The Devil's Lesson

Her eyes fluttered closed as her nostrils dilated wildly for breath, and she felt the tip of his tongue sliding down her throat, past the point that made her gag to touch a spot in her throat she never even knew existed, a spot as sensitive as a little clitoris that sent heat rushing through her limbs and a gush of hormones into her system, swelling her breasts and her pussy and starting some maddening, sucking contractions deep within her, as if her body was already practicing to draw him in, needing him like she'd never needed a man in her life.

It was then she realized that she was really about to fuck the devil, the master of pleasure, the master of evil, the being who knew her inside and out. But where would this evil come from when he knew her like this, when he knew just how to touch her, just how to kiss.

He took her breast in his hand and squeezed through the satin. He drew his forefinger down between her breasts and the fabric parted as if his fingernail were a knife, then he opened the dress and took her breast in his hand.

"Yes, Lydia, I know you," he said. "I know all about you. Everything you've dreamed of, everything you want."

As if t prove it he peeled her bra down and licked her nipple, extending his tongue so she could watch it circle her areola in a way that always drove her crazy. The devil knew just how she liked it, slow and teasing and wet, knowing just how sensitive her nipples were and how she loved to have tem played with.

He squeezed her breast and Lydia gave a start. She raised her head to see milk streaming from her nipple. Droplets collecting on the dark flesh and merging into pools of white that began to dribble down her breast. The devil licked up the milk. The devil closed his lips on her breast and drank, and Lydia almost swooned.

It was like he was drawing her soul from her—the soul he disdained. But something deep and fundamental in her was filling her breasts and being sucked into his mouth with a pleasure that was almost orgasmic.

"Nice?" he asked. "You like that?"

"Oh God, don't stop!" she moaned. She'd often wondered what it felt like to a man when he ejaculated, and now she knew it must be something like this—the fullness, the tension, the exquisite release.

The devil raised himself up on his strong arms, arms that glistened in the moonlight. He got up off the bed and stood there so she could see him in all his glory.

"You're ready now," he said. "You're ready."

He grabbed her dress and ripped it down the center, then pulled it off her. He plucked the bra from her, the strap breaking like a thread. She wore no panties. She was laying there with just her stockings and her shoes on, just the way she'd always imagined it would be.

The devil covered her like the night, the size of his body blocking out the stars. She smelled his maleness, felt it in her bones, put her hands on his shoulders and felt the impossibly hard knots of muscle as he worked himself into position, and the bed creaked.

This would be it! she thought.This will be the pain. This is where he'll get me

But there was no pain, or rather, just the right amount. He was big, huge, but the smooth dome of his prick stretched her just right, hurt just enough to let her know she was being fucked, and then his thick shaft slid into her like it was made for her, touching in places that had never been touched.

"Oh my God!" she moaned. "Oh my God!"

"Good, isn't it?" he whispered above her. "But nothing like you, Lydia. Nothing like you. You're delicious. I could fuck you all night!"

He started slow, just the way she liked it, filling her with his living flesh, sliding all the way in and grinding against her so that she felt him on her clit, her lips stretched wide. The weight of his body was perfect, holding her down and taking possession of her, and instinctively she took his face in her hands and kissed him, kissed him with all her heart and soul, trying to tell him how good he felt, how absolutely perfect.

"Got to fuck you now," he moaned. "Got to fuck that sweet pussy, Lydia. I've got to!"

He started to move and the insides of her thighs felt those strong muscles pumping that hard cock into her, filling her, seeming to pull her very insides out. Pleasure coursed through her body like honey, like electricity, and it wasn't just the physical sensation she felt, but his own pleasure in her as well. She could feel his love for her, his need, the savage pleasure he took in being inside her.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Lydia cried, arching her back. Orgasm was close, close. And so soon!

She tried to stop it, tried to bear down but his strength and his insistence and need were too much for her. Her toes curled against the soled of her feet and she prepared for the obliteration of orgasm.

Then, through lust-glazed eyes, she saw something whip through the air. His tail!

"Just let me do it," he panted in her ear. "Don't fight me!"

Suddenly she felt something pressing at her anus, something soft and hard as only a penis could be, and she knew it was his tail—not the spear point of the cartoons, but another cock, a cock that opened her up and slid deliciously into her rectum, filling her even more, even fuller, so that she cried out and three her legs wide in acceptance. The cock began to move in her ass, complimenting the one in her pussy, and she had never felt such a thing, so totally filled, so wonderfully used.

