The Rise of the Demon King's Consort

The Demon King moaned one last time, and buried himself into Paris, sighing contentedly. Paris was fuming, yet he kept his jaws closed tight, not uttering a sound. Feeling so torn asunder by a rage he should not be feeling, was taking its toll, for he fought it with all his willpower. He remained standing on hands and knees, expecting more. For more always came, whether he wanted it or not. The King had laid down to rest next to him on the bed, gazing up at him, trying to see through the cobweb that was tangled brown curls.

Paris looked away, down into the mattress. He wanted to go and relieve himself and then find a spot to sleep. His patience was wearing thin, and that meant he was spiralling down into a terrible night, a night filled with much distress and rape after rape. He usually managed to convince himself he wanted it, that it was good and that he was made to serve, and he could go on for some good three rounds. But if his patience was worn thin from hunger and lack of sleep, he often got emotional. If it shone through, then his abusers would delight in his misery, heaping further misery upon him by prolonging the rapes and the tortures. Why should the Demon King be any different?

“Why, my beautiful, you are crying. You should not hide your beauty away from your King. All though, I do love your curls, they smell so delicious. Isn’t it good to know I hid your face behind that mask so your face would retain its beauty only for me? No one else are to touch those magnificent cheekbones—“the Demon King said, reaching out to touch Paris’ face. His Temple flinched, avoiding his caress, expecting a slap in the face.

“May the whore be excused now, my lord? Has his Majesty finished?” Paris said coldly, unable to quite hide his contempt.

“No” the Demon King replied, somewhat taken a back by the unexpected question, “no you may not. You are to stay in this room, in this bed until I say otherwise” the Demon King gazed at him, his reply hiding questions he wanted answered. “You shall lay down Paris. I will not watch you pose in such a— a whore like manner!” The Demon King continued, “like— as if you were just waiting for the next one to—“he could not find the correct words. Seeing Paris still standing on his hands and knees like that, gave him a glimpse of what Paris had gone through the last six months, the depths of his humiliation. He briskly brushed the insight away, and continued: “I don’t see any arousal. You should be— be quivering with need, a trembling bundle of lust begging for release at my feet, you should be assaulting me with your desire. Like—“the Demon King paused, “like before. It all. Happened“. The silence and awkwardness which followed was heart wrenching, for Paris made no excuse, made no attempt to rectify his error. Made no attempt to satisfy himself or beg for satisfaction. It was highly disturbing.
During the happy days, the Demon King had found himself on the defensive side while Paris was the one who never got enough, being all aggressive, keeping the Demon King up at night, exhausting the King of the Seventh Plane of Hell with his bottomless pool of lust, chasing the King for more. Never before in his kingdom had something like that happened. And the court had laughed at him, shaking their heads and nodded approvingly at Paris, saluting him with their drinks instead of to their King, praising the slave for his skills in bed, elevating him to Prince Consort by word of mouth alone, glad to see justice finally done to the Demon King. He’d completely fallen in love with the living slave who proved to be more than his match, finding himself to be somewhat startled over the young prince’s ferocity once they’d gotten acquainted, delighted and scared at the prospect of actually having to make excuses about not feeling like uniting with Paris. Simply because the young Prince Consort had worn him out to such a degree he had nothing more to give. Empty. Out of stock. No energy, no semen left, in dire need to recharge and restock. Drained like an empty lake. A wandering desert being chased after by a… strange looking ship made from a Black Pearl? The Demon King shook away the flash of insight which meant nothing to him. A piece of information of a distant future. It did not concern him. Not here and now.

“If your Majesty would be so kind then” Paris spoke coldly again, impersonal and seemingly unaffected, “I beg leave only so I may tend to a… personal need which at the moment is becoming most immediate. For I do not wish to, to soil your bed, Your Highness, please!”

The Demon King hesitated for a moment. Then comprehension set in, and he replied: “Ah, oh yes, you still have that…thing, that need. Do be on your way.”

“Thank you” Paris said, getting up immediately and leaving the room, immediately escorted by Hephaisthos. The Demon King watched his slave leave, then stretched out on the bed, spreading his mighty black wings above him. It should have been a contented stretch, and he should have been yawning, satisfied and sleepy from a decent round in the sack with the love of his life. Like it used to be. But something was out of place. Something in Paris’ behaviour which stopped the King from having it his way. What was it called again? What was the name Paris had used, all those months ago? Oh yes. Guilt. The feeling you got when doing something to someone which you then regretted doing. He closed his eyes and saw that black ship again, this time riding the waves of a vast ocean. The Demon King was trying to touch down on the roof if it’s main cabin, But he was denied, repelled by a wave of hate and fear, fear and hate, an invisible shield. The agony, knowing his children resided inside, so close yet so out of reach. Enraged of being in love, enraged of feeling regret for the first time in millennia, remembering how horrid a feeling it had been, experiencing a kind of déjà vu. Was it Paris? No, not Paris. Another kind of Paris, yet always the same, a criminal, a sinner, a bringer of destruction. Paris would one day die, content with his goals fulfilled while the Demon King lived on in eternal thirst in one demonic shape after the other, dominating slaves, watching them live and grow old until end of time. An eternal circle. Such loneliness…! By all that was unholy how he hated when his demonic powers took off with all of the visions! He hit down had into the mattress. He heard the cries of a child – his child, and he immediately knew it was the three year old. Again also the yearling cried, and the King then heard Paris’ soothing voice, hushing them, speaking of love. The King buried his face in the silken sheets, listening to the sounds of a family reunited, distressed children frightened they’d lose what just had been restored. It cut deep in his heart to hear their complaining sobs, the three year old crying ‘daddy don’t leave me!’ again, just like he had in those days after Paris had been declared a whore and a traitor. The three year old had run away, looking for his father, the only light in his life, for in the child’s eyes, the King had read the truth, that he, he King was to blame for this catastrophe, not Paris. How could you take my daddy from me?! The King gritted his teeth in agony as the sobs of the three year old resounded in his ears, reminding him of those big brown eyes staring pleadingly at him, reminding him so very much of his beloved Paris. That’s why he’d hardly dealt with the children afterwards, hardly paid them any attention at all for six months, alienating himself. Sorrow bloomed in his chest as he removed the crown from his head, tossed it carelessly on the bed and walked towards the children’s room in a trance.

