Diavolo's Sacrificial Lamb

And as Lucifer says, 'create your own heritage.'

Elevator hums and music plays softly through the speakers as the ascension begins. Five seconds, and when he steps out his associates and colleague greet him. Luxury watches and rings; gold-nibbed fountain pens and statistics. Our stocks have increased since the last quarter, someone says, and the name of Mr. Iyer comes to mind. Global director for the South Asian region. Some more familiar faces bob by, and Diavolo hides the crease of his brows and tames it when he hears a lie. Smiles with all teeth and gently retraces the route to his office, a gold plaque and cursive with his name, awarded with title of CEO.

As soon as he settles in, Barbatos will reward him with more documents. Piles and piles, some pulled up on a Macbook. "For review," he says, hands him a cup of tea and leaves. He knows his Lord cannot venture much and desert his work in such a state. The air conditioner comes to life, and the demon sighs as he opens up a document.  

His room is soundproof, away from the chatter and murmurs of others. No one can see nor get in without his permission. Not like they could, since the events for today have already been planned in advance. And in between pie charts and quarterly reports, his hands keep itching to open the tablet. 

Spy the pretty little thing he has set his eyes on. She would be arriving soon, doe-eyed and with the signature scent of vanilla and cloves with her. He unlocks the device, tapping the familiar app to catch a peek. Stepping out of the taxi now, he observes, stockings and skirts. All despite his insistence for a private vehicle. Stubborn girl.

The clock reminds him of his duties though, and he diligently finishes reviewing the documents even as his cock hardens in his pants at the thought of defilement. Enjoyment. Right now, you will be making your way to the reception. Then to your supervisor's floor to report.

He should change that, he decides, and looks over the acquisition of land near the coast in some corner of Greece. Signs digitally, spins the Montblanc after as he waits. The tea is still hot, still perfect as he takes a sip. One day in this realm for appearances. And indulgence too. He is demon after all, is he not?

Though that enjoyment is something even man falls prey too. Diavolo is merely following his nature.

The door swings open, Barbatos brings a tray of macarons. The kitchen on this floor has been designed only for him. Poisoning concerns, the staff had been told, and no one had batted an eye. A new document is opened, the door opens again.

"Good morning, sir." Hesitancy. You hold your laptop to your chest, clothes as immaculate as ever. The smell of vanilla and cloves hits him harder, a conditioned stimulus which sets his nerves alight. He nods his head, pushes down the urge as he gestures you to sit. 

The plush chair swings as you sit, skirt riding up an inch before you shove it down with your fingers. He does not look. Pretends not to see as he opens up another document. All proposals and signatures, these days. Pointless meetings which drone on and on with coffee and tea and yawns. You open your laptop too, nails typing the passcode. 

He might as well tell you not to have one, given he can access your device. Every download, every web search. Thoughts laid bare. "Update on the reports?"

You nod earnestly. "Yes! Sir—I had sent those on your mail earlier since you weren't in office. Mr. Barbatos said that you would be present today. Been waiting since....then." Pursuing your lips, you wait for his response.

He wants to laugh. "Very well, I'll look them over."

His hand moves, index finger clicking the mouse as he scrolls down.  Nine out of twenty-five done. A meeting at twelve, one hour and fourteen minutes from now on. The silence is deafening. Nothing but the whir of the air conditioner and the sound of your breathing. "By the way," he says, not looking up from the reports. "Try some macarons. They're good."

You outstretch a hand, hesitant, taking one. There's a meek thank you under your breath as you bring it to your mouth and take a bite. Diavolo swallows when you moan at the taste, finger clicking the mouse simultaneously. "This is—so good!" You say in between bites. 

He chuckles, then. Finally looks up from the screen and pushes the ceramic plate towards you gently. "You can take more." He smiles, and doesn't look up again just to hear you. Gives him enough time to complete three more reports and take a break. Twenty more minutes then you will have his undivided attention. 

Twenty minutes of you feasting on Barbatos's cooking as he works. 

