Unsolicited demon

by BRK

 A strange old man leaves what looks like a business card taped to Joe’s apartment door. He soon discovers it’s not a business card at all.

Added: Oct 2022 5,141 words 1,711 views 4.3 stars (3 votes)

Contents (2 parts, 2 new)

I was dozing dejectedly on the couch, my phone snoozing lightly on my chest with me in shared boredom with the world, when the sudden clamor of my apartment doorbell being jabbed over and over slapped me violently out of my mindless, drifting torpor. The force of jolting upright in alarm caused the phone to fall off me and clatter loudly onto the polished hardwood floor, further disorienting me, and it took me a minute to slow my pounding heartbeat and get a grip.

I waited tensely for the doorbell to ring again, but for a long moment there was nothing to hear but my own slow breaths and the usual background street noises of the city seeping through the panes of the closed living-room windows behind me. I sighed in relief. Not having to answer the door was, for me, a win.

I was just reaching down to retrieve my phone from the floor and pondering whether I wanted to get up and make coffee or lie back and reensconce myself in the unsurpassed comforts of my old leather couch when I heard another doorbell, more distant and remote-sounding this time. Not mine, thank fuck.

I heard a door opening. Finding myself curious about whoever was out there ringing doorbells at two o’clock on a Sunday, I strained to hear more, placing bets with myself as I did so. Church people? Hucksters for one of the three extra-aggressive internet providers in this part of town? Cops looking for murder witnesses? There were always sexy, broad-shouldered, tight-butted uniformed officers canvassing door-to-door for anyone who saw something or had incriminating security cam footage on all the urban crime shows I watched, but I never met any of them. And most of the real-life cops I saw idling on subway platforms or clustering around the station I walked past off Madison on the way to the local Food Parade were not exactly Instagram pin-ups. Though there were a few exceptions...

Aborting what would likely have become a heated reverie, I laid my phone in my lap and listened intently, knowing from hard experience that, though the apartments were soundproofed well enough from each other, anyone talking even in conversational tones in the tiled and windowed hallways of this prewar pile might as well be using a megaphone.

At first there was nothing. Then I heard my unpleasant neighbor, the one I uncharitably thought of as Mrs. Warthog, bark an impatient “What do you want?” at whoever had disturbed her weekend afternoon binge of reality TV and chamomile tea. (You can give people funny names in your own mind, right? Anyway, I’m sure she did the same with me. I saw her giving me the stink-eye at the mailboxes once because I was still in a tee shirt, pajama bottoms, and slippers at 11 a.m. Hey, copy-editors like me don’t have to sit in stuffy offices anymore, and she should celebrate that just like I do. I even tried smiling and introducing myself, but if she remembered I was named Joe I was willing to bet it was only to think of me as “Joe Layabout” or worse from that day forward.)

In response to my neighbor’s brusque demand for justification of existence, I heard, or thought I heard, a strangely accented male voice speak a single word. I couldn’t swear to it, as I was literally listening through walls, but I was pretty sure that word was “Demon.” Even weirder, the word rose in pitch at the end, like he was offering demons, hopefully, door-to-door.

I blinked. Maybe he was selling something named The Demon? A blender, say. Or a vacuum cleaner. I smiled, picturing a damnation-themed Roomba, with horns and little glowing eyes that stared placidly at you even when it was parked in its charging station.

It was probably an internet package, though, I decided. Those people were fucking relentless.

Mrs. Warthog was incensed. “What?!”

“Demon!” the muffled stranger seemed to say excitedly. “He help you!”

Fascinated, I stood and, pocketing my phone in the sweat pants I was wearing, I tiptoed to the door—this despite being in socks and unlikely to make a sound, and inside my own apartment regardless. After a brief internal debate I silently opened it just a crack, affording me a slivered view of the sunlit hallway outside Mrs. Warthog’s lair.

