Lucifer's Lover

Part 1
Lucifer's Lover

Lucifer

I have a secret. And I have to tell someone. But I cannot tell the demonic legions. Well, I could, but the amount of time I would spend punishing them for snickering would greatly reduce my relief at unburdening myself.

So that leaves you. Now, some of you might laugh. I know humans too well to believe otherwise. But before you do, just remember, my dears, that just like Santa Claus. . . I know when you are sleeping . . .and I know when you've been bad.

Oh, yes! I am more or less omniscient. Not like the Big Guy but, still, doesn't that just send chills up your spine? Wonderful spasms of sheer terror? Good, my darlings, good. I like to establish the playing field before I start the game.

And now for my secret.

I have taken a lover.

But that doesn't do my predicament justice now, does it?

Let me explain. Ah, where do I begin?

I met her at a club in Los Angeles.  Very fitting, I thought.  It was a fetish club and my favorite den of sexual iniquity.  Not surprising since one of my favorite pastimes, when I'm not promoting hate and sparking violence, is spending a little time toying with your sexual hang ups. I used to teach you, but man-o-man, now I go to you for lessons, baby. And I take those lessons and I find some repressed, self-conscious victim and I teach them to love the dark and twisted perversion that waits for them deep in their soul. Of course, they begin to hate themselves so much for loving it that the guilt eats them up inside.  And then they really become capable of some sick stuff. It's beautiful! But I digress . . .

So, I met my lover at this club. The kind of place where a bound man being lashed with a whip or a woman prancing around outfitted like a pony are merely playful appetizers.  The real kinky stuff is going on in dozens of rooms behind tasteful red velvet curtains.  And you part those curtains at your own risk. 

My lover's best friend had brought her there for a laugh. And this friend had thought that she needed one because it was the anniversary of a nasty break up with a guy she'd never quite gotten over. Her friend dragged her here and there, peeking behind curtains, giggling, and generally acting like an idiot. I would have enjoyed awakening that one to her inner most deviant desires. I would have enjoyed her degradation and the plaintive sounds of her begging for more would have been music to my ears.

Ah, there I go again.

Digression is my middle name. They say that behind my back, you know. Yes, they do. I'm like a kid in a candy store. So much evil to do and so on.

Now back to my girl, the relatively unremarkable young woman who intrigued me so much. She blushed at some of the things she saw but she didn't giggle. She understood something about these people even though she was not one of them -- not exactly.

Everyone always looks at the -- well -- the receiver, don't they? They look at the poor shmucks who like it how they like it and they don't even notice the person giving them exactly what they paid for.

But the fine female specimen who had caught my eye, deep down she was one of those that administered the sensations and drank up the resulting response. She was a priestess who could take what supplicants offered and love them for their sacrifice...she just didn't know it yet.

And, so quite unlike myself, I sauntered over to her, introduced myself, and let her take me home.

I know what you're going to say. There are lots of people who like to dominate, who have a taste for the sadistic.

Yes, I know! I taught them everything they know. I unleashed them on you people. And I never before had the inclination to offer myself as their training ground!

I am the tormenter, I am the accuser, I am the tempter of mankind!

Of course, not for the reasons that you think, but I'll get to that later.

The truth is that I have absolutely no clue why I went with her that night. I would like to say that it was devilish mischievousness, but I think it was something closer to boredom, desperation . . . insanity. You can take your pick.

Whatever it was, I found myself, in her room, naked, and oh so fascinated with what she might do with me.

It was awkward that first time. She knew what she wanted but couldn't know what I would like. Of course, I couldn't help her there because I had no idea either. Oh, I've had sex, oodles and oodles of sex, but I'm the guy that screws and leaves unless I'm playing your twisted sexuality like a musical instrument. On this night, I was at a disadvantage.

And, yes by the way, angels have bodies. Or more correctly, we have the potential for a physical form, when we want one, for the purposes of communicating with you monkeys. I can make myself as firm as you are, he he! I can appear however I like but I have true form both in the spiritual realm and in the physical one. My spiritual form is as horrific as you imagine that it would be. It is the direct opposite of the angelic glory that I once possessed. But my corporal form . . .Damn I'm hot!

