. Paris finally succumbed to sleep, after having stolen a million worried glances at the King who rested on Paris’ other side. The King would wake to look at him from time to time, and each time he looked, he did not like what he saw, for Paris would cling to Hephaisthos, lying as close as he could get, leaving a vacant space between himself and the king.