Upon seeing the robed Demon King in the doorway, Sakias, son of Paris former Prince of Troy, screamed and clung to his Trojan father, holding on as tight as he could around his neck, screaming and spitting against the king, begging for him not to take Paris away. The child was deadbeat and red-rimmed around the eyes, becoming even more hysterical as the King grudgingly entered the room.
The yearling was more or less the same, basically following his brother’s behaviour, sensing that something bad was happening and that there was cause for alarm. Saieros had been roused from a state of restless sleep about his Trojan father’s nipple, remembering why he favoured Paris over the other father, and in his dream he’d been reminded of the smell of his father’s precious milk, the life-giving white droplets which tasted so sweet, the smell of the skin and the soft flesh and its warmth. Safety, was the common denominator for all that, and seeing Paris and the Demon King in the same room meant that safety, how ever brief, was about to disappear. That was his last memory of seeing the two parents together. The King had told Paris to leave, to be a whore to his men, and Paris had been heartbroken, tears flowing down his cheeks, as he’d kissed the only four month old Saieros good bye. The boy now stretched up as tall as he was, holding up his hands, begging for Paris to come lift him up and into the safety of his lap.

Their sudden distress at his appearance in the doorway was more than enough. He saw Paris turn his head briefly to see his King’s feet. Paris hurried his words to the three year old, ushering him to bed, trying to free himself from the weeping child, abviously bervous, watching the King’s steps as he approached the little family. Sakias’ hatred and sorrow was glowing, and he thrashed and hit after the Demon King, fighting in the ways only a child can. Saieros was screaming from the top of his lungs. Then Sakias joined him, and their screams resounded so loudly all fragile things immediately shattered into a multitude of shards.

Then things began to happen very fast.

Paris watched in horror as his children screamed in pain. He could hear their joints and bones growing, hear it and see it with his naked eye. Their soft skin evolved, going from natural flesh tones to bone white. Paris scrambled to pick up Saieros, too soothe him, but as he made it to the crib, it broke as the yearling turned into a grown man, shedding the skin of the baby, tossing it aside like a used jacket. Paris fell to his knees, scrambled backwards in shock as the soft baby features had gone, and he found himself staring into a demonic apparition, a handsome young man with glowing golden eyes. The demon spread his wings, stretching them, testing the black feathered, full wings. They accidentally brushed against the face of his elder brother, and Sakias turned to roar at his brother in brotherly annoyance. Sakias too, had turned to a full grown male, and Paris noticed to his horror the enormous erect cocks jutting out from above perfectly rounded sacks between the legs on each of them. Their heads touched the roof, and their wings were bent low in lack of space.

The Demon King was kneeling in awe, staring at his two magnificent demon sons. His horror turned to triumph as it finally seeped into his mind what he was looking at. His warlords! These boys would command and build his great armies, they would be the very key to his dominance of Hell, uniting it as one kingdom. His kingdom. But they paid him no heed. They were staring at Paris, their brows drawn up in distress and worry. A sore, compassionate look on their faces not becoming of fierce warlords. And it dawned on the King, that Paris the Prince Consort was, and always had been, the one in charge. Saieros and Sakias turned to face Paris, taking steps closer, bending down to be closer. Paris was huddled in a corner, with his knees drawn up to his chin, frightened out of his wits, sobbing unrestrained.

“Father…!” their voices resounded in union, filled with empathy, the voices of grown men, of leaders. “Know that we are still your children! We are yours to command. In times of crisis, our powers evolve. Our innocence and childhood have been sacrificed. This time”, they turned to stare at the Demon King with contempt in their golden glowing eyes, “we make sure disaster is avoided. What is your command?” they said, turning to Paris.

They awaited for Paris to say something, and they watched him blink several times as comprehension seeped in, blinking away tears. He then stuttered: “Th—my children! Are you going to rape me?!“ He eyed their erections again, questioningly.

“What do you command, father?” they repeated, looking at him solemnly, ignoring his question.

To his surprise, Paris finally answered: “I wish he’d still be alive inside me, alive and well, making it all the way…!” Paris sobbed, “let his death be undone, please I beg you, I’ll do anything, just let him be alive again!”