Where was I?

Ah yes, the first time was awkward and she didn't have the necessary, uh, equipment. But we managed. And now the woman has a toy box that shames the depths of Hell, boys and girls. It has only been a three months but . . . .

The smell of leather turns me on now, the jingle of chains makes my mouth dry, the crack of a whip makes my little heart race.

The noises I make for her alone are enough to make Caligula blush.

And I keep going back. I keep finding myself at her doorstep. I know when she is home, obviously, and I go to her before I know what I'm doing. She opens the door, lets me in, and sends me to her room. And I go.

I go and do for her what I refused to do so long ago.

My little disappearing acts are making the natives restless but the fallen host is far too scared of me to do anything about it. At least not yet.

And why do I go back, you ask? Why would I let her do such naughty things to me?

Where do I start?

In the beginning. . .in the beginning I was a servant of the Most High, just like you've all been taught, I was his most devoted servant, the closest to His throne, but after that the story deviates. It wasn't until after you were created that the trouble started. I hadn't even noticed you, by the way, I hadn't even turned around and said "Oh, look at that." I had my adoring eyes fixed exactly where they should have been and then He turned to us and said that we must bow to His new creation. A creation that was superior to our angelic selves because He had put Himself into you.

Did I get jealous? Did I act pridefully and refuse? No!  And yes.

I loved Him, ladies and gentlemen, I loved Him. He had formed me out of nothing and made me His perfect servant. He had whispered in my ear that I was for Him alone and that I was to bow to no other.

And then He threw me away, boys and girls, He found a new plaything and He tossed me aside. But I did nothing more than question this strange order. I hesitated and others with me and we were summarily removed from His presence. I didn't understand. I still don't.

Where we exist now there is nothing. Infinite nothingness upon unending nothingness. A Hell of emptiness when we used to be surrounded by and filled with His love. And in that hole, there is agony. Imagine being heartbroken, in mourning, and lonely at the same time. Imagine having a headache, toothache, and earache all at the same time.

Now do you see why we are drawn to your little planet? Now do you see why your corruption is so thrilling? It distracts from the aching. It's really that simple. Nothing dastardly about it. You are the interactive reality show that keeps us from wallowing in our anguish.

Okay, you say, so what does this have to do with the fact that yours truly has started to take his coffee with a dash of pain?

Well, you might start by asking yourselves what His presence must really be like? Hmm?

It is . . .intense, to put it simply. It was an all-encompassing experience of love and joy and. . .

I was a flaming orgasm, basically. Not the alcoholic beverage, obviously. A literal incorporeal orb of burning ecstasy where pleasure and pain were one and the same and I sang out in rapturous worship. Neat, huh?

So when my lover, mmmm, my mistress decides to use my body as the scapegoat for wrongs done to her by other people . . .

Firstly, I cannot be permanently damaged and so I have no fear. And secondly, your kind of pain is nothing to angelic pain. The searing sting of a lash is more akin to the burning rapture of Heaven than to what I feel when I am alone in my Hell. She gives me a taste of Heaven and she doesn't even realize it.

And when she is done with me, she always takes me to her bed. To comfort me . . .To reward me. I am always hard before she has untied the last knot and she thinks that it's because the pain turns me on. That I anticipate the pleasure I know will follow. But I am already satisfied.

I have suffered what she has asked me to just as I used to endure His presence and love Him for allowing me to. So my poor, confused body offers her pleasure for what she has done to me and I am always strangely surprised when I find myself shaking with my own.

And more often now when I go to her I find myself lying with my head in her lap instead of bound and at her mercy. She pets me, running her hands over me like I am a skiddish horse that needs to be calmed. And I just lie there and let her stroke me like an obedient lap dog.

She has discovered more subtle forms of submission and that she only has to open her hand to have me eating out of it. I have become her ardent and compliant lover. And making love to her is its own kind of Heaven.

There is one rule in her bed however.  One doesn't climax before she does. I learned that lesson the hard way only once. I'd never bothered with such niceties before but it seems wise to humor her.

