Tormentor

He heated up a microwavable meal, ate it without really tasting it, and threw away the tray and the box it had come in. He poured a glass of ginger ale, dropped in a few ice cubes, and took a drink. He almost dropped the glass as he realized that, minus the carbonation, it tasted just like the creature's juices as they had flowed into his open mouth. He shook, forced to set the glass down lest he break it and make a mess. He forced himself into a semblance of control and then poured the ginger ale out in the sink. He rinsed off the glass and refilled it with orange juice. He swore that he'd never touch ginger ale again. After draining the glass, he refilled it again and set it next to the sink. Ever since that night, he had taken at least three showers a day, even though he knew that the part of him that felt dirty could never be cleaned in this manner.

As he got out of the shower and toweled off, he drank the orange juice, wishing he could precede the next glass with the remainder of his sleeping pills and end this torment. What could he possibly have done to have attracted her attention? He had only been six, hardly even old enough to know that some things were right, while others were wrong. It had been right to eat all his vegetables, wrong to tie a can to his dog's tail and laugh with glee as the dog took off through the house, scared by the continuous clattering of the can tied to his tail.

"Anything you do that could hurt someone else, or something else, like your dog, is wrong," his father had explained to him after that incident.

"I didn't hurt him," he had looked up at his father, "I just gave him a scare."

"Son," his father sighed, "Things that you do for entertainment at the expense of others doesn't make it right, even if nobody is hurt. You wouldn't like it if someone tied something to you and laughed at you as you ran around, scared by it, would you?"

"No, daddy," he had cried, "I'm sorry."

But, if he hadn't done anything that would catch this thing's attention, then why was it so fixated on him as to torture him with nightmares for the past fourteen years?

"I sensed something, an exquisite soul," it answered his unspoken question, and he whirled to find it on his bed, reclining, ever nude, "And it called to me, beckoned me."

He resisted the urge that had come over him to go to it and take it, "W-what makes my soul so special that you had to haunt me all my life?"

It grinned haughtily, its teeth straight and white, "Simple, boy, I must possess it. But a soul by itself is not enough, so I must possess you as well."

Terry stood where he was, near the head of his bed, "What does that mean? D-do you mean to k-kill me?"

"Kill you?" it blinked, "Why ever would I want to kill you, boy? Did I not say that a soul by itself is not enough? It must remain in you, otherwise it is only a soul, delicious, but unable to sustain me as long."

"Then what do you want with me?"

It stretched lazily, and then was suddenly off the bed in a flash, now standing before him, its hands on his chest, "As I have said, I must possess you. You must be mine. No more resisting, no more denying me, because, though I could possess you by force, you would still resist me, and your soul wouldn't quench my thirst. Have I not released you from your nightmares?"

Terry trembled as its fingers traced circles on his chest, and it took everything he had to resist his tremendous urge to have it, to take it right there.

"I-I have more questions, please..." he blurted.

"Then ask them, boy, for my body is on fire for you, and my patience for questions wears thin."

He looked down at it, and then asked, "Is this your true form, or do you look like you do in my nightmares?"

It sighed, "I have no true physical form, only what I wish to be."

"Then why did you look the way you did in my nightmares? You might've had me a lot sooner if you'd taken a more pleasing form back then."

"I am a daemon, boy! I am an ancient, formed even before this world was much more than a lump of matter. I have existed for an eternity, taking what I need, seducing the weak, but none I possessed have contained nearly as much of a soul as your kind. Even the strongest of your kind have only served to sustain me until the next, and even the strongest of your kind have not the soul that you do."

Terry attempted to understand what it had revealed to him, and then replied tremulously, "You didn't really answer my question."

It growled with frustration, "Others of your kind before you actually responded more to me when I looked the way I do in your nightmares. They were easy to possess, and their fear made them much more delicious, even as their lust controlled them. Your fear makes you shine brighter, but not as much as when you fear, yet resist surrendering your life. I could've continued your nightmares for another ten years, but you were sure to lose your mind long before then, and I could not have that."

"That's why you came here into my world?" he found his hands wandering over her breasts, touching, feeling.

