A Hope in Hell

Tasha pulled John's head down to her breasts, keeping his face tilted up so he could look into her eyes if he chose.

John continued to stare at a space well behind Tasha, but he responded by instinct, thrusting his hard flesh inside her, inhaling her nipple into his mouth — teasing it with his tongue — using his teeth to bite just hard enough to send paroxysms of pleasurepain through her breasts. God, if he could do this to her when he could barely register her existence, he would have been an amazing lover, and she knew she would regret not knowing him better, in all senses of the word.

Tasha felt him spasm again, as he erupted within her, but she didn't stop. She needed to keep him at this level and never let him fall if she were to have any hope of saving him. She threw herself into the sexual act, adding her voice to the chorus of her body, insisting he fuck her, that he fill her with his massive cock and come inside her — all the things men loved to hear.

She never meant the words more than she did now. Orgasmic waves crashed through her own body, and she surfed them, riding each peak to steer into the next, bringing John with her each time. His body was in harmony with hers, as they each responded to the other's thrusts and embraces.

Tasha danced at the edge of her own endurance, changing angles and tempo to stave off exhaustion — wrapping her legs around John's waist to provide leverage for a furiously rapid fucking, or spreading her thighs in a wide split to take him slow and deep where her Kegels could caress him. Her heart pounded and her lungs burned, but still she rode him, ignoring the occasional burst of demonic laughter in her ears.

Seconds inexorably turned to minutes as her life and John's ticked toward their fates. Tasha drew on all she had learned in a lifetime of desperate seduction. She had taken belly dancing lessons in high school, and knew how to undulate her hips in a rhythm that made men mad. A Tantric yoga weekend with Lance had provided a repertoire of position and control, and the flexibility to hold them. She practiced all that she knew and more, but she never varied in holding John's eyes.

Tasha had devoured the western literary canon in four languages, and she now used her knowledge to tap the erotic lexicon — whispering sweet obscenities in John's ears — promising all the things she would let him do to her breasts, ass, and cunt. He could bind her in silk, leather, or chains, where he could spank or lick her for hours, whichever was his pleasure. She spoke purjuries of endless cocksuckings and a lifetime of sexual dominance, slavery or equality — whatever he wanted — if he would just look at her.

Machine-gun orgasms were finally replaced by cramps, and searing lust by the burning pain of abrasion. Her leg and abdominal muscles were trembling jelly, yet still Tasha fucked him. Moans and rapturous screams turned to piteous mewls. She begged and she bit. She kissed the sweat off of John's skin and swore at him and at herself.

Finally, exhausted, she collapsed on John's lap. Her insides had worn raw fifteen minutes previous. Sweat pooled wherever her skin pressed tight against John's. Tasha glanced at the clock — she only had minutes before her time was up, and she had no more to give.

The demon was right. John could not be drawn away from the demon's gaze. Tasha had failed, as was her nature, but this time, John would join her in paying the price for her useless, miserable existence.

Tasha pulled him close, resolving to spend her last minutes apologizing for her failure. You don't deserve to die, she thought as she held him. You deserve life, and love, and all the things your wife's death took away from you — all the things that will be denied you because I failed.

"You deserve to be held like this every day," she found herself continuing out loud as her body echoed her words. "You deserve a friend to end your loneliness. You deserve a woman who will take care of you — one who let you be good to her, laugh at your jokes, and yell at you when you leave your socks on the floor. You deserve to be loved. You deserve to have saved your —"

Lilith chose that moment to interrupt. "I deserve less tedium. This grows tiresome, girl."

Tasha turned to glare at the demon over her shoulder.

Lilith matched the anger in her eyes. "Yield and we can end this. You can't save everyone."

"John would try."

"He can't even save himself."

"No, he —"

Tasha stopped. Something is wrong here.

Watching you try is what makes humans so entertaining. The demon had said that earlier. The demon had been encouraging her, but was now urging surrender.

Was it just demonic whim, or was there purpose to the paradox? Could Lilith have been urging her on a course of action she knew to be useless, while discouraging her from a path to victory?

Lilith was a demon. Of course she would do such a thing.

The succubus had distracted her just when she had been about to mention John's wife. Something tugged at her memory, and she recalled that when she had mentioned John's wife earlier, the demon had done the same thing, changing the subject by losing her temper — or at least pretending to lose her temper. And that wasn't all.

Why had Lilith been so casual about Tasha using the demon's essence as an aphrodisiac? Tasha had thought Lilith had given her a weapon, but had it really been a handicap — focusing her on the sex? Hadn't Lilith encouraged her to fuck John after fellating him, just when Tasha had resigned herself to saying goodbye to him? Talking to him?

Fuck, this bitch was playing her, telling her this was a sexual contest, leading Tasha to believe that she had to fuck John into making him look at her — but that was playing to Lilith's strengths.

John's wife — Jenny — she was somehow the key. Jenny had died and John had been driven to despair by his failure to save her. Tasha mentally kicked herself for her solipsism. She had learned nothing about Jenny beyond that fact, but it would have to be enough.