The latter was out of sight, but I could clearly see the person accosting her. He was an older man, slightly stooped and considerably smaller than I was even were he standing straight, with wispy white hair and a round, almost snout-like nose. His clothing was oddly old-fashioned, consisting of a faded gray-on-ivory striped shirt, baggy brown trousers complete with suspenders, and worn leather boots. He was clutching a stack of what looked like sage-green business cards, proffering one of these optimistically to my unseen neighbor.

It occurred to me he hadn’t said anything about money, so whatever he was handing out had to just be advertising come-ons, or coupons, or something like that. Or free samples, maybe—I’d caught a whiff of something herb-like, though maybe that was the Merkersons’ cooking wafting from under the door of the remaining unit on this floor. Anyway it was hard to see how the bucolic aroma fit with the stack of cards the hapless geezer was trying to unload one-by-one at random apartment doors.

As I was gazing at this spectacle in amazement, I noticed there was something in the foreground of my narrowed vista that was almost obstructing my view. An object of some kind was affixed to my own door, just under the peephole. I wanted like heck to know what it was, curiosity being very much my weakness, but that would definitely have to wait for Old Man Demon Peddler here to clear off.

Fortunately it looked like that wouldn’t be long in coming, given who he was dealing with. “How dare you?” my neighbor shrieked.

“But—demon!” the old man urged, pushing the card toward he as if he were disseminating a cure for cancer and the deliverance of America from demented political extremism in one easy-open package.

Mrs. Warthog seemed to spot something written on the card. A hand appeared from her hidden den, snatching the card. There was a gasp and the card was immediately hurled back at the old man with some force, though once released it fluttered to the floor at his feet without touching him. “Get out before I call the cops!” she barked and slammed the door in his face, the old man managing to pull his hand back just in time. He sighed and bent to retrieve the card.

Guessing he was about to turn back toward the stairs, I quickly slid my own door closed and transferred my espionage to the peephole. He walked by a moment later, the fisheye view distorting his balding, liver-spotted pate, and then he was stumping down the stairwell, his steps receding until he was gone.

In a flash I had opened the door, snatched the object taped to it, and closed it again, locking and bolting it for good measure. Leaning against the door, I examined my prize. It was indeed light green and the size and shape of a business card, though it didn’t look or feel like paper exactly; it was more like dried vegetable matter, reasonably smooth and with enough fiber to feel kind of like card stock, but still evocative of leaves and foliage somehow. I lifted it to my nose and took an experimental whiff, nodding as I took in its faintly spicy, herbal scent. I was pretty sure I was detecting thyme, maybe a bit of oregano, along with other notes that were less familiar, if still pleasing.

There was a bit of lettering on it, but not much as advertising flyers went, or even business cards, for that matter. On one side was the word “DEMON” in stark, sans-serif type. Under that, in a spindly sans-serif italic, was the entertainingly cryptic legend “cock into rice.” The other side was totally blank—no website, no 800 number, nothing.

“Cock into rice,” huh? Pfft, no wonder Mrs. Warthog blew a gasket.

I puzzled over the card there for several minutes, determined to make sense of the whole experience. On top of the weirdness of the old man and his inexplicable demon evangelism, the mention of cock had definitely caught my attention. That said… a literal interpretation of the inscription didn’t seem likely. Sticking your dick into a pot of rice didn’t seem to connect to what I’d just seen in the hallway. And if it was hot, freshly cooked rice—well, that sounded painful as fuck. I had a sudden vision of Jason Biggs fucking a bowl of hot rice and smiled. That would just make a mess.

Maybe it was supposed to be coq, as in chicken? Chicken and rice made sense, but this, too, was a bit of a non sequitur.

How did all this relate to demons? The word cockatrice sprang into my head. Was that the connection? They were supposed to be some kind of diabolical creature, I knew, but I couldn’t remember much of anything about them other than the kitchener from Name of the Rose being accused of trying to breed one as part of a perverse ecclesiastical smear campaign. Was the “cock into rice” wording on the card a garbled invitation to get a toad to hatch a rooster’s egg in dung, or whatever the recipe was? Procuring an egg-sitting toad might be a problem, especially on a Sunday. And I was pretty sure Food Parade didn’t sell packs of rooster-laid eggs, fertilized or otherwise.

