The Conquest of Lilith
“She did say, ‘Fuck you’. I think that counts as a ‘no’.”
Lucifer didn’t really expect the little pain in the ass to go for that, but it was worth a shot. He’d learned over the millennia to never overestimate Yahweh’s intelligence, or expect him to adhere to any form of reasonable logic. He’d wiped out his own creation several times and called it ‘Love’, for Christ’s sakes.
“I’ve got two chances left, don’t get your knickers in a wad.”
“I don’t wear knickers, Lu. I like the breeze.”
“I really could have gone the rest of eternity without that information, thanks.”
Holy Joe had interrupted his private musings with his inanities over an hour before, and Lucifer was annoyed from square one. Within the first fifteen minutes, he was ready to go bash his own head into a brick wall, just to make the blithering idiot shut up. Immortality definitely had its drawbacks.
“So where is Lilith now, Lu?”
“She sleeps where I left her. Rather peacefully and contentedly, I might add. Don’t you think, Ya?”
Dimwit wrinkled his nose and finally left.
Immortality definitely had its little pleasures as well.
(Story continues below the fold.)
It was late in the morning as he watched Lilith begin to stir in the simple bed inside the train car. It would be a good morning when he first beheld her so in his own ornate four-poster. It was tempting to forge ahead quickly with her, but he resisted the urge. To bring her to willing submission, he had to alternate pain with pleasure, fear with comfort, degradation and derision with solace and praise. Skipping the soft touch might bring submission more immediately, but that sort of obedience came without desire. It was not enough. He craved her body and her soul, but unless she handed them to him of her own free will, they were meaningless baubles, worthless trinkets shoplifted from a five and dime.
The lacy white gown he’d given her to sleep in was twisted about her, and with her hair tossed about her face, she was the very picture of a well-satisfied and well-fucked mistress. He’d outdone himself last night, impressing himself more than a little. Given that kind of performance, perhaps he could afford to grant her a bit of extra reprieve before she met his cruelty again. He chuckled at the thought that he might be getting a little gentle-hearted in his old age. No, he told himself with a smile. Just wiser, and with more finesse.
He was sitting on a wooden dresser as he took in her calves, her thighs, her hips so barely concealed behind the delicate fabric. He admired her breasts, to be certain, but Lucifer had always been a leg and ass man, and there were few finer specimens of well toned muscle in Heaven or Hell than the one he was currently appreciating. His gaze flitted between her still waking face and the sensuously oblique view of that wonderful ass that he’d used and abused so thoroughly the night before.
“Will you sit there leering at me all day, or do you have something important that needs tending?” The sleepy murmur was without malice or reproach, a passing question a lover might ask upon reaching consciousness.
“I assure you, there is no place more important for me to be than right here, Kitten.”
“I’m not your kitten, Lucifer,” she sighed. “I’m your prisoner, your unwilling plaything. Nothing more.” She began to raise herself into a more-or-less sitting position, propped up by pillows she arranged for her own comfort.
“Your unwillingness seemed to waver more than a little last night, Kitten.” He chuckled softly in self-satisfaction. The little wench had fought and bucked, then sneered and sighed with deliberately feigned boredom at him in the beginning, but as the night wore on her resignation had faded and unmistakably given way to surprisingly fierce passion. Like a young filly being broken in, she had eventually taken to her bit and saddle quite well. He had left that bed as satisfied as she had slept in it, and he had been as soaked in her as she had been in him.
Lucifer took a great deal of pride in the fact that he never needed to brag about his bedroom talents. His playmates tended to do a more than adequate job for him. While he might be termed ‘arrogant’ to someone uninitiated to his prowess, those with personal experience made use of a more reverent vocabulary.
“You defiled me. Why do you want me so, when I feel nothing but disdain for your presence? Why not find someone more compliant?”
“Perhaps it is your unwillingness that attracts me?”
“If that were so, you’d be slapping around Mother Theresa.” He’d been there, done that, and found the exercise completely dull. Theresa must have been born a boring old lady. He’d thrown that fish back five minutes after he’d caught it.
“Perhaps. Perhaps I’m also struck by your beauty. Perhaps your strength. Who’s to say about these things? Love can be rather fickle, you know.”