"Ahh, yes, boy," it licked its full lips with anticipation, "Rather than risk you drowning the spark of your soul, which you intended to do once you were fully in the grip of hopelessness, of despair... ahhh... with those pills... I decided to dispense with your cultivation and... well, here we are."

Terry pressed his lips to its, their bodies pressing together, the proof of his desire now trapped between them, and then he asked, "Is this what will sustain you?"

It moaned, grinding itself against him, "Yes, given of your own free will, you will sustain me for much longer than any before you."

"And then what?" he said between kisses delivered to her throat, "One day I'll grow too old to give you what you need."

It chuckled, baring its throat for Terry, its fingers stroking through his hair, "A bit of what you give to me will return to you, because of how bright and powerful your soul is. You will live longer, and continue to give yourself to me. Now, enough with the questions, boy! Can you not see the effect you have on me?"

It grabbed him and flung him onto the bed, and was on him, kissing and licking his chest, his neck, his mouth. His hands roamed its body, in awe of how exquisite its skin felt, how soft, yet firm. It moved down his body, and within a minute, his cock was fully enveloped in the wet furnace of its mouth, its tongue teasing him excitedly. It knew every little spot to touch to drive him wild, and it exploited this knowledge, its eyes on his own the whole time, not to gauge his reactions, as it knew his reactions before he did, but simply to watch, to enjoy the pleasures it was giving him. When he felt himself poised so close to that edge, about to be completely crushed by the intensity of his climax, it knew, and pushed him past it. He groaned, twisting handfuls of sheet, thrusting his hips as it swallowed him, more and more, but never enough.

He pulled it up atop him, felt it grab him and stuff him inside it, rocking on him, its lips and tongue tugging at the skin on his neck. It was keeping a hectic pace, not content with slow and relaxed, it ground against him feverishly. He grasped its ripe, full buttocks in his hands, pulling it harder and faster on him, the slapping of flesh on flesh fueling his need for more. It suddenly jumped up and off the bed, leaning forward against the wall, thrusting its buttocks out behind it, and he got the hint, standing behind it, and thrusting himself back inside forcefully, ramming himself forward, his hands on its hips, yanking it back even as he drove forward.

It looked over its shoulder at him, urging him on breathily, demanding more, "Give it to me!"

Finding himself on the precipice in only minutes, knowing that it wouldn't let him grow flaccid just yet, he readily pumped his stuff deep into it, sloshing it around with each thrust, and then withdrew. It reached back behind it and spread the cheeks of its buttocks, and he didn't wait for it to say a word. He pushed himself into its anus, which yielded to his invasion just as reluctantly as the first time. He thrust with all the force he had while in its cunt, and though it cried out, he didn't relent, nor did it ask him to, instead commanding him to rip it up, to tear it to shreds. He pounded himself into its anus obligingly.

It was insatiable, always seeming to want more, and he strove to meet its desire with his own, but found that he, having his limits while it seemed not to have any, began growing tired, sore. He held himself deep inside its anus, his cum shooting deep, trembling, his knees weak. He pulled himself from within it, and fell to the floor, gasping, his softening tool painfully sore.

"That gets better each time," it pushed itself away from the wall, its own juices coating its thighs, "Now, lick me clean of this mess."

He knelt before it and began licking, only tasting her, not himself. In fact, if he remembered correctly, never had one single glob of his spend ever came out, as if it had absorbed it completely. He licked it clean, and then, began licking at its cunt, sucking on its clitoris, thrusting two fingers inside it. It humped his face, grinding its cunt against his mouth, crying out, growling, whimpering, laughing, and he was drenched with its cum. It dripped from his chin, onto his chest, and it licked him clean, slowly lapping at his chest, drawing its long tongue up his neck and chin.

"How are you able to make me stay so hard for so long?" Terry could hardly move without twinges of pain, and his flaccid dick was too sore to even clean.

It laughed throatily, watching him struggle to his feet, "You credit me with that feat? Men stronger than you have done far less to sate my lust than you. Your endurance is your doing, not mine, boy."

"But that's... it's not possible..."

"Funny how you should say that. One would think that, witnessing my presence, the possibilities extend further than your tiny mind could fathom."

