Chapter 1: Charming the Devil Prince / Indulging the Blue-Skinned Succubus
[This is a fantasy story with hetero characters.]
In his castle in the outer realms of Hell, the orange-skinned demon Lord Dworcer conducts business as he is accustomed to, inside his opulent limestone bedchamber, dressed in colorful robes and jewelry, and extracting carnal pleasure from a female, bent over, and locked in stocks; in this case, a noble devil woman captured in a costly raid of a Perditus Special Forces escort. Except for Lord Dworcer, the devil is obscured by fencing so that only her red wings, black horns, spade-tipped tail, and the tips of her supple red ass cheeks are visible--the latter of which the Lord is mounted onto. "You understand what you're getting yourself into?" he turns and asks before the pumping resumes. His bloated orange belly jiggles with each thrust.
Like all fallen angels, Cadriel has wings with black feathers and a halo that has lost its holy shine and now glows white. His face is scruffy, with a black beard and hair cut short. Dressed in a white robe, his steel shortsword is holstered in a leather scabbard on the right of his belt. Most fallen angels follow one of two paths. They either settle in Perditus, an evil devil city that at least has some semblance of law and order, or they roam the outer realms as a bloodseeker, slaughtering as many demons as they can until they're slain. He chose the latter path only to survive long enough to become world-weary and cynical.
"I'm to enter Perditus, infiltrate the devil Prince Fazir's inner circle, earn his trust, and await further instructions. Is there anything I missed?"
The devil noblewoman gasps and pants.
Lord Dworcer lets up, turns, and faces Cadriel.
"I meant, are you up to this task? Admittedly, I know little about angels. The Prince is an indulgent reprobate. To ingratiate yourself with him will require leaping into an abyssal pit of vice. Are you sure this doesn't conflict with your inner nature?"
Lord Dworcer pumps the noblewoman. He smirks when he notices a wedding band on her left clawed hand.
"Milord, with all due respect, the light of Heaven stopped shining on me a long time ago. I'm a mercenary now. Whatever it takes to get the job done is what I'll do. The only thing inside me is cold indifference and want of coin."
Lord Dworcer fucks his moaning slave and doubts the angel's assurances. He doesn't trust Cadriel. There's a reason the angel is here in Hell and not Heaven. His other option is another raid on Periditus Special Forces. His people would have to kidnap a devil male and turn him. The demon lord slams his pelvis, causing the restrained noblewoman to yelp. A woman like this would not do. First of all, he feels women are traitorous by nature, and secondly, Prince Fazir would not view any female as anything but a toy to be played with.
The Lord scratches his chin and hesitates. Neither option is a good one. However, given the recent casualties, he is reluctantly inclined to deploy the angel mercenary.
#
In a large limestone room full of many tables, Prince Fazir sits alongside a small male entourage. A vividly colored tablecloth depicting murals of Perditus's history decorates the table, atop which sits a large platter holding a whole baked pig with a red apple stuffed in the mouth below its snout. Also on the table are two bottles of wine, one white and one red, several glasses, and two ornate brass candlesticks illuminating the table, crackling and popping. The devils sip wine and use their claws to pull crispy skin off the carcass, which crunches inside their mouths.
The room smells of roast meat and rich spices. A red-skinned devil woman in a low-cut yellow dress kneels and plays the harp, over which sounds the din of conversation, laughter, business, and pleasure.
Two devils approach. The Prince can tell they're his race because of their redskin. Scarlet hues are unique to the devils, although they can be present in halfbreeds with Gh'ulzor. Halfbreeds are also considered Gh'ulzor, a devil term that means inferior and worthless and is usually used to refer to demons. One of the men wears a prosecutor's long, flowing black robes. The other is dressed as a civilian in a tan robe. The approaching devils have gray beards, and the civilian is bald.
Prince Fazir feels a lump in his throat. This didn't look good at all. The Prince has red skin and dark gray ribbed horns that come up off the sides of his head for about two feet until pointing in slightly as if pointing at each other. He wears a dark blue waist-high robe with text written in gold in the devil alphabet while his muscular torso and red bat-like wings are bare. Gold rectangles shaped like piano keys hang from a necklace around his neck, dark blue leather gauntlets cover his wrist, and his clawed hands are full of rings adorned with rare gems. His black hair runs down to the bottom of his neck, and he has a narrow, pointed beard.
"Sorry to interrupt your meal, Your Highness," the Prosecutor says. "This man has accused you of committing a crime. I will need to interrogate you."
The Prosecutor isn't required to read the Prince his rights because all devils must complete law school, and all are considered lawyers. Perditus is run by a series of Devil Lords who have differing responsibilities. This means there are many princes and princesses in the megalopolis. The devils believe no one is above the law, including royalty, but also that many legal arguments, loopholes, and matters are open to interpretation.
"Then this man is a liar," the Prince says, performatively narrowing his eyes at the man, flaring his nostrils, and raising his spade-tipped tail. "I've never committed a crime in my life!"
