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His offices were small, square, and gray. Not unusual for a Gamester. What was unusual was the way you couldn't see the floor. The usual paperwork of any Gamester's life, sure, but those surprisingly tidy heaps were secondary to the heaps of junk and not-junk...that stack of jewels in the corner were reliquaries, and those swords displayed on the walls were talismans created in Heaven. It should have been impossible to walk through the front office without crunching something, and the piles of Stuff were so numerous that opening one's wings should have spelled noisy disaster. It was, of course, deliberate.
Asmodeus ignored it all, and padded silently into the inner chamber. A gold and silver Serpent curled there on an enormous pile of feather pillows, the stuffing harvested from Saminga's realm, the coverings relic silk in the colors of jade and onyx. The Balseraph's six eyes were closed in thought, an array of paperwork spread out around him. "Mammon."
Before the word was even finished, the Balseraph lay flat before him, green eyes averted and his wings spread out abjectly. "My Prince," he hissed, "I did not expect to see you...please, let me get you something to drink? To eat? One of the souls..."
"I am not here to indulge, Greed." Mammon fell instantly silent. A small shiver of fear, just enough to be pleasing without overstepping to craven, slipped along his gilded length. Asmodeus reached out and traced its path with one red claw, drawing a low hiss from his Serpent. "Report."
"All goes well enough, my Prince," Mammon replied quickly, indicating the paperwork with a subtle flick of his tail. "Our collections proceed apiece. That last Renegade Captain had corporeal holdings of substantial size. Our proxies convinced the local tribal chief to cede them to our control..." he trailed off, becoming aware of the way the eyes above his narrowed.
"Mine," Asmodeus corrected, almost gently, even as the stroking claw bore down, splitting the scale beneath it in half. The Balseraph's gasp of pain was gratifying, and he withdrew the pressure, returning it to pleasure over pain.
"Y-yours," Mammon repeated, with just a barely noticible hint of reluctance. The Prince's eyes closed to mere slits, their steady crimson glow never wavering from the Balseraph.
"Continue."
"Yes, my Lord. A-as I was saying, o...your holdings have been expanding, as have the stores of reliquaries." Another tail flick. "As you can see, several of the more minor ones have been taken in my custody when we needed the room in the vaults for the more powerful." The feverency of the Liar's belief that this was necessary was obvious, although both of them knew that digging a new vault was not a difficult task.
Asmodeus lowered his head. "They may stay here, until I have need of them," he rumbled. The claw continued to stroke, outlining the muscles that attached Mammon's wings to his body with a slow, thorough motion. Mammon writhed helplessly beneath the sensation, raising the wings to allow the Prince to move his paw where he would.
"Ah, oh yes, of course, my Lord." Mammon mumbled, closing his eyes. "It will be as you will. Until then, I will just...keep them safe..."
Asmodeus leaned down further, his muzzle now close to that of Mammon. "...for me, my Steward. You will keep them safe for me."
"Yes," Mammon hissed submissively, "For you, for my Prince. My Prince..." his tail snaked out and dared to touch Asmodeus' roughly furred hind legs. And found itself abruptly pinned beneath the weight of his talons. The Prince shifted again, and trapped his wings, forcing them to the pillow-strewn floor as he straddled Mammon. Several rows of sharp, black teeth nipped at the silver crest of Mammon's head, hard enough to tear several scales free. Mammon yelped and twisted, apologies spilling from his between his teeth. Asmodeus ignored them, licking at the wounds he'd just made with a long, barbed tongue, as black as his teeth. The Prince's bulk pressed down on Mammon, trapping him with ease. Finally, Mammon surrendered, lying limp on the floor, his eyes squeezed shut.
As he did, the nature of his Prince's attentions changed. The licks became gentler, moving from his wounded spots to places of exquisite sensitivity. The claws bearing into his wings retracted, the paws moving in a kneading pattern across the golden skin. Mammon couldn't help the trembling that the attentions drew from him, but otherwise he was deathly still, unsure what game his master played. Six emerald eyes rolled back to meet the Prince's own, and found no answer in that expressionless face, even as Asmodeus lowered his wings to brush teasingly against his own.
The sensations continued, growing with each clawed caress, the hard press of wing leather against wing leather, and the tickling pressure of Asmodeus' breath against his scales. Soon, even with all of his will, he was reduced to shuddering and pressing mindlessly upward, crooning and begging for satisfaction. The Prince withheld it, ceasing one ministration whenever release became close, and methodically teasing a new place into painful, aching need. The cycle went on for what seemed like forever.
Finally, Mammon wept. He wept shamelessly, crying out, promising the moon, the sun, to personally fetch the head of Michael in single combat, whatever was required. Just to let him finish or make it stop. Asmodeus licked him under his jaw, his voice a torturous vibration against aroused flesh. "Who owns you, Mammon?"
"You do, Lord. Please. You and you only!" Mammon's voice was broken by sobs.
"Everything in your keeping. To whom does it belong?"
"You. Please, oh Lord, please let me..." A playful nip stopped the words.
"What are you, Mammon?"
"I...I am yours."
"For how long?"
"Now...now and forever, lord." The words twisted inside of the Balseraph, as he had to accept their truth to speak them. He felt it settle like chains on his soul. "I am always yours," he whispered in despair and hopeless desire.
"Do not forget this again," Asmodeus rumbled, and moved against him, roughly, finally bringing his Forces in harsh, possessive domination of Mammon's own, until the Balseraph screamed and bucked beneath him in the long-denied release, hissing his Prince's name, over and over until he fell heavily back to ground, spent.
When Mammon regained himself, Asmodeus was gone, the only indication that he'd ever been there were the aching wounds on wings and nape, and a few carelessly scattered silver and gold scales. And three of Mammon's favorite artifacts, taken from their position of pride behind his nest.
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I'd offer you Essence, but my kitten ate my Essence. :)
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*gives you a Servitor!Mammon plushie?*
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... poor Mammon. Saying that is just wrong, y'know?
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It's so wonderful when you can play with power imbalance and not fret because, well, DEMONS.
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