Chapter 9: Roses and Thornes
The scent of Simeon’s room—vanilla and ozone—clung to my skin like a phantom as I walked the corridors of the House of Lamentation. It felt like a secret, one that the shadows themselves might whisper to the walls. My body was a map of contradicting sensations: the deep, pleasant ache from Simeon’s worship, and the newer, raw thrill from his furious reclamation. My mind was a storm of static. I just needed not to be alone.
I didn’t consciously choose Asmodeus’s door. My feet carried me there, pulled by the promise of warmth, of uncomplicated, lust-soaked noise that could drown out the silent, judging phone in my memory. The hallway here was warmer, the sconces glowing a soft pink. I could smell his signature incense even through the carved wood—jasmine, amber, a hint of expensive sin.
I pushed the door open without knocking.
Asmo’s boudoir was a symphony of velvet and silk, plush rugs swallowing sound, a dozen mirrors reflecting the low, rosy light. He was standing by his vanity, shirtless, applying something shimmering to his collarbones. And Mammon was there, slouched in a chaise lounge, rolling a gold coin across his knuckles.
They both turned as I entered. The air shifted.
Asmo’s perfect, pouty lips parted. His keen eyes, the color of spoiled wine, swept over me in an instant. He saw everything—the leftover flush, the slight stumble in my step, the haunted look I couldn’t quite bury. “Darling,” he breathed, the word a caress. “You look… used. In the most delicious way. And desperately in need of a better story.”
Mammon’s coin stopped moving. He sat up, his crimson eyes narrowing. He wasn’t as perceptive as Asmo, but he was greedy, and he knew the currency of attention. He saw me seeking it here, and a possessive glint sparked in his gaze. “Been with the angel?” he grunted, a sneer in his voice. “Bet he’s a pious, boring lay. All prayer and no punch.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said, my own voice sounding distant.
Asmo glided forward, his fingers touching my chin, tilting my face to the light. “Ah. Not just the angel, then. Something else is crackling under this pretty skin. Did someone… call?”
The accuracy was a slap. I flinched. That was all the confirmation they needed.
Mammon was off the chaise in a fluid motion. “That dick,” he spat. “Can’t just leave a good thing alone, can he? Gotta spoil everything he ain’t gonna eat himself.” He stepped close, his presence a wall of frustrated heat beside Asmo’s perfumed cool. “Well, he ain’t here. We are.”
Asmo’s smile was a wicked, beautiful thing. “And we’re so much more fun. We don’t make phone calls, darling. We provide hands-on experiences.” His hand slid down my neck, over the pulse still hammering from my walk. “You came here for a distraction. Let us distract you. Thoroughly.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a conspiracy I was too weary to resist. Their energy coiled around me, Mammon’s aggressive need and Asmo’s sensual avarice, a tandem lure. My loneliness was a void, and they were more than willing to fill it with sensation.
“Yes,” I whispered.
The word unleashed them.
Asmo’s mouth was on mine, all slick, practiced skill. His tongue tasted of candied rose. Mammon didn’t wait, his greedy hands pulling at my clothes, fabric tearing in his haste. Buttons popped, scattering like tiny teeth on the rug. Asmo broke the kiss, laughing against my lips. “Impatient brute. There’s an art to unwrapping a gift.”
“Shut up,” Mammon growled, but he yanked my jeans and panties down together in one rough pull, leaving me half-naked and shivering. Asmo’s clever fingers made quick work of my bra clasp.
Then I was bare between them, under the scrutiny of a hundred mirrored reflections. Mammon’s gaze was hot, devouring. Asmo’s was appreciative, analytical. “Exquisite canvas,” Asmo purred. “Needs to be painted with something better than angel tears and regret.”
He pushed me gently backward until my knees hit the edge of the enormous, canopied bed. I fell onto the silken covers. They shared a look over me, a silent, predatory agreement.
“My turn first,” Asmo declared, his voice dropping to a sinful whisper. “I want to taste what the angel left behind. Clean the palate.”
He hooked his hands under my knees, spreading me wide, and descended without ceremony. His tongue was a weapon of precision. Where Simeon had worshiped, Asmo devoured. He licked a broad, flat stripe through my folds, humming in pleasure. “Mmm, still so slick. He did a good job priming you, I’ll give him that.”
Then he zeroed in on my clit, sucking it deep into his mouth, applying a ruthless, rhythmic pressure. His fingers, slick with my own wetness, plunged into my pussy, curling instantly. “So greedy for it already,” he moaned, the vibration ripping through me. “Your cunt’s clenching on nothing, darling. Don’t worry. We’ll fix that.”