Lilith grunted her contempt for his choice of words, which was rather what he had expected. Her verbal reply came gently, in an almost motherly patronization. “And what do you know of Love? Love is not brutal, it does not take without permission. It was not Love you felt out there on the tracks last evening. Lust maybe, power more probably. It might have been greed, or jealousy, or covetousness. It was not Love, Lucifer.” He hadn’t quite expected that, and definitely not in such a soft tone of voice. Somehow, he’d supposed she’d have told him where to stick the whole idea of Love, after having been wounded so deeply and for so long after Jezebel’s death. Did she really cling to the hope of future Love? Was the entire concept not anathema to her?
Lucifer started to retort, but found he had nothing to say. He’d thrown the word out there flippantly, for no better reason than to provoke an intemperate response, an excuse to begin her training anew. He prided himself on being unequivocally fair, after all, and wouldn’t punish her without good cause. It was a bit strange for him to be given pause by a sappy, clueless dissertation on what was and was not Love. He was put off his game a bit, and oddly pleased at the unanticipated mystery she presented.
Nevertheless, there was work to be done. He scooped up a pile of neatly folded clothes from beside him and tossed them at her carelessly. “You don’t know shit about Love. But don’t worry, you’ll learn at my feet. Get dressed, woman. And you would do well to remember my name. My name,” he paused and darkened his tone, “is Master“.
“Your name,” she paused and put almost playful laughter in hers, “is mouse.” And there it was.
He was on her in an instant, livid, lifting her from the floor by her delicate throat. He dangled her there for a moment as she pried feebly at his fingers, writhing and kicking helplessly at the air beneath her. His rage nearly bested him and he considered snapping her impudent little voice box with his fingers. It was a brief flash of memory, a fleeting image of her calves and thighs and ass draped haphazardly in a white lace gown as she slept comfortably in her training bed, that spared her that agony.
Regaining his composure somewhat, he lowered her to his uplifted eyes and stabbed a finger to her lips. “Learn to control your tongue, or I’ll rip it from your head, little one.” He set her on the floor and loosened his grip on her airway without releasing her. She was still pulling at his fingers, but with the influx of air, she had stopped kicking. Her gasping and sucking sounds reminded him of the night before, first when he had forced her in the yard, and later when she was kneeling more acquiescently.
She had been very adept, and the spark of memory convinced him to postpone the day’s events for a while. He slowly drew his finger down from her lips to her chin. He brushed her skin lightly down her throat, over his own fingers and to her collarbone. So small, so light, protruding from her skin and calling to his lust. He slipped his finger down further, allowing it to rest between her tits at the top button of the gown.
“If you will bear my mark, I will be gentle with you.” The carrot and the stick, usually so expertly wielded by the Prince of Darkness, slipped from his usually deft grasp. He knew it as soon as the words left his lips. His hunger for her had pressed him into offering the carrot too early.
“I will not.” He was disappointed, but strangely not angry with her. Her refusal was his own doing, a product of his haste. He would have to be very careful about the timing of the final demand.
He brought his line of sight back to her face where his eyes met their counterparts. Her expression was calmer now that the wind came easier for her. Defiance still flickered there, and it was seductive. Her hands still covered his, but she had stopped pulling at the fingers which had so roughly bruised her moments before.
“One.” The first button hit the floor while he held her gaze. There was no reaction from his stalwart beauty and they continued to exchange unwavering stares. He caught the barest whiff of adrenaline from her body in his nostrils. He pressed on with a rising excitement of his own.
“Two.” The second flipped through the air and landed softly on the bed, portending the very near future. A quick tremble raced across her lip and was gone. Her scent was more powerful now, a flooding river of olfactory sensuality for him, that dragged urgently at his distending need. He was burning in anticipation of taking her again. Her brow contracted and relaxed, slightly but noticeably, in his peripheral vision.
“Three.” It bounced off her chin and dropped into her cleavage within the gown, finding the floor a moment later. Was that panic in her eyes, or something else?
He didn’t count the next button aloud, but let it drop and roll unseen and unheard between them.
“Four,” she whispered.
From whence came the art:
The images in this post, from top to bottom are titled Mephistopheles alone, by seriykotik; p72, p83, p84, and p66, by Zinin Alexei and are licensed by the artists under the Creative Commons Licenses found at the links (or you can click the images).