"Women are rarely worthy of male attention."

Wes Reiser looked across the table at his companion. The words slid into his ears and settled there like birds on a limb. He took another sip from his beer.

"No shit," he said.

"I think you doubt the serious nature of my tone, my friend. What's your girlfriend's name, again?"

"Ellen."

"Ellen. Now, I know you're not supposed to criticize a man's girlfriend, because if they get back together you'll look like an asshole, but I just met you and, at your whim, won't ever see you again. So I can be honest. She's a whore. Ellen's a whore. No, wait. She's not a whore. She doesn't fuck enough to earn the right to be called a whore. It's not like she's frigid, correct? Just a touch this side of frigid. Rationed fucking. Sex with a sigh and a sense of obligation. So, I wouldn't call her a whore. I'd call her a slutty bitch."

Wes took a long pull from his Corona and laughed.

"You're right," he said, "She's a slutty bitch."

"No. In my emotion I erred again." The man's weathered skin glowed in the bar light. Ravenblack hair, curly and tangled, hung low into his eyes. A black silk shirt and black jeans led to leather boots. "She doesn't fuck enough for the adjective. She's a bitch. Why did she break up with you?"

"Because I blew off her cousin's wedding."

"Because you blew off her fucking cousin's wedding. What a joke. You work all week, and this Ellen bitch wants you to sit in a stuffy church and tacky reception hall kissing her distant relatives' asses. Dancing will be required, and maybe, just maybe, when you get home, she'll give up some nice, sweet, boring, mechanical sex. At least you showed you had some dick. You blew the bitch off."

Wes finished his beer and raised the empty bottle to the bartender.

"This one's on me," the man continued. "But she threw a tantrum. On the phone. Called you all sorts of names. Thoughtless. Self-centered. Uncaring. She must not have noticed, Wesley, that you...are...a...man." He pounded his fist on the bar at each of the last four words. "And men fit those terms exactly. The genesis of the confusion lies in the fairy tale put forth by conflicted, over-educated women that men should be something other than themselves. Men really belong among their own kind, Wesley. Women are the problem. If women enjoyed football, subservience, other women, then, maybe, they could be invited to the party. But they don't. Wouldn't it be easier, Wesley, if guys were attractive? If guys were as fuckable as supermodels?"

Wes nodded to the bartender and drank off the first of his new beer. "How did you know she said all that shit?" he asked. "Did I tell you before? Man, I must be drunk. What did you say your name was again?"

"Belial."

"When you'd get home, dude?" a voice called from the living room. On the couch sat a nineteen year-old man in a gray sleeveless shirt. He wore loose black shorts and drank orange juice from a glass.

"I don't remember. I was pretty wasted." Wes replied.

"No shit. I could hear you. Where'd you get drunk?"

"Some place near work. Eric, was I really that loud?" He sat down at the kitchen table and touched his fingers to his temples.

"Yeah, asshole. You didn't wake the neighbors or anything. But you wouldn't shut up. What were you talking about?"

Wes opened the refrigerator door and let the cool air run across his forehead. He closed his eyes for thirty seconds. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the picture of his roommate on his knees before him began to form. Wesley shook it off.

"I don't know. Did you hear me say anything in particular? Like, specific words?"

Wes could feel his testicles tingling, the kind of rush he felt when he had to fuck or masturbate, usually the latter, without hesitation. He knew the sensation from when his soul was taken over by instinct, the animal soul that possessed his legs and guided him to the bathroom with the latest Maxim. But in this case the image of his roommate took the place of the latest bimbo of the month. He pushed the picture of Eric out of his mind.

Eric turned on the couch and looked into the kitchen. "Belly this, belly that. Belly Master. Belly slave. Belly power. Shit, I didn't know you were such a perv. Did you and Ellen play Master and servant?" Eric laughed and turned back to the football game on television.

"Belial?" Wes replied. Eric's taut abs flooded his mind. He wanted to run his mouth against them, to slip his arms around them, to let his fingers settle on Eric's ass. A sense of power, of dominance, tore through his consciousness. Eric shouldn't be sitting on the couch watching television when Master wanted service. Bitch. He pointed his finger and whispered, "Belial, work through my hands."

Two pairs of eyes met. Eric's glowed a bright blue, the black iris of each eye surrounded by white crystals on a bright blue background. He raised his arms weakly, as if he were trying to get up.

"Oh...my....damn...." he whispered.

Wes held the counter and closed his eyes. A rage was pouring through his thighs, settling just above his crotch. He stood motionless, trying the sense of power for its fit, its shape. He looked at his roommate, now on the floor, crawling towards his room like a lazy cat. Bitch needs to serve. Arrogant bitches. All should be mine.

"Stop." Wes said. He walked over to the man on the floor and let his fingers touch his hair. Eric looked like a pet trained well in the art of the heel.