She doesn't know what I am, of course. I'm just a man to her. She calls me Luke and I call her Mistress.

And she possesses me. I go there to be possessed. To remember what it feels like to belong to someone.

It is to these depths that I have fallen. That I go to a woman and I kneel and I give myself over.

And I think I'm falling in love with her.

It terrifies me. But not for the reasons you probably suspect.

I may be ruined but I remember what love feels like. What my love feels like. My love is selfless devotion. My love is absolute trust and worshipful adoration.

What I have to give, she would never understand. She only sees a man turned on by pain, a man who likes a woman to dominate him. She could never comprehend the angel who transcends what she understands as pain and humiliation, who feels at home in her possession, who actually yearns to do nothing but obey. There is no sacrifice I wouldn't give for the one I love.

Sometimes I think I was a sacrifice. One that was needed to bring you into existence. But that doesn't stop me from hating you.

You are why I have hurt for so long. I no longer have a divine purpose. I have been spent and what's left of me lingers without direction. He doesn't even bother to stop me from corrupting you. He simply ignores me. He turns his attention to you.

Don't you know how much I long for him to stop me? To exact a punishment and take me home or just destroy me?

But there has been no absolution because there has been no one to forgive me. No one for me to belong to.

Until now.

Oh! You're going to love this!  Until now!  Until precisely a week ago, and again last night mid-. . . well, let's just say mid-grand finale, I said some things. Well, more accurately, I sang some things.

Ha! I sang words from the Gloria! Just a few mind you, but I haven't been able to so much as think about that little ditty in millennia. I told her it was Icelandic.

But the best part, oh, the best part is that a twisted place inside me isn't sure if I sang to Him or to her. Don't you just love it when you find new and inventive ways of blaspheming? I know I do!

Part 2
The Devil's Mistress

Elizabeth

I’m very embarrassed to tell you this but I think I’ve become a sexual deviant.  That might be putting it a little harshly but I don’t know how else to put it.  I’ve always had little fantasies, you know, things that you would never even tell your best friend about, but I’ve never really taken them seriously.  They were all tucked away safely in the deep recesses of my mind to be pulled out and examined only rarely.

That was until I met Luke.

I don’t know why I took him home.  I’ve never done that before.  I’ve never been that kind of girl.  Honestly.  Besides, I’m past the age where a one night stand is irresistibly intriguing. 

Of course, my first night with Luke was far from one night stand material.

My friend Melissa had taken me to a fetish club on a whim.  She’s like that, adventurous and wild.  And she’s my best friend because she does drag me around on randomly interesting outings that are sure to leave us laughing. 

Melissa had decided that I needed a little pick me up when she discovered that I was having a self-pity party in my pajamas on a perfectly wonderful Saturday evening.  She never stands for that kind of behavior even if I am totally justified in obsessing over old boyfriends or wondering if I will ever find the man for me.

I don’t even remember the name of the club she took me to or how to get there.  I blocked it out of my memory most likely because one cannot admit to actually knowing about a place like that.  Can one?  Of course, it’s too late for me to be prudish now.  I might as well wear a leather bustier and fishnet stockings to the office along with a color coordinated whip, that’s how deeply perverted I have become. 

Strong words, I know, but something in me is not completely comfortable with what I am capable of when I have Luke in my bedroom.

Anyway, Melissa and I ventured out to a fetish club in Los Angeles.  It was dark inside as it was lit only by the flashing lights from the dance floor and a few candles flickering on sconces along the outer walls.  The music throbbed and pulsed loudly but it was not enough to entirely cover the occasional sound of a whip crack or a resounding cry for mercy.  Around the edges of the large main room there were curtained rooms where the bolder club goers indulged themselves. 

“How about this one,” she had said and shoved me through into one of the rooms where I found a woman strapped to a table and a man getting ready to. . .

Well, what was going on at the club is not the point.  What is important and what changed my life forever was that as we were treating ourselves to night of delicious voyeurism a man walked up to me and introduced himself as Luke.  My friend promptly abandoned me which is, according to her, precisely what a good friend should do when a hot guy approaches.

