The Rise of the Demon King's Consort

The heavy clouds had turned into a dark grey, clouding all of the sky, and the midday turned bleak and sombre. The raindrops tasted of salt, like a multitude of tears, and the memebers of the caravan sat silently on top of their riding animals, hunching their shoulders while they wished to escape the unnatural rain.
Outside the city walls, the guards charged at the miserable heap of lowlives, lost souls and scavengers, taking out their anger and frustration of being soaked in tears, cutting them down and chasing them away so the caravan had safe passage. The Demon King was in a foul mood, and it reflected on everyone. He was reclaiming the former Prince Consort. If there was anyone who could undo the King, then it was Paris of Troy, Destroyer of Kingdoms. For some, it was good to see them back together. Paris had worked wonders with the King earlier, and te Demon’s judgement had become better, his power and esteem increased. Then the downfall of the Prince Consort, and the King had slowly returned to his former self, and the little light that had been in the end of the tunnel, had diminished.
The conflict between the two was, however, painfully present, all though unspoken, and already the crows and vultures had flown to the city, shouting, spreading the news of the King’s failure and the Prince Consort’s innocense and his misery. The caravan was oblivious to this, and did not expect the stream of people who gathered in the streets, undeads, souls and demons alike, watching the King and his consort on their marching riding animal.

Paris widened his eyes in fear as he, for a moment’s forgetfullnes, looked down to meet their gazes up on him. What he saw, made him tremble with fear, afraid the Demon King would have an instant change of heart and throw him to the crowd. He was a naked as he could become, sitting there astride without his mask, feeling the Demon King’s manhood through the small of his back, separated only by a thin fabric, sensing how it grew bigger and harder by every movement from the huge animal they sat on top of.
He looked straight ahead, avoiding the stares from the bystanders, avoiding the condemning looks, their scalding and conceit, trying to shut out the murmurs from the crowds, not wanting to see their shaking heads and angry manners. He wanted to turn away, to escape. He felt dirty, as if he had a thousand and more visible handprints all over his body, tell tale signs of the whore he’d been ordered to become. Had he but looked closer, he would have seen that the gazes of the angry mob weren’t directed at him, but at his King sitting behind him, holding the reins in one hand whilst embracing Paris’ waist with the other, holding him tight and protected. That was at least the intention, though Paris felt as if the King held his arm around his waist as to ensure a grip which easily let him toss the whore to the ground, should he be displeased. And now that they were within the city walls, where everything were ten times more dangerous to Paris, the exiled Prince had lost all chance of escape, for there would be nowhere to flee. Only Hephaisthos may find it in his heart to help him, should he fall. Paris did not dare to turn his head and look for the tall, brown-skinned giant. He was probably at the farthest end of the caravan, and would probably not want to help him any way, should he ever make it to Paris in time. Which was too much to hope for, and would never happen.