It had to be a typo. Right? It made no sense otherwise. It was an herbs-and-spices freebie, that was all, being tried out under the product brand name Demon. Someone had been told to write “cook into rice” on the cards, only whoever had done the printing up had keyed in “cock into rice” instead, leading to the risibly perplexing giveaway I had just gained possession of. That must be it.

I snorted, tapping the card on my palm. I had to know I was right… and there was only one way to prove it. I headed into the kitchen.

I was ahead of the game in that I had a rice cooker, mostly because I went through a rice phase a year or two back, the one drawback of which was that successfully cooking regular rice on the stove had been proven to be sadly beyond me. What I didn’t have, my rice phase being decidedly over (I could hardly look at it now), was the actual rice itself. I did have plain couscous, however, which was what I mainly used the rice cooker for these days anyway, doctored up with a dash of dried basil or some lemon and coriander. This flavoring card was right up my alley.

I went to the rice cooker, pulled it forward and lifted the lid, and tossed in a box of unflavored semolina before filling a measuring cup and adding water up to the line on the side of the pot. Giving the contents a quick stir, I added a drop of olive oil, held the card over the pot, wavered, then dropped it in. It sank into the water and seemed already to be starting a slows process of dissolution into its component herbs and what-all, yielding as it did so an earthy, inviting aroma that quickly filled the room. A little giddy at my own recklessness, I replaced the glass lid, pushed down the switch with a reassuringly mechanical clunk, and walked away.

Some time later I was back on the couch with my phone, deep into an episode of Ghost Doctor and only vaguely aware of the faintly intoxicating herbal redolence permeating my cozy little upmarket 1BR, when the sharp thunk of the rice cooker snapped me back into reality and the ill-advised culinary experiment I hadn’t been able to resist conducting.

I crept into the kitchen with some trepidation, second thoughts creeping up my spine and into the back of my head like an invasion of tiny goblins. It smelled good at least, I assured myself, though there were probably all sorts of things in nature that self-advertised as delicious to the hapless bugs or small animals they devoured or destroyed from within. Just look at hemlock: smells like carrots, I’d read somewhere, but that didn’t help Socrates any.

As I approached the cooker I frowned. It was hard to tell through the steam and condensation on the inside of the glass lid, but it looked like most of the couscous was gone, having cooked down somehow into a blurry mass the size of a large cannoli across the diameter of the pot’s interior base. That was… bizarre. And pretty incomprehensible. A few hours boiling on a stove could do that, maybe, but no way a timed cycle in a rice cooker with the prescribed amount of water could cause semolina to reduce like that.

Cautiously I lifted the lid and sucked in a long, ragged breath. Inside the hot cooker was not a mangled mass of durum grain, or anything even approaching it. Instead, there was… a man. A man, stretched out like a sunbather on a Riviera beach, naked and glorious in form and beauty. His skin was a gentle wheat-green—like herb-infused couscous, I thought in stunned amazement. His body was naturally trim and muscled, and his uncut cock was long and thick enough to lay across his shapely, athletic thigh. His face was exceptional—handsome and serene, with a defined, unbearded jawline, full lips the color of raw sirloin, and long lashes resting on cheekbones worthy of gentle caresses. His hands were behind his head, his wavy, shoulder-length black hair falling across his wrists in gentle cascades.

I gaped, unsure whether to be shocked, afraid, or aroused. Certainly my dick perked up and started to chub at the sight of this six-inch-long vision of my very own Mr. Right. If he had been real this guy would have been exactly my type, down to the minimal body hair, the long-limbed proportions, the defined and well-built but not-too-big humpable physique, and the sweet face that was a perfect mix of bishonen and bara. And the big dick, obviously. That went without saying, for me, anyway.

I was just starting to feel a gathering edge of nervy suspicion over just how akin he was to my own internal dream-partner configs when I noticed that this strange figure, this perfect Couscous Man, had snapped his eyes open and was staring at me with a kind of pleased excitement.