"Sorry," Terry muttered, "Sometimes my tiny mind forgets that."

It leapt to its feet in a flash, startling him so bad that he fell down, and it stood above him, glaring at him, "You may have talent and potential, boy, but forget not your place!"

It glared at him for another few seconds, and then its gaze softened, and it pulled him to his feet, touching his face almost tenderly.

"You seem to forget who it is you deal with," it pushed him to the bed, making him sit, "Eternity is a long time to live, and you can hardly fault me in my way of thinking. To a being such as I, your mind is indeed small, and you would do well to remember it."

He sighed, adjusting himself carefully, "Then my place is where? Am I nothing but a slave now, only a tool to service your needs?"

It chuckled, crawling up on the bed behind him and leaning forward against his back so that its ample breasts pressed against his back, its arms curling around him, "Slave? Why no, boy, what you are is much more useful than a mere slave. You are a source, a wellspring, and you sustain me... quite well, I must say! Do you not understand that I need you? You are yourself not a tool," she touched the tip of his dick, "That is the tool. You are the bearer of that tool, and each time you spend your seed inside me, you use that tool to sustain me."

"Then what is my place, if you say I shouldn't forget it?"

"Your place is at my side... or above me, or underneath me," it giggled, licking his ear, "Depending on which position you take... I do not ask that you worship me, no more than you would worship any mortal woman whose fancy you gain, yet I will have your respect. It will not do to have you speak to me with such impertinence."

Terry could feel his dick beginning to harden, and he winced at the ache, "I've been talked down to most of my life, and it's sort of a peev of mine."

It rested its head on his shoulder, "So you'd wish to be spoken to as an equal, is that it?"

"I know I'm no equal," he sighed, "I'm not asking that, just that you'd cut it out with the 'tiny-mind,' and the 'boy' talk. My name is Terry... and I don't know your name."

"No mortal may know my true name, bo-... Terry... but you may choose a name with which to address me, if it pleases you."

Terry thought about it, and then announced, "I'll call you Celeste, then. Is that okay?"

"What is the significance of this name?"

"When I was young, there was a girl named Celeste in my school that I liked. I never told her... I couldn't, I guess, most of the other kids already thought I was a freak, and she probably did, too."

"Celeste... I could grow used to that name. Fine, you may call me Celeste."

Celeste eased up off of him and reclined on the bed behind him, and he felt drowsy.

"You could perhaps take some rest, Terry. You have given much of yourself to me, and you must recover."

"So..." he asked, "If this isn't your true form, and the way you are in my nightmares isn't either, then what is?"

"You have much curiosity," it replied, "May you not be content with the form I inhabit for your pleasure? I had thought that this form would be pleasing for you, after all. Do you wish me to alter it more to your liking?"

"Y-you don't have to do that. Your form is beautiful. I was just wondering, really, considering that you're a daemon, is your true form a female form, or sexless?"

"Gender plays no part in my true form, which, were you to see it, it would be far more than your mind could take. I'd wish you not to see it."

Terry nodded, his curiosity shriveling up at the thought. Some things were better off unknown. Celeste rolled over onto its stomach, its round, voluptuous butt revealed.

"Do you still fear me, Terry?" it asked mildly, "Or is it because of my true nature that you are filled with nearly as much revulsion of me as lust?"

Terry blinked, trying to consider his answer, hoping not to offend her or invoke her anger, "I spent such a long time seeing you as the cause of my nightmares that I can't shed that image very easily. There's that, and the fact that you are a daemon, and you're simply using me to keep yourself alive for longer."

She pouted playfully, "Oh, so cruel! So then you believe me to only be a corrupter or purity, perhaps, my only task in my life to turn the righteous toward the darkness? You forget that I have existed longer than the god whose name you used before. I am not light, or darkness, yet am both. Yes, I serve my own whims, but it's not as if my wants and needs serve only the dark! I may be using you to sustain my own life, but there are less... pleasurable ways to use you. I simply chose the one that might be more favorable to you, as well as myself."

"So you're more aligned with chaos?"

"If you must categorize it," she waved it off, "Then let it be so. But even chaos can contain order, if one searches for it."

