Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

Bringing order to the house of the Burgermeister should be his first priority, Damien thought, as he looked with disgust at the boisterous brats surrounding the Burgermeister's buxom and pinched-nosed wife as they approached Handlanger's new, if temporary, home. The wife first, certainly. No fool she, and a schemer and gossip to boot. The slut of a housemaid was less of a problem. She had the slouch of a dullard about her. The brats must be dispensed with immediately; Damien could do nothing useful with them swarming through the structure.

He was, however, presented with other avenues for starting. It had been a boon to have identified helpers so soon. First them and then the symbols of authority, perhaps.

As luck would have it, though, the village priest was the first. Not long after Damien and Camael had been shown to a commodious apartment of three rooms, on the first level above the street, with a chamber for each of them separated by a common room—where Damien planned to do common things after his dinner—the church bell started to ring and the Burgermeister attended them and said a required mass was soon to begin.

Damien was disgusted and his stomach churned at the mere thought of a mass, but he was early to the village and to his plan. This was the most delicate phase of the plan, its initiation, so there was nothing to be done but for him to signal to Camael and to follow the Burgermeister and his disruptive brood across the square to the main village church.

Priester Anasvindo was at the altar already, preparing the elements, as his premier congregants entered and took their place in the front pews. His eyes went immediately to the blond angel. He'd seen the arrival. He'd been drawn to the square along with the others because of the unannounced harbinger sun of summer and had stood at the edge of the teeming throng to watch the descent from the carriage of the curious, repelling, compelling strangers.

The malevolent force in black had made him tremble and lift his cross involuntarily to shake uncontrollably between him and the apparition. And then the angel had appeared at the door to the carriage, and Priester Anasvindo had been transported into his other world. The effect of this perfect young man was such on him that the priest had withdrawn from the edge of the crowd, a clawed hand pressed firmly into the yielding shoulder of the chorister who had been practicing in the church before they all felt the call of the sunshine, and he took the village youth into the sacristy and fucked all of the urges out of himself that the appearance of the white angel had aroused.

And now he, the compelling angel, was here, in his church sanctuary, sitting in the first of the pews, and, as the ritual began was singing in a clear, pure soprano that floated out above all of the rest. The chorister who had felt Priester Anasvindo's rod was missing, snuffling and sniffing in the bell tower, but the young stranger's voice was even more beautiful than his.

Priester Anasvindo turned, not really knowing why he was doing so, and beckoned to the young singer of beauty, inviting him to take the place of the missing chorister in the pews behind the altar.

And to his surprise, after looking to the man in black for guidance, the white angel had glided up into the choir pew and lifted his voice once more over all of the rest in an Ava Maria.

Priester Ansavindo turned the ritual over to two monks assisting him and moved back to his throne chair next to the choir pews and closed his eyes and smiled and let the angelic music wash over him.

Damien Handlanger knew the instant when the setting had changed inside the church. Damien saw all; indeed, Damien planned and maneuvered most of what would happen in the village of Uberusel over the coming days.

He gave the natural unveiling of his greater scheme time enough to become established and then he rose from his pew and slipped out at the side and crept through the door into the sacristy. His timing had been perfect, as he knew it would be. He had timed it all from the moment he looked up beyond the altar and saw the priest's throne empty and the new chorister's position vacant.

Camael, naked and marble skinned, was laying on his back on the table where the elements were prepared. His legs were spread wide, his toes daintily pointed, a beatific smile on his face. And the old Priester Ansavindo, his Cossack drawn up around his waist, was bent over Camael's perfectly formed lithe torso, moving his pelvis between those daintily drawn-out legs, and babbling in Latin over his good fortune of dipping his surprisingly hard stick in the young angel's sweet honeypot. Camael was not resisting in any way; indeed, he was moving his hips in rhythm with the priest's, digging his finely manicured fingers into the old man's shoulders, and urging him on with talk of what a melting man he was—how much Camael melted at having him moving inside him.

Without a sound, Damien untied his cod piece and let the flap fall and his monstrous tool flop out. Three shakes and he was prepared for anointing. He slipped in behind the priest, grabbed the old bugger with a tight grip of both hands at his neck, reared back his hips and spiked the priest's asshole in one long tearing plunge that lifted the old man off Camael.

The two older men reeled around the room in a macabre dance, the priest totally unable to shake off his assaulter and invader, as Damien's superhuman cock had the priest fully and deeply skewered. Priester Ansavindo gurgled in choking tones, the fingers on his neck sizzling with branding heat, and danced, feet off the ground, as the taller, stronger man forced his cock up into the priest's intestines and began filling him with possessing venom until the priest felt it burble in the back of his throat. Finished, Damien pushed the old man off his cock in a gesture of disgust, and the priest fell in a moaning heap at his feet.

As this transpired, Camael sat up on the edge of the table and smiled his beatific smile down on the priest with an attitude that said all was right with the world.

After he'd taken his hands away from the priest's neck and let his body sink to the floor, Damien towered over his prey. He saw with satisfaction the branding marks of his fingers on the priest's neck and knew that the priest was his now. To prove it, with Priester Ansavindo now clutching at his boots, Damien gave him a cruel kick and turned to Camael and said, "Dress. We depart now."

"No," the priest moaned. "No. Do not leave me. I must have your cock again."