I didn't know how much I needed to save someone, John had said.

Tasha knew what he meant now. For the past hour, she had been fighting for him by way of fucking him, trying to absolve her own failures. It hadn't worked, but the Black Mood had been held at bay. The mere act of fighting for someone other than herself had pushed it back into the shadowy corners of her mind.

It had given her power, and would do the same for John. Hadn't John's desire to save her always been stronger than his desire to fuck her? Hadn't that been why he spurned her?

The only question was whether it would be enough.

She would have to lie to him, Tasha realized. He would hate her forever, but it was her only chance.

A glance at the demon warned her time was running short. She saw fire rising behind Lilith's eyes. The demon sensed danger.

"You deserve to have saved your wife, John," Tasha said. "It wasn't your fault that she died, and you two deserved a lifetime together."

John blinked. He had blinked hundreds of times in the last hour, but this blink seemed decisive — voluntary — the act of a sleeping man trying to wake up.

Yes! Winning the contest through sex was playing the demon's game. "You deserve your wife, John, but all you have right now is me. I am a sorry substitute, I know, but you saved me, John. If you don't look at me, it will all be for nothing. You need to save me again, John. This demon is going to kill me. You don't want me to die — I don't want to die." Tasha was dead even if John woke, she knew, but as she spoke words that were mostly lies she realized those last words were true. "Save me."

Tears clouded Tasha's eyes, the clock ticked down the last seconds of the hour, and the howling rage of a demon whipped through the air... as John's eyes shifted a fraction of an inch and latched onto Tasha's — recognition and concern humanizing features that had been vacant all evening.

John's slight, confused smile was the most beautiful sight Tasha had ever witnessed.

She had done it. Saltwater rolled down Tasha's cheeks and diverted around lips spread wide in a smile. She hadn't failed after all. She had saved him.

The demon would take her now, but it didn't matter. Tasha could leave the world knowing that despite all the pain her failures had wrecked on the lives of her friends and family, a good man lived because of her.

Ignoring her raw lips, Tasha kissed John on the mouth.

"Tasha?" he asked, bewildered.

"Enough!" Lilith's voice was saturated with threat.

John collapsed onto the couch as if he had been poleaxed, but Tasha could tell he was just unconscious.

"You aren't giving me a chance to say goodbye!" Tasha protested, continuing to look at John.

"I have lost him, but I will claim you." Lilith didn't bother to contain the fury in her voice. Tasha was certain that the hints of a pleasant death were forgotten.

Tasha closed her eyes to buy time. Lilith's power was in her gaze. Yes, the demon had other magicks, but they were slower.

Why was she stalling? Hadn't she wanted to die? Hadn't she entered into this pact guaranteeing her own death regardless of the outcome?

The Black Mood was still there, tugging at the newfound buoyancy of her soul, but she felt stronger now, made more powerful by defeating the certainty of her own failure. Her illness seemed smaller — something manageable. Her only disappointment was that she had gained the strength she had always lacked just when she had sold her soul.

Tasha wanted to live, she knew. She wanted to hold John's hand in the doctor's office while the doctor explained medical side effects that she already knew by heart. She wanted to hear pride in her father's voice, and see respect in her mother's eyes. She wanted to walk across the Michigan Avenue Bridge, spit in the ice water below, and smile at the people on the other side.

It was unfair. The only thing she had known for sure an hour ago was that she wanted to die, so she had promised the demon her life even if she won. Now, it was forfeit. She could ask the demon for mercy, but one did not anger demons and expect to be given quarter, particularly if Tasha's survival increased the risk that Hell would discover Lilith's failure. Lilith would want her dead for her silence, if nothing else. It was impossible — just as defeating Lilith had been impossible.

Which meant Tasha could do it.

Think.

"Do not seek to deny me, woman. Rules are rules. Your ward won't help you now."

Rules. Demons were all about rules, even if you defeated them. Especially if you defeated them. One of the Wiccan books had said that a defeated demon had to comply with a rule of it's own. It was a trivial penalty, but could she leverage it into something stronger?

"I demand my boon," Tasha said, still refusing to look the demon in the eye.

Lilith's voice dripped with hate. "You play dangerous games, woman. Yes, you are owed a small service from defeating me, if you know enough to seek it, but I am still free to choose the manner of your death, and it need not be as pleasant as the one I normally provide." Lilith's voice was now scornful. "Name your boon, for all the good it will do you. My powers are of limited use to you, and will not save you. Your soul is bound to me by rule, and a boon is bound to you by rule. Bring those rules into conflict, and the resolution is my decision alone. I promise it will not go well for you."

"Then I will not ask you to spare me."

Tasha sensed the hesitation in the demon's voice. Perhaps she had realized she had said too much. "Name your boon, then."

"If you do not wish to perform this service, we can negotiate."

"There is nothing to negotiate. I will perform your petty task, and your soul is mine. An hour's labor, no more, per the dictates of Hell. What do you wish? Some former lover that you wish me to destroy? A message to your family? Your clothes laundered?"

