***AUTHOR'S NOTE***
Like most of my works, this one will continue to feature elements of nonconsensual/dubiously consensual sex. All characters are 18 years or (in most cases) much older because this author is personally turned off by teens for the most part lol
˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Chapter 2: Azazel - Command ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗
At the stroke of midnight, when Channing was freshly sound asleep between her silk sheets, Azazel stepped forward so that he could touch the water of the scrying pool. His shredded, bare body was hard and intimidating, like the cock between his legs, as the air around him flexed with power.
Mahzi recognized this part of the ritual from when he'd watched the game a century past. The competitor would appear in the target's dreamscape to introduce themselves and inform them of the curse mark they were about to bestow and its function. It was the demonic method of fair play, warning the mortal of what was to come. Of course, humans so rarely listened to or even remembered those dreams.
"I am Azazel of the Anash Clan," he announced imperiously into the scrying pool. "You will bear my curse, human." He smiled wolfishly. "My mark is Command. You'll do as any man bids you, regardless of your personal feelings. Your obedience won't appease them, though. It will only serve to make them want to abuse you more, bringing out their natural aggression until they're satisfied."
Azazel withdrew his hand from the water, letting it still and return to a solid reflection of Channing, tossing and turning in her bed. She shucked off her cover to reveal her newly marked nude body. The demonic symbol appeared on her lower belly, over her womb, burning her skin and causing her to awaken with a start, hands clenched at her stomach.
Mahzi felt bad for her as she writhed in her bed, clutching her midsection and stifling screams of pain as Azazel's mark burned into her flesh. Marking a human was normally a pleasurable experience they had to consent to, giving their soul over to their new demonic master. But for this competition, it would be forced on Channing for twenty-four hours, so the process was painful.
Knowing that the winner would be the one to get her fucked by the most unique men, Mahzi determined to at least be gentle when he won the game and claimed her soul. She'd be a little broken, most likely, but she'd also be his most cherished possession, the first of his harem.
His brother Ambrose had told him of the human practice of kintsugi, where broken pottery was mended with something like golden lacquer, making the breakage a beautiful part of the piece. After this competition, that's how Mahzi would remake Channing. He'd dust her cracks with powdered gold until her imperfections shone.
The thought made his petite cunt clench.
He felt a certain possessiveness over her already, disliking how Abaddon and Desdemona were stroking their cocks with glee at her suffering. His slight wings stretched with rancor. For now, he would suffer his human to be gawked at and lusted after, but he was eagerly counting down the days until it was his turn.
˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗
Nausea threatened to overwhelm Channing as she gripped her stomach as tight as she dared without hurting herself. The brand that had suddenly appeared over her uterus was the outline of a heart with six spikes coming from it as if someone had tried to make a heart outline look tribal.
She broke a piece off her aloe plant and smeared the jelly-like liquid over the burn, hissing in pain as she did so. Despite the pain radiating from her skin, it was smooth and unbroken.
"What the shit?" she questioned aloud, nonplussed.
She grabbed her phone and looked up 'waking up with burns on skin' and got the usual responses of sunburn, irritant exposure, or medication use. None of which applied to Channing, who wasn't on medication, hadn't been exposed to any irritants, and always turned a beautiful, sun-kissed golden rather than burning in the sun.
She debated going to the hospital but reasoned they might think someone had done it to her or, worse, that she'd done it to herself. Not to mention, it was Monday morning, and she had to get up and ready for work in six hours. She already had a doctor's appointment on Friday, anyway. She could ask about it then.
In the morning, when she dressed in her pantyhose, black pencil skirt, and fashionably oversized azure cashmere sweater, she tried to ignore the strange symbol on her body. She'd never even gotten a tattoo, so it was bizarre to see her skin marred with what appeared to be well-healed red ink after sleeping on it for a while.
It was a bittersweet consolation that she had no lover or serious boyfriend to notice the tattoo. After a decade-long dry spell married to her job, Channing doubted anyone would ever see her naked again. For some reason, that thought tickled something in the back of her mind. A faint memory that she couldn't quite tug free.
Deciding it must not be that important, she applied her mascara and red lipstick, carefully rearranged her shoulder-length tresses, slipped on her stiletto heels with the pointed toe, and grabbed her briefcase before heading out the door.
It was a lovely autumn day, with remains of summer keeping the days a mild temperature that allowed Channing to walk the half-hour to work. She enjoyed how the wind played with her hair and teasingly caressed her skin through her pantyhose as she strolled down the city blocks. Debating stopping at an upcoming coffee shop for a pumpkin-spiced drink, she was oblivious to the crew of construction workers starting their morning not twelve feet away from where she walked.
