DevilsRapture

Devil’s Rapture

~Andromeda Bliss~

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

© Copyright 2015 Andromeda Bliss

No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

WARNING:
This is adult erotica and contains graphic sexual content. It is intended for readers 18 and older only.
Author’s note:
All characters depicted in sexual acts in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older

Also by Andromeda Bliss, escape to a sultry new world in her Sci-Fi Erotica series, found on Andromeda’s
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Devil’s Rapture

____________________________

Hell sucks.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking.
No shit. Ain’t it supposed to suck, asshole?
You’re right. (You’re also downright mouthy, but I like that about you.) The thing is, Hell doesn’t just suck for human souls damned to eternal torment. Demons like me have to put up with a lot of hassle down in the pit.

Sure, the gig starts off great. Lots of succulent souls to torture any way we want, lots of fun to be had for a demon with imagination. But it gets old after a few hundred years. And there is just nowhere to hide from the fiery eye of Big D. Always looking over our shoulders, just waiting for us to screw up so he can shred some demon ass. That sneaky bastard makes sure he gets some, too. Normally I love lies, cheats, and mind games, but not when I’m on the receiving end and never win.

Having your guts ripped out by the blackest of fallen angels can make a demon feel pretty damned inadequate.

So I bailed. I’m an escapee, a refugee, a lesser devil on the loose. My brothers and sisters usually don’t last long on the surface. Too drunk on freedom and sweet air, too arrogant to think they’d ever get caught and shipped back down river. Usually they make a spectacle, drawing attention from either those dickless do-gooders upstairs, or from the Boss’ retrieval squad downstairs. I’m smarter than that. I’m also fuckin’ lucky, which helps.

My escape from Hell didn’t exactly go according to plan. To be honest, I’m pretty sure I got lost. Maybe it was that left at the second level. Maybe it was listening to directions in the first place from that demon bitch with breath like last week’s tacos—she always hated me. Anyway, I found a crack and scraped my way out, but it was like being skinned alive and turned inside out.

By the time I reached the surface, I was in no shape to party. I had to find a place to lay low, hunker down, and lick my wounds. Recover my dignity and sense of fun.

I got lucky. I found a cave.

Didn’t seem so lucky at first, though. I mean, who wouldn’t rather check into a swank hotel, order room service and high-class whores, and recover in luxury? But that would’ve been a little too high-profile—at the time, I didn’t have the strength to look human or ride around inside somebody’s skin. So a cold, dark cave decorated with bat shit became my new home-away-from-home.

At first, I had no joy. Pain rode me like a racehorse pounding for a fatal finish line. That sucked, but I’d had worse in the pit. The worst thing was the
silence.
After all the myriad sounds of Hell, the quiet in my little corner of the surface was maddening. I muttered to myself a lot just to hear something other than dripping stalactites and random bat conversation.

The muttering probably gave me away. That and the acrid, smoky scent of Hell we demons always carry around with us like a souvenir of home. Some enterprising human with the curiosity and balls to explore snuck into my hiding place and figured out what I was.

Then he ran screaming. Literally.

That gave me a chuckle or two, but I was worried about what he planned to do. In my weakened condition, it wouldn’t take much to send me back to Hell. A sketchy exorcism, a loud enough prayer sent Above, and my ass would make skid marks all the way down the pit chute.

The Boss appreciates initiative, but more likely he’d rip me apart, one slow narrow strip at a time, then let my fellow demons do the same for a few decades.

But my luck held. I must have looked pretty damned scary or badass in my ruined state, because instead of trying to get rid of me, they sent me a sacrifice. Apparently when a demon moves into the neighborhood, the dumb villager handbook says stake a skinny virgin nearby as a house-warming present.

I wasn’t just appeased. I was downright
delighted.
There I was, on the surface in the middle of nowhere, free of the pit but torn to shreds, a fugitive staring at a future of endless bat guano and long silence. Not exactly what I’d signed up for. I’d even started wondering if it was worth it. Then
bam,
I get a virgin on a silver platter. Figuratively speaking—not sure those yokels knew what a silver platter was. They were ignorant, but I remember them fondly. They saved me, after all.

Looking back, I’m guessing I would have done one of two things if that first virgin hadn’t shown up. Either I would’ve gone on a rampage like all my brethren (hey, it’s just our nature) or I would’ve crawled back to big D like a boot-licking, chicken-shit failure. Instead, I had a new play toy and started learning about the sweet torments of pleasure. I nearly killed that first one, which I do kinda feel bad about. Just unprofessional and sloppy. But I learned, improved, evolved. Eventually they started sneaking back into my cave for more. And my future turned fucking
rosy.

These days, I usually have to go out to find my toys. Not hard, since there’s a freakin’

bazillion of them, and a fine slice of deviants eager and able to play. I’m amazed how much people have changed, how little they fear me now. I don’t go out without my human face on, but I can’t help the trace of Hell on my skin and in my eyes. Instead of shrinking away, though, they gravitate to me like I’m a new treat they want to try. I take advantage, of course. I
am
a demon, after all.

But I always go back to my cave. Sure, I could probably buy a penthouse in some great big, phallic skyscraper and live large. Would only be a matter of time before somebody took notice, though, so…what’s that line? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?

It’s hard to resist. I am a greedy bastard, and the world is one tempting, ripe bitch just waiting to be rode hard. But I leave that game to the big players and the high rollers, and focus my greed on the sweet meat in hand. Or claw, whatever. And they are sweet, every last one of them. All that tender flesh, begging to be played like a harp, each tune so unique. My favorite part is the moment of acceptance, when they realize they’re fucking a walking deadly sin and just don’t care.