I jumped back a step in alarm, dropping the glass lid as I did so, though fortunately it was sturdy enough to only bounce and wobble to stillness on the linoleum tiles by my stocking feet. Heart pounding, I hung fire uncertainly for a long moment, the Couscous Man just out of view over the lip of the pot. What should I do? What was going on? Finally, though, my insatiable curiosity propelled me forward again. I stepped forward and cautiously peered in a second time, feeling lightheaded enough I was not sure I wouldn’t be joining the pan lid on the kitchen floor in a moment.

Couscous Man was still looking up at me with a small smile and burning eyes. He’d brought his arms down so he could prop himself up on his elbows on the (presumably) still-hot pan bottom. “Hi,” he said, his voice small in volume but still a pleasant baritone despite his remarkable stature. I just stared at him, mute with fear and wonder.

“I’m your demon,” he went on, his smile widening to a white-toothed grin. “I’m ready to do evil!”

I remember the moment I came into being. So well! And I remember the first thing I saw: Joe’s face. He was surprised, too. Very surprised. Sometimes I still surprise him!

There isn’t much to remember from before. I existed, I think. Maybe my essence is eternal. I don’t know. But when I came into being in Joe’s rice cooker—so strange calls it that, when he doesn’t ever cook rice in it!—I was new. I was me. I didn’t know his name yet, but I was Joe’s demon.

I was pretty sure Joe didn’t understand demons at first. That worried me. I didn’t understand demons either. And my instincts were telling me it was the human’s job to guide me and protect me, so I started to get really afraid. I tried not to show it, though. He was already upset enough.

“Who—what—” He took a breath. I didn’t mind him standing over me. He was very nice to look at. I didn’t know all the words yet: “dirty blond,” “scruffy,” “cerulean eyes” (I read that one in a porno!). It didn’t matter, really. He made me smile. Maybe it was only because he was my human, but I think it was more than that. Does every demon want—need—to make their human’s eyes roll back in their heads with obscene, unlimited pleasure? Maybe not. I guess that makes me one of the lucky ones.

“Who—” (He’d decided on “who,” which I liked.) “—are you?”

I’d levered myself up on my elbows to get a closer look at him, but now I laid back again, hands behind my head like before, enjoying the sizzling warmth of the metal pot I’d come into the world in. “I’m your demon,” I said again.

He nodded a few times. He still seemed bewildered, so maybe he nodded when he was bewildered. I waited, smiling at him. I noticed his gaze drifting down my body a few times, almost like he couldn’t help it. I liked that a lot. It literally felt good for him to enjoy looking at me. It’s hard to explain, but that clear blue gaze of his raking over me made sensations of pleasure bloom and blossom under my skin. I smiled wider, and my penis started to swell, too. Once he saw that he looked away, and though I didn’t have any experience yet with the mortal world my gut told me exactly why he looked so guilty and so adorably riled by such a basic sign of my pleasure.

“Okay,” he said, nodding again. “And—why?”

It seemed like that why had a lot of “why”s behind it, but I didn’t really understand. I didn’t have any answers, anyway. “Because I am?” I said.

“But,” he persisted, “I mean, why are you here?”

I smiled. “You brought me into being,” I told him.

“I brought you into being,” he repeated. “From the couscous?”

“Cous… cous…” I parroted uncertainly.

“And the green card,” he added quickly. “You were in the card, right?”

I shrugged. This seemed to distract him, and his eyes landed on my shoulders, watching them and admiring them. My heart swelled. I knew it was important for my human to like me, and he very clearly liked me.

Maybe only from the outside, though, I thought, and my warm satisfaction faded a bit. But I was sure I could make him like me inside, too. Maybe serving my purpose would help. “What evils do you want me to do?” I said, my eagerness to please creeping into my voice.

“Wait. So you don’t have a name? Or a reason to be here?”

“I am your demon,” I said simply. “I’m here to do—”

“You said that. But you don’t have a name?”

