The Rise of the Demon King's Consort

The Demon King had already risen, the following morning. He paced back and forth while watching his servants prepare a meal for Paris, watching them arrange the fruits and the dried meat. Would it be enough? Would it please the whelp? The Demon King cast a glance at the sleeping Paris. He lost himself in studying the cascading curls framing the young man’s face, but as his gaze trailed the boy’s flesh down to his prominent ribs, the King withdrew, turning, gazing at the horizon. They were but a day’s march from the city. He could see the spires of his palace afar, where the children waited for him.

The children. How was he to reunite them with Paris? The eldest, a boy of three years, who’d spent every night crying himself to sleep missing his mortal father, would not know the King anymore, sensing he’d had something to do with Paris’ disappearance. And the youngest, but a year old. Would he recognize Paris at all?

Paris was tainted now, used and marked by every soldier of his realm. Everyone’s hands had been upon him. Could they ever find back to each other’s arms? He’d once seen love in Paris’ eyes, and strength, strength enough to bear the entire realm upon his frail shoulders in the Demon King’s absence. The Prince Consort of the Demon King. How he’d forgotten Paris’ beauty! The King had shut himself away from the children as not to be reminded, for they had Paris’ eyes and his beautiful soft curls.

Their faces flashed before his eyes, and the Demon King kneeled next to the food, looking at the clouds occupying the sky above his crown-clad head. He wanted to hit something, wanted to shake Paris awake and kiss him, dominate him, take him as his again and forget everything that had passed the last six months. But it could not be shoved under a chair that Paris had been defiled. Over and over again. At the King’s command. And it had cost him a child. A child! He would have to make up for this. If he’d known, if he only known, then Paris could have been ripe with child by now, his perfect belly swollen. Paris was such a sight to behold with his belly big as a house. He should have been sleeping uneasily, tossing and turning to find the best position to rest in, he should have awakened every hour to pee, and huffed and puffed while getting up from the floor. Paris should have been straddling along, chewing on yet another small meal, barking at his King for some triviality, being annoyed at the belly for being in the way all the time, seeking the king’s comfort and cock, luring him away from his court and matters of the kingdom for a moment’s worth of pleasure, using the King shamelessly for his own satisfaction. And the King? Oh, how he’d loved it. For having a pregnant Prince Consort about was no joke. It was a lot of work, but the reward in the shape of a loving and big-bellied Consort was priceless.



Paris had been content with being pregnant. He’d shown great courage while giving birth, enduring the long hours of pre-birth while the birthcanal opened itself, blood cascading out and down his thighs. Never before had the king felt his knees go soft. Never before had he fainted infront of his minions. The Demon King smiled at the memories, looking over to where Paris lay. The grief the prince must have felt! The sorrow and anger of losing a new life inside him. The Demon King remained seated, gazing at Paris. The remorse coursing through him was like a river out of control, and very soon, the desert surrounding them, flooded over.



The minions and members of the court screamed at the sudden waves washing over them, and they struggled to salvage their belongings. Others were awoken by the water flowing over them, and they stood gasping and in shock, quickly gathering their wits and running towards the middle of the camp. Paris and Hephaisthos awoke also, and stood to see the wild river flood the surrounding sand, turning their camp into an island. Paris turned to gaze at the king, and quickly withdrew to Hephaisthos’ side as he saw the King’s molten red eyes and the fury shining from his face. His fist were clenched and his huge black wings poised, ready for flight. The King saw Paris looking at him, and quickly calmed as he realized what he’d just done.



“Ops. Paris, you’re awake. Good. Come, eat!” he smiled to Paris, motioning for the Trojan slave to sit and eat, like nothing had happened.

People screamed, and several was lost in the wild river. Some of the other slaves were lost, but a few were salvaged. Everyone scurried to save as much as possible, including some unfortunate riding animals. Hephaisthos made Paris sit. Paris’ eyes wandered to those who’d stopped to stare at them, then back at the food.



“Paris, you must eat” the Demon King tried again. Paris gazed around to see if there were any one named Paris around, wondering if he was supposed to serve the food for someone. He didn’t want this. He needed to pee. And then there was the water, the river and the screaming people. Perhaps the king wanted him. No, that wasn’t possible. He was a whore; the King wouldn’t lay a hand—



“Paris” the King told him again, getting his attention once more. Paris stared down on the food, his belly aching at the sight. The King bent forward, reaching for him with his right hand, yet in the moment Paris saw his fingers reaching for his chin, his throat or his eye maybe, he jerked backwards, hiding next to Hephaisthos’ legs. The King sighed at the rejection as Paris’ behaviour once again proved to him the agony the boy must have gone through. Yet it only strengthened his resolve.



“Make him eat, Hephaisthos. We’ll break camp soon. Whatever it takes makes him eat!” The King stood, and Hephaisthos bowed his head in obedience.