The moment of corruption.

Not that corruption means much anymore. Hell, not long ago I had a woman who didn’t even bat an eye at the demon thing, just asked me if I could make a second cock and drill her in both holes at once. I fell in love a little bit. But it’s not human nature that’s changed, only the societal rules that used to hide it. Back in the day, the preacher’s very own daughter from the village used to climb up to my cave to suck and fuck me dry, no sacrificial stake needed. Her sister, on the other hand, was a treat of innocence. Ah, sweet Mary…

Yeah, I know. You’re thinking
Virgin Mary? Really?
Papa Preacher didn’t have much imagination. Or who knows, maybe he had a crush on Christ’s old lady. Either way, sure as shit, his daughter was Mary the virgin. Likely to stay that way, too. Papa didn’t seem in any hurry to marry her off. He would never have sacrificed his own daughter to me—probably because he suspected his other baby was already taking one (or a couple hundred) for the team—but see, there was this plague…

Totally not my fault, I swear. I’m not into poisoning my own well. But I was the go-to guy whenever something went wrong. Livestock or valuables missing? Must be that frisky cave demon. Drought and famine? That asshole devil must be pissed about something. If it was a problem I could fix, I
would
try—that’s just good PR and CYA. Things like forest fires and wolf packs I could handle, and most other crises righted themselves after a while, validating that whole appease-the-demon-with-sex deal we had going on.

So a plague came along and voila, a preacher’s daughter appeared at my door. They didn’t spread-eagle stake her out, but they did bind her wrists and tie them to a branch of a nearby tree.

She was barefoot, wearing one of those light-colored shifts with her brown hair loose around her shoulders, the villagers’ version of seductive garb.

I went for the full scare package. Because that’s just plain fun. Demon face with full-on fangs, skin like midnight, clawed hands and feet, curved horns, leathery wings, big-ass body, massive cock swinging low and heavy—the works. I stomped out of the cave, growling and snorting smoke.

She screamed and fainted. Or maybe fake fainted, I don’t know. Women did a lot of “swooning” in those days. I poked her until she came to, because I just hate intermissions.

Nothing more boring than picking your ass and waiting for the show to start again.

She squealed when she woke up, which turned me on, I’ll confess. Her sister always made that exact same noise when I was pumping into her from behind. But when she saw my black beast lifting its head to say
hey, how are ya,
she started babbling a bunch of religious nonsense, some sort of prayer for deliverance. Yuck. Totally harshed my buzz. I don’t memorize the rhetoric, but as a card-carrying demon from Hell, it’s my duty to dislike that stuff on principle.

It gave me an idea, though. Hey, Big D isn’t the only one who can be a sneaky bastard. I mulled it over as I cut her loose, tossed her over my shoulder, and hauled her off to my cave. By the time we got to my crib, I had the stage set. My place wasn’t such a bad setup even back in those days, filled with every creature comfort I could get my claws on. But it wouldn’t have mattered if it was bare rock, because human minds are pliable and I made her see what I wanted her to see. Or in this case, what she wanted to see. She was dying for deliverance, so I gave her a chapel.

Was that wrong of me? Aw, shucks, thanks for sayin’ so.

Anyway, it wasn’t much more than a pew and an altar, but it calmed her right down. I plopped her on the pew and did some routine drama—you know,
Oh, the horror, I’m in a holy
place, whatever shall I do,
etcetera. I didn’t full-on transform, because I’m sneaker than that, but I did tone down the scare, dropping to my knees in front of her and begging in my best croaky demon voice for her to save me.

Oh, you’re seeing it now, aren’t you? Yeah, there’s nothing those religious fanatics like better than to save somebody. Give me a second to gloat here. Man, fun times…

Okay, so she’s hooked. I can still see her, big eyes shining, hands clasped to her chest, pretty dark hair framing her face, stammering something like,
Oh dreadful demon, how can little ol’ me
save a great big beast like you?
That’s a bit paraphrased. They used a lot of
thee
and
hast
and
yea
back then.

I told her she had the power in her sweet hands. I said
touch me, make me human again.
I took her hands, put them to my face, and changed the flesh under her fingers from demon black to human skin. She needed encouragement at first. I had to guide her touch, did lots of smooth talking—you’re the angel of mercy, the soul of beauty, and so forth. It took a while, but hey, I had all the time in the world. You can’t rush a masterpiece.

Power is a heady thing, intriguing, inspiring. Seductive. Even for naïve, cloistered young women who wouldn’t know real power if it came up and slapped them on the ass. After a bit she was touching me on her own, and I can’t
tell
you what a decadent thrill it was to have this paragon of virtue stroking me all over with her busy hands. Gets me hard just remembering it.

Corruption is my drug of choice, my favorite high, the absolute best hard fuck.

Miss Mary rubbed and stroked and turned herself on while she was turning me human. I did help with that somewhat, making sure she saw her ideal man appearing under her hands, and sneaking in a few caresses of my own. By the time she’d touched everything but my dirty parts, she was breathing fast, eyes glossy with lust and greedy power, skin damp with it and nipples shoving against her dress in demanding points. I could smell the cream slicking up her pussy lips, and damn near drooled.

Human nature is a beautiful thing.

I kissed her, chaste at first, but she’d worked herself up into a minor frenzy. When she fisted her hands in my hair, I dove in, tangling my forked tongue with hers. Do you know what virgin tastes like? Candy, I swear. Sweet enough to make your teeth ache all the way down to your dick. And each virgin a different flavor—Mary was maple sugar inside and out.