And he was very hot!  Tall, dark and handsome doesn’t do him justice.  Luke has curly black hair that always looks slightly rumpled in the sexiest of ways.  His dark eyes are the loveliest shade of green that I have ever seen.  And his body . . . he cannot be for real but since I’ve touched him, he must be.  I'm getting ahead of myself but he has the kind of body that makes you want to run your hands over it just to experience what such precision feels like.  Not that I bothered with a detailed inspection early on.  I was much too infatuated with the opportunity he presented than I was with his beauty.

Anyway, that night Luke was dressed in an exquisitely tailored black suit that should have made him seem out of place at a sex club but didn’t.  He looked like he owned not just the club but the whole block.  And I stood there like an idiot staring at him wide-eyed and drooling.

“I think I might have what you have in mind,” he said to me, not seeming to have to yell to make himself heard over the music.

“Oh!” I said stupidly.

“Yes,” he said, and smiled, playfully amused by my awkwardness.

“Why don’t we let my driver take your friend home, hm?”  He continued. “So that we can take our leave.”

“Well, I . . . .“  I stammered.

“Excellent,” he purred and the next thing I knew I was driving him to my house in Melissa’s car.

Strange, I know!  But he had this pull about him.  I couldn’t resist and the bells and alarms that should have been going off in my head just weren’t.  The idea of it scares me now but he turned out to be, well, not what I would have expected.

Once we got to my home, a little ranch style house on a cul-de-sac that is still green though I have vowed to paint it for years, I gave him a short tour.  Lame, I am aware, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.  When I was done showing him my unremarkable kitchen, Luke took my hand and led me back to the bedroom.  He sat me on the edge of my bed, gave me a mysterious smile and began taking his clothes off.  I watched him wide-eyed, dry-mouthed and rapt. 

When he was completely naked, he reached forward and took my hands to raise me up.  He put my hands on his bare chest and then his expression changed from the mild amusement that had been present since we’d met to a kind of weary longing.

“Do what you want,” he whispered to me.  Immediately, as if he had called them forth, images flashed in my head that I recognized from my private fantasy collection. 

“But . . .”  I started in a feeble attempt to rescue myself.

Luke just shook his head at me.

“Do what you want,” he said again.

And I did.  I was new to the, uhm, S&M scene so I didn’t have any nifty toys but I found that all of the equipment that I need was at my fingertips.  The mind gets very inventive when you are being guided by such deep desires.

And that is how it started.  He offered and I took.  Now our relationship has developed into so very much more.

I, uh, have a toy box now.  I have metal shackles and chains that are hard and cold against his warm skin, supple leather bonds that can be pulled cruelly tight and strong silk cords for when I want to get creative. 

And once I have him where I want him . . .

There is nothing quite as satisfying as the thrill one gets from the use of a whip.  The abrupt and ruthless sound of the crack it makes against the skin.  The gratifying vibration that travels back into your hand.  Not to mention the tortured cries that it brings from Luke.  But somehow, no matter how anguished his screams become there is always a hint of a contented sigh, a whimper of pleasure, beneath all of the pain.  That’s how I know that he hasn’t had enough yet.  When all I get is a dreamy moan, I know it’s time to stop.

I had always understood that, with these types of fantasies, it is really the submissive party’s specific desire that is being fulfilled, not the dominant’s.  But Luke asks for nothing and denies me nothing.  He just comes to me and gives himself over.  And more than that he manages to do everything so willingly.  Without fear, without shame.  I honestly don’t know how he does it.  He has yielded himself to everything I have asked of him, so I have kept asking for more.  He has literally become mine.  Mine in a way that makes words like lover, property, and slave inadequate.  And I love him for it.

When I’m at work I daydream of finding him naked and chained to my bed when I get home.  He opens his drowsy eyes, stretches, and welcomes me home with a sufficiently submissive smile.  It is love that I feel when think of him waiting for me in chains, not lust.  It is an exotic mix of the fondness one feels for an obedient dog and the burning ardor of young lovers.  It is dark and wild and totally intoxicating.

