by Jane Kindred
“And hope Queen Sefira doesn’t bear Helison a son,” Belphagor added.
“She’s given birth to three girls in a row,” Anzhela reminded him. “It’s believed she can’t bring an heir to term.”
Belphagor shrugged. The same had been thought of queens before. The bride of Tsar Nikolai II, Helison’s look-alike in the world of Man a century ago, had borne him four girls in a row before at last presenting him with an heir. It was never wise to underestimate the caprice of nature.
When they’d reached Lake Baikal and ascended the Hell Staircase, Anzhela directed Belphagor to the portal through which she’d fallen. His room at The Brimstone was being carefully watched and wouldn’t be safe to enter through.
“How did you know about this portal?” They’d come up through a storm drain at the somewhat respectable end of Raqia, where there were more homes than houses of ill repute.
“Masha found it when she was a girl. After falling and living among Men for a while, she came back and used it to smuggle out girls in trouble.”
So he had competition. Belphagor had been known to charge a pretty facet to smuggle demons through his portal. Of course, his patrons tended to be exclusively male, so perhaps it wasn’t competition after all but filling a niche for a service he’d been failing to provide.
His first order of business was to obtain another glamour and then find a place to stay. Anzhela offered to get him the glamour at the market and told him she knew a place where he could rent a room. She was turning out to be a remarkable resource. He offered her extra facets for her help, but she frowned at him and pushed them back.
“You’re the one who’s helping us,” she said. “Masha wouldn’t be pleased if I took crystal from you for merely facilitating what we can’t do ourselves. She only wanted me to let you know what had happened here and that it wasn’t safe for your boy to come home. I’m sure she never expected you’d risk returning to set things right.”
Belphagor swallowed the glamour and shuddered at the taste. It was stronger than the usual elixir. He’d asked her for one that would last indefinitely, which had required a prick of blood from his finger to create an antidote to restore him.
“To be fair, Anzhela, I’m trying to set things right for Vasily, but if I can prevent the rest of the Demon District from being caught up in Elyon’s campaign against him, I’m happy to do it. And after all, as you said, Masha didn’t expect you to risk returning either. So I feel a bit responsible for you. For what it’s worth, though, despite the turn things have taken in Raqia, I think you’re safer here at present. Things are in even more turmoil in the world of Man.” He glanced down at his hands, waiting for the tattoos to disappear into the illusion. His skin was beginning to feel clammy. “So where’s this room? As soon as I get settled there, I’ll have a message for you to deliver to my angel friend. And for that, I will compensate you.”
Anzhela was regarding him from within the hood of the earthly coat Dmitri had acquired for her. “It’s at The Cat.”
“The Cat? But you said it was under surveillance. How could I come and go without attracting attention?” His stomach cramped, and Belphagor grabbed for the wall of the building beside them in the alley. His hands had smoothed. The glamour was doing its work. But his entire body felt awkward, like his organs were shifting. “What the hell did you give me?” His voice had an odd, high quality. Belphagor clutched his chest and nearly shrieked out loud.
Anzhela smiled, nodding at his transformation. “It’s perfect.”
“Bozhe moi,” he squealed. “You’ve turned me into a girl!”
“It was your size that gave me the idea,” she said, tucking her arm into his as though they were girlfriends as she led him toward The Cat. “You have a very slender frame.”
“You might have warned me.”
“You would have said no.”
“Damned right I would have.”
Belphagor stared at himself in the mirror of his room at The Cat. Anzhela had introduced him to Masha as “Beatrix”, though it was quite obvious that Masha knew precisely who he was. Little business was being done at The Cat since most of their clientele had been spooked by the threat of supernal surveillance, but Beatrix was given a cover story anyway; Anzhela had offered her a place at The Cat because the girls on the street didn’t feel safe.
He was alternately fascinated and repulsed by the glamour. It was extraordinarily disconcerting to be without his penis, even if it was only an illusion. Belphagor hurriedly slipped into the chemise and gown Anzhela had provided. At least he wasn’t expected to wear a corset. But he’d had to shave his legs and underarms. Even if he wasn’t taking patrons, Beatrix would be expected to keep up appearances, and the gown was designed for the overheated air in the common parlor, sleeveless and off the shoulder, with a hem well above the ankles. He drew the line, however, at exposing his breasts.