They made it to the steps of the palace stair. It winded a long way up, and the party was split in different fractions, taking separate routes. The Demon King was lost in conversation with his courtmembers, and Paris drifted away with the servant group, assuming the Demon King had lost interest. Paris felt relieved, and followed them around back, trying to keep a low profile, as he was tired and didn’t want another assault upon his body. Inside, he stole a piece of bread and helped himself with some water. Finding an alcove underneath a massive oak table, he crawled beneath it and seated himself there, devouring the bread greedily. Food for the living was hard to come by in general for the living who, either purposely or unpurposely found themselves in Hell, one level or another. While he was sitting there, he heard a commotion, and guards stormed in, immediately searching high and low. They saw him, and the shouting silenced, and he was dragged out, desperately eating the remains of the bread. It could very well prove to be his second and last meal of the day. They took him by the shoulders, and helped him along, his feet hardly touching the ground, and he was amazed at how gentle they handled him considering they were probably taking him to the guard’s quarters for a bit of fun.
The guards were the first ones to have him, he’d never forget that. They’d dragged him screaming down the same corridor they were gently leading him down now, and strapped a belt around his waist with a hook on it. Then they’d hoisted him up through a hook in the ceiling, and pulled his legs open, tying them to the rope using a pole, tying his hands behind his back. Suspended in midair like that, they’d taken him, and they had attached small golden bells to his nipple rings and laughed heartily as they tolled each time someone had thrusted into him from behind. What pain and terror, the seemingly endless hours he’d spent in their company, satisfying them. How he had learnt to hate their drunken games in the small hours of the night! He was nothing more than a sack of potatoes to them. Despite his hate, he’d spent so many times afterwards, when they’d all passed out by the alcohol intake, scavenging on their ale, cautiously pouring it inside the mouth hole of the golden mask, drinking every drop, scooping up spent seamen from his rapists, feeding on every last drop, sucking it off his index finger, slicing up salted dried meat and feeding it to himself through the hole of the golden mask. Then, going to the toilet in some dark corner somewhere, pressing out the unwanted sperm along with excrement, cleansing himself, before passing out underneath a table somewhere, in relative safety. Unseen, unheard, tired oh so tired, his last thoughts before sleep going to his children. That is, if they remembered to let him down.
In stead of taking a left, down the stairs to the guard’s quarters, he was brought up the stairs to the right, up to the palace level. They led him onwards until he finally found himself in the Demon King’s bedroom, with all of it’s familiar scents. Bags littered the floor. They were packed with children’s clothes, and he heard children’s voices emerge, herd them coming closer.
Paris turned on his heel, wanted to storm outside and run, run until he no longer stand, and then drop, never to wake again. He did not want to see them, did not want to remember the joys and the laughs to just have them stare blankly at him, not remembering who he was. Perhaps they’d be disgusted and cry. He did not want to endure that pain. Any other pain yes, he could take the torture and the rapes, but not seeing his children’s faces, to feel their denial etch into his memory. The guards held him, turned him to face the children as they came storming towards them. Paris had no choice but to calm himself upon seeing the eldest. A beautiful boy of three years. He was no longer blonde, but resembled Paris more, with unruly curls hanging down into his face, almost down to his stout little nose. Underneath the curls glowed a pair of golden walnut-shaped eyes. He stopped to stare at Paris, who immediately expected the boy to scream and turn. Instead, the child threw himself at Paris, crawling up into his lap, embracing him with his thin small arms. He’d grown so thin, and he immediately began to cry intensely in Paris’ embrace, holding on to Paris very tight. From underneath the veil separating the bedchamber from the living room came another boy, a yearling, crawling on hands and knees. He spent a little more time surveying the two together, gazing curiously at Paris as if he tried to remember where he’d seen the man before. Then it dawned on him that it was his father, and he immediately set course for Paris’ already taken lap, and struggled his way up until he found himself sitting there as well. They sat like that for the longest time, until the sobbing of the three year old subsided. But he still refused to let go, and Paris was forced to carry them both off to the living room. He nearly dropped them as he found himself standing infront of the King. The youngest was born with black wings, and the feathers got in his face as he eyed the king, before he dropped his gaze to the floor. He walked over to a small pool, sat down and tried to loosen the children’s grip around his neck. It was impossible. The three year old held so hard, and whimpered as soon as Paris moved a little to sit more comfortably. He could no longer keep his tears from falling, and he felt them fall with shame in his heart.

“Hephaisthos” the Demon King said to his honour guard, “my little family which you see gathered infront of us here, is to be your charge again. I shall claim Paris as my own again, to night, and his body shall become my temple anew” he said, gesturing towards Paris and the children, “his days as a whore to my soldiers are over. Never again shall such a mistake be done.” The Demon King rose solemnly and walked over to Paris and the children. The little one was trying his wings, and Paris noticed how the boy’s toes almost lifted from the ground. The nurse was going to need a harness and a rope to keep the child from flying into danger. That was for sure. Paris had to inform Hephaisthos, so that he in turn could inform the nurse. He was just the whore, and no one listens to a whore.

“—and bathe, and perhaps you would play a little with them until bedtime so you can reacquaint yourself with them. They’ve missed you immensely. Especially our eldest.”

Paris heard someone talking, and he looked up. Had he been spoken to? Probably not. He was just a slave, no one would want to spend time on him. He glanced over to the familiar large stone table, which was littered with bread, butter, meat, fruit and luscious apple wine. His stomach growled yet he felt no appetite as he would surely lose his children again very soon.

There was an awkward silence, as the Demon King held his tongue, waiting for Paris to say something.