"Why are you doing this?" Wes asked.

"I...I don't know...feels...right...feels...right..." Eric whispered.

"You better not be fucking with me, asshole."

"No."

"Then get the fuck up."

Eric bounced to his feet and swayed a few inches from his roommate's touch. His eyes, lost in adoration, failed to leave those of his Master. Wesley shook his head, the inferno in his testicles still burning rage into his muscles.

"I don't know why...we're doing this..." Wesley said, "But I think it has to do with this guy I met last night. He said guys...should...you know...fuck...and you know..." he reached over and touched Eric's chest. A frustration welled up in his throat. Eric was still wearing clothes. Eric should not be wearing clothes when they were alone in the apartment. His muscles should be slick with oil.

"What the fuck is your problem?" he said.

"I...I don't know, Wes. What....what do you want me to do?"

"I want to see your chest."

Eric let out a long, loose sigh of relief and pulled his shirt off.

"Do you want a blow job, Master, while you eat?"

"Excuse me?" Wes replied. His voice was slow and even.

"You want me to suck you off? Before you go work out? I'd hate for you to carry that hard-on at the gym, and Alyssa hasn't done shit for me lately, so I thought maybe we could take a shower and fuck or something before you leave."

"You want to suck me off?" Wes asked.

"No more than usual. Please, Master, sit down."

Eric patted the cushion next to him. Wes moved over, slowly, and let his roommate pull his boxers off. Eric's eyes remained on the television until a commercial. When the commercial began he turned, smiled, and bent to his Master's cock.

Wes' mind reeled. He closed his eyes and shot his thoughts through the pleasure between his legs. Last night he met some weird ass guy who talked about fags. He said homosexuality made sense because, unlike a heterosexual couple, fags were usually into the same things at the same time. Normal guys would be better off fucking their friends who had similar interests. Football. Maxim. Wrestling. He opened his eyes. Eric had adjusted his position on the couch so he could watch television while sucking off Master. Wes tapped his slave's forehead. Eric dutifully gave his full attention to the cock in his mouth. His tongue focused on the sensitive underside of Master's manhood. Four minutes passed before Master, arching his thighs, let a torrent of come shoot into Eric's mouth. When Wes was finished convulsing, Eric smiled and wiped his lips.

"They say it has a lot of protein. You want to hang later? Alyssa and I are going out tonight."

Wes sat, exhausted, on the couch. The image of Alyssa, lithe, long red hair, barely out of college, settled in his vision. She hung in his eyes like a trophy on a mantle. "Sure. Alyssa? Eric...get her here. I want to see Alyssa. Got it?"

"Sure, Master," Eric replied. He drank a glass of water and wiped his mouth. "Anything you want."

Wes pried his memories for clues. A man named Belial. He had heard the name before. He pulled a copy of Paradise Lost from his collection and scanned the first book until he found the reference.

Belial came last, than whom a Spirit more lewd
Fell not from heaven, or more gross to love
Vice for itself: to him no temple stood
Or altar smoked: yet who more oft than he
In temples and at altars, when the priest
Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who filled
With lust and violence the house of God.
In courts and palaces, he also reigns
And in luxurious cities, where the noise
Of riot ascends above their loftiest tow'rs,
And injury and outrage: and when night
Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons
Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

"Dude didn't look like a demon," he whispered. He quickly pulled a sheet of paper from his notebook and began to make of list of everything he remembered from the last twenty-four hours.

1. Ellen broke up with me
2. I got drunk
3. I talked with some guy named "Belial".
4. I came home drunk and loud, talking about "Belial".
5. I don't remember what happened after I left the bar.
6. Eric and I fucked this morning.

Wes sat back. Number six was the most disconcerting. The act of Eric going down on him felt so natural. He thought of his hands running over Eric's crew cut, as if his best friend's hair were a kitten on his lap, as his lips worked his cock. And the image of Alyssa that dominated his mind was strange as well. Alyssa was hot, no doubt, but Wes didn't have much to say to her. She taught third grade, and since both he and Eric were bottom-rung financial analysts, conversations with Alyssa were polite and surfacy.

The rage, starting somewhere in his front thighs, began to growl. She was a slut, too, just like Eric. They all were sluts. The world would do itself a favor if it admitted every fuckable man and woman should kneel before him. A fever ran up to his fingers. He slammed his glass down, shattering it across the counter.

Alyssa restrained her long red hair in a ponytail. She had the long, athletic body of a professional volleyball player. She wore black tights and a loose Broncos sweatshirt. She was on the phone, chatting with a friend about a party, when Wes came in from the gym. Eric followed Wes into the bathroom.

"Need help with the soap?" he asked.

Wes kissed him and smiled. "That would be rude to our guest. Get her comfortable. Get her drunk. I'll be out in an hour."