Mammon watched for a moment, his hand stroking the obvious bulge in his pants. Then he unbuckled, freeing his cock. It was thick, ruddy, already leaking at the tip. He wasn’t as monstrously sized as some of the others, but he was solid, veined, and he knew how to use it. He climbed onto the bed, knees framing my head, his gaze holding a feral gleam.
“My turn for a taste,” he said, and guided the head of his cock to my lips. “Open up, Nikki. Earn that expensive necklace I bought ya.”
The command, crass and direct, broke through the haze of Asmo’s mouth. I opened, and he pushed in, not waiting, filling my mouth with his salty, musky taste. He didn’t thrust, just held himself there, letting me adjust to the stretch of my jaws. Asmo redoubled his efforts below, adding a second finger, scissoring them, stretching me in time with the ministrations of his tongue.
The dual invasion was overwhelming. Mammon’s cock was heavy on my tongue, the coarse hair at its base tickling my nose. I could hear Asmo’s wet, filthy sounds between my legs, his muffled praises. “That’s it, darling, drip for me. So sweet. So messy.”
Mammon began to move, a shallow, testing fuck of my mouth. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Take it. Better than any treasure.” His hips found a rhythm, pushing deeper with each stroke until the head bumped the back of my throat. Tears welled in my eyes. He saw them and groaned. “Fuck, yes. Look at you. Gagging on my dick while Asmo eats you out. You’re fucking perfect.”
Asmo pulled his mouth away with a wet pop. “My turn up here,” he declared, swapping places with a fluid, graceful move that left me disoriented. Mammon, grumbling but compliant, shifted down.
I was empty for only a second before Mammon’s mouth, less skilled but ravenous, covered my pussy. He licked like he was trying to consume me, sloppy and hungry. Asmo’s beautiful face filled my vision, his cock—slenderer, perfectly formed, glistening with a faint, iridescent sheen—pressed against my lips.
“Be gentle with her, Mammon, you oaf,” Asmo chided, even as he slid his cock into my mouth with infinite control. “She’s not a supper trough.” Then his focus returned to me. His thrusts were deep, slow, and practiced, hitting a sweet spot that made my throat relax. He fucked my face with a narcissist’s devotion, mesmerized by the sight. “You were made for this, darling. To be adored from every angle.”
I was a nexus of sensation. Mammon’s tongue speared into my core, his stubble rough on my thighs. Asmo’s cock glided over my tongue, his precome tasting like spiced sugar. The coiling tension from before, momentarily sated by Simeon, was back, multiplied, a live wire in my gut. My hips bucked helplessly against Mammon’s face.
“She’s close,” Asmo sang, his breath hitching. “I can feel her throat fluttering. Make her come, Mammon. I want to feel it.”
Mammon responded with a guttural noise and fastened his mouth on my clit, sucking hard. Two thick fingers speared up inside me, crooking brutally.
That was all it took.
The orgasm detonated, a silent scream trapped around Asmo’s cock. My back arched off the bed, my vision whiting out at the edges. Mammon kept sucking, drawing the spasms out until they were torturous sparks. Asmo held still, letting me milk his shaft with my convulsing throat, his eyes rolled back in exquisite pleasure.
Before the last tremor faded, they were moving me again. Strong hands flipped me onto my hands and knees. The silken sheets were cool against my belly.
“My claim,” Mammon growled, positioning himself behind me. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise. No preparation, no gentleness. He rubbed the broad head of his cock through my soaked folds, then notched it at my entrance and shoved forward in one brutal, deep lunge.
I cried out, the sound ragged. I was stretched, impossibly full, the lingering sensitivity from Asmo’s fingers making the stretch a bright, sharp burn.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Mammon panted, beginning to piston into me with rough, driving strokes. “Take it. All of it. My treasure.”
Asmo appeared in front of me, his cock bobbing, slick from my mouth. He cupped my face. “Don’t wear her out too quickly, greedy-guts. I haven’t had my proper turn.” He leaned in, kissing me deeply, sharing the taste of myself and him. Then he moved lower, his voice a wicked promise. “I think there’s another hole looking lonely.”
I felt his thumb, slick with something cool and slippery—one of his enchanted oils—press against my other, forbidden entrance. Mammon was hammering into my pussy, each thrust jolting me forward. Asmo’s thumb pressed in, just a little, a shocking intrusion.