"That's a damned lie," the bald devil spits, snarls, and raises his clawed hands. "This man knowingly induced someone into breaking a contract. Specifically, it was my wife and our marital contract.
Fazir sips wine, smirks, crosses his arms across his chest, and wiggles his brow. "I would never do such a thing!" he insists.
The entourage at the table, including the Prince, burst into laughter.
Fazir recognizes this cuckold. He forgets the name of the place. It's near one of the brothels he patrons. The cuckold got lost on account of drunkenness or sheer stupidity. The Prince found his wife disoriented in a cobblestone alley. She had fat tits that hung out the top of the low-cut dress she wore alongside gaudy makeup. He steadied her, nibbled her earlobe, brushed his tail against her thigh, and pressed one of his clawed fingers up between her legs before trailing the tip up and down her wet slit through the fabric of her undergarments. Not long after, her panties were around her ankles, her fat tits out jiggling, and she was bent over as he thrust in and out of her holding her tail, the tip of which swelled and dripped feminine secretions that ran down his hand and arm. It was dark outside, and after he soiled her nasty pussy, he pushed her down into a pile of garbage and animal refuse, pulled his robe back up, returned to the bar, and ordered another wine.
"Given your flippant denial, I take it you're not disputing the allegation?" the Prosecutor asks.
The Prince hesitates, opens his mouth, and shuts it. "Well, you see," he stammers.
"His Highness is innocent," Cadriel says as he approaches the table. His right hand instinctively hovers slightly above the scabbard.
The devils turn, and several gape at the sight of the fallen angel.
"This man is an outsider!" the cuckold objects with a snarl. "He knows nothing of our laws!"
"This cuckold has no evidence the Prince knew his wife was married when he fornicated with her," Cadriel explains.
The table is awash with snickering.
"That's true, I had no idea!" Fazir lies.
"She wore a wedding ring!" the cuckold objects.
"Have you seen his wife?" Fazir asks the Prosecutor. "I ask for you to take one look at her chest. Trust me, whatever's on her claws are not the gems any man would be focused on."
Fazir grins crookedly and puffs out his chest.
The Prosecutor turns to the cuckold and asks, "Do you have any evidence he knew your wife was married? The... outsider might be overstepping bounds but is not incorrect about the law."
The cuckold's neck cords and skin mottles, and he pulls back his lips, revealing his sharp teeth. "You are a lying son of a whore!" he screams, slips a dagger out his sleeve, and lunges at Prince Fazir.
Cadriel, who has slayed more demons than he can even remember, without thinking, unsheaths his sword, scrapes it against its scabbard, and rapidly draws it to the cuckold's neck just as he is inches from plunging the dagger into the Prince's neck.
"Drop it now!" Cadriel demands with a snarl. "I was a bloodseeker. I've taken lives like I have breaths. Culling the weak and pathetic is my instinct."
The cuck does as he's told, and some of the larger members of the Prince's entourage help the Prosecutor place him into iron restraints.
"Thank you," Fazir addresses Cadriel. "I have had only a few encounters with angels. I appreciate you defending me. You did a better job than my bodyguards. You're welcome to join us for dinner... and post-dinner entertainment." He smirks and winks at the fallen angel.
Cadriel stabs the pig carcass with his short sword, raises pork to his lips, crunches his teeth against the hard skin, tastes well-seasoned and juicy flesh, and leaves gristle in his scuffed beard. He is hungry.
#
The cerulean-skinned demon succubus straddles Cadriel's lap, rubs her panty-covered crotch against his own, and jives to weaving rhythmic patterns of loot strings, chimes, and piano notes. Her large, freckled, blue breasts spill out of a white robe so low-cut and high-bottomed that it almost resembles a towel wrapped around her buxom hourglass-shaped torso. She's made up in indigo, complimenting her soft, light skin tone and supple lips. Her horns are short, ribbed, black, and wide and curl around the sides of her head where the tips fall just short of forming a circle. Her hair is black and curly.
Cadriel parts his lips, fidgets, feels his hands grow moist, and stares at her jiggling cleavage as she dances atop his lap. She smells of assaram perfume, a spice he only encountered in Hell, similar to a combination of cumin and cinnamon.
He lounges with the Prince in the lobby of some seedy basement brothel underneath a squalid brick, slum tenement building in which the landlord likely houses the prostitutes, really slaves, alongside other lowlife devils lacking coin.
Fazir sits on the same wide sofa, puffs his chest out, spreads out over the couch, tilts his jaw, and smirks.
An orange-skinned succubus atop the Prince has her bouncing tits out entirely and is dry-humping her crotch against his royal robe-covered groin.
The Prince grabs her jiggling orange tits with his clawed hands, squeezes them, and gently scratches a claw against her erect nipple. His swollen tail twists into a coil with her own, and the tips caress.