Then, when a glance at his Cartier confirms it, Diavolo finally breathes again. 

"Since your internship is halfway done, mind if we look over some company brochures together? Will help you get a better understanding." 

You nod eagerly, dabbing your mouth and chin with a handkerchief, just in case. A lotus embroidered on a corner, folded back into your pocket. You pull up a chair and sit besides him when he asks, but just enough to maintain appearances. "The projector's not functioning," he says, pulling up the mentioned information on the Mac. "We'll have to make do with this." He sighs in perfunctory annoyance. 

"That's alright!" You chirp. "I don't mind."

Ten minutes in of looking at the information and his blood threatens to boil over. Vanilla seems to infiltrate his senses. He watches the careful concentration on your face as you look over each word, throat bobbing when you take a sip of water from your bottle. Something carnivorous in him awakens. 

"Mind coming a bit closer? I can see you squinting at the text."

"Ah, yes please!" You're bashful as the wheels glide on the floor, closer to his own chair. "The text is always so small in these presentations." You both resume, with occasional insights and comments from you that he stores away for later. Your hand is next to his own, and so small compared to his. 

Behave. He admonishes himself, pulling his tie tighter, a collar meant to keep him in check. He's been at expert at this for eons. Do as an ideal ruler would do. Do as you are expected to. But you must be temptation sent to test his resolve, because he is faltering, inhumane instincts begging him to snap his neck towards you and sink his teeth into the flesh, literal and figurative. He lowers the temperature of the air conditioner, inhales and leans back in his chair as your gaze is still occupied by the screen.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale—

A stuttering exhale.

His eyes tear open, black pupils almost narrowed into slits. Golden swallows the rest.

The scent hits him like a train. Heavy and thick, seeping into his bones and demanding that he undo the leash of restraint. Fucking hell, you're so wet. And that too while sitting next to him. Looking so focused and diligent, while your thighs are undoubtedly pressed together, pussy all wet and clenching around nothing too.

Poor thing.

The clock still ticks, air con still hums and the office is soundproof. 

And Diavolo is but a fiend.

"The government has put a ban on importing goods from this country," he points out, readjusting his foot on the floor. Leather shines. You pause. "They're the only providers we have for our electronics. Got any alternatives in mind?"

He leans back, observes you stutter. 

Grins, all teeth and tongue. 

"Or were you too busy thinking about......this?" Voice low, murmured between his lips as the diamond-studded finger taps at your clothed cunt. You recoil at the touch, watch the black fingernail as it recedes. He looks at you then, watches the fear on your face manifest as you realise that you have been caught.

"What—what are you doing—sir this is harrassement—" You protest, mouth opened in surprise as you close your legs, turning towards him. He looks at you, then checks the time. Ignores the way your mouth gapes at him in shock, form freezing as he adjusts his bearings.

"Ten minutes till the directors arrive." He clicks his tongue, runs two fingers along your thigh until they delve underneath your skirt, knuckles tenting the fabric in its filthy, filthy way. You hold your breath, back ramrod in your chair as you freeze. "You should be formulating reports, and oh, the fabric is already so wet." Diavolo's voice is a mockery, and before you can think of a suitable response he pinches your clit through the fabric. You jolt, and he laughs.

Your hands dart out, but they don't grab his wrists. Instead, settling for grabbing the edges of the desk. 

"Mind telling me who you're thinkin' of?" He murmurs in your ear, bending down a bit as he grabs your chin to focus your gaze on the laptop screen, numbers and histograms now useless. "Dirty girl." He croons, and his cologne invades your senses. Your brain stutters to a halt at the proximity. You realise this internship had more purposes than experience.

At your silence, he refocuses.

"We can go back to how things were before," he whispers, hand on top of yours as he makes your index finger click the mouse. His rings are cold. "Or you can leave. I won't stop you. You'll get the certificate and the recommendation letter in your mail." You can feel your heart thudding in your chest, the hum of the aircon and the city alive beneath. There are people on this floor. People who think the intern's getting real work done, who's worked so hard to gain experience in M&A. 

