by Jane Kindred
And then he sighed with a distinct lack of satisfaction at the absence of Vasily to hold. Phaleg’s unquestioning obedience had been thrilling, but it wasn’t the same as his angry, sweet, beloved boy.
Trenadtsataya
Vasily stood at the window of the guest room watching the sullen sun rise in a gray Moscow sky. He wore his tapochki and the warm dressing gown Belphagor had bought him, one of several garments in the shopping bag that he hadn’t even gotten to before Belphagor left. It was soft and thick, and maybe had been meant with someone cooler than himself in mind, but it had been purchased—or purloined—with love.
He refused to believe Belphagor didn’t love him. The bastard might want him to believe it, might never admit it, might have stabbed him in the gut and kicked the knife for good measure… Vasily touched his fingers to the jewelry fixed to the side of his neck to reassure himself. He couldn’t have said those hateful things and meant them—not and given him this at the same time. “Every year you belong to me, you’ll get another.” This piece of metal in his flesh said Belphagor had been thinking far into his future, with Vasily in it.
That he had done this after going off and fucking a whole pile of angels just to spite Vasily for defying him—and that he’d done it knowing Vasily was being held against his will by Duke Elyon at the time—was hard for him to reconcile.
No, it wasn’t hard to reconcile. It was fucking unforgiveable. The angry hiss of breath through his teeth melted the frost on the outside of the window. Belphagor hadn’t just gone out and fucked someone else. He’d fucked angels, because Vasily had let angels buy him. And he’d done it for facets in some kind of twisted mockery of Vasily, as if to say, What, this? This delicious angel cock jammed down my throat? This doesn’t count, because I’m getting paid, just like you.
Never mind that Vasily had nothing but what he earned from his livelihood unless he let Belphagor keep him like a pampered whore. Belphagor claimed Vasily didn’t belong to him that way, yet he begrudged him his own income and his autonomy.
Not that autonomy was what he wanted exactly. He wanted to belong to Belphagor, and he didn’t care if that meant Belphagor could tell him what to do or what to wear or whom to fuck. He just wanted it to mean that Belphagor was his. He wanted Belphagor to desire him and not some skinny, pretty thing like Lev. And not some golden-haired angel. Phaleg. Belphagor had said that name in a way that Vasily knew meant he was more than just a revenge fuck.
His hand closed over the spiked piercing. He ought to tear it out and toss it out the window into the fucking snow. He toyed with one of the spikes. They screwed on. He could just twist it off and do it.
The thought of the empty holes in his neck was like another twist of the knife in his gut that wouldn’t go away.
“Fuck you, Belphagor,” he growled, but his hand dropped from the jewelry.
Phaleg returned to The Cat the following night. Thankfully, he came alone. Since the place was currently empty, Belphagor took him back to his room. The slight wince as Phaleg sat on the bed put a smile on Belphagor’s face.
Phaleg shook his head while Belphagor perched sideways on the chair at the vanity, his chin on his arms over the chair back. “I can’t get over this—what did you call it? Your disguise?”
“A glamour. It’s a little alarming, to tell you the truth.”
“How long does it last?”
“This one is potent. I have to take an antidote to return myself to my true form.” Belphagor cleared his throat. “So I take it you have something to report?”
“Yes, sorry. Of course.” Phaleg looked embarrassed, as if he’d been expecting that their intimacy were now a given part of their interactions, a prelude to any information he divulged. Belphagor supposed he couldn’t blame him for the assumption. “Duke Elyon, as you may know, is presently residing at the Winter Palace while the principality recuperates. I managed to get myself assigned in the principality’s protective detail. Not directly reporting to Elyon, but possibly closer to him than those who are, given his constant communications with Principality Helison.”
Belphagor nodded thoughtfully. “That may prove more advantageous. Will you have any access to the principality himself? Out of Elyon’s presence?”
“I’m sure I could arrange to from time to time. I don’t want to draw attention to myself by making any additional requests. And if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to know what your plan is. I will not be a party to treason.” This last declaration seemed a bit contrived. Phaleg had already seen that Belphagor’s intentions weren’t treasonous—and that Elyon’s and the Union of Liberation’s were. It seemed Phaleg’s feelings—or his ego—had been wounded by the impersonal tone of their meeting.
