Asmodeus - Demon of Lust: Pt. 09

A/N - It has been a long time folks, I've missed you all. I'd like to say a huge thank you for everyone who has supported me over the years. As I have mentioned in a comment in Part 8, I haven't been well for a while and have been writing sparingly over the past two years. I've made you all wait so long for another chapter that I have decided to release this early. I had wanted to add more to it first but - having thought about just how large this extra text would be (and subsequently how long it would take me to write it) - I think it best to publish this first. I do intend to write more, and I will, I just need to find the time and inspiration, so if you like this story, then please bear with me. As always, let me know what you think with a comment below.

Cheers,

Steelkat

*****

My father's dream envelops me like a tomb, it's darkness oppressing and tightening around my shoulders. This is what he feels, I realise, as I watch him pace. His footsteps pound in my ears; they are deafening in the darkness. I hear his desperation as he calls out my name and feel his frustration when I do not answer.

Choking on his pain, my throat closes against my tears. I want so desperately to run into his arms and assure him of my safety, but Asmodeus holds me to his side.

"Wait," he says, "we must ease is path to you. He will not believe you are as you say you are."

"Why not?" I croak, the corners of my eyes pricking.

Asmodeus looks down at me, his face displaying a profound sadness.

"He dreams of you every night, my sweet. Every night, you return to him only to disappear when he wakes. He is beginning to lose hope."

"No!" I gasp, face crumpling in anguish.

I want my family to move on, to live their lives without me, not to mourn me so sickeningly. The reality is heart-wrenching. My knees buckle under the weight of mine and my father's pain.

Asmodeus steadies me, holding me as I attempt to regulate my breathing. I dig my nails into his biceps, letting him hold me tight as I fight off a panic attack. All the while, my father continues his frantic calls. Every echo of his voice is a knife in my heart.

"Calm yourself, my love. You may go to him when you are in control of your emotions."

Still clinging to my lover, I draw in one shuddering deep breath after another, letting the air fill my lungs completely and feeling my heart slow its frantic thumping. It takes every iota of focus I possess to relax my screaming muscles. I shut out my father's calls and completely release one final breath. My tears dry as I do so and I look up to see Asmodeus watching me approvingly.

"Yes," he says, "Very good."

"Now what?" I ask, voice shaking slightly.

"Now you turn that focus of yours into energy and will your appearance to change. Become Rowan again and speak to your father as her. Convince him."

I don't question him. For once, I let him direct me completely, without hesitation, following every instruction to the letter. I try to wrap my head around the power of will. I'd always believed it to be a powerful thing; a practice which could help the willing achieve anything they put their mind to. Listening to Asmodeus' stories and learning that his shape - along with that of all the immortals - is directly influenced by nothing but the will of the human collective, gives me a boost of confidence.

I close my eyes and focus everything I have, everything I am, into becoming a stranger again. I picture the pigment in my skin bleaching, like a shirt left too long in the sun. I focus on lightening my hair and eyes, picturing hay-bales and emeralds replacing black silk and dark coffee. I demonstrate the sheer power of my will, the near tangible thing which makes me strong. The rush of adrenaline I feel when my skin prickles with the change, brings with it a giddy pride. I open my eyes to find Asmodeus beaming me a devastating smile and for once, I feel worthy of him. I am strong, a fitting Queen to his all powerful King.

He tilts his head towards my father and I step forward without hesitation. This realisation that I am stronger than I thought has me eager to face my challenges head on, like a patriotic soldier, absolutely positive she is fighting for a just cause. I WILL win, not just for me but for my family too. I owe them a chance to say goodbye.

"Lena!" My father's voice cracks as he calls out for me, yet again. "Where are you, my baby?"

That question is quiet, broken, and a prickling of fear races up my spine. He's about to give up, I realise.

"Mr Sastri!" I call, but he does not hear me.

"Mr Sastri!" His eyes rove his dreamscape hungrily, wild and desperate, seeing everything except me.

"Dad!" I scream and finally he whips around, that magic word speaking to his damaged heart. He looks past me, eager for a glimpse of his precious daughter and is shattered to realise that she isn't hiding behind the vaguely familiar white girl. I watch his face crumple and his body visibly deflate, shoulders hunched and head hung.