Eric turned and left the bathroom. Wes could hear the clinking of glasses and intermittent giggling over the next twenty minutes. He showered, his mind running through a simple and effective plan of attack. Wearing only loose boxers, his body still shining with water, he walked into the living room.

"Um...hi, Wes. Were we making too much noise?" Alyssa said. She sat on the couch, a half-empty beer in her hand. Two drained bottles sat on the coffee table.

"Shut her the fuck up," Wes said.

In one swift movement Eric backhanded the girl and pushed her to the floor. She squealed as he used a pillow to stifle her pleas. Master tossed him a dirty towel from the kitchen. He gagged the girl, then held her head by her hair and pulled her into a kneeling position. Wes leaned to her shaking, sobbing form and whispered in her ear.

"Belial," he said, "Let my hands pay the debt."

Alyssa's shaking began to subside. Her eyes began to glow blue around the dark middle. Eric moved his hands away from her shoulders. Her clothes were still in disarray. Her eyes stared straight ahead, emotionless, and she left without a word. Eric and Wes stood across from each other.

"What's going to happen to her?" Eric asked.

"Fuck if I know," Wes said.

"You look good all wet."

"Did I tell you to speak?"

"Sorry."

"You want my cock, bitch? You can speak."

"Of course, Master. Of course, your cock."

"What's it worth to you?"

"What do you want?"

"All of you. Everything."

"Anything."

"Say it."

"I'll give you anything."

"No, I don't want anything held back. I want everything."

"Everything it is, then."

"Your cock, your clothes, your car, your family, your cash, if I want to clear out your bank account and buy lingerie, you'll hand over the cash like a bitch, won't you?"

"You know I will, Master."

"Who owns your ass?"

"You do, Master."

"Say it."

"You own my ass, Master Wesley."

"Let's see what I own."

Eric stepped out of his jeans and boxers. He turned, his hands on his hips, and bent over, exposing his ass to his Master. Without hurry Wes walked to the bathroom and returned with Vaseline. His left palm fingered his slave's ass while his right palm applied the cold lubricant to his hot cock. When he finished, he leaned forward.

"I hear this hurts at first," he whispered.

Eric grunted a reply, his breath short and heavy. Wes aimed his manhood at the tight hole in front of him and leaned forward. Eric held the kitchen table for support and drove back until his Master was two inches into him. Wes pressed forward until his front thighs met Eric's body.

"Just like nailing a virgin," he said. He moved into a steady, balanced rhythm. "Except you have the good sense to appreciate football and wrestling. This is going to work out just fine."

Wes woke in Eric's bed. He moved his arm from under his slave's head and stood. The sound of someone rattling kitchen utensils spilled in from the kitchen. He walked, naked, out of the bedroom.

Alyssa stood in front of the stove. Her red hair was disheveled, hanging down her back, catching into long earrings made of bone and rock. Her neck was covered with arcane symbols rendered in ink. She turned and smiled at Wes. Her lip, tongue, breasts, eyelids, and navel were all pierced.

"Would you like to eat breakfast with Master?" she asked, nodding to the living room.

Wesley whirled. On his couch sat Belial. He wore a neatly pressed black suit. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

"Good morning, Wesley. I thought it might be best to discuss our arrangement before you did anything rash."

"What arrangement?" Wesley replied.

"The one that accompanies the power you have. You see, boy, unfortunate circumstances have caused my forthright manner with women to grow inconvenient. I must admit that I am somewhat appalled by my position. Asking a mortal for assistance in snagging the women of his race is not particularly dignified for my kind. In a more reasonable world this Alyssa you delivered to me would have little chance for resistance with or without your aid." He paused for a drink of orange juice. "But the fates can be rather harsh with those who fail to follow their edicts. Rancid bitches, the fates. You see, Wesley, even I have my Masters."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"I have limited powers when it comes to mortal manipulation. You see...instead of me taking what I want, I have to frame the circumstance in a sort of transaction. Now, I can push the transaction here or there, offer a bonus or two, because, Wesley, that's good business. I can spur emotions in human males that excite a side of you that you never knew existed. They also impel you to fulfill your end of the bargain. Remember how clear your mind became yesterday when Eric mentioned my name? How you asked your slaveboy to bring Alyssa over? Reminders from the back of your mind concerning the details of our arrangement."

Wes thought of the way he used Eric's tight, sweaty body the rest of the evening, completely without shame, swallowing his slave's submission in an attempt to quench his need for control.

"So you...made me a fag?"

"I didn't make you anything, mortal. I stimulated your body, Wesley, the core of your being, and, from what I can discern, you enjoyed yourself quite a bit. C'mon, now. You can have whatever you want. You and Eric can watch sports on television, leave the apartment a mess, whatever you desire. In fact, eventually you'll be allowed to marry women, if you still desire female companionship, although I daresay they'll be less appealing to you than they were a few days back. The children you will appear to beget will be mine, of course, but you can raise them for the sake of appearances. Certainly a deal for which many would kill, Wesley, correct?"

