The Demon Child

Bryan Cranberg didn’t feel my eyes as I watched them take him to the back room. He was a man of eccentric tastes, something I do appreciate, ravenously so. It was these eccentric tastes that brought him to this drug infested area to a brothel that promised a truly…otherworldly experience.

Naturally, when Bryan was told that there were rumors that people had sex with demons there he was interested. Not for the true demonological purpose of it—he didn’t believe in such nonsense. But as a man who enjoyed many kinks, he looked forward to what he believed would be more of a roleplay experience than a mystical one.

I could taste his sexual energy, like a strong odor that sits heavy in the air, promising a taste but only giving the ghost of it. I could feel his erection, looking at the woman in the center of the room.

She sat in the center of a pentagram, a sheer black thong and lace bralette the only cloth covering her skin. As the candles at the point of each star were lit, the chanting began, sending her back in a curving arc that left only the tips of her feet touching the floor. Bryan was impressed with the theatrics, appreciating the cameltoe created by her straining muscles, her pelvis pushed out toward his face. Then her eyes rolled into her head and she dropped, slamming to the floor as the last word finished in the air.

I opened my eyes then, gazing at the white drop ceiling above us, the metal holding the stained tiles brown and black from years of smoke—drug and candles alike. Indeed, as I sat up and gazed into Bryan’s eyes, I could see the red veins of a man who had recently shared half a joint with his friend prior, to help relax him for the experience.

I smiled, a slow, lazy smile as I took him in. Perhaps he would think this was just a bad trip.