"Not her," he mumbles, "Not my Selena."

My heart aches as I rush toward him, lifting his face with my palms.

"It is me, dad, I'm right here".

"Not her," he whispers.

"Yes, I am Selena."

"Not her," he asserts, louder this time, "Not her. Not her, not her, NOT HER!"

He's shaking his head now, palms clamped over his ears and eyes squeezed shut. The audacity of me, he must be thinking, pretending to be his lost child.

I will my appearance to change again, back into my real face before saying, "It's me, dad, look."

His fury boils over and he screams, "You ARE NOT my daughter!"

His eyes snap open and he looks murderous until he registers my face. Immediately, his own softens and he crushes me to his chest, his body shaking as he cries silently into my neck.

"Oh, Selena!" He sobs, "Don't leave me again."

I feel like my chest is going to explode and my throat close forever. My immovable rock of a father, stoic and always so strong, is absolutely shattered and it's entirely my fault. I've never, ever seen him cry, not once and now here he is, broken down so completely. Every time I try to pull away, he holds me tighter until we've been clinging to each other for longer than I know. When he finally releases me, I am dizzy from his hold but he steadies me with heavy hands on my shoulders.

"Where have you been, babe?"

"I'm close," I tell him, "closer than you think."

"But where?!" He whines, desperate to know.

"I'm here," I reply and let my skin shift again so that Rowan completes the sentence.

His face twitches with momentary disbelief which morphs into an easy acceptance. Dreams aren't really supposed to make sense, after all. I keep switching faces as I stand before him, proving that it really is me by reminiscing with him. In his heart he KNOWS who I am so it doesn't matter what I look like. I do it until I sense him watching Rowan with the same warmth he reserves for me and then I turn to say goodbye.

His face falls from the smile I took so long to coax out of him.

"You're leaving me again," he mumbles, squeezing my hands.

"I'll always be with you," I reply, "Will you come to my wedding?"

"Wedding," he blinks, suddenly realising that he is speaking to Rowan, "Wedding, yes. I'll be there."

I switch my face back and whisper, "Thank you, Daddy. I love you."

I kiss his cheek while he wears a dazed expression and register the tiniest shift in our surroundings as I step back. More quickly after that, the landscape fades away as my father focuses on something new. We're in our old living room in South Africa, standing on a course grey carpet, suddenly enclosed by painted brick. A rifle hangs on a plaque, mounted on the wall beside me. The front door is at my back, the protective bars clanging as my father walks toward the entrance of the hallway. He nearly trips over a little girl, sitting cross-legged on the floor, tears streaming down her face. Her hair is long and spider-web fine, matted and knotted from burying her head in her arms.

It's me, when I was younger, maybe five or six. I remember a scene I hadn't known I'd forgotten, of waiting for my father to come home from work. I remember now, pacing at the door, watching the hands of the wall clock speed carelessly by as I agonised over his arrival. One minute later than the time I'd expected him to be in and the tears would start as I'd imagine the worst.

My mother, poor thing, I can't have helped. She knew the risks my father took with his job, policing a town situated in a very violent country. It's not like she wasn't worried too, but to her credit, she saw that she needed to mask her own in order to ease mine.

Not that it helped much.

When I'd see him walk through the door I'd leap to my feet and squeeze him in a hug so tight I could barely breathe. In this particular memory of his, he scoops little me up and gives her a hug.

"What's wrong, baby?" He asks, gentle and sweet.

"I was s-scared," she hiccups, eyes red and nose running.

"Scared of what?"

"That you weren't c-coming home," she sobs, needing another soothing hug.

"Shh, it's okay, I'm home now," he pulls back and says, "I love you and I'm not going to leave you, okay?"

Silently, her little head moves in a couple of quick nods, mouth still pulled into a dimply frown.

"Enough now," he admonishes, suddenly the tough as old boots detective inspector whom everyone knew him as, "No more crying."

I chuckle as he leads her down the hall where I know he'll tuck her into bed with her sister. I turn away and walk out the door.

*****

I visit Rochelle at school; she is dreaming of a time when we were younger, in our final year of high school. We'd known of each other then, of course, our school wasn't very big, both in physical size and population. It wasn't until university though, that we really hit it off and of course, by then we'd lamented the fact that we were both too stuck up our own asses to really take notice of how well we would have gotten along back then. Oh well, I'd told her, better late than never.