“Paris? ”The Demon King finally gave in and said, expecting to get his slave’s attention. But Paris was small talking with his children, for the eldest was dragging him towards the food, and the yearling was taking off, then losing his balance and dropping onto the stone tiles on the floor. The Demon King refrained from asking again, for Paris’ face was alight with joy, animated and right back into the role of being a devoted father. The eldest smiled and laughed for the first time in months, and the little one was flying, really flying, eager to join in, crawling up and down on Paris’ lap, pulling his hair and clapping him in the face with his chubby little hand. It was strange to behold, for neither child would act in such a manner around the King. The Demon King went over to his throne of pillows, and sat down dejectedly as it dawned on him that despite Paris’ hardships as an army whore, it wasn’t really Paris who had been punished, but their children. The Demon King had taken from them their one solid rock, and left them to the mercy of various nannies who could spare whatever time. Another result of the Demon King’s mistake. He drank quietly from a goblet whilst observing Paris with the children, laughing and talking, hushing his children every time they got carried away, telling him stories of what they’d done whilst he’d been away.
Paris fed his children, offering them slices of food, but taking none himself, making excuses to his eldest about not being hungry all though the Demon King could hear Paris’ belly growl all over to where the king was seated. The eldest started yawning a bit, and then dragged Paris off to the children’s room, wanting to show it off.

“Hephaisthos” the Demon King commanded once Paris was out of sight, “keep your eyes on them at all times. Especially Paris. Like I said, my temple has returned. Make sure he eats” the Demon King sat back and drank from his goblet again, lost in thought. He watched Hephaisthos move, and fill a large plate with food of various kinds before following Paris.

It soon became bedtime, and the children wailed and complained, not wanting to go to sleep. The eldest boy was especially difficult, not wanting to let his daddy out of his sight. As Paris finally left him alone and returned to the Demon King who sat awaiting him in the living room, he’d just as soon entered the room as the boy came running with tears streaming down his face, begging him not to leave. Numerous reassurances later Paris was again able to leave, and went to the living room which was richly decorated in silk draperies and fiery tapestry. Quite unexpectedly, he fell to his knees in front of the King, and begged permission to speak. The Demon King was surprised over his directness, and allowed it, curious to hear what Paris finally had to say.

“Thank you so much, my liege, for allowing me time with your children. Thank you, it made me very happy. I am very grateful. I now take my leave, and I bid you a good night. Again, thank you” Paris said, bowing deep. He then got up, bowed again and started on his way out. He heard both of the children crying for their dada, but he’d taken his leave, and was determined to just sneak away, not wishing to intrude any longer. Besides, he was tired because of the emotional turmoil meeting his children again had been, and needed to start looking for a place of relative safety, preferably underneath a large oak table again somewhere, where he could dream of his children and continue to daydream in the morning. That was unless a guard caught him on his way to the servant’s quarters and dragged him to a watchtower or to a watchman’s bunk, being forced to spend the night there with a fat guard’s cock up his ass, listening to the wheezes as the fat one struggled to keep up the tempo. This lovely time with his children had simply been a dream. Yes, that’s how it was. A dream. He’d just awoken from a dream.

“Paris” a voice called. Paris took no notice, and started out the golden doors and down the stairs. At the end of the stairs, a guard timely enough blocked his passage, and said:

“So, whore, back into the warmth again, ey? Or perhaps you were just on your way back down to the servant’s quarters? Has the King taken you yet? No? Too bad. Nice seeing your face for once you know, maybe this time you can lay the other way so I can gaze into your eyes and taste your lips, pretending that you’re my woman, how about that? All you have to do is to alter your voice a bit and squeal a little higher—“

“—Paris!” Hephaisthos’ mighty silhouette loomed in the doorway, drawing his sword. There was that name again. Paris looked at the guard, then turned to gaze at Hephaisthos. “Paris of Troy, you are to return to your king. He awaits you” his deep voice rumbled staccato, doing his best to sound eloquently. Of all the giant honour guards, Hephaisthos was the one who was best with words, the most eloquent one with the most variable vocabulary. The giant was suddenly there, and grasped the young Prince while eyeing the guard.

“The Temple has returned” he simply said to the guard, before leaving with Paris.

The Demon King stood as Paris entered anew. At his side was the three year old, who immediately ran into Paris’ arms.

“So little one, can you tell your dada what his name is? Like we agreed?” the Demon King asked the boy while folding his arms.

“Bajiis, Pajiis” the boy said, exaggerating the syllables.