You can't trust the man. Can't trust the person whose so brazenly groping you. Can't trust anyone in this damned company, really—

The intern, who decides to lean back and focus on rutting her hips against his touch, fingers grazing her clit.

His laugh is rich. "Oh? Already chosen your third option?" He swipes a finger. "Smart girl."

Girl, not woman, even though you're an adult. Girl, in that sweet condescending tone of his.

You have to bite your lip to prevent the sounds from your throat. Diavolo takes it as invitation to grab you as if you possess no real weight and deposit you on his lap. Straight on the thighs, starchy material rough against the skin of your thighs. Stockings torn halfway from his nails. Legs spread wide over his, forced to accommodate the width of the man. The stretch burns in a good way. His perfume hits harder now that you're in his lap, back to chest. Every inhale he takes feels rotten, and yet you are still so fucking wet.

No one can see what's happening underneath the table. No one can see the way his fingers paw at your cunt, separating the labia majora from the minora just to coo at your bashfulness. Tap at your clit too, and watch you jolt.

"Guess you wanted the benefits along with the certificate." He laughs then, a throaty chuckle that shakes his shoulders. You want to laugh too, but at your own reaction. "I'll ensure to give you the relevant experience," he promises, leaning forward, forcing you to bend a bit too, as his nose finds your cheek, stubble pricking the skin there. 

He's a fiend, that's what he is.

The door opens then, a tall dark-haired man with eyes as red as blood walks in the room. Your feet attempt to get up and return, but Diavolo only grabs your waist and hauls you up further on his lap. 

There's a hardness in between your thighs now, and the visitor is staring more at Diavolo than you.

"Right now, here, of all places? Really?" He drawls in disbelief, folder with the logo of the three-legged crow in hand. You remain frozen as you shrink into Diavolo, hands fixed on grabbing the desk. You realise you might as well be invisible in this room. "We've got deals to be finalised."

"Oh, trust me Lucifer, I can work just fine!" He's too cheerful, grates your ears. You force yourself to remember who this intimidating man is. One of the persons on the board of Directors, ah, Lucifer Morningstar! "Besides, our intern wanted to gain more experience." Pets your hair then, doesn't make a move to speak more as he takes the remote of the projector. 

You want to remind him that the projector does not work, that to please leave, for Lucifer Morningstar to do something and—

The director sits down on a swivel chair across. Mutters something underneath his breath that is lost due to the blood rushing past your ears. Drums his fingers on the desk. "Nevermind. Get started then."

A click, the projector comes to life.

The realization isn't lost on you.

The shame isn't yours for you to bear alone. He wanted this. He had orchestrated this. He's equal parts a sinner in this twisted turn of events. And worse, your epiphany is ignored by him. He adjusts you further on his lap, your fingers automatically grabbing the fabric, crumpling it in an effort to steady yourself. Diavolo hums, watches as the screen changes to a powerpoint presentation about the latest acquisition of another minor hotel chain in the west. Figures and pie charts follow the scene, analysis of the security providers and facility management companies. Blue and white, calibri sized large because Lucifer is nearsighted. Your benefactor shakes his leg; rocks you along as Morningstar pulls out the pair of black spectacles. Your panties are soaked, fabric catching on the rough material of his trousers as he gropes your chest through your buttoned top. The Cartier says one twenty, and you bite your lip as he flicks a nipple. 

"Mephistopheles had mentioned about Phalango being the top catering and facility management company in that region. A good chunk of the market share too. Advised us to choose that for the latest acquisition." Lucifer informs, posture pridefully straight as he does not even spare you a glance. Your little whimpers might be lost on him too. 

Spare you the attention, but not the humiliation. "Tourism season is at its peak in April to August. We would have to keep the management overstaffed, anticipating an increase in the demand." Diavolo says behind you, nudges the Corvo-carved pen into your hand as he brings the notepad in front of you. The message is clear, and so you shakily write whenever Lucifer comments, words wobbly and ink nearly bleeding into the starchy paper when Diavolo makes you rut a bit harder on him. 