Damien obliged him, just to be sure. Control of the priest was important. As the priest moaned in combined fear and wanting, Camael jumped down of the table and started clothing himself. Damien lifted the priest from the floor and forced him belly down on the table top and, his four heavy-hanging balls quickly rejuvenating, entered him once more, strongly and deeply. He pumped the priest at greater length now, giving him two gasping ejaculations before Damien filled him once again with the venom that would make him forget all but what Damien wanted him to remember—that whatever Damien wanted, the priest wanted for him as well.

"Perhaps it was good to start there," Damien said to Camael as they prepared to return to the church service in what seemed to be an eternity of life-changing fucking for the now-branded priest but was bare moments for those taking mass out in the sanctuary. "These villagers are such a tediously gullible lot. The church is a major institution here. For my plan to succeed, I must not only neutralize but also master the church here."

Back in the Burgermeister's house, dinner completed, and the four burly workman summoned to Damien's rooms and half insensitive with liquor, Damien gave each, in turn, a few never-to-be-forgotten blissful moments dipping in Camael's sweet honeypot in the young angel's chamber, and an eternity of total, splitting, stomach-reaching possession by Damien's manhood as they choked on Damien's neck branding and were enlisted into eternity by the calming venom of his deeply planted seed. By the end of the evening, Handlanger had enlisted the four mainstays of his plans for the people of Swabia.

There only remained in the next day bringing peace to the bustling and raucous household of the Burgermeister.

The next evening, Damien invited the Burgermeister up to their rooms for a game of draughts while smoking their pipes and drinking off their after-dinner flagons. As they played and talked and laughed and the Burgermeister disappeared increasingly into his cup, Camael rose from his chair and stumbled slightly as he passed the Burgermeister's chair and fell deftly into the village mayor's lap. The Burgermeister had been losing game after game anyway through inattention, as he could not keep his eyes off the white angel and found that he had difficulty keeping his hands off the youth as well.

Once Camael was in his lap, accident or otherwise, all was lost. They were kissing almost before the Burgermeister realized what was happening. And his hands were moving over the youth and undoing this and that and moving in this fold and finding that flesh. And his own cod piece was open by some unknown hand, and his erect cock was luxuriating in the warmth and closeness of a sweet, tight channel, as Camael descended into his lap and then raised himself and lowered himself and continued to do so, their lips locked together. The Burgermeister flowed and groaned and moaned in paradise.

But then he was descending straight to hell, as he was roughly drawn from the youth, stripped of his leggings, and split asunder by a killing pole, invading and filling and expanding and digging inside him. He opened his mouth to scream, only to have the air choked out of him by strong, hot pokers at his neck. Choking him, making his eyeballs pop, searing his flesh. He screamed within, getting a vivid glimpse of the fires of hell. He was almost swept away by the horror of it, when he felt the beginning of the flow deep inside him. He subsided into a calm that he had never experienced before. He sighed in full sexual satisfaction, steeped also in a feeling of want that he had never felt before. Not a want of the young white angel, Camael, but incomprehensibly of the other one, the powerful and foreboding Damien Handlanger. The man in black who had his oak of a cock so far up inside him that the Burgermeister felt it would pop out of his mouth. And although he'd never lain with a man before, he knew that he'd never been as satisfied and filled before as he was now. And he did not want to lose that sensation.

He looked up, panting at the monster of a man who now stood over him, looking down at him, possessing him as much with his eyes and mere demeanor as he had done with his cock. Still dressed in black, his cod piece flapped open, freeing the longest, thickest black cock the Burgermeister had ever seen on a man, below which hung four heavy, globular balls the king bull of the pastures would be proud of.

The man spoke. "You may have Camael for the night. But in the morning, you will clear the house of everyone but the male servants, who you will bring to me one by one. And then you will identify the best butcher and provisioner in the village and bring them to me as well. Then you shall dine like a king and I shall bed you like a bull for as long as it pleases me."

"Yes, master," the Burgermeister murmured. "But why? Why Camael? Why cannot it be you tonight?"

Damien's mouth curled up in a cruel, satisfied smile. This had been somewhat of a test, and the Burgermeister had shown that he was enslaved.

"Let me show you all and then I will ask you again. But choose carefully. It will be for all eternity."

The Burgermeister lay huddled there, awestroke, staring up at Damien, as the monster of a man stripped off his black, silken clothing and stood there naked before the village mayor, bulging with muscle, smiling malevolently, nubs of horns where his cap had fallen away. He stood there on heavily pelted goat legs and cloven feet, his eyes searching those of the Burgermeister's for signs of rejection or indecision. Facing the village mayor with the totality of what was transpiring.

Seeing no sign of rejection or indecision, without asking the question, Damien lifted the Burgermeister as if he were some downy cushion and carried him into his chamber and tossed him on the pallet and fucked him into hell in waves and waves of takings, the exhausted and nearly spent village mayor always wanting more, always on the point of expiring, but never taken farther—as Damien wanted the house cleared of those gossipy women and bratty children and also knew that the man he was taking into hell was necessary for his plan.

Camael sat in the middle chamber for a short time, smiling his beatific smile. Temptation—an invitation to succumbing to basic instincts—was no longer needed with the Burgermeister. At length, Camael rose and moved into his chamber and slept alone. He was far beyond surprise. Time and time again he had slept alone because of the choices men were prone to make.