Page 1 of Demonic Delights

PROLOGUE

Ihave hunted for her for centuries, for millennia.

A fallen woman with an immaculate bloodline, debased soul, and depraved spirit. Worthy in her vulgarity to become a vessel for my malevolence.

With her heart hardened but not yet blackened, and with her conscience not yet obliterated. Corruptible but not yet fully corrupted.

Even the stench of humanity is beguiling on her somehow, luscious and beckoning. In her, the inherent softness of her feeble, flawed kind is inviting of carnal desire, rather than of the soul-annihilation I have been bestowing on mortals since time immemorial.

And how the thirst for her swells inside me, more powerful even than my thirst for carnage. A thirst that cannot be contained or denied.

I shall ravage her. I shall make her revel in a passion unlike anything she has known. And then I shall fill her womb with my infernal seed.

All that’s needed is a puppet through which I can conduct my devastating will.

And then she shall be mine.

THIRTEEN REPORTED DEAD IN A MASS SHOOTING

Shortly after 9 pm on November 30, 2025, the Hollowmere Hall on the campus of the renowned Thornedale University became a site of unprecedented horror.

A Christmas event planning committee meeting consisting of staff volunteers and their spouses was interrupted by an assailant carrying a bolt-action hunting rifle and several rounds of ammunition. Within minutes, shots sounded and chaos reigned as those present scrambled for cover.

The attacker was identified as Andrew Wilson, 52, a decorated scholar and tenured professor of twenty years. He was later found dead of unknown causes in his office. According to those who knew him, Professor Wilson was a kind, mild-mannered man with an aversion to violence. Some stated that he displayed uncharacteristic agitation in the days leading up to the incident and was more prone to anger than usual.

The only surviving witness who came face-to-face with Wilson is Roxana Moore, 29, a former student and wife of Wilson’s colleague from the history department, Silas Moore, 45. According to her statement, Wilson cornered her in a second-floor bathroom after shooting one of the victims, Willow Baker, 38, directly in front of her. Despite pointing his rifle at her at first, Wilson then seemingly changed his mind and left Mrs Moore unharmed. She claims to know of no reason for being the only one Wilson has granted mercy. Sources close to her speculate that her youth and physical attractiveness may have been at play.

Wilson then went on to kill his thirteenth and final victim, Owen Pembroke, 43, hiding in a closet on the third floor.

Full report and a complete list of victims can be found on page 4.

1

ROXANA

It’s a garbage collection day, and the bin lorry’s mechanical screech overshadows the equally mechanical sound of Silas’s balls slapping against my flesh. It has fallen dark outside, and since I haven’t closed the curtains, the flash of the amber beacons carries inside and dances across the ceiling. It gives me something to look at other than my husband’s laboured grimace as he ploughs in and out of me, sweat dripping down his temples and chest, the cool drops of it falling on my face and splayed thighs like raindrops.

I shift my hips in a pointless attempt to feel anything that he’s doing inside of me. But bar the slightest friction against the edges of my artificially lubed entrance, there’s just nothing. Depending on where I am in my cycle, I can sometimes feel him hitting my cervix, and that at least provides a sensation somewhere between pain and pleasure. But now, a few days before my ovulation, there sadly is no hope of even that.

When did he become such a fan of the missionary, anyway? When we first started fucking, he liked to hold me against the wall like a weightless doll, his hands large under my ass and his tongue plundering my mouth until my lips felt swollen and tender. I don’t even remember the last time we did the sixty-nine, but I spent a big portion of the year I turned twenty with his cock in my mouth as he sucked on my clit. Then, when we first got married, it was all about fucking me from behind. On all fours on the bed, bent over his desk, or else with my outstretched arms braced against a wall, my bare ass was constantly up in the air, and I was there for it all as he drove into me with animalistic grunts, holding me by a fold of flesh or else slapping my ass-cheeks until they turned bright red and I begged him in my sweetest voice, “Please, Daddy, stop, it hurts.”

Oh, look at that, I actually feel a twinge of something at the memory of him growling, “Not until you’ve learnt to be a good girl.” He would continue to spank me, his cock relentlessly hitting my G-spot as he pumped into me with vigour that seems impossible now. But he was capable of all that once. He used to make me come every night, multiple times sometimes.

So, when the hell did he start fucking me in a way that seems designed to avoid giving me any pleasure?

Thinking back on it, I guess around the time I turned twenty-five.

Outside, the bin lorry rolls away, and I’m snapped back to the present moment as Silas’s grunts become deafening in the silence. As do the splats of his cock sploshing the lube around my indifferent hole. I really overdid it with the grease today. Half the ointment will do next time. Who knows, I might get more out of it if I keep things a bit drier down there.

I attempt to wedge my palms between us to press on my lower abdomen in hopes that it will help Silas’s dick touch something sensitive. But he shoots me an annoyed look when I accidentally dig my nails into his stomach. I abandon the effort, returning to the memory of my twenty-fifth birthday instead.

He brought me a bouquet of twenty-five roses, dark red like blood from a deep wound instead of the usual pale pink. He would never give me the pale pink ones ever again, but I didn’t know that yet. He had told me beforehand that he was taking me to a high-class restaurant all the way in Manchester and gave me a dress to wear. Very different in style from all the fair-coloured frilly frocks he typically favoured. This dress was midnight blue, with a deep cleavage and a slit. When he saw me in it for the first time, with my hair up and my makeup done to match the style, he said to me in a choked voice, “You’ve matured into such an elegant woman.”

It is the memory of the way he said the word ‘matured’ that makes my insides roll with undefined dread to this day. I don’t want to dwell on that, not even now. No distraction at all is better than that distraction.

More sweat raindrops land on my tits and forehead. More constipated grunts echo throughout the bedroom as Silas soldiers on. I suppress the urge to yawn.

What if it’s me? He is well-equipped, after all, objectively speaking. What if my cunt got stretched out with use, like a piece of elastic clothing that’s been washed and worn too often? What a repulsive, terrifying thought that is. But did it? Should I take up Kegels or something? Or ... now that he’s in his mid-forties, does Silas’s cock not get as hard as it used to? Is it a blood-flow-related thing? Come to think of it, it could be due to my own diminishing vascularity. After all, there’s a big difference between nineteen and twenty-nine, as Silas likes to remind me.