Terry shook his head, about to ask what less pleasurable ways Celeste might have used to gain the sustenance it needed, and thought better of it, instead asking, "Still, after being terrified of sleep for so long because of the form you took, it's almost as if I can see that form under the one you use now."

"There is nothing I can do about that. Even a daemon cannot turn back the tide of time, you know. Now get your rest, and perhaps you might try a little physical fitness. There are parts of your body that cannot keep up with the part I enjoy so much."

Terry lay down, and then, as he glanced over, he saw that Celeste had vanished, the place on his bed where she'd lain was still indented from her body, but, as he watched, the indent disappeared as well.

Terry slept, and, to his dismay, he found himself in that demolished, fiery, corrupt place that he knew so well. The only thing missing now was Celeste, in that truly horrible form, covered in blood that never dried, her necklace of living eyes around its neck to make up for the lack of eyes in its head, the shark's teeth as it grinned at him.

"You'd be surprised how many men once found this type of landscape almost an aphrodisiac of sorts," Celeste spoke from beside him, surveying the landscape, "Several wished to fuck me upon the piles of corpses."

"That's disgusting," Terry paled, and then asked, "Why did you bring me here this time?"

"In your dreams, or nightmares, your mind is stronger," it explained, "I can make all of this, but, if not for the strength of your mind, it would not look so real, so... life-like, so to speak. You don't seem to fear it like you once did."

"The worst part of my nightmares was always the form you took in them. I feared you more than this place."

It nodded, "Yes, that makes sense. Perhaps I could regain that form, for old time's sake?"

"Please don't," his eyes widened, and he took a step back.

Celeste laughed, "Another time, then? No? The fear does make you taste better, though."

"I wish you wouldn't put it like that."

It didn't take the form from his nightmares, but walked along the corpse-choked street, the asphalt covered in cracks, but also quite uneven, maybe from whatever atrocities had happened. He walked alongside it as it strolled along, looking at everything without much emotion.

"I really don't like this place," Terry frowned, "Could you maybe do something about it, make it look... better?"

Before she could answer, a wave of darkness flew across his vision, and when he looked again, the city stood, the sky gray with approaching storms, but the streets were empty, the cars without drivers or passengers, everything abandoned. Still, the scene around him was still about a thousand times better than what it had been.

"Thank you," he said gratefully, "That's much better."

"Why thank me? I did absolutely nothing. As I told you, your mind is stronger here."

"Then why couldn't I make it change before?"

"You were not trying to make it change, you were trying to make me go away, and that you could not do. Of course, it seems so dreary now, so boring."

"Boring is better than that other place," he replied, "So why are you in my dream again?"

"I was bored. I cannot make time go any faster than it does, much as I cannot turn it back."

"You don't have some other guy whose soul is special?"

"No," it sighed, "Before you, it had been over three thousand years since the last human who possessed such a bright soul. He was an odd sort. He lived for almost seven hundred years, sustaining me all the way up until his death."

Terry stopped, asking, "I'm gonna live for seven hundred years?"

"Don't be silly," Celeste grinned, "Humans nowadays live only a fraction as long as they did in those days. Perhaps you will remain for around two hundred years, perhaps a bit longer than that. Time will tell."

He tried to imagine living to be over two hundred years old, but couldn't. What would the world even be like in two hundred years?

"And then what?" he asked.

"And then I'll have to wait for another with a soul like yours."

"It must be lonely waiting."

"I am not the only daemon around," it revealed, "There are dozens, each of them so radically different, each one drawing from different life forces to survive. This is the way of the daemon. And it's time for you to wake. Someone waits at your door."

Terry struggled into wakefulness, and, after a brief struggle to untangle himself from his sheets, dressed and stumbled to the front door, his whole body a mass of soreness. He opened just as Cliff was about to knock.

"Terry?" Cliff looked shocked, "Jesus, man, you look like hell. Still having those nightmares?"

"Yeah," Terry scratched his head, his hair in complete disarray.

"Man, I don't know how you handle it," Cliff, who was in his late fifties, his hair gray and balding at the crown, and had sixteen grandkids, tucked his hands in the pockets of his slacks.