The King turned his back on them, busying himself with members of the court. He spoke intensely, his servants nodding, casting glances at Paris, then back at the king. Hephaisthos urged the young prince to eat, telling him the food was meant for Paris. Paris was caught up in watching the river recess and finally dwindle into nothing, just as abruptly as it had cleansed the dried up ground. All was covered in mud. Paris turned as Hephaisthos nudged his burnt shoulder, and started as he saw how close Hephaisthos was. He immediately sat down on hands and knees, opening his legs, steadying his knees in a comfortable position. He glanced over to the inviting fruit. Maybe, just maybe he could steal one. He expected a penetration to come, but none came. He wished for the mask and the safety it had become to him. Here he was all out in the open, more naked than ever. Wouldn’t Hephaisthos take him soon? What was wrong? He did not look over his shoulder. It was best that way, not knowing what or who was to come. Above his head, the sky turned black, thunder rolled menacingly and meteors started to pour, making all take cover. The meteors crashed into the ground, splintering the dried up earth into a blast of sand, getting in their eyes. Paris looked up to meet the red gaze of the Demon King, who had nailed him to the ground with his eyes.



“You dare to offer yourself to some one other than me!?” his voice thundered against Paris. Paris watched him in horror and wonder, not understanding what he’d done wrong. “You are to be mine, and mine alone! How dare you to give away—“



“—uh, my King?” Hephaisthos intervened meekly.



The Demon king stopped his hellish speech, the meteors ceased to fall and the thunder disappeared.



“What?” the King asked, lowering his arms.



“If I may be so bold, my lord, you haven’t given the Nameless One back his name. And neither have you told him to stop spreading his legs to everyone, and you’ve neglected to tell him that he is to be your Childbearer again, with all the privileges that involves, and he doesn’t know that you want him back.” Hephaisthos shut his eyes, clenching his teeth, expecting impending doom in the shape of a lightning or something to hit him in the head, but none came.



“Oh” the Demon King sighed, “I forgot about that.”



The Demon King looked over to Paris. His bronzed ass, full of bruises and week-old cuts didn’t look particularly inviting, especially when knowing that others had made those marks on him. No, the King decided, it didn’t look inviting at all. He nevertheless sat down between Paris’ legs and put his hands on his bottom. Paris held his breath and braced himself, tensing at the touch. The King traced the most prominent scar with his index finger, then bent down to smell Paris’ skin. It had been so long, so long since he’d smelled Paris, and he felt himself grow harder. He sensed that Paris shuddered beneath his breath. The King rose to kneel again, revealing his stiff member from underneath the robe he wore. Then the thought of Paris’ hole with other men’s sperm in it made him think again, and he hid his erection, discouraged and disgusted. He rose and left, ignoring Paris who’d bent down to rest on his elbows. He noticed that the King rose while arranging his robes, and Paris felt tears press on as he realized the King had just rejected him. Again. Another proof that he no longer was worth anything. The King snorted as he left, clearly disapproving, and Paris felt his heart drop to his knees. It was eventually Hephaisthos who made him get up on his knees, and ushered him over to the food, telling him to eat. The camp had almost been cleared, and he was running out of time. He grabbed as much food as he could carry and began to eat while he sneaked away to a large rock, peeing behind it while eating as much as he could. It felt strange to eat without the mask restraining his efforts and he could eat as large chunks as he saw fit. He wondered where it was, if it had been lost in the flood or if it was stashed away somewhere. He could easily get used to not wearing it, he told himself, and not understanding why it had been removed in the first place, he decided not to get too comfortable with it off.



The giant guards, all of Hephaisthos’ dark-skinned negro race, soon herded him back to the caravan, and he continued to eat as the party sat off towards the metropolis and the horrors awaiting there.



The morning soon progressed into a menacing heat, with the black sun above scorching everything on the surface underneath. Paris felt his skin get sore again, and his feet ached from walking through the burning sand. He was thirsty, and tired from being herded off by the guards walking at the rear of the party. He felt their eyes on his behind, felt them dig mental fingers into his cheeks, piercing him with their fanthom cocks. It was a balance between walking just far enough from the riding court members and being just out of reach of the guards. Paris felt himself fail, felt his feet getting caught in the sand because he was so tired and couldn’t keep his concentration up. He stumbled, rose quickly, then stumbled again, and true to their nature, they were over him in an instant. Just as Paris cried out at being penetrated by one of them, lightning hit said guard and he evaporated into ashes, leaving Paris with a breached and bloody entrance. He quickly crawled away, looking for refuge from the lightning bolt. The king’s riding animal came up on him, and the stallion reared infront of Paris who turned on his heel and scurried away, out into the desert. He got up on his feet, running, thinking he’d done something wrong again, thinking of his children, seeing them in his mind saying a mental goodbye. Running usually meant choosing death. It meant being shot from a distance, hunted down by big scavenging birds and have one’s skin picked from one’s body while still alive, or it meant being hunted like a deer by a party and tortured to death when one couldn’t escape the hooves of their animals anymore.