The announcement's not made public yet, you write, simultaneously biting your lip when your clit throbs. It's so hard to focus, harder more when they treat it as something ordinary. It's not, and the absurdity of it all might make you laugh. You must be being too loud then, because then he moves.

"And yes," he purrs in your ear. Meant to ground. "We can make an announcement about our purchase of the three hotel chains soon." Lips besides your ear, grazing the shell of it. He spreads his legs wider; you are forced to accommodate. The fabric on his trouser catches you clit, soaked and transparent through your panties. 

You gasp. He hums, diamond on his finger catching the light and so cold when it presses against your neck, right over the thundering pulse. Keeps you quiet, keeps you compliant as he finalises business deals. The three-legged crow group's emblem on the wall stands out, majority stakeholder being the man whose making big decisions that would cost companies fortunes while you hump his leg.

"Please." You whisper under your breath, and he ignores it. The pleading is futile on him. The rings are cold against the heat of his fingers as he shoves them in your mouth. Keep quiet, the message is clear. Your tongue swirls around the digits as he makes you hump him, cock hard in his pants. Cotton fills in your ears, everything incomprehensible except the fingers in your mouth and the burning in your core. He pulls them out with a pop, string of saliva which connects both before breaking. Diamond wet with your spit.

Though the attempt at being quiet is futile given the audience is right here. You turn your head to look; meeting Lucifer's intense gaze. 

Diavolo's hand rests on your ass as he speaks again. 

"What do you say, Lucifer?"

The man mentioned raises an eyebrow, perfect in the gesture as he leans back in the leather chair. Really looks at you then, smiles in the way a carnivorous animal would. His eyes are too intense. You want to look away.

"We will proceed then." Declares with the tone blunt, gets up to move. The shoes click against the polished floors as he bends a bit to look at you up close. Diavolo holds your chin with his index finger and thumb in anticipation, smiles in your hair when Lucifer croons. "Pretty little thing thinks so too, right? Or are you too dumb?"

The words hit you like whiplash, and behind you a hand pets your hair. "Oh, don't be mean, Lucifer! She's doing wonderful so far." Lucifer, Lucifer, the name which sounds like honey when he speaks, a fondness to it you can't quite gauge the depth of. The devil in question has his face imperceptible as he leans even closer. You can hear the inhales of his chest and feel the air hit your face. The back of your head hits Diavolo's chest and you realise you were moving backwards.

A heavy hand slaps your pussy then, and you jolt.

Enough for your mouth to graze against Lucifer's, who laughs in amusement before he traps your lips with his, licks your closed mouth and has his palms face down on your thighs. The nails dig into your skin. The pressure increases as he moves harder, faster, when you open your mouth and relent being so fussy. Good girl, the fiend coos as your breath is swallowed by the man in front of you.

It's certainly not a kiss.

More of a devouring, uncaring, as his tongue mingles with your own. Saliva smears your chin and lips, and Bergamot and sandalwood fills your lungs. Black-tipped nails massage your jaw, coaxing them to stay open. You claw your nails over his forearms when breathing becomes something scarce, muffled whines swallowed by his greedy maw as he licks over your teeth. Diavolo coos behind you, mutters something about being so feisty as he takes your hands in his own, restraining their movement. You are being devoured, you think, in this office, as something massages the hinges of your jaw and his cock which rubs against your core. As Lucifer explores the cavern of your mouth with his tongue, uncaring of your comfort.

He pulls back just in time, a string of saliva connecting you both before it breaks in the afternoon sun. The blinds are not closed. There are buildings all around. 

The man pats your cheek, takes in your flustered appearance and nods his head.

He looks at Diavolo then, and you can't bring it in you to look upwards. The hand cradles your jaw still, and then he tells him something in a language you can't decipher. They're not from this country, clearly, yet it's something they don't want you to hear.