He was very troubled by this. I tried to help. “You could give me one, if you want?” I suggested.

He blinked at me, and I stared contentedly into those eyes. My penis—Joe calls it a “cock”—was fully hard now. He glanced down again, and a little pink spot appeared on his cheeks. That made my arousal just a bit more intense—I was already becoming familiar with the way him looking at me did that to me.

He smiled crookedly. “You’re really, um, turned on,” he said. “Maybe I should call you ‘Randy’.”

I grinned, pleased with the joke. Maybe he would tell me more jokes during out time together. “I like that,” I said.

“I’m Joe,” he said quickly, like he’d just realized he’d forgotten to tell me that.

Knowing his name unlocked something in my heart. I sat up, my hands on the metal surface behind me, my big “cock” pointing straight up toward my heart like it was guiding Joe toward where it lay. “I like that name, too, Joe,” I said, savoring the way it felt on my lips and tongue.

His eyes went abruptly to my hands. “The heat doesn’t bother you?” he asked, concerned.

I shook my head, enjoying the novel sensation of my hair brushing over my shoulders as my head moved back and forth. “I’m okay being hot.”

“I’ll bet,” Joe said—to himself, I think. Who would he be betting with, I wondered. “And you really don’t know how you got here?”

I shook my head again, happy to have a chance to enjoy the feeling a second time.

“And… you’re here to do… evil?”

I nodded. This felt good in a different way, drawing my loose hair across the back of my neck and that spot in-between my shoulders—the one I later discovered to be very sensitive to oral stimulation.

“So… what kinds of evil things are you here to do, Randy?” Joe asked. He sounded a little nervous this time, so I was eager to not make him worry.

“I don’t know,” I said happily.

I thought the blank slate would please him, but if anything he seemed more concerned and perplexed. “You don’t know?” he repeated.

I shrugged. “I don’t know what’s evil,” I said. “I was just brought into being. I think how it works is, you tell me what’s evil, and I do that!”

He blinked a couple times, then burst out with a laugh. “The devil is what men do, huh?” he said. I grinned and did not answer, not sure why he was surprised by this.

Joe’s expression then became kind of crafty, though I almost missed it because he caressed me with his eyes again just then, and my arousal spiked a bit more. “What if I were to say,” he drawled, “that it’s very evil for rice pot demons to… jerk themselves off. While I watch.”

He was staring at me hungrily now. I knew what this was about. I might have just been born and only come face to face with my human mere moments before, but even so I knew, at some fundamental, intrinsic level, about the ins and outs of human pleasure. Maybe that’s in the nature of a demon. It’s what we do, after all, give humans pleasure. My instincts told me that what we do especially is give humans erotic pleasure. I said seriously, “Then it would be very important to me to do that. For you.”

He bit his lip, eyes glinting. I took that to mean “go ahead.” I was so inflamed with rippling, blood-rushing pleasure in every fiber of my demon body that I was actually glad to have the change to cum in front of him. I needed it. Joe had made me need it. I sat fully upright, back straight and legs a little spread, gazing up at him with something like veneration. It came to me then that I might have powers over things in the world, powers latent in me I barely knew existed—but Joe had power over me. Just looking at me for a few moments had made me desperate to orgasm, and to do it in front of him, for him. Him watching me cum would be as euphoric as the release itself! I almost came just knowing that.

I reached for my cock, eager to feel it filling my palm. But before I could take it in hand Joe said, “Wait!”

I stilled and looked up at him, worried. “Is anything wrong, Joe?”

He shook his head. In a little corner of my brain I felt bad—his hair was buzzed very short, nothing like mine. Maybe he’d never known that feeling of hair brushing over your shoulders. I could fix that for him, I realized.

I was thinking about how to do that when he finally spoke again. “Randy,” he said, “can I—can I touch you?”

I grinned. “Of course!” I had to force down my orgasm once more. Joe was going to touch me!

