Staring up at her, a vision in white, he can't remember why the thought even sprang into his mind. She's stunning. More than stunning – she's celestial. The lingerie, white leather, hugs her curves, and the garter encircles her thigh in exactly the right way to draw attention to all that bare, creamy skin. The stained glass high up on the church walls, window after arched window depicting God's glory, lets in just the right hues to flatter her.
Her legs are scarred, above her white ankle boots, but Asmodeus doesn't mind. The flaws only add to the perfection, like a chipped dish repaired with molten gold.
"Do you miss this?" says Pythia, her voice soft and sweet. "It must be nostalgic, for you."
It is, in a way. He's not a lord of lust, anymore. Long gone are the days when his his time comprised an endless parade of supple, willing bodies. In their place are sterile meetings and ugly wounds, schemes and machinations and a thousand ambitions that need tending.
Now that she brings it up, it seems to him there's something warm and inviting about being here on his knees. The leather sleeve that binds his arms behind his back embraces him like a lover, and the collar around his throat reminds him of better times. The throbbing of his cock, bound up in a thick leather ring that encircles his shaft and pulls his balls away from his body – that feels good, too.
The ache is like coming home.
"You may speak," says Pythia, generous.
"Yes," croaks Asmodeus. "I miss this."
"Oh?" says Pythia. "Why is that?"
The words elude him. He feels tongue-tied, before her. His brain has slowed to a crawl; his entire existence centers around the throbbing of his cock.
"It's because he's not getting laid as much anymore," says Exael, helpful, from where she perches on the edge of a pew. Her grin is sharp and a little crooked. Her eyes dance.
If they were anywhere but here, she wouldn't dare be so flippant. If he had her alone, she would pay for the teasing slant to the words. But they are not, and Pythia is looking over him with kind, curious eyes, and so he says nothing.
"Is that so?" says Pythia.
"I have it on good authority," says Exael. She leans forward, and sets her elbows on her knees. "Poor thing hasn't had time to take a lover in months, now."
Pythia's expression softens, and she reaches out to set a hand on the crown of Asmodeus' head. "No wonder you so enjoy these sessions of ours. Do you miss me, when I'm not here?"
"Yes," says Asmodeus. His voice is quiet; he can't quite look at her.
The worst part is, it's true. When they're apart – when he can think beyond how lovely she is, and how benevolent, and how lucky he is to be in her presence – even then, he finds himself remembering the soft curve of her breasts and the gentle tilt of her lips when she smiles.
Pythia tips her head a little, like a graceful bird. "Exael," she says. "He's been honest with us. I believe he deserves a reward."
"Leave it to me," says Exael, bright and chipper.
Then she reaches out, without leaving her spot on the pew, to take his cock in hand.
Asmodeus hisses in a sharp breath between his teeth; he bucks into it, without quite meaning to. They've been at this for hours, already, and every tiny touch feels like too much. He's sure he'd have come long ago, if Pythia had deigned to allow it.
Exael's hand is still slick with lube from the last round, and very, very warm. Her fingers are narrow, and her palm is smooth. She works him in quick, insistent strokes, palming the tip on every upstroke. In ten seconds flat, he's panting. In thirty, he lowers his head and squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed.
"That's hardly a way to repay me," says Pythia. "I grant you a boon, and you look away from my glory?"
"I'm sorry," says Asmodeus, breathless.
"Open your eyes," says Pythia.
Asmodeus opens his eyes. He lifts his head again, and finds that she's smiling. His cock twitches in Exael's hand, a fraction of an inch from completion.
"Enough," says Pythia, and Exael lets him go.
Asmodeus groans, low and wanting. When Pythia reaches out to cup the side of his cheek with gentle fingers, he nearly melts.
"I'm afraid you'll have to apologize to me more thoroughly," says Pythia, "if you hope to be forgiven."
She puts a leg out for him, and he follows it down, miles and miles of inviting skin, to the place where the white leather boots cradle her ankle.
"Well?" says Pythia.
"I'm sorry," says Asmodeus again. "Please. I meant no disrespect."
He kisses the leather – once, and then again, and then again – as though by pressing his lips to the surface he can somehow erase his sin.
"Hmm," says Pythia. She draws it out, slow and considering. Her fingers thread into his hair; the nails scratch a little, there against his scalp. "I don't believe you."
The words sound like a death sentence. They sound like the end of the world.
"Unfortunately, you know what that means."
He knows.
It means that he'll be left here, aching and alone, until the magic that holds his bindings dissolves hours from now. It means being found by the demons that come to this church to worship – the Prince of Vengeance, bound and hard and on his knees, waiting for a blessing that will never come.
"Please," says Amodeus again. "God is merciful. God is kind."
"God," says Pythia, quietly, "let the whole world drown." She leans forward to press a kiss against his cheek, and the warmth stings him like a brand.
Then she steps back, and in a blinding flash of light, she and Exael are gone.
no subject
Mercy
===
He hates her.