The words are grating to hear, and you want to flinch at the unpleasantness of it. But you don't dare to show it.

Lucifer doesn't spare you a glance when he leaves, shutting the door behind him. You sag against Diavolo's chest, and he moves his hand to make it so that you're looking up at him. His golden eyes outshine everything else. He swipes a thumb across your spit-shined lips, brings it to his mouth next. "Good girl." He mumbles, but doesn't let you bask in the praise. 

You're picked up and put on the table before you can blink, the cool surface of the furniture a shock for your hot skin. Your hands clutch at anything, and you find the paperweight of a snake. Cool to the touch. You wonder if you can smash it on his head and leave, but the idea is forgotten when he scoots his chair closer and parts your thighs. His hands are even hotter than yours, and his fingers pull at your panties, pushing them down until they come off. 

The white material looks like a mockery; gusset wet in his hands. 

Diavolo looks at it then, but bends a bit just to press a kiss to your inner thigh. You whimper at the sensation, and his fingers fumble a bit before the white material is shoved into the back pocket of his trousers. 

You can see the contours of his back through his white shirt, the way the sinews of his muscles stretch and contract as he moves up higher. Teeth graze the skin, dangerously close to your core, and your hands reach out without thinking to grab at his hair. You'd normally guffaw at the action, but all decorum and professionality was shed the moment he made you mount his lap. He nips there, sucks the skin hard enough for the capillaries beneath to break. Bites your flesh between his canines and lets go with a pop.

"You're still so wet," he observes, tapping a finger on the hood of your clit. You clench around nothing. 

"Such a pretty pussy too." He says into your inner thigh, and the sound seems to resonate. Blows air on your cunt too, delights in your squirming. 

"S-Stop teasing!"

"Yeah? Straight to the point?" His tone is amused. All you can see is the outline of his head underneath your skirt, now crumpled. Maybe he would have liked your honesty, because then something hot and wet licks up from your fluttering hole to your clit.

You whine at the sensation, and Diavolo does it again and again and again. His nose rubs at your clit, and he encourages you to place your feet on his back for leverage, because then his mouth is on your cunt again, sucking there, without any restraint. Stubble rubs against sensitive folds. You jolt, fingers gripping handfuls of his hair as a garbled whimper escapes your throat. You feel as if you'll be eaten alive. Fear commands your body still when his incisors graze your clit. You jerk forward when he flattens his tongue; smoothening over your cunt and then you feel him inserting a finger.

Fuck.

You're whimpering now, thighs burning with the effort of keeping them open. When Diavolo adds another finger your thighs clamp around his head. He only laughs at your reaction, curls his fingers deeper as your wetness dirties his fingers and drips down on the table. "Guess the papers are unusable now." He jokes, before his lips wrap around your clit and suck, fingers scissoring you open at the same time. Your lips part in a shaky moan, and his free hand coaxes one of your legs to relax just so that he can grab your thighs and pull your body towards his face even closer. 

It continues like that. Because that is Diavolo. He gives and gives, because that is what is expected of him. 

He feels your fingers clutch at his hair when he traces his name on your pussy. The sounds he's pulling from you and this pretty pussy are downright sinful. When he sucks on your clit again, curls his fingers and doesn't stop, that's when your thighs clamp again around his head. 

You cum with a strangled cry, and Diavolo wishes he could have witnessed the look on your face and burned it into his memory. He'll make you recreate it later, he thinks.

When the throbbing between your legs has finally subsided to a bearable ache, does he come up from underneath your skirt. Fingers come free with a lewd squelch that makes your cheeks feel warm. The sight steals the breath from your lungs. Because the hair on his head is a mess, lower half of his face still glistening with your arousal. You want to look away, but then he parts your lips with the same two fingers in your cunt moments before, the digits now heavy on your tongue as he encourages you to suck on them. Lets the taste sit heavy on his tongue until it diminishes into nothing, knowing his fingers will reek of you until he washes it off. 

You do, tongue swirling around the tip as you taste yourself. Diavolo only hums. "Now, how shall you entertain me next?"