“That’s right. Paris” the Demon King said, “Paris of Troy, Paris the Childbearer, Paris Destroyer of Kingdoms and Seducer of Demon Kings” the king smiled, meeting Paris’ indifferent gaze.

“Where IS Paris?” Paris asked, eager to finally find out who they all were referring to. The boy giggled and pointed at Paris, thinking his daddy was joking with him.

“It’s you, dada!!” the boy said, throwing himself into Paris’ embrace again.

“Me?!” Paris said surprised. “Really?!”

“Now the child must sleep, and you, Paris, must bathe” the king ordered. The boy was sent off to bed, and Paris grudgingly obeyed. The water was hot and soothing, yet Paris wondered if he would be drowned in it or not, picturing himself lying on the bottom with his hair floating around his head like a dark brown halo. Best not to get too comfortable.

“I want my Temple clean and pleasant smelling. I have come to the conclusion, Paris, that I cannot be picky. If I am to make you with child again, I must simply persuade your body to start the childbearing process so I may have access to the most holiest of holy. Your belly. Right now, there’s nothing more but a hole in your bottom for me, so one must make do with what one have, however soiled it may be. And with a little luck, your birthcanal will open after just days, so we may join to create another perfect—“the Demon King stopped to stare at Paris. The Trojan was shaking, tears flowing in streams, as he got out of the water and walked briskly over to the nearest window, leaping onto the railing. It dawned on the king what Paris was about to do, and both he and Hephaisthos leapt off to catch him, for the building in which they resided, was tall. Very tall. They managed to pin him to the floor, their hearts caught in their throats. Paris gasped for air, the sobs caught in his throat as he tried to beg for mercy, thinking he was being assaulted again. He stopped wriggling, and instead spread his legs in a routined manner, laying flat on his stomach, waiting for his offenders to distribute their weights better so he could breather again. It was an effective method which usually worked. The Demon King, annoyed with Paris’ outburst, dragged him up by the brown curls and pushed him into the pool. He was about to say something as he heard and then saw the three year old screaming in the doorway from his bedroom, obviously just having witnessed his daddy being manhandled. This was going to be more difficult than first expected, the king mused, as Paris reached out for the boy, motioning for him to go to bed again.

“It’s all right, my son, it’s all right! Go back to bed now. Daddy’s just taking a little swim” Paris forced a smile, yet it was unconvincing because he was about as upset as the child was. He got out of the pool, knowing he was risking the king’s wrath, wiped water away from his face and knelt by the boy, speaking reassuringly to him. The boy nodded, and Paris escorted him back to bed, dripping wet.

Once he came back out, he considered to run, but knowing from experience that it was probably a bad idea. And he would be leaving the children behind. The children.

“You are going to bathe. Right here. Right now. Then, you will eat some more food, for I do not like the way you look, and then you will go to bed. In my royal bed. Over there” the Demon King pointed over to a large oval bed flush mounted in the floor. They’d laughed and enjoyed each other in that bed. So many memories coming back. When he’d been pregnant with his eldest, the water had broken in that bed. During an orgasm. The King had been more worried than him, the Childbearer. They’d shared entire meals there, and the King would sit up and rub Paris’ shoulders and comb his hair with his fingers, telling him his secrets. Like real lovers. That had been a totally different life. A different reality. An alternate, happier Paris. All that goodness was shattered now, and Paris could not ever see it restored. But that was probably not the king’s intention either. Paris reminded himself of that he was a use and throw away item. The King today, a slimy incubus tomorrow. Same hole, different demons, that was all. Neither made Paris any special. He was just a whore. All that talk about being a Temple! No, the King would soon enough find Paris to be just a common whore with no refined qualities at all. And the king would be disappointed, and then throw him out again. So no need to get one’s hopes up. If the King really wanted him to play kicks with for some nights then fine. Perhaps he could be allowed to spend some time with the children during the daytime. Maybe—

“—Paris?! Listen to me! I am your King!”

Oh bugger. There he went and got philosophical again. Keeping focus and concentrated these days was tough. Really tough. He simply tuned out automatically after a brief second or so, and it was becoming annoying that people always had to talk so much. He could listen to his sons babble all day, but when other men spoke, he simply lost track right away. There were other things to do, food to steal, the next place to find where he could relieve himself and another vacant alcove to fight for so he could perhaps get a full night’s sleep, out of reach, away from hungry eyes.