Hell does not suffer failure, the demon had said. "No. Tell the aristocracy of Hell how I have defeated you today. That is within your meager powers, and should take no more than an hour, no?"

Tasha opened her eyes and looked into those of the demon, challenging her to accept, and be murdered at the hands of her peers. Lilith would eventually be resurrected, but she would no longer be Queen-Sister of the Lilim — she would just be one of the lower succubi.

Lilith's eyes seared with green rage. Her lips were withdrawn in a rictus of hate.

Tasha briefly wondered if she had miscalculated — whether the demon would willingly suffer the punishment of Hell in order to enact vengeance upon Tasha for this outrage.

No, the demon was too proud of her status, and would not sacrifice it for a mere human. The ocular flames dimmed and Lilith's face composed itself in stiff mask. Only the grinding of the demon's teeth — ice skates on a chalkboard — indicated the depth of her displeasure.

Finally, Lilith spoke. "I underestimated you, and would keep that knowledge private. Perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement?"

---

"Sleepyhead. Time for bed."

That was Tasha's voice. John opened his eyes. God, his head hurt, and he felt like he had just run a marathon.

"Sleepyhead," he repeated. "Jenny used to call me that sometimes."

"You need to tell me more about her."

"She would have liked you." Smart, stylish, proud, and a lover of books. Jenny would have found a kindred spirit, and would have wanted to help a woman of such potential formidability.

Tasha seemed pleased by John's words.

Hold it. Tasha was here. "You came back," he said.

She had scared him, running off like that. He had guessed she would go back to the bridge, and had been grabbing his keys when something had distracted him. Why couldn't he remember what it was? Why had he been asleep on the couch instead of looking for her? Had he tripped and hit his head?

"Yes, I came back. I apologize for being a bitch earlier. You were just trying to help, like you always do."

"What happened?"

"I promised not to tell anyone, but do you remember what you said about needing some small successes to help get back on my feet?"

"I think so."

"Well, go big or go home, I say."

He tried to puzzle his way through her words, but the attempt just hurt his head. "I feel like I'm hungover."

"Come on. Get to bed. I can drag you, but I am a wee slip of a thing. It will be better for both of us if you walk."

Tasha was different — more playful. He hadn't seen this side of her before, and he liked it, almost as much as he liked the dream he had been having about her. Tasha had featured in many of his dreams of late, but this one had a detailed vividity.

"I had the weirdest dream about you," he said, standing up from the couch and leaning on Tasha as they shuffled toward the bedroom.

Why had he told her that? If she guessed the content of his dream it would only encourage her endless attempts to get into his bed. Resisting her was difficult enough as it was. Only her instability had strengthened him so far, knowing it would be bad for both of them. But God, that mind, so hungry for knowledge, and so adept at using it, except in service to her own survival. Her eyes — his recent dream had featured those cerulean orbs boring into him, promising him an end to isolation. That body — tawny-skinned, and slight enough he could pick her up and pin her against the wall, which he had been fantasizing about for two weeks.

"You dreamed about me? You look a little embarrassed about it. Must have been a good dream." Small, delicate hands pushed him over on the far side of the mattress, and he felt the warmth of a comforter pulled over his body, followed by the even warmer, and more comfortable, sensation of Tasha's body spooning up against him.

This again. "Tasha, you need to get out of my bed. We talked about this. You won't get back on your feet if you think you need to sleep with me in order to earn your keep."

Tasha made a raspberry noise. "I am back on my feet now, and am confident I earned my keep tonight already, so that doesn't apply. You can take me to the doctor tomorrow. I will try Zoloft again, and if that doesn't work, I will keep trying until I have exhausted the entire pharmacopia. Cross my heart and hope... well, cross my heart anyway."

She seemed sincere, but time would tell. "Not sure why I am so exhausted, but I am too tired to fight. You can sleep here tonight. But just sleep."

"Of course," she said.

"Smart woman."

"You have no idea. Anyway, I had a rough night myself. I want to sleep as much as you do."

"Good."

John felt a chaste kiss against the back of his neck.

"Taking advantage of you," Tasha said, "will have to wait until tomorrow night."

That made him smile. "You aren't going to give up, are you?"

Tasha didn't respond at first, and he thought maybe she had fallen asleep. Then he felt her hand touch his, and he heard a soft whisper. "You didn't give up on me. How can I do otherwise?"

John turned to face her with a question on his lips, but he held it. He had watched her sleep before, and even at rest there had always been a tension in her face, a hint of the turmoil within. Tonight, she was different. Tonight, she somehow seemed at peace.

He kissed her on the forehead, and went to sleep.

---

The End

Author's note: readers of the Might Have Been series will remember Tasha as the villain of the story. She was one of my favorite characters from that series, and I enjoyed the chance to write her a redemptive arc. This story was a little different, travelling to darker places than are usually explored here, but I hope you found the journey worth the effort. Thanks for reading. Please vote and let me know what you thought.