They moved together, they moved separately, one against the other, the tail fucking into her with lewd abandon, the cock pumping into her with machinelike regularity. She felt beyond orgasm now, or maybe she had already come or was still coming. She didn't know. The milk was pouring from her nipples now and running down her breasts and dropping from her ribs, and she felt her body begin to lift off the bed.

Off the bed and into the air, the devil still fucking her and holding her ass against him as his cock pumped into her juicing cunt and his tail worked in her rectum and he sucked the milk ejaculating from her swollen breasts. Higher and higher, and Lydia could no longer grip or fight him or hold onto anything. Her arms and legs went limp and her head hung back as the devil squirmed his cock into her and gripped her as, sucked her tits and fucked her with his tail. She quivered like a raw nerve beneath him.

She knew they were rising but she hardly cared. he was doing things to her she never imagined could be done, not just filling her body with his, but her spirit too. His own spirit filled her with pleasure and adoration and love—yes, love. She felt his love for her and the pleasure of her body, his passion, his total understanding of everything she was and everything she wanted. It was if they shared one body now and one spirit, and what he felt, she felt and what she thought, he thought, and then, at the moment when she could simply take no more of this incredible pleasure and obliterating ecstasy, the heavens seemed to open and gush stars down on her and Lydia rushed to meet it in an orgasm of body and soul so intense that for a few moments she ceased to exist and was everything at once—every cell of her body alive and aware and bursting with the ineffable joy of life that filled her with a rapture too intense to be born, and she passed out.

When she regained her senses she was on her knees in the grass beneath the oak tree, clad only in her ripped and torn stockings, her pussy and ass and breasts still throbbing. The bed was gone, the bench was gone and the moon was shining down on the silent crossroads. A breeze came by and rustled the leaves on the tree and the grass she knelt in, as if as if the world were starting to breathe again, and the devil stood there straightening his tie, immaculately dressed once again. He looked at her with something like fondness in his eyes.

"Of all I've ever had, Lydia, you were the best."

She knew he was lying, or maybe he wasn't. She didn't have the presence of mind to care.

He put his hat on his head and turned to go, and through her confusion, Lydia remembered.

"My guitar!" she said. "You were going to give me the gift. You promised."

He stopped. "Oh, that," he said. "Yes, you mortals always want some sort of mumbo jumbo, don't you? Never have the brains to see what's already around you. Here give me your hands."

Lydia held out her hands and the devil took her right one and stuck out his tongue—a tongue long enough to reach down to her pussy if he'd wanted. He licked her fingers and then took her left hand and did the same, staring into her eyes. He pulled his tongue back into his mouth and smiled, straightened his hat and smiled at her.

"But you don't need that," he said. "I've already given you what you need. Good bye, now, Lydia. Go out there and play what you feel."

And he turned and started walking down the highway, leaving her sitting half naked in the grass, her clothes in shreds, his saliva cooling on her fingers.

*****

A year later and it was just as he'd showed her. Lydia Craine, Mistress of the Guitar, a player without peer in a man's world, fronting her own kick-ass band and packing the best venues in the world with her rabid, ecstatic fans, She played what she felt, and the music went from her heart to her fingers to her guitar and out though her amp and into the world—searing, ripping, impossibly beautiful solos filled with the raw aching anguish of a woman's broken heart

She was inconsistent, that was the worse you could say about her, and getting worse as time went on so that often her band had to cover for her, and at times it seemed that her emotion was so great that she couldn't go on, but had to stagger back from the edge of the stage as if overcome with feelings too intense to be born.

She had fame now and money, but neither meant much. Lovers came to her bed and left the next morning or even the same night, men and women both, leaving her body bruised and battered but her soul untouched. Lydia had known the kind of sex that few mortals ever know, had experienced a love and spiritual fusions such as most people can't even imagine, and even though all she had now was a memory of a memory, it burned in her like a flame of loneliness that nothing could extinguish. She would never know it again.

But when she was on—when the combination of cocaine and morphine was just right, just enough to make her still care and want to try and explain—no one could touch her playing. She'd stand on the stage with her pussy pressed against the hard back of her stratocaster and the notes would pour out, each one like a blazing arrow of feeling in the night aimed straight for the listener's heart—the music of a woman wailing for her demon lover.

He'd given her what he promised—a pain that she'd try and express for the rest of her life, but never extirpate, never satisfy, and he'd done it through love, the one thing she hadn't expected.

As the devil might have told her, the most important things in life can be felt, but they can never be explained, and he didn't have to trick her to give her what she needed.

Goin' down to the crossroads, take my razor by my side,
Goin' down to the crossroads, take my razor by my side.
And if anyone should ask you,
You just say it was suicide.