Anzhela’s glamour had given him muddy blue eyes and a fair complexion, with chestnut hair piled in loose curls upon his head—an angel’s bastard if he’d ever seen one. The effect reminded him of someone he’d once known in the world of Man. Long ago. In his brief days there before the fall of tsarist Russia, he’d met a prince who liked to dress in women’s clothing. With such a beautiful face, the prince’s purely mundane glamour had been so convincing that Belphagor had never guessed his identity until he’d revealed it to him.
He hadn’t thought of the prince in years. The events that had followed their brief acquaintance were so painful as to have almost obliterated his memory completely. Belphagor’s fingertip lingered on his lips as he applied a bit of rouge to them. Sladostnyi malchik. The words echoed over years piled like the bones of forgotten grand dukes and duchesses, princes and tsars—murdered Romanovs in a mass grave of old memories. Belphagor hadn’t cared about any of them then but one prince who’d escaped.
Sladostnyi malchik. Words from the lips of a Russian prince he hadn’t heard in almost a century. But he’d said them to Vasily just a few days ago, not even remembering where he’d heard them. Sweet boy. Anzhela believed he’d forgive Belphagor anything. Belphagor wasn’t so sure. But he was prepared to do anything to earn that forgiveness.
It occurred to him he’d never tried to earn anyone’s forgiveness in his life. It wasn’t the way he lived. He did what was necessary, shared what was mutually fulfilling and moved on when what remained was not. Life in Raqia—and in the world of Man—had taught him that it was every demon for himself. He’d never expected to need someone else.
Anzhela returned from her errand to Elysium with good news. Phaleg had received her message, and he’d agreed to come to The Cat to meet with “Beatrix” that evening. Of the few patrons still frequenting the brothels, angelic officers were enjoying their position as privileged guests. No one dared turn them away for fear of being shut down for good. And if they didn’t feel like paying the usual sum, no one dared argue with them either.
Phaleg arrived with the same friends Belphagor had serviced on their first encounter. He’d hoped to simply get Phaleg alone, but the group of them seemed to have an arrangement that involved sharing whatever one of them was interested in. It was a good thing Beatrix had gone to the trouble of shaving.
The quiet one was far more certain of himself in this environment, and Belphagor had to endure being felt up and fingered in parts he couldn’t even fathom while satisfying the first two orally. The service was no different than what he’d offered as a male, but the degree of entitlement with which these services were received and the dismissive and proprietary way in which Beatrix’s body was treated during these proceedings was striking.
Phaleg at last persuaded his comrades that he wished to negotiate with Beatrix for a private performance, and having gotten their rocks off already, they reclined with their drinks and sent him off with his prize to a private compartment with a string of shockingly matter-of-fact obscenities in describing Beatrix’s attributes as significantly less than the sum of their parts.
Belp
hagor closed the door on the corner closet and tucked his manhandled breasts back into his dress. “Charming friends you have.”
Phaleg blushed. “Sorry. I wish I could say they were in rare form.” He shook his head, marveling at Belphagor’s appearance. “So that’s really you?”
Belphagor lifted his brow, letting the light from the ensconced candle on the wall glint dangerously off metal. His tattoos were gone, of course, but the little steel bar at his eyebrow remained. “Would you like to be certain it’s really me?” Before Phaleg could respond, he’d twisted a blond curl of angelic hair in his fist at the angel’s temple and spun him down to the floor on his knees. “Face the door,” he ordered. His tone of voice had no less menace for the higher octave, and Phaleg shuffled about on his knees, instantly compliant.
Belphagor crouched behind him and unbuttoned the angel’s pants, prying them with his woolen long underwear down to the floor. The angel’s cock was bobbing against the wood of the door.