Belial lifted a long finger and pointed it at Wesley's crotch. Wesley closed his eyes and pictured Eric sleeping in his room. He saw his taut stomach muscles and tight legs and heavenly cock.

"Eric, come here." Wes called. A few moments later a naked Eric entered the room. He rubbed his eyes and encircled Wesley with his arms from behind. Alyssa passed by with the skillet and sat on Belial's lap. She began to feed him his breakfast through lapses in the conversation.

"Tell me more..." Wesley said, his fingers running across Eric's chest.

"Of course mortal," Belial replied. "Perhaps you cannot be expected to remember our conversation back at my home. I have been guilty of underestimating the influence of alcohol on the human constitution. I'm not making you do anything. I only activated a long-neglected side of your sexuality. If you're strong enough, resist it." Belial smiled and waved his hand. "Or don't even bother. Once you're aroused, just about everything else is forgotten, is it not? You can be a good boy tomorrow. Satisfy the need now. It's the American way. And you'll be aroused quite a bit from now on."

"Is that the same with Alyssa?"

Centaur eyed Alyssa and slid his fingers between her legs. She dropped the skillet on the carpet and closed her eyes. Her thighs began grinding slowly against Belial's finger.

"Not at all," he said. "She's totally enslaved. Her mind is still intact, but it has, how shall I put it, new priorities. She wants children. Our little Alyssa's a breeding whore, really, and a pretty one at that. Eric has, or should I say had, good taste in mortal females."

"You mentioned...children...why do you want children?"

"Why does anyone want children? Demons have bloodlines, mortal. We won't be underground forever."

"If I want, I can resist you," Wesley said. "I won't help you with this. I can resist."

"You can resist. Of course, mortal. But I'm not the enemy." Belial's lips evened into a thin smile. "The question at hand would seem to revolve around your own instincts."

Wesley began to feel the tingling again. He closed his eyes and knew Eric was crouching behind him, his lips getting close to his ass, his breath near. Wesley changed his stance so his slave's tongue could reach deep. He felt Eric's hands reach around to his cock and sighed as both sides of his pelvis were stimulated. Within thirty seconds his fluid exploded onto the rug. He opened his eyes to a smiling Belial. Alyssa, dressed in furs and skins, stood beside him at the doorway.

"One for one," Belial said. He blew a kiss before pointing his finger straight at Wesley's forehead. Wesley's mind was filled with the image of his brother-in-law. He was on a roof, covered in sweat, wiping his brow with his shirt. He was gorgeous. Wesley's sister Megan fellated Belial on the ground below. Her eyes were closed, and she was covered with the same tattoos and piercings as Alyssa. The image faded as quickly as Wesley opened his eyes.

"He wants Megan, doesn't he, Master." Eric said. Wesley didn't reply. Eric smiled and touched each of Wesley's testicles with his tongue.

"And we get Tim," Eric continued. "One for one."

Alyssa let her gaze wander across the cave. Belial was out somewhere again, so she thought it must be evening. Time of day meant little in the cavern, or her existence, but she liked to play with hours in her mind. She let her hand brush against her belly. No questioned existed in her mind as to the status of her uterus. It was filled. Belial had seen to that in the few hours after she drove her Honda up into the mountains and found, as if by homing signal, the entrance to his lair. She had cooperated as other slaves, both men and women, dressed in bright crimson robes, bathed her. The rings of gold in her body, along with the tattoos, were accepted as if part of a half-dream. Her senses didn't come alive until she saw him, burning black and red, the colors of hot coals. When he touched her she exploded into tears, unsure of their origin, whether they be of joy, terror, or acceptance, and their first fuck was one of ethical ambivalence. It carried no connotation of a loving relationship. She smoldered like an animal for him. When Belial had finished pouring his fluid into her, he whispered words from a long lost language into her ear. She took her place by the fire. She was his slave. She was Belial's priestess.

Using Belial's dialect, she ordered a slave to gather clothes. Clad in a long black robe, her red hair hanging past her shoulders, she stood, without shoes, at the cave door and watched the stars. Belial had promised her sisters soon. She hoped they were pretty. Two more, she knew, two more women, and two more men for Wesley, and Belial would be at full strength. Wesley was a fool. She cackled at the stars. Soon Wesley would kneel before her as a lowly acolyte. She opened the scroll in her hands and read.

After the third of three
Turns, the Changer changes,
A false Master breaks.
Belial flames,
Mortals tinder.
Three mortal women
Join four mortal men, all broken,
Belial's seven implements
Rage with his whims.

She could smell Belial coming. She turned, letting her robe fall to the floor, and walked to his bed.