Retrieving his fingers, he puts them in his own mouth as he leans back on his chair. Looks at the woman in front of him disheveled: upturned skirt and pupils blown wide. The slick between your legs that is now starting to cool and dry. You notice his chest is heaving a bit too, and then when given a taste of sin, who would resist? Who could resist? 

Instinct drives your next actions, and your knees fall on the floor with a thud. The pain is ignored. Golden eyes are trained on you, expecting, as he parts open his legs, outline of the bulge clearly visible. You pop open the zipper without looking at him, pull his cock from his boxers with a grip bordering on impatience. Saliva pools heavy in your mouth seeing it; wet patch already darkening the indigo blue of the underwear. You rub a thumb along the head and he hisses, you grasp the base and meet trimmed hair.

When you finally look up at him, it is to take the tip of him in your mouth and suck softly.

Arousal pools heavy in his core as he looks down at you, runs a hand along the hair that is already half a mess. You look fucked out already, he laughs, and he hasn't even fucked you yet. He places a heavy hand around yours, gestures the exact pressure he wants. Groans softly when you get it right. "Good girl," he croons, observes the way your pupils widen a bit at the praise. "So good f'me—shit—so good for Daddy." He places the hand on your head next to anchor, Cartier cool against your temple as he guides your movements. Presses down gently so that you take him further into your mouth, until he feels you gag around him. 

Repeats the movement, fingers pressing down when teeth graze his length. "Swirl your tongue." He says gruffly, throws his head back in the chair and sighs when you do exactly as you're told. The afternoon sun warms his skin, but it is too bright. A remote kept on the table is pressed, Diavolo having to lean forward to fetch it, resulting in you gagging around him once again as you're forced to take him a bit deeper. "Sorry," he says in a mawkish way. The blinds draw shut, the lights come on. 

Your neck and chest is wet with drool, he notes, white fabric turning translucent. He opens his thighs, pops his cock free from your mouth and guides you towards his balls. Your nose rubs against the length as you do so, gently licking and sucking at each of the testicles after. When he's satisfied, he pulls you upwards by a gentle tug of your hair that stings slightly. Don't even need to think as his hands wrap underneath your arms to tug you up; nestle you on his lap and have the chair creak, feel the dampness of your cunt against his length; spit-soaked.

And oh, such a needy girl, he chuckles, watches your hips grind against his own. Poor pussy's fluttering around nothing. Shouldn't I give her my cock?

"Didn't know you were so bold. Where's that shy girl now?" Licks the shell of your ear as he holds your hips, presses down just to have you squirm. "Being so good." When you glide across his length, he counts. One, two, three, four and five—

The tip of him pops past your lips and your breath catches in your throat. Agonising stillness, the hum of the aircon and laboured breathing the only anchor as you're slowly filled up more deeper than you've ever reached with your fingers or toys. Diavolo's hissing now, a low moan escaping when he finally hilts to the base and revels in the heat that surrounds him. His underwear is wet, combined fluids sticking to the skin. Barbatos will give him extra paperwork as penance later, but the prince will take your slick-soaked cotton for himself. No one else.

Only him, he thinks, when he slowly thrusts upwards. The chair creaks, you're nearly thrown off balance. He surveys you with clamouring intensity, watches the way your breath hitches when he stays there and grinds; your eyes fluttering closed as your fingers rest on his torso; muscle beneath the layer of chub he's gathered. "Feels good?" 

You nod fervently, thighs stretched wide around his frame. It burns, and your legs will protest later. But you still move your hips, raising them just to sit back down on his cock with a lewd schlick.

With both feet planted on the ground, soles on polished floor, Diavolo leans back.

And thrusts.

Again and again.

Sets the pace to a rhythm that he knows will make your breath stutter in your throat, render you a blubbering mess. That's how he likes you, after all. Wide-eyed and full of his cock. The chair creaks in perverse pageantry, your moans harmonising with his grunts as your teeth come to sink into his neck, tasting the salt and the cologne. Such a fussy puppy. Skin slaps on skin, sweat beading at the back of his neck. "Like being full of me?"