Belphagor regarded him a moment, unsmiling. “What treason do you imagine I might involve you in, Phaleg?”
“Well…” The angel reddened. “If you’re seeking access to privileged communications between the principality and his staff…” Phaleg’s voice trailed off under Belphagor’s steely gaze.
“Privileged? You come to me, a demon who has debased you in the most thorough manner possible, with concerns about privilege? I would venture to say, Lieutenant Phaleg, that in the grossest technical terms, you have already committed treason by consorting with a suspected assassin. And it has been my privilege to extract whatever promises of aid from you that I desire, merely by offering or withholding sexual favors that cater to your perversion, of which you are clearly ashamed.”
The color drained from Phaleg’s face, and he swallowed audibly.
“I would also venture to say that if I were of the sort to wish harm to the principality, and you were fully aware of it, you would still do precisely as I bid you, just for a chance to be defiled once more. Is that not fair to say?”
Phaleg looked as if he might be sick if Belphagor continued. Sweat dotted his pale complexion.
“I asked you a question, boy. Perhaps you’d do better to answer on your knees.”
Phaleg slid into a kneeling position on the floor before the bed, all too eager to follow direction. He must be an exceptional soldier. “Da, ser,” he answered miserably.
“Da, ser.” Belphagor shook his head. “While I must admit that your blind, groveling compliance is immensely arousing, it seems somewhat self-serving at the same time. You’re using me as an excuse to commit what Men in the terrestrial sphere would call ‘sin’. Transgression, perhaps, might be a term you relate to. You’ve abdicated all responsibility for your actions with the most terrestrial—and pathetic—of excuses: the devil made me do it.”
Phaleg shook his head vehemently, patches of red now marring the sickly pale Belphagor had reduced him to. “No, sir.”
“Nyet, ser,” Belphagor instructed.
“Nyet, ser. I take full responsibility for my actions.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Belphagor reached between his thighs to adjust a cock that wasn’t there and made a sound of exasperation. “If I had access to my cock at this moment, Lieutenant Phaleg, rest assured, you would be speared upon it, by one end or the other.”
Phaleg let out a small moan.
“You’ve contradicted yourself quite a bit, Phaleg. Answer me truthfully. Do you wish to do my bidding, no matter how terrible, for the promise of how I might use you, or are you a man of principal, loyal to the supernal crown over the urges of your own cock?”
Phaleg opened his mouth, his face twisting with conflict. “I…please…”
Belphagor took a coarse horsehair cosmetics brush from the tray on the vanity and struck Phaleg across the face with it. “Answer me!”
“I don’t know!” he gasped, clutching at his knees. “Both!”
Belphagor brushed the bristles over his cheek. “Pray tell, boy, how can that be?”
Phaleg was shaking with anxiety. “Because I don’t believe you’ll bid me to harm the principality.”
“But I might.”
Tears spilled over Phaleg’s cheeks. “Heaven help me,” he whispered
once more, as if imploring the earthly god. “Please don’t.”
Belphagor smiled. “There, now. Honesty. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Come.” He snapped his fingers, and Phaleg scrambled to the side of the chair. Belphagor lifted his chin. “You trust me.”
“Da, ser,” he gasped.
“But only to a degree. That’s all right. You’re sick with conflict because you don’t know what you can be made to do. You fear you won’t be able to resist me if I turn on you, that you’ll be willing to betray everything you believe if only to know what it is to be thoroughly owned by a demon. Men might call you possessed.”
Phaleg nodded, weeping.
Belphagor stroked his cheek. “I promise you I will never ask anything of you that you cannot give without harming yourself. The gift of your obedience means a great deal to me. I have no wish to break such a good and beautiful boy.”
Phaleg choked back a sob and melted against Belphagor, his head against his thigh. “I don’t know how you’ve done this to me,” he said mournfully.
Belphagor brushed the golden hair away from the damp eyes and kissed the angel’s temple. “That’s all right, dear boy. No one ever does.”