Rochelle is someone who is so absolutely decent that I was actually suspicious of her as I got to know her. From my experiences, I'd discovered that people were rarely who they seemed to be. Naturally, with this somewhat bleak assessment of human beings colouring my attitude towards them, I kept my distance from Roch at first, reluctant to share any vulnerable part of myself with someone who seemed too perfect to actually exist. Months passed into our budding friendship and Rochelle's charm chipped away at my reservations until I couldn't help but trust her completely. Virtuous without being preachy, hard-working but fun, and intelligent but quirky, Rochelle has been one of my best friends for two years now and I love her like a sister.

It doesn't take much to convince her to attend my wedding. We sit together on a bench, wearing the maroon jumpers, powder blue shirts and navy skirts of our school uniform. We lean into each other and tears stream down her face.

"I miss you," she says quietly, linking my arm in hers.

"Me too, sweetheart," I reply, "Don't cry; you'll see me tomorrow."

She nods her head, okay, and I envelop her tiny body in a deep hug, face buried in her long, wavy black tresses, before rising and stepping forward. I visualise Bailey next and am faced with large, white double doors, which I recognise as the entrance to her parents' house. Taking a deep breath, I open a door and walk through.

Bailey is sitting cross-legged on the family room floor, bucket of kettle corn in her lap, re-watching Ocean's Eleven. A younger version of me sits on the couch she leans against, looking content to be in the company of her oldest friend.

I met Bailey when we were ten. I'd just arrived from South Africa and was attending middle school in an unfamiliar country. Fresh off the plane, my skin was very dark and my accent very pronounced. I stuck out like a sore thumb, unfamiliar with the local culture and unpopular due to my lack of confidence. Having come from a community back home where you got mercilessly teased for being overweight, I had developed somewhat of a low self-esteem. I was afraid to talk to people, feeling unworthy of them because of my size and colour. The other brown skinned girl in my class was of course, Bailey.

Upon finding out that she was also born in South Africa, I latched onto the one thing we both had in common with the hope that we would become fast friends. I was soon to find out though, that unlike Rochelle, Bailey wasn't all that perfect. Petty at times, she held grudges and was far too opinionated for her own good. She thought she was better than me at first, incensed that I'd even suggested we were anything alike. The more I tried to cling to her, the more she grew to dislike me until finally, by some miracle I realised that I deserved better than an unwilling companion.

As I withdrew, Bailey was able to see me for who I was and I was able to construct my own identity, fragile though it was. Before, in South Africa, I had been held up on the social ladder by my siblings, who were always far more popular than I was. I'd been convinced that my size was the reason; and how could I not be? Children were cruel and adults unintentionally harsh about my weight. I'd grown up believing that I was too fat to be desirable in any way and was pleasantly surprised when popularity found me in my first year at high school. Bailey and I had been friends ever since.

She definitely wasn't perfect and I loved her for it. And while we'd had a rocky start to our friendship, I now had no doubt that she would do anything for me and I, her.

"Bee," I call, trying to snap her attention away from her dream television.

"Hmm?" She answers, still totally absorbed by a movie that she's seen at least half a dozen times before.

"Bee, it's me."

She turns to look at me and I watch her face crack with pain. Wordlessly, she hugs me and I feel sobs rack her body.

"Shh," I soothe, stroking her beautiful, wavy hair.

"It's not fair," she whimpers, "How could you be gone? How could anyone hurt you. You don't deserve that; you're the loveliest person I know."

"It's okay," I whisper, "I'm still here."

And I tell her exactly when she'll have a chance to see me again.

******

With my job done, Bailey's house melts away and is replaced with a forest. I'm surrounded by vegetation; colossal trees with sprawling roots and wide canopies. I'm in the gardens again; its tranquillity cradling me even in this dreamscape. Asmodeus appears here as he did in the waking world, cloaked in Ash's pale skin, golden hair and icy eyes.

I find myself emotionally drained after my interactions with my friends and my father. I want only to be held by my husband-to-be; to be comforted in my decision to stay with him and to borrow some of his boundless energy. His touch does exactly this, sending a spark through me so fast that I twitch violently. I exhale slowly, releasing the sudden tension that has built in my shoulders.