“I wanted to fuck you while you faced the window looking out over the Demon Market on our last encounter, but I was already spent. And alas, I am temporarily without my cock.” He undressed the angel while he spoke, taking his jacket and shirt and tossing them aside. “Palms against the door.”
Phaleg obeyed. “What are you going to do?” he whispered.
Belphagor put his mouth to Phaleg’s ear, occupying his attention with one hand on the angel’s cock while he dipped his other hand into the pot of lard in the corner. “I’m going to fuck you,” he said, his greased fingers thrusting a generous scoop of lard into Phaleg’s ass.
Phaleg groaned, clenching around the fingers in surprise.
“Don’t make this difficult, Phaleg. Relax. It will be much more fun that way.” Belphagor teased the two fingers inside the rim to the first knuckles, stroking the wavering cock. “Bear down a bit,” he murmured in his ear, and eased his fingers back only to thrust in again with three, pressed together and narrowed to a point.
“By the Heavens,” Phaleg groaned as Belphagor widened him with a steady pressure, pushing deeper until his the base of his knuckles pressed against him.
“That’s it. Be a good boy for me and open up.” Belphagor slid his fingers back and edged a fourth inside the angel’s ass, cupping his thumb inside the “vee” they formed.
Phaleg moaned and gasped against the door, shaking in his hand.
Belphagor stroked firmly, keeping the cock hard as he worked himself deeper. “Good boy. You can take it.” He twisted his hand as he reached the base of his knuckles and bit lightly at the angel’s earlobe to draw his attention away as he thrust his greased joints past the straining barrier. “You can take it all, can’t you, boy?”
Phaleg fell forward against the door with a whimper.
“I asked you a question.”
The angel shuddered, his mouth open against the wood. “Da, ser,” he gasped.
Belphagor moved his hand from the angel’s cock to stroke his hair, pleased that he’d remembered the words. “Scoot back toward me a bit,” he prompted and braced his elbow on the floor, flexing his biceps.
Phaleg moved back, clutching at the arm that held him, his bare thighs shaking.
“Let go, now, boy. Just relax. Reach your other hand behind you into the pot and grease up my wrist.
The angel moaned and shivered, feeling behind him for the pot Belphagor had pushed forward with his knee and stroking the thick grease over Belphagor’s wrist.
“A little more, farther down,” Belphagor prompted, taking hold of his cock. “Now sit.”
Phaleg groaned and pressed himself down while Belphagor tilted his arm and turned it like a screw. “Fuck,” the angel gasped, grasping for Belphagor once more as the forearm disappeared into him. “Heaven help me.”
Belphagor chuckled. “Heaven can’t help you now, boy. You’re all mine.” He tilted the angel’s head back against his shoulder so he could look into his eyes. “Look how lovely you are with my fist up your ass. Are you going to come for me?”
“Da, ser,” Phaleg moaned, gazing up at him.
“Such a good boy.” Belphagor smoothed a bit of grease onto the trembling cock and pumped him slowly. “Can you get close to Duke Elyon?”
Phaleg’s eyes widened. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered. “Please, ser.”
Belphagor stroked. “Just answer my questions. Is Elyon at the palace?”
Phaleg nodded, moaning.
“And can you get close to him? Get yourself assigned to some detail that will put you at his side?”
“Da, ser.” Phaleg shook against him, his legs straining to keep still.
“Good boy.” He let go of Phaleg and wiped the grease on his dress before cradling the angel’s waist. “Hold your pretty cock.”
Phaleg obeyed, trembling harder.
“And you’ll report to me on his actions and do as I ask of you?”
Phaleg turned his head against Belphagor’s shoulder and closed his eyes in defeat. “Da, ser. I’ll do anything you ask of me.”
Belphagor pulled him up a few inches with his free arm and pushed him back down. “Of course you will, dear boy. Make yourself come.”
Phaleg yanked on his slick cock desperately, moaning loudly as Belphagor lifted him up and down the length of his arm with his grip around his waist, and with his legs splayed wide and his whole body trembling with pleasure, fear, and an edge of agony as he arched against Belphagor, he brought himself to climax, clutching tight against Belphagor’s arm inside him as the gush of release splattered his abs.