And through all of this, Luke has been exalted by his surrender not demeaned by it.  His love is made more pure and more perfect than mine could ever be.  I often feel as if I am the helpless one because I am in awe of him.  I am demanding and brutal but he stands before me with calm trust and does not look away. 

Like I said, the nature of our relationship has become as frightening as it is exciting.

For the first few weeks that we were together, when I took him to my bed I was so excited that I reached my climax easily.  Then one night I needed a little more help to, you know, get things going, but he was too focused on himself to notice.  When he was done, laying on me breathing roughly . . . I flipped out a little.

I’m normally not bothered by such things.  I mean, I’m next, right?  But because of the nature of our relationship, I could not allow it.

I pulled myself out from under him, turned away like a haughty princess, and I told him to get out.  Playing the martyr is always a favorite ploy.  Guys are supposed to recognize it and play along.  But Luke didn’t.  He just laid there and looked crushed.  Absolutely decimated.  I waited for him to speak the well choosen words would have have cooled my temper.  But he just got up meekly and left.  It was as if he was playing out a scene that had nothing to do with me.

Two weeks later, an eternity when you consider that he had been coming over every three days or so, he was at my door again.  He never calls, he just shows up, leaving me to wonder how often he goes away disappointed that I’m not at home.  I think that it is part of the game for him but I’m not sure.

When I opened the door, he just stood there looking at me desperately as if staying away so long had been the hardest thing he had ever done.  I let him in immediately, I had been waiting for him for days, and without any direction from me, he went straight to my bedroom and stripped.  So, I made him suffer because it was what he expected, it was what he wanted, and when I was done he was as hard and ready as he always has been. 

To say that he was eager to please would be a vast understatement.  He flowed over my body like water, engulfing me in a flood of fervent lips and tender hands.  And I am almost certain that if I had not grabbed his luscious butt and drove him deep inside of me, I'd still be in my bed now being tended to.

Since then, Luke has refined himself into a gentle and attentive lover.  But now I can’t get him to climax before me no matter what I do.  His control is amazing.  I know because I’ve tried to break it.    He simply will not do it and it scares me because it forces me to recognize how fragile he really is.  All I did was kick him out. 

It makes me wonder what kind of ordeals he has been through that have made enduring my lash so fulfilling and offering such obedience so satisfying.  And I know he enjoys it.  I just don’t understand why.  It was after that incident that I started to be more careful with him.  I started to move away from simply using his body as my personal stress reliever.  There are other ways for him to submit to me and I began to explore them all.

The next time he came to me I asked him to kneel for the first time.  You would have figured that I would have gotten to that sooner but was not a sophisticated mistress early on.  He gave me a startled look that I had not expected and I thought for a second that this would be a line that he would not cross, but then he eased himself gracefully down on his knees and bowed his head. 

It struck me immediatly how perfectly natural he looked in the pose he had chosen.  His knees were slightly apart as he sat back on his heels and supported his lowered torso with palms laid flat on the floor in front of him.  His hesitation seemed strange considering how elegantly he assumed this subservient posture.  I reached down and lifted his chin to bring his eyes to mine.  And I think I saw the briefest flicker of fear in his eyes before his trust returned.  I smiled, led him to the couch and laid him across my lap.  It was then that I discovered the simple pleasure that could be had by caressing his beautiful body.  Each curve and angle seems perfect and there is something pleasing about the firmness of his muscles that I can't quite describe.  Of course, the exquisite shivers my touches cause and the soft pleading noises that he eventually begins to make only add to the experience.

But despite my discovery that he also enjoys more subtle forms of obedience there still is something a bit off about how submissive he is, how much pain he can take, and how his mere presence elicits such a passionately violent response in me. 

What bothers me even more though, and I don’t know why, is that sometimes when he orgasms he sort of, well, he sings out in a foreign language.  When I asked, he told me it was Icelandic but I don’t believe him.  There is no reason why anhone should know Icelandic. 

And besides, I feel those words resounding in my head and reverberating in my bones.  It feels like what you would expect love to feel like if someone could wrap you up in their emotions.  I know that sounds corny but it’s what I feel. 

I’ll have to ask him about it next time I see him.  And I think it’s time I took him out to dinner first.