He looks at me, glacial eyes glinting, and tilts his head slightly. I launch at him, flinging my arms around his neck and using his unshakable frame to pull myself up. Our mouths collide hungrily, teeth bumping behind lips as we meld together. The kiss softens slightly as I part my lips, letting his tongue slip past them and massage mine. The sound of our lips gently smacking and our panting breaths has me aching for more.

Our lips stay locked so completely and for so long that when we finally part, I am delirious from the heat of it. I pull myself close to him and run my fingers along the hard line of his jaw. The feel of him, the sound of his breathing and the smell of his musk is so absolutely arousing that I want to feast on the taste of him too, just so that I can experience him through every sense. I bury my nose within the crook of his neck and inhale his intoxicating scent before grazing my teeth against it, gently nipping at his skin.

He begins ripping off my imaginary clothing and even in his dreamscape, the resistance of the material feels deliciously rough against my skin. He is bare before me already and the heat of his skin scalds mine. His length rises up between us and I grab it without thinking. It's as if it is an organism all on its own, growing longer and harder than I thought possible. I squeeze it hard and shudder at the thought of such resistance pushing into me.

I reach lower still, gently cupping the unbelievably soft skin of his loins and stroking the wiry blond hair with my fingertips. They move within my hand, shifting and contracting as the attached appendage grows greater still. Imagining him buried deep within me has me writhing with pleasure. My irrepressible desire compels me to behave like a wild woman. I squeeze him again and graze his chest with my teeth.

I'm moaning softly now, grinding my body against his. My mouth still works at his chest, capturing a rock hard nipple between my lips and running my tongue over it. My hands rake down his back until one reaches his ass. I slap it hard, the force of it stinging my hand. Asmodeus growls his assent and explores my body with his own hands. He reaches up and grabs a fistful of my ample left breast and massages it forcefully before pinching at my nipple.

I hiss at the pain which turns to shuddering pleasure a second later, and grab his balls. I want him to feel what I feel; the exquisite balance between euphoria and suffering. To me, pleasure can only truly be felt immediately following pain. The release from it feels like a miniature orgasm and I test this paradox on my lover. He grunts when I squeeze him harder still and I feel a rush from the knowledge that even my powerful demon King is as vulnerable with his Crown Jewels as any other man. I hold tight a second longer before I release him and use my other hand to massage his magnificent member. He groans, releasing the tension which had held his frame rigid and rocking his hips in time with my hand movements.

I sink to my knees and lick his belly while I stroke him; my own tightening with pleasure at his response to my touch. He groans a sound so beautiful that I never want it to end. I work him harder and faster, feeling his skin slide smoothly over the hot and unbelievably stiff meat of his tool. Suddenly, I want to do something I've never even considered doing before. I trail my kisses lower still, past his navel and into the hard plains of his pubic bone. Course, curly hair tickles my lips as my mouth ventures further south. The fingers of my right hand alternate between tickling his balls and massaging a hard lump just below them, while my left hand remains wrapped around his shaft.

Soon, my mouth is hovering against the swollen pink head of his dick, my warm breath washing over it. I dart my tongue out and lick the tip, marvelling at the incredibly smooth and slick surface. His member twitches in response but Ash reaches down and starts to pull me back up.

"No," I gasp, "Let me please you, my love. I want to taste you."

He is quick to oblige, no doubt more willing to experiment in this dream word rather than the real one. Excited, I take his length into my grasp, kneading it firmly as I work myself up to putting him in my mouth. Feeling his skin slide over his hardness is arousing beyond measure as I pump him with one fist and tickle him a little lower with the fingers of my other hand. I loom over the mushroom shaped head of his tool, massaging a milky droplet out of the tip. As soon as I do so, I have the irrepressible urge to taste this drop.

I lean over and dip my head lower still, sliding my tongue over the smooth head. He feels even silkier in my mouth than he did in my hands and I moan over a mouthful of him. He shudders in response, his fingers clenching in the tangles of my hair. My mouth is stretched to its limit as I continue to lick him, circling him with my tongue while sucking him passionately. He twitches in my mouth and the thought that I am providing him with such pleasure has me ecstatic.