Reginald Bannister's Possession
A demon praised by Lord Beelzebub.
Author's notes: This was written for the Pandemonium challenge. All characters are over eighteen. I hope you enjoy it.
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Mār Damquarim sat at a Starbucks table, sipping his coffee and looking out through the eyes of Reginald Bannister. He had possessed Reginald for fifty years. Reginald, in college, in one of those; what do these monkeys call it? Oh yes, an Ivy League college, Princeton. He had possessed him in the midst of a wild fraternity party. Not that these monkeys are hard to possess, but when alcohol is added to them, it is; how do they say it? Easy as pie. Blind drunk, the fool easily slipped into the ethereal comma he had been in all these long years. Mār Damquarim looked for those with certain characteristics. He had chosen him as his best candidate using his demon prescience and just a bit of magic.
Reginald was rich beyond most of these monkeys' wildest dreams, but that was not that important. Demons have their own ways and resources. If Reginald had been a pauper, Mār Damquarim would have made him rich. It was just easier going, though, since Reginald's parents were very powerful. They were in the Eastern Elite and were politically well-connected. His father was a high-powered lawyer who cared for many of the powerful but not very careful elites, and his mother was old money and old station, a powerhouse in the society of the Washington swamp. This, coupled with Reginald's credentials, he had done well in university, and his parent's connections made it easy for Mār Damquarim to advance career-wise as Reginald. Again, Mār Damquarim could have rectified any deficiency, but again, if one starts out rich and well-connected, then the process is sped up. Finally, it was Reginald himself. Reginald was a self-centered, silver-spooned, hedonistic, elitist pervert and is to this day. Mār Damquarim made sure of that. You see, that is what Mār Damquarim was looking for. He could take a saint and make them a self-centered, silver-spooned, hedonistic, elitist pervert, but if they already were, then there was no transformation needed that might get some wondering, "Why the change?"
Scanning the people in the Barnes and Noble over the short wall that walled off the Starbucks located there, Mār Damquarim sat at a table in the corner, just a bit isolated. Through skillful and magical manipulation he had encouraged each of those that occupied the tables surrounding him to move them slightly away from him. Over the last hour and a half, they had moved all the tables and chairs to where he wanted them. Just out of earshot of regular conversational speech. So malleable were these monkey's brains that he had to stop them from continuing, or they would have piled the tables and chairs against the opposite wall. He smiled and chuckled at the thought of what it might have looked like.
Then he saw her, Amy Brightwater. Amy Brightwater was a twenty-five-year-old mouse of a woman. He couldn't help but chuckle at the pitiful look she presented. Her long blond hair tumbled almost haphazardly down her face, with several locks falling in front of her eyes. She had a dress that looked like a grandma's dress from the nineteen fifties. It was buttoned up the front so far that she even buttoned the collar at her throat. It had long sleeves and went halfway between her knees and ankles. She was quite shapely and thin, and the dress had a hard time hiding it, but it did pretty much. Her arms crossed over her chest clutched a folder of some sort, hiding her massive breasts.
She looked furtively from left to right through her ugly horn-rimmed glasses as though she was looking for someone. Mār Damquarim's foreknowing had put him in the right spot. She didn't know it, but she was looking for him. He picked up his coffee and leaned back in his chair, preparing himself as she started up the slender aisle made by the chairs and tables. Her manner seemed frantic, as though she were looking desperately for someone. Closer and closer she came until just before she reached his table, still unaware, not looking at him, a customer bumped her and unbalanced her. As she fell forward, she released the folder, and it hit the table just in front of Mār Damquarim. The stack of papers inside shot out, fanning three of the sheets.
They were normal eight-and-a-half by eleven sheets of copy paper. They were not photographs, but pictures printed from the internet. What she saw was the old man Reginald calmly looking at them. The first was of a beautiful woman, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, a cock in her pussy, and with the expression of being in the midst of an incredible orgasm. The second was of another beautiful woman, bound in suspension with a cock in her pussy, and also with the expression of being in the midst of an incredible orgasm. The third was a beautiful woman bound and straddling a man with his cock in her pussy, and with the expression of being in the midst of an incredible orgasm. Amy looked at him in sheer terror, trembling.
"They're not me," she wailed just audibly.
Reginald gave her a blank look.
Amy reached for the papers but was so terrified that she only managed to fan them all over the table. Every effort to try to hide them made them more visible. Panicked, she looked at Reginald, tears beginning to form. Then she went back to trying to scoop them up, only to continue to expose more and more.
Again terrified, she looked at him and wailed, "Really, they're not me."
"I know," whispered Reginald in his grandfatherly-sounding voice.
The old man reached forward, and Mār Damquarim, using just a bit of magic, helped Reginald scoop them up in a neat pile. The one on top was of a beautiful woman spread-eagled on a bed, a man's cock in her pussy, and with the expression of being in the midst of an incredible orgasm. Looking up from it into the terrified Amy's eyes, she trembled like an aspen leaf in a summer breeze. Her lower lip trembled, tears streaked her face, and she quite frankly looked like she might faint.
"Sit," the old man Reginald said, pulling the only other chair at his table around and next to him. "I will get you a tea, a Chi tea."
Amy fell into the seat, but not before scooping up the stack of paper and reinserting it into the folder. In another less stressful situation, Amy might have thought it odd he told her he would get her a Chi tea, her favorite.
With magic, Mār Damquarim reduced the always-long queue waiting to order. Several patrons suddenly got interested in a magazine rack. One man went to look at the food display again, and another coughed, then again, and stepped out of line to be polite. The only one left, a pudgy middle-aged woman, resisted his magic. A few of these monkeys could do that sometimes and in some circumstances. Having just eaten, the food didn't interest her, her lungs were clear, and the magazine rack offered her no interest, so Mār Damquarim used his magic to squeeze her bladder. A terrified look came over her face, and she sprinted for the lady's room in the back. Feeling impish, the moment she stopped to push the restroom door open, Mār Damquarim squeezed her bladder again, and she filled her shoe with a loud moan. Chuckling, he ordered the Chi tea, refused the cashier's member's card offer, paid, and stepped aside to wait for the barista.
Reginald set the steaming cup on the table before the still-trembling Amy and said, "This should help settle you. Careful, it's hot."
"Thank you," she sniffled and sipped at the tea.
This did seem to calm her as he took his seat beside her.
Looking at him with her beautiful blue eyes, through her ugly glasses, she whined like a beaten child, "Really, they aren't me."
"I know," Reginald said, shrugging and taking a sip of his coffee.
"How do you know?" she asked innocently.
"By the great Lord Beelzebub, how do these monkeys survive in their stupidity," the demon Mār Damquarim thought.
"Because you are a white blond, and many of those pictures were of black-haired Asians, Africans, and what looked like East Indians," Reginald replied matter-of-factly, not showing any condescension.
"Oh," she whispered, lowering her eyes in embarrassment and sipping the tea. After several moments, she said meekly, "I am so embarrassed."
"Don't be. I am seventy-two years old. I've seen such many times before," Reginald said calmly, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Yes, on the internet and pictures," she said, nodding, seeming to have calmed some.
Laughing aloud, he replied, "No, in doing what is in the pictures."