“Relax, darling,” Asmo crooned, working the oil in tiny circles. “Just a little more. I’ll be so good to you.”
Mammon’s pace was relentless, his balls slapping against me. “Yeah, take his finger. Get ready for us. We’re gonna ruin you for anyone else.”
Asmo’s thumb slipped all the way in, a tight, burning stretch that made me gasp. He crooked it, and a bolt of shocking, electric pleasure-shot up my spine. My shocked moan was muffled by the bedding. He added a second finger, scissoring gently, the burn transforming into a deep, radiating heat.
“She’s ready,” Asmo announced, his voice thick with lust. He removed his fingers.
Mammon pulled out abruptly, leaving me empty and clenching at the air. I felt the bed shift as they swapped places in a frantic, whispered negotiation.
Then Asmo was behind me, his slender, perfect cock pressing where his fingers had been. He pushed in slowly, with an obscene, controlled pressure. The stretch was different, sharper, more intense. It stole my breath. He bottomed out with a sigh of pure bliss. “Oh, darling. You’re absolutely divine. So tight and hot. A perfect fit.”
He began to move, shallow, precise thrusts that ignited nerves I didn’t know I had. Just as the rhythm became hypnotic, Mammon’s face appeared beneath mine, his cock nudging my lips.
“C’mon, Nikki. Keep both holes busy. Earn your keep.”
I took him in my mouth again, the familiar weight a strange comfort. Asmo picked up his pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder. He was hitting a spot inside that made my toes curl, each impact sparking pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
“Look at her,” Asmo moaned, one hand tangling in my hair. “Taking us both. Filled to the brim. This is what you needed, isn’t it? To be so full of us there’s no room for cold, lonely thoughts.”
Mammon fucked my mouth in counterpoint to Asmo’s thrusts, a filthy, syncopated rhythm. The room filled with the sounds of slapping skin, guttural groans, and my own choked whimpers. I was an object of their shared hunger, a vessel for their competitive affection. The emptiness was gone, burned away by a brutal, glorious overload.
Asmo’s composure shattered first. “I’m gonna… fuck, I’m gonna come!” His thrusts lost their grace, becoming frantic. He buried himself to the hilt and stilled, a raw shout tearing from his throat as he pumped his release deep inside me, the heat a shocking contrast to the cool oil.
The sensation of him pulsing inside that impossibly tight channel tipped Mammon over. With a roar, he pulled from my mouth and came in hot, sticky stripes across my face and hair, grunting with each jet.
They both stayed there for a moment, panting, draped over my spent body.
Asmo pulled out slowly, making me whimper at the sudden, aching emptiness. He collapsed beside me, pulling me into his arms. Mammon, after a moment, slumped on my other side, throwing a heavy arm across my waist.
The silence was different now. Sated. Thick with the smell of sex and sweat and expensive perfume.
Mammon nuzzled into my hair, his voice a sleepy mumble. “See? We’re better. We don’t make you think.”
Asmo traced the curve of my ear. “We just make you feel. Exhaustively.”
I lay between them, physically saturated, my mind blissfully blank. For now, the ghost was silent. The fortress felt very far away. In its place was a gilded, sweating, temporary sanctuary, built on greed and lust and something that, in the Devildom, might just pass for care.
But as my breathing slowed, a single, cold trickle of Mammon’s come traced a path from my temple down to the pillow. A fleeting mark. A currency that would dry and flake away by morning. The thought, when it finally came, was quiet and clear.
Everything here is temporary.
I closed my eyes and let the thought drown in the warm, heavy darkness of their shared breath.
I closed my eyes and let the thought drown in the warm, heavy darkness of their shared breath.
Exhaustion was a smothering blanket. I fell into a dreamless void, a silent place where the aches in my body were just distant echoes. The world was reduced to the furnace heat of them on either side, a sweaty, possessive cage of limbs.
It broke with a sudden, gentle pressure on my shoulder.
“Psst. Nikki.”
Mammon’s voice was a low rasp in the perfect dark. I swam up from the depths, confused. The room was silent except for Asmo’s steady, light breaths beside me. A sliver of eerie green light from the hellscape outside cut across the bed, illuminating Mammon’s sharp features. He was already dressed in loose pants.
“C’mon,” he whispered, his fingers threading with mine. “With me.”
He pulled, and my body, limp and used, followed. I didn’t have the will to resist. He guided me from the tangle of Asmo’s limbs, the demon of lust sighing and turning over without waking, a hand clutching the pillow I’d vacated. Mammon wrapped a silken robe around my naked shoulders and led me, barefoot, into the cold, echoing hallway.
