Griff has been living with a terrible secret for centuries. He’s a high demon, but he has wild needs and desires to be a pleasure demon -- to submit to another. Such things are forbidden in hell, but he finally breaks down and confesses his desires to his best friend Savilry, risking not just their friendship but his own safety.
He could never have dreamed Savilry’s response, and Griff will never be the same again.
ADULT EXCERPT
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Copyright ©2020 Sean Michael
Copyright ©2020 Sean Michael
“I’m sorry.” Griff’s horns ached, so heavy, so much -- they throbbed like a sore -- but he couldn’t look at his oldest, dearest friend. He didn’t want to see the disgust and disappointment in Savilry’s eyes. “I didn’t know who else to talk to.”
High demons were meant to rule, to control, to fight and gather magic and energy to them. To fuck and bite and dominate.
Something was terribly wrong with him.
Savilry tilted his head, horns curling beautifully from his head. Sav’s eyes were nearly black, his skin a lovely deep burgundy, his hair a shade darker than that. He blinked a few times, then reached out and touched Griff’s hand. “You did the right thing, coming to me. Beelzebub knows what would have happened if you’d pursued this on your own.”
“I’m so sorry. I just… I have these dreams.” Even just thinking about them made his cock respond.
Sav leaned toward him. “What kind of dreams? Tell me.”
“I --”
“Griff, this is the least you’ll be asked.”
His cheeks burned, his eyes cast down on his folded hands. “I dream about being taken, about being changed, about becoming someone else.”
“You dream of being the fuckee instead of the fucker?” Sav’s dark eyes settled on him, staring intently, his friend getting immediately to the heart of the matter.
“Yes. About being touched deep inside with my master’s seed.”
Sav’s eyes went wide, and he drew in a quick, sharp breath.
“Don’t hate me. Please. I didn’t know who else to talk to.” Who else would he tell that he intended to throw himself on the mercy of one of the leaders of the great houses?
“I could never hate you, Griff, but do you have any idea what you’re asking for?”
“To be taken. To make these awful cravings ease.”
“It’s not what you’re made for, though, and once you go down that path, it’s permanent. You can’t decide you want to come back. Your horns…” Sav reached out and stroked his horns, fingers slowly tracing them. “They’d shrink. You know that. Ours grow when we take our boys -- so do our cocks. What will you do if they just become tiny nubs? If they become something aching and tiny?”
His cock began to grow. He didn’t want that, of course, but at the same time he did. He needed it desperately.
Sav’s eyes went even wider. “I can smell your arousal.”
“I should go. I’m sorry.” God, he was so ashamed. He shouldn’t have told Sav; he hated that he was going to lose his best friend over this. He stood to flee.
“Sit down, Griff,” Sav told him and he sat immediately at the order. “We’re going to figure this out.”
Sav wrapped a hand around one of his horns, stroking slow and easy, steadily. He closed his eyes and hummed, the sensation settling right in his balls. Damn, that felt good.
“We are going to figure it out,” Sav repeated. “But before we do anything, I want your mouth on my cock.”
Time stopped. “What?”
“You said you wanted a master. Show me that you mean it.” Sav sat back a little on the couch, spreading his legs. Griff couldn’t miss the nearly hard cock in Sav’s gauzy pants.
Could he do this? Could he kneel before Sav, take that heavy cock in his lips?
Sav was still rubbing Griff’s horn, and the act made his eyes cross, made him slip between Sav’s thighs like a lower demon who was made to pleasure his master.
Sav was still rubbing Griff’s horn, and the act made his eyes cross, made him slip between Sav’s thighs like a lower demon who was made to pleasure his master.
“Maybe there’s something to these visions of yours.”
ABOUT SEAN MICHAEL
Writing under S. Michael for Het Ménage and Sean for signature M/M titles, Sean Michael leads a classic double life.
Often referred to as "Space Cowboy" and "Gangsta of Love" while still striving for the moniker of "Maurice," Sean Michael spends days surfing, smutting, organizing an immense gourd collection and fantasizing about one day retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by horseshoe crabs.
While collecting vast amounts of vintage gay pulp novels and mood rings, Sean whiles away the hours between dropping the f-bomb and perusing the Kama Sutra by channeling the long lost spirit of John Wayne and singing along with the soundtrack to "Chicago."
A long-time writer of complicated haiku, currently Sean is attempting to learn the advanced arts of plate spinning and soap carving sex toys.
Barring any of that? Sean'll stick with writing stories, thanks, and rubbing pretty bodies together to see if they spark.
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