Phaleg reported to him on a somewhat irregular basis. It would have begun to seem suspicious had he spent every evening in Beatrix’s company, and his evenings, at any rate, were not always free.
Belphagor, in the meantime, was growing weary of being Beatrix, but the glamour had come dearly and there was no sense in squandering it and taking the antidote simply because he was tired of his part. There was also the danger of being seen and reported in his true form. He could neither afford to be apprehended nor to jeopardize Masha and Anzhela’s livelihood. Masha had agreed to harbor him only with Anzhela’s persuasion.
Once or twice, Beatrix was asked for by angelic patrons who had heard of her skills from Phaleg’s companions. Belphagor had to attend them to keep up appearances, but he insisted on providing only manual and oral pleasure. It had been longer than he could remember since he’d been a virgin, and he wasn’t about to surrender Beatrix’s virtue to a group of entitled angel punks. As a consequence, Beatrix began to develop a reputation as a superb cock-tease, and Belphagor was offered increasing sums of facets to put out.
Beatrix’s fame, whether for good or ill, drew Duke Elyon himself to The Cat. On a rare occasion of absence from the principality’s side, Elyon brought his entourage to the Demon District and requested Beatrix’s attentions.
The group was smartly dressed—not in uniform this time, but in the latest fashion of the day, which included coattails and top hats. A party, apparently, was being thrown in the Left Bank in Elyon’s honor. Among the revelers was Phaleg, similarly attired, and Belphagor suffered a pang of nostalgic memory at his unexpected likeness to a long-dead Russian prince.
The duke had no intention of staying at The Cat, but intrigued by Beatrix, he’d come to request her attendance at his villa affair. After discussion with Masha and Anzhela, Belphagor chose to go against their advice. The option of refusing the wishes of Duke Elyon, at any rate, was not a wise one. Belphagor had to trust that Phaleg would have his back—so to speak.
He’d never required the protection of another man before. At least not since he’d grown to manhood in a Russian prison and learned to fight. He was certain he retained his quickness and cunning in that area even as Beatrix, but his physical strength was noticeably lessened by the glamour. Nature, he decided, had dealt women a rather shit deal in that department.
Belphagor opted to play coy with Elyon, enjoying his banquet and soaking up the flattery he was laying on thick, but keeping him at arm’s length, all the while pumping him for information.
“Tell me, Your Grace,” he asked over the trifle after dinner. “Is it true you threw yourself on His Supernal Majesty to take the knife from that wild firespirit demon after he’d wounded the principality and that he kept slashing at you while you protected his intended target?”
Elyon raised his brow. “The tale seems to be growing a life of its own, but it was I who saw the brute go in for the kill and defended His Supernal Majesty.”
At the other end of the table, Phaleg choked on a bit of trifle that had gone down the wrong way. So Elyon was now taking credit for Vasily’s initial capture, though it had been Phaleg who’d stepped in. Belphagor had hoped the rumor he’d invented on the spot would coax the duke to brag about his part, though he hadn’t expected him to take the bait so eagerly.
Duke Elyon leaned toward Belphagor and rolled up his sleeve. “Though the brute did manage to slash my arm before I apprehended him.” He held his arm out to show off the supposed stripes he’d earned on his forearm. They were ridiculously shallow marks he’d obviously given himself.
Belphagor stroked his soft hand over the wounds as if they were impressive. “Goodness. The principality owes you his life. But what happened to the assassin?”
Elyon left his arm where it was for “Beatrix” to fawn over. “Surely you’ve heard all the details, living in Raqia.”
“We’ve heard so many things, I don’t know what to believe. Poor Sefira dead by his hand and Tabris in irons.” Belphagor shook his head and drew his hand back into his lap. “There can’t be any truth that they were involved. We were very close, and I would have known if they were mixed up in anything untoward. The Cat is loyal to the House of Arkhangel’sk. And Arcadia, of course.”
“Odd that you were so close and yet I never saw you at The Cat before tonight.”