"Hey, sweetheart, give us a smile!" One of them called after her. Usually, she would ignore the catcalling and go about her day, but for some reason, Channing stopped in her tracks and offered a beaming smile to the group of men.
Disquiet settled in her gut as she stood rooted to the spot, the smile unwavering on her face. They were shouting appreciation to her for stopping until one of them hollered, "Show us your tits!"
The group around him laughed and shoved him good-naturedly but quickly fell into stunned silence as a horrified Channing dropped her briefcase and lifted her sweater and bra in one swift movement. Her large breasts, several shades lighter than the rest of her body, bounced free. Her pink nipples hardened as the autumn winds continued to tease her exposed skin. Screaming internally, she stood there with her upraised top, stupidly smiling even though her sweater was obstructing the view of her face.
"What the hell are you all doing out here?!" Barked a gruff, masculine voice. "Get back to work, ya bums! And you, Tits McGee! Put your funbags away and get the fuck outta here!"
Compelled once more, Channing corrected her bra and sweater and bolted away, barely remembering to sweep up her briefcase as she retreated. Her face was flushed red with humiliation and panic as she continued her trek to the office, but her smile didn't fade until she was a block away. 'What was that?!' she thought furiously, her mind racing.
She'd had no control over her own body. None whatsoever. Her hand came to rest on her stomach tattoo over her clothing. She wasn't stupid. It couldn't be a coincidence. The mark and her loss of control must be connected. That nagging thought she'd had earlier was back, but she still couldn't summon the memory she sought.
Now convinced that memory was, in fact, very important, she wracked her brain, trying to remember for the rest of her walk to work. Unsure what set off her sudden obedience, she made a beeline straight for her secluded office, not stopping to talk to anyone. Luckily, that wasn't unusual behavior for her, so no one sought her out to ask what might be wrong.
Channing had a mostly laid-back day of solitary work, like reviewing and resetting the department's sales goals, except for one meeting that couldn't be moved. A performance review for her former lead salesman, who was now trailing behind their newest team members. She wasn't looking forward to that, even if she'd had an ideal day beforehand.
Hours passed uneventfully, but the events of the morning kept playing over in her mind again. She'd unwillingly flashed dozens of strange men her tits. The way her limbs had moved on their own before her thoughts could even catch up was beyond alarming.
The knock on her door that announced Steve's arrival was a welcome interruption to get her away from those thoughts. She stood and opened the door for a man in black sweatpants and a stained white shirt. The building was old and well-insulated, so he wouldn't have heard her even if she'd screamed for him to enter the room, and there weren't windows facing the office, so she couldn't wave him inside either.
He brushed past Channing rudely, sitting in the chair in front of her desk without so much as greeting her. Shutting the door behind her, she took her seat, putting on her best fake smile. Steve was in his late fifties, short, balding, fat, freshly divorced, and bitter about all of it. He used to be an amiable, hard-working guy who took pride in how he presented himself. Now, he was a cantankerous, odorous loser.
But still, he was on her team, so he was her problem. "Hi, Steve," she began, trying her best to sound warm.
"What's this about? I have a mountain of work to do," Steve groused, not giving her a chance to speak. "If this is about me not hitting metrics, I told you, the goal is set too high."
She tried hard to keep her tone patient. "All metrics were set according to current trends, and, frankly, Steve, you're the only one who didn't meet expectations." She held her hands up placatingly when he looked upset. "I have tried to be patient because of your situation--"
"What about my situation?" Steve interrupted.
"I know it's been difficult since you split with Becky--"
"Oh, 'I know it's been difficult since you split with Becky,'" he intoned in a nasally voice, mocking Channing. She was quickly losing her footing in this conversation. She tried to speak, but Steve continued.
"Where do you get off bringing up my wife?" He laid his meaty hands on her desk and stood over her on his tiptoes. Pointing a finger in her face, a vein protruding from his forehead, he shouted, "You, suck my dick, bitch!"
Before she could reason what was happening, Channing was kneeling under her desk, fumbling at his pants, pulling them down around his ankles. "What in the Sam Hill are you doing?" he asked but didn't stop her as she pressed her face into his stinky groin, licking the outline of his rapidly hardening dick.
She didn't know what she was doing. She had no control again. She just knew that she had to suck Steve's dick, though she was fighting her body the whole time.
Freeing him from his underwear, his fat cock slapped her in the face. For the first time in ten years, Channing slurped a man into her mouth, and it was fucking Steve. He smelled fishy and tasted bitter as she lapped her tongue over his exposed head.
"Ooooh, fuck!" Steve moaned as she teased his cockhead with the tip of her tongue inside her mouth. "You naughty little slut."