"Mhm, please...."

He grins into your hair. "Please what?" Thrusts a bit meaner, rests a hand on your shoulder to anchor. The chair is wet too, staining the leather. It'll reek of you both. He wants that.

Desperation brews in your core. "Your cock, please—harder—"

He leans back, cool leather a welcome reprieve for his overheated skin. You follow along, and with a lazy hand he unbuttons your top and bra, reveals perked nipples along the swell of your chest. He watches them bounce in time with his thrusts, chokes a bit when you clamp around him harder. Instinct drives him; he leans forward and rolls one in his mouth, nibbles on it just to hear you yelp. His laugh resonates in your chest. His stubble prickles the soft skin there, hot breath fanning over your tits.

And oh, look at the time.

He pulls you to his chest in a firm motion, hand cradling your skull as he hides your face in the crook of his neck. The pulse pounds beneath his skin. Your skirt has ridden up to expose the swell of your ass; Diavolo can't help but smack it. You jolt, stiffening, and clench around him. "People are coming."

At that, you try to move. Free yourself from his grip and cock but he doesn't let you. "Shh, I won't let them see you. Just take my cock like a good girl." He thrusts upwards just to adjust. "Unless," his voice is high-pitched, sing-song, "you want them to see you, oh, did you just clench around me again? Such a slut."

The words make you wetter than they should. He's being mean, mean, mean.

The door knocks; both of you freeze. 

Despite the warning, Diavolo's affirmation sends adrenaline straight to your heart. You attempt to scramble, but he reels you in by shoving two fingers in your mouth, hand heavy at the back of your head. The visitor's greeting has died in their throat halfway though, you can only feel the eyes heavy on your body. And what a sight you must make. 

"I, uh, should I arrive later, my Lord?"

Recognition makes your heart stutter. Mephistopheles, the CCO who had helped you gather your documents when you had dripped on the polished floors the earlier week. He'd hemmed and hawed, but handed your documents after picking them up on the floor. Made of money too, given the watches and the suits. Reeked of wealth. And the same man whose watching you bounce on Diavolo's cock.

You don't even get to question the use of that title because Diavolo only shoves his fingers further, makes you gag as he slowly thrusts again. "Not at all! Come, sit." The invitation should have you reeking in mortification. Yet, you only move your hips along with his. "Pretty little thing I've got on my lap, excuse her. What's the update?"

Diavolo watches Mephistopheles stumble and falter in his tracks before he composes himself with a shaky breath. The demon looks at you, and a low growl threatens to escape his chest when he observes his pupils dilate. Mine, mine, mine. A chair is pulled, Mephistopheles sits across him, tries to ignore the pretty little thing in his Lord's lap and fails. "The Council demands a revocation of the bill passed. The House reasoned that it would significantly impact the revenue for the coming century."

Words turns to mush in your brain as Diavolo keeps thrusting. Your tongue swivels around his fingers. wetness now evident in the sound as you rut your hips. You suppose his words would have made Diavolo angry, because when he thrusts again, it's harder than ever. You cry out around his digits, he soothes you with a hand running through your hair.

Mephistopheles politely clears his throat; Diavolo apologizes.

"My apologies. Tell the Council they can fuck off. The bill will be passed no matter what." At his own brashness, the prince is rendered surprised. He corrects himself. "Placate them the best you can. The rest I shall handle."

Before Mephisto can leave, Diavolo beckons him closer. "Come on, don't be so shy now. Want a taste of the pretty thing I've got on my lap?" Diavolo turns your head without asking, lets the man see your wrecked state. So throughly fucked out too, and still rutting her hips weakly. He can see the swell of your breasts. And there are only demons in this room, presented with temptation that can only bring downfall to the mortal.

When Mephistopheles moves again, it is to cup your face in his hands. Brush the tears and coo, mock you even as his hand moves towards your neglected clit.