Paris was so utterly confused. Something was happening and he couldn’t see it, and it had to do with the King. It was almost for certain about the King giving him the final blow, and it must have been the scene some hours ago where Paris had been rejected. Perhaps the king had decided then he did not want to see Paris’ face ever again, leaving him to be swallowed by the desert. He ran, stumbled, got up and ran again. But he was soon out of breath, for he was tired and his feet hurt already, the coarse sand grinding away the skin underneath his feet. He heard approaching hooves behind him, heard the animal snort. Paris made for a dune, but it was much steeper than he’d anticipated, lost his balance and fell backwards, rolling down, getting himself covered in sand. He coughed violently, sitting up and trying to get his bearings. The animal reared again and snorted, and Paris tried to run past it, but was grasped by strong hands and dragged on top of the broad necked animal. He remained lying across it, his lungs hurting while he coughed, fighting for air. And soon, he’d been transported back to the caravan. Sweat ran down his temples as he peered up to survey the chest of his captor, to see who it was who’d won the right to have him this time. It was always enough to just view the chestplate or clothing there. No need to look all the way up and see their sly grins and distorted, demonic faces. He could tell by the clothing. And Paris was surprised to find it was the King himself. He quickly lowered his head, trying to put distance between them, not wanting to soil the King by coming in contact with him. He was a whore. A useless thing, and the king had proven him unworthy just hours ago. But the walk of the animal kept bumping them together, and keeping away from the King proved difficult and hard. Nor was the King doing anything to keep him up there, so Paris simply released his grip on the saddle and slid off, landing hard on his ass and quickly rolling away from the hooves. There, now the King didn’t have to get annoyed over the Nameless touching the King anymore.



The King abruptly stopped his animal, turned in his saddle and stared hard at Paris. Paris simply got up and began to walk past him, keeping his distance respectfully.



The King saw red.



Just as Paris had passed him, the King jumped out of his saddle and down unto the ground, and he slapped Paris hard across the face so the boy fell to the ground, bleeding from his nose.



“Disrespectful brat! Perhaps I should just let you rot out here in the desert instead!” he grabbed Paris by his curls, hoisted him up by the hair and slapped him again. Paris fell, seeing stars. He closed his eyes and remained lying, passive, just taking it. Sooner or later they all tired of the beating, especially once they saw that he didn’t fight back. For where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Where there’s a fight, there’s a rape. Either that or they raped him any way. “I try to do right by you and you ignore my efforts, insolent little maggot!” the King shouted, “I allow you up on my steed and you reject it!” the King spat again, “you just wait, Paris of Troy, you just wait till we get back to my palace. There I’ll have you chained to my bed day and night, and nor will you get a moment’s peace for I’ll take up a permanent residence between your thighs so you get to be with child again as soon as possible!”



Words, words just words, Paris sang inside his head, lalalala, I can’t hear them, they mean nothing. The pain is not real, just imagining it. I have no children, I have no children, and they’re not mine. I lost his love and I’m to blame. Better this way, better this way, he doesn’t love me, never has. Just words, just words. He never loved me and I never had a life—



“—and get up there right now—“



He felt panic invade his heart, and began to crawl away from the King. He was tired of the shouting voice, wishing to move on, not liking the aggressive display. It puzzled him that the King showed interest at all. It felt like the King was actually shouting at someone else and not him. Yes, Paris decided, it was someone else. The sand burned when he stood still, and he crawled on, looking for a way out of the crowd. A large brown hand on his shoulder stopped him, and he instantly recognized the toes of the giant. It was Hephaisthos. He helped Paris to stand, wiping away blood from his nose.



“The King’s angry” Paris whispered to Hephaisthos, “he’s very upset, I think”.



“He’s angry with himself, Paris of Troy, for he grieves over his lost unborn child and his love for you”.



“That isn’t my name” Paris whispered back nervously, “you mustn’t speak that name! The name is dead and buried. Dead and buried.”



“Where’s the child, Paris? The one you lost? Where is it? Where’d you bury it?” the King spoke calmly again. A little too calmly.



“What child?” Paris continued to whisper.



“Why are you whispering?” the king said, approaching him, trying to hide behind Hephaisthos.



“The Nameless One does not speak” Paris replied, bowing his head.



“Tell me where he’s buried!!” the King suddenly erupted, shouting angrily at Paris. In the distance, two mountains suddenly erupted, spewing lava which reshaped the hillside instantaneously.



Paris refrained from speaking again, learning his lesson. He kneeled instead, shivering in fear, surrendering to the King’s wrath, folding his hands in plea for mercy. Damn himself for opening his mouth. Nothing good ever came of that. Oh where was his mask when he needed it? Why had it been taken from him?