“I was in the Southern Lands recuperating from a spell of poor health until just recently. I came back when I heard the news.” In addition to the balmy beaches at the southern tip of Heaven, the Southern Lands was a euphemism for the world of Man. Belphagor left it open to interpretation as to which he meant.
“Nothing serious, I hope?” Elyon chose to ignore the tantalizing bit of information, or perhaps had never heard the term.
Belphagor leaned close to him and whispered loudly, “An ailment of the trade. Though you sweet angelic types have exceptional hygiene, our demonic patrons sometimes bring back unwanted travelers from jaunts in the terrestrial sphere.”
The duke looked puzzled. “Travelers?”
“Bugs,” Belphagor whispered even more loudly, causing the rest of the table to burst into bawdy laughter. “That’s why I’ve been taking some precautions lately, to make sure everything’s cleared up.”
Elyon’s face went from blank with confusion to pink with embarrassment as he finally caught on. He moved less than subtly toward the other side of his chair.
“Nothing wrong with my pipes and lungs, of course.” Belphagor stuck out his tongue and opened wide as if to show the duke, earning more laughter from the rest of the table. “You can ask anyone here. Most of them have had the pleasure. Some deeper than others.” He winked at Phaleg, who tried to busy himself with his trifle, but his companions slapped him on the back and made vulgar comments about the length of his cock and Belphagor’s lack of a gag reflex.
“Don’t worry, Your Grace,” said one of them, lifting his tankard of mead. “We’ve given her plenty of protein for her health. Everything’s clean as a whistle all the way down.”
When they’d retired to the parlor, the rowdier angels began to expect their due from Beatrix, and Phaleg came to Belphagor’s rescue, suggesting they make a game of it, letting Beatrix choose the winner of a round of “Yea or Nay”.
The idea of a game was inspired, but Belphagor had another in mind. “Have any of you ever played wingcasting?”
Elyon and the toughs with whom he’d come to The Brimstone had, of course, as well as a few others besides. Phaleg and his companions, along with several others, pleaded ignorance. Belphagor was pleased to enlighten them.
“We can play strip wingcasting to make it easier,” he offered. “No facets will have to change hands.” The angels who’d played, assuming Beatrix would be easy to beat, were all for this idea, and the others were happy to go along either
way.
For the first few hands, Belphagor played sloppily, drinking a gin fizz and feigning tipsiness. By the time his opponents had gotten the hang of things, he was in his petticoat and chemise, with one stocking off and the other fallen at his ankle with the loss of both garters. And then he began to play in earnest, and angels were losing their shirts quite literally.
Phaleg, he plundered with particular enthusiasm, reducing him to long underwear and boots before the end of the fourth hand. Those who lost everything were forced to endure Beatrix’s hand jobs while the game continued. No one complained. Phaleg was first among them. Belphagor proposed a chance for the defeated to win back pieces of clothing with each hand the others played if they could endure manual stimulation without reaching completion. A slight smile tugged at the corner of Phaleg’s mouth as he sat on a cushion beside Belphagor and submitted to the challenge.
Nearly all the others succumbed swiftly and without complaint while Phaleg began to win back clothing piece by piece. Belphagor was pleased that the angel had made such progress with so little training. He was a natural.
Angels panted and groaned, spurting into Belphagor’s hands, while Elyon and Belphagor, along with two other die-hards, played on mostly clothed. Belphagor abandoned Phaleg’s cock for every other hand, making him wait while he finished off two others in between playing his cards, and then started again on him. The naked angel was dripping sweat despite the cold air seeping through the windows, but he earned back all but his shirt and jacket before long.
Belphagor defeated the two players flanking Elyon and welcomed them to his sides, giving them extra attention with his mouth periodically as a reward for having lasted so long at the game—and of course resulting in their total, blissful defeat. Now it was Belphagor and Elyon.
Belphagor masturbated Phaleg slowly while he groaned beside him, smiling at Elyon, who sat stroking himself as he played, having lost all but his underwear. The duke was determined to win but distracted by his own efforts and by his fascination with Phaleg’s stamina. At last he made a fatal error and accepted his defeat, dropping his drawers and standing up to come around the table to Belphagor’s side.