Only, he doesn't.
Staring up at her, a vision in white, he can't remember why the thought even sprang into his mind. She's stunning. More than stunning – she's celestial. The lingerie, white leather, hugs her curves, and the garter encircles her thigh in exactly the right way to draw attention to all that bare, creamy skin. The stained glass high up on the church walls, window after arched window depicting God's glory, lets in just the right hues to flatter her.
Her legs are scarred, above her white ankle boots, but Asmodeus doesn't mind. The flaws only add to the perfection, like a chipped dish repaired with molten gold.
"Do you miss this?" says Pythia, her voice soft and sweet. "It must be nostalgic, for you."
It is, in a way. He's not a lord of lust, anymore. Long gone are the days when his his time comprised an endless parade of supple, willing bodies. In their place are sterile meetings and ugly wounds, schemes and machinations and a thousand ambitions that need tending.
Now that she brings it up, it seems to him there's something warm and inviting about being here on his knees. The leather sleeve that binds his arms behind his back embraces him like a lover, and the collar around his throat reminds him of better times. The throbbing of his cock, bound up in a thick leather ring that encircles his shaft and pulls his balls away from his body – that feels good, too.
The ache is like coming home.
"You may speak," says Pythia, generous.
"Yes," croaks Asmodeus. "I miss this."
"Oh?" says Pythia. "Why is that?"
The words elude him. He feels tongue-tied, before her. His brain has slowed to a crawl; his entire existence centers around the throbbing of his cock.
"It's because he's not getting laid as much anymore," says Exael, helpful, from where she perches on the edge of a pew. Her grin is sharp and a little crooked. Her eyes dance.
If they were anywhere but here, she wouldn't dare be so flippant. If he had her alone, she would pay for the teasing slant to the words. But they are not, and Pythia is looking over him with kind, curious eyes, and so he says nothing.
"Is that so?" says Pythia.
"I have it on good authority," says Exael. She leans forward, and sets her elbows on her knees. "Poor thing hasn't had time to take a lover in months, now."
Pythia's expression softens, and she reaches out to set a hand on the crown of Asmodeus' head. "No wonder you so enjoy these sessions of ours. Do you miss me, when I'm not here?"
"Yes," says Asmodeus. His voice is quiet; he can't quite look at her.
The worst part is, it's true. When they're apart – when he can think beyond how lovely she is, and how benevolent, and how lucky he is to be in her presence – even then, he finds himself remembering the soft curve of her breasts and the gentle tilt of her lips when she smiles.
Pythia tips her head a little, like a graceful bird. "Exael," she says. "He's been honest with us. I believe he deserves a reward."
"Leave it to me," says Exael, bright and chipper.
Then she reaches out, without leaving her spot on the pew, to take his cock in hand.
Asmodeus hisses in a sharp breath between his teeth; he bucks into it, without quite meaning to. They've been at this for hours, already, and every tiny touch feels like too much. He's sure he'd have come long ago, if Pythia had deigned to allow it.
Exael's hand is still slick with lube from the last round, and very, very warm. Her fingers are narrow, and her palm is smooth. She works him in quick, insistent strokes, palming the tip on every upstroke. In ten seconds flat, he's panting. In thirty, he lowers his head and squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed.
"That's hardly a way to repay me," says Pythia. "I grant you a boon, and you look away from my glory?"
"I'm sorry," says Asmodeus, breathless.
"Open your eyes," says Pythia.
Asmodeus opens his eyes. He lifts his head again, and finds that she's smiling. His cock twitches in Exael's hand, a fraction of an inch from completion.
"Enough," says Pythia, and Exael lets him go.
Asmodeus groans, low and wanting. When Pythia reaches out to cup the side of his cheek with gentle fingers, he nearly melts.
"I'm afraid you'll have to apologize to me more thoroughly," says Pythia, "if you hope to be forgiven."
She puts a leg out for him, and he follows it down, miles and miles of inviting skin, to the place where the white leather boots cradle her ankle.
"Well?" says Pythia.
"I'm sorry," says Asmodeus again. "Please. I meant no disrespect."
He kisses the leather – once, and then again, and then again – as though by pressing his lips to the surface he can somehow erase his sin.
"Hmm," says Pythia. She draws it out, slow and considering. Her fingers thread into his hair; the nails scratch a little, there against his scalp. "I don't believe you."
The words sound like a death sentence. They sound like the end of the world.
"Unfortunately, you know what that means."
He knows.
It means that he'll be left here, aching and alone, until the magic that holds his bindings dissolves hours from now. It means being found by the demons that come to this church to worship – the Prince of Vengeance, bound and hard and on his knees, waiting for a blessing that will never come.
"Please," says Amodeus again. "God is merciful. God is kind."
"God," says Pythia, quietly, "let the whole world drown." She leans forward to press a kiss against his cheek, and the warmth stings him like a brand.
Then she steps back, and in a blinding flash of light, she and Exael are gone.