The mansion at night was a different beast. The shadows felt watchful. Our footsteps were ghosts of sound on the stone. He didn’t speak, just led me to his room, a space that always smelled of old paper, cold coin, and him.
His door clicked shut, muting the world.
“You’re a mess,” he murmured, his voice losing its conspiratorial edge, softening. He guided me to his ensuite bathroom. The light he turned on was dim, golden. He wet a soft cloth with warm water.
He started with my face, wiping away the dried, flaking evidence of his own release from my cheeks and chin. His touches were methodical, surprisingly tender. Each pass of the cloth was followed by the press of his lips—on my clean temple, the slope of my nose, the corner of my mouth.
“Asmo’s crap is gonna stain the sheets, but who cares,” he mumbled against my skin, his hands moving down. He cleaned between my breasts, my stomach. He knelt, wiping my inner thighs, his breath warm. He was meticulous, removing every trace of their combined spend from my skin.
I was pliant, half a ghost, watching him through a haze. The care in the action was a language I couldn’t quite parse. It felt like an apology, or a claim, or both.
“There,” he said finally, tossing the cloth aside. He lifted me, my arms automatically looping around his neck, and carried me to his bed. His sheets were cool, simple cotton, not Asmo’s decadent silks.
He slid in behind me, his body a solid line of heat against my back. One arm hooked under my neck, the other wrapped possessively around my waist, pulling me tight against him. I could feel the hard length of his erection, already rigid again, pressing against the cleft of my ass.
“Just need to feel you,” he whispered into my hair, his voice slurry with sleep and desire. His hand slid down over my belly, lower, his fingers parting my folds from behind. I was still swollen, sensitive, slippery from his cleaning or my own unending wetness. He guided himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging against my tender entrance.
He pushed in with a single, slow, devastating roll of his hips. A thick, full sigh escaped us both. My body accepted him with a familiar ache, still loose from earlier but clutching him tightly. He filled me completely, a deep, solid anchorage in the sleepy dark.
He didn’t move fast. He buried himself to the hilt and held there, grinding slowly, letting me feel every inch. Then he began a lazy, rhythmic tide. Long, deep withdrawals followed by slow, penetrating pushes that reached a place that made my breath catch.
“That’s it,” he breathed, his lips against the shell of my ear. His thrusts were hypnotic, a drowsy, continuous possession. “Just like that. You feel so fucking good. All mine right now.”
His whispers wove around me, sweet and filthy. “My beautiful girl. My lucky charm. Fuck, you take me so deep. Could stay in this sweet cunt forever.” His hand cupped my breast, thumb circling my nipple. “Gonna keep you. Gonna fuck you sleepy every night.”
The pleasure was a low, throbbing build, less a sprint than a gradual submersion. My body, so brutally wrung out hours before, responded to this insistent, sleepy claiming. A different kind of tightness coiled low in my belly. Each deep stroke stoked it.
“Come for me, Nikki,” he whispered, his pace deepening just a fraction. His teeth grazed my earlobe. “Come on my cock and then go to sleep. I’ll be here. I’ll keep filling you up.”
His words, the relentless, deep friction, the security of his arms—it pushed me over a edge that felt more like falling than flying. The climax washed through me in warm, pulsing waves, a quiet unraveling that made my toes curl and my channel clutch rhythmically around his invading length.
He groaned, a ragged, satisfied sound. “Yeah. Good girl. Now sleep.”
But he didn’t stop. His movements became even slower, even more deliberate, as if he were fucking me into the mattress, into the dreamscape. My awareness frayed at the edges, pleasure and exhaustion blurring. I felt his own release in a series of hot, pulsing floods deep inside me, his groan muffled in my hair.
He softened slowly within me but didn’t pull out. He kept a gentle, rocking motion, a half-conscious possession.
Sometime later, in the grey haze before true dawn, I stirred to the same sensation. The slow, deep slide. The warm bursts inside. Mammon, hard again, taking advantage of my pliant, sleeping body. I murmured something unintelligible.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his thrusts languid and deep. “Just dreamin’. Go back to sleep.”
And I did. I let the thought—the knowledge that this, too, was just another temporary currency, another way to feel chased and claimed in the dark—dissolve into the sensation of being continuously, sleepily filled. It was easier than thinking. It was warmer than the silence. For now, it was enough.