He was weeping softly as his cock convulsed with little aftershocks, and when Belphagor had drawn him gently off his arm and eased his fist out of him, he wrapped himself around the angel.
“I’ve got you, dear boy. I’m going to take care of you.”
“You said you wouldn’t ask more of me,” Phaleg moaned against him.
“I’m sorry.” Belphagor kissed the top of his head. “I’m a bit of a bastard.”
Phaleg laughed weakly, his body completely slack against Belphagor as if he were bereft of will and strength. “It really is you.”
Phaleg emerged from the closet after they’d agreed on a plan to meet regularly at The Cat for his reports, Belphagor with his hair tangled and his gown missing its laces, and a bit of Phaleg’s spunk smeared on his exposed breast for good measure. Phaleg’s companions cheered and made him down the rest of their bottle of ale in celebration.
The formerly quiet angel belched inelegantly. “You got both ends?”
“And then some,” Phaleg boasted with a wink at Belphagor. “She won’t soon forget me, will you, Beatrix?”
Belphagor rubbed his ass through his dress. “Not even if I wanted to, sweetmeat.”
“See that you don’t. I expect you to be available for me whenever I stop by.”
“With open legs, sweetmeat.”
“That’s a good girl.” Phaleg slapped him on the ass, and Belphagor raised his eyebrow. The angel had to know that was going to cost him. Phaleg’s wink said he did.
When Belphagor went back to his room to clean up, he gargled with a bit of water and spat into his basin to get the taste of Phaleg’s friends out of his mouth. Now that he knew how they treated women, having swallowed them felt vile.
Anzhela poked her head in to check on him. “I didn’t intervene because I was sure you knew what you were doing, but I didn’t care for those three. If business was normal right now, I’d bar them from The Cat.”
“Phaleg’s a good man,” he said. “A bit between a rock and a hard place with his comrades and afraid to rock the boat. But the other two, I quite agree with you. As soon as you and Masha have the freedom to run things as you see fit again, I’d ban them for life.”
Anzhela studied him with curiosity. “You handled them quite well. I didn’t realize you were a professional.”
“I’ve never worn a dress to do it before.” He grinned and straightened his sleeves on his shoulders. “But yes, I’ve done a
fair amount of entertaining in my time.”
“You have some lard on your elbow.” Anzhela’s eyes were amused as she pointed it out.
“Well, now. How can that have gotten all the way up there?” Smirking, Belphagor wiped it off.
Anzhela smiled as she turned to leave him to his privacy. “I must say, you’re very resourceful. Even when you don’t have sleeves, you have something up your sleeve.”
Belphagor grinned. “They don’t call me the Prince of Tricks for nothing, sweetheart.”
As he lay in bed that night reviewing the encounter with Phaleg in his head, he realized he had no idea how to masturbate in this glamour. Did women masturbate? He thought they must. He was a bit too alarmed by his appearance to examine anything closely. He lay in the dark, idly fingering the periphery of the borrowed sex and forgot himself after a bit, just picturing Phaleg taking his entire arm as his first penetration. The angel was probably lying in his own bed reliving it—and probably more than a bit tender in his nether region. Belphagor imagined the angel unavoidably reminded of what he’d allowed Belphagor to do to him, how he’d be moving gingerly for days and how every ache would probably make the angel hard as he pictured himself being fisted by a demon in a dress. How many times might Phaleg come as he pleasured himself at the memory? Belphagor would possess him through that vulnerable, ecstatic moment for the rest of his life.
He felt an unexpected rush of blood to his borrowed parts, and his eyes opened in surprise as his glamoured body shook with pleasure that seemed to involve all of his cells, though it was clearly concentrated at the apex of his sex. Then it seemed as if every cell in his body ejaculated at once and a gush of fluid shot out between his legs. He had to clamp his hand over his mouth to stifle a loud moan.
Belphagor moved over on the bed when the sensation had passed, staring at the puddle he’d left. Holy shit. No one had told him anything about this. He found himself giggling like a girl as he rolled over toward the wall and sighed in satisfaction.