“I mean,” he amended, “are you hot? Like, temperature hot. Because obviously you’re—” He tried again. “Will it burn me if I touched you? Are you, like, infernally hot?”

“Oh!” I said. “Of course, you can touch me,” I said again. “I won’t harm you. I can’t harm you,” I added truthfully.

Hesitantly, he reached into the pot. It had cooled some, but I silently dissipated the rest of the heat lingering in the metal so he wouldn’t hurt himself if he touched it. Moving carefully, he curled his hand slowly around me, and I raised my arms so that his fingers could go right around my torso. His hand closed and, by the Fires of Eternity, I swear had only imagined I’d known what pleasure was before that moment. I closed my eyes and fought down a cry of elation as he gripped me in his fist and lifted me bodily out of the pot. “You are hot,” he said, his voice filling me as he drew me closer, and I opened my eyes to smile at him. Rubbing his thumb across my chest he added, “In all the good ways.”

Once we were clear of the pot he turned his hand so that his palm formed a kind of platform. I knew what he wanted and scrambled back to a seated position, legs dangling off the side of his hand, my big, “randy” cock incredibly hard and quivering with anticipation. I knew from peripheral vision that his other hand was busy below, most likely freeing his own cock from the casual pants he was wearing, but I kept my eyes on his face where they belonged. His eyes were full of me, too. “I won’t last long,” I warned him.

“Me neither,” he admitted. He was already working his cock with long slow strokes to prime himself for the big event that would be on us very quickly.

I gripped my erection, hard, and felt a shiver foreboding—the first tremor of release, coming with the first touch. Joe sped his strokes up a little, and I started drawing my fist up and down my wide, rigid prick. Our eyes were on each other—mine on his sweet, fuzzy-jawed face and those brilliant eyes, him on my body and my cock. Mostly. Every few seconds those sexy eyes flicked up to my face as we started jerking together in earnest, like he was taking in what he liked about me all over again.

Our strokes synchronized. I was pounding my cock, now, and he was doing the same. My hot release was on me, becoming more and more exquisitely irresistible with every second. “I’m going to cum,” I said, because I knew, somehow, it was important to say so.

“Do it,” he commanded, or maybe begged. It didn’t matter. Immediately I was erupting with cum, and he was, too, only before I could truly experience this first time cumming from my own hand it suddenly changed—Joe impulsively brought his face down and engulfed my crotch with his mouth. His massive tongue slid desperately around my hand and cock, and then I was really cumming, exploding into a mouth 12 times the size of my own. He was making little sounds as he lathed my cock and balls with his tongue—he was cumming too, I could almost feel his orgasm through my own—and I was erupting with so much cum I thought I might be draining all the cum supply of all the men on earth, demons and humans alike.

We slowed, our orgasms tailing off, though he kept his hand on his cock and his mouth on mine. He let his tongue drift up a little, the tip exploring the hard ridges of my abs and the pecs rising above them, while I fought to catch my breath. Finally he kissed my chest with his big lips and pulled back. “You taste like thyme and oregano,” he said. “And spunk. Lots of delicious spunk.”

I grinned at him. His cheeks were definitely red now and his mouth was a little messy-looking, giving him an alluringly debauched appearance. His hair was a bit mussed, too. It looked good long.

“Did you like that?” he said, and I could tell he was ready to promise not to do it again if I said no. I just nodded and kept grinning at him.

He eyed me speculatively. “You’re still hard,” he observed.

I shrugged. I wasn’t sure how to say all the things I was feeling in that moment, or that I knew now to be true. “I’m your demon,” I said finally. That seemed to cover it.

Joe nodded, but he didn’t seem perplexed this time. That twinkle was back in his beautiful blue eyes. “In that case,” he said, “let’s go find out what further mischief we can get up to.”

I sat in his hand and nodded contentedly, my stiff cock tapping against my belly. I didn’t know much about being a demon yet, but I already knew it was a very, very good thing.


Share your fantasy at submit.metabods.com  (Credit: Artofphoto)


Share your upgraded-guy story at submit.metabods.com

More Like This