Time Out

Time Out

Dante slumped to the ground, exhausted. That damn Nightmare had almost had him this time; fortunately though, it had seemed that Dante's time had not yet come. He brushed a strand of bloody, messy hair away from his eyes and inhaled deeply, only to wrinkle his nose and cough out the vile scent as soon as his brain registered the information coming from his nose. Looking around himself cautiously, he made sure the noise hadn't alerted any monster to his presence, then he did a quick damage check on himself. He was covered with the slimy remains of the Nightmare's body - was it blood? flesh? mucous? something far more disgusting? - his sword hand and arm felt a bit stiff and his skin would probably be an abstract painting of painful shades of black, purple and dark blue in a matter of hours, but aside from that, the real wounds were about nonexistent.

Leaning his back to the living, pulsating pulp that was the walls, floor and ceiling of this place, Dante let his hands fall into his lap and hissed as his fingers brushed lightly against the crotch of his red pants, teasing his concealed erection. Smiling wickedly, he ran a finger along the length, sending a jolt of pleasure to his brain. He grinned wider and, after making sure once more that no monster was on to him, he leaned further back against the wall, placed Sparda within reach - just in case some big ugly had the very bad idea of walking in on him - undid the buckle of his pants' belt and unzipped his fly, stroking himself through the thick fabric of his pants as he did so.

Finally he pushed his pants and briefs down with one hand as he wrapped the leather-clad fingers of his other hand around his already pulsating erection, allowing himself to voice a low growl. It was completely beyond his will; somehow, in his half-demon mind, the heat of battle was inseparably linked to the heat of lust. Each and every battle that had got adrenaline rushing through his veins and demon energy coursing in his nerves, driving him into a blood-thirsty frenzy that had saved his skin many times, had invariably left him with a raging hard-on. Usually, he would manage to forget it and move on to the next battle as his body would cease to beg for attention; however, right now that was out of the question. As a matter if fact, since he had set foot in Hell every fight had been one where he had more or less feared for his life, and he had not stopped using his demon powers. Dante knew the next fight would have him either pass out from lack of blood to his brain or cream his pants in the heat of battle, and neither options seemed very appealing to him. Besides, he thought as he increased the rhythm of his strokes, he could use a little relaxation.

Dante's breath grew shallower with every passing second, but he tried to keep as quiet as possible. One cry a wee bit too loud and he could tip off the swarm of monsters still lurking betweens these flesh walls about his whereabouts. For more safety he placed the corner of his overcoat's collar in his mouth and bit down hard on it as he pumped his dick harder, ever so close to the peak of climax, savoring the feeling of his leather glove made slick by the whatever smeared over it against his skin. And suddenly he was there, Hell, the thick, damp, burning hot air, the fetid stench, the blood-thirsty beasts, his own exhaustion, all blended together and disappeared from his mind for a second as he shut his eyes tight, a cross between a growl and a hiss dying on his lips, his devilishly cold semen splashing on his bare groin and his black undershirt.

Satisfied, he took a few moments to calm his breathing down, listening carefully for any suspicious noises. He heard nothing but the distant, regular beat of Hell's heart somewhere in the distance: Po-poom... po-poom... po-poom... He let the corner of his collar slip out of his mouth and slowly pulled his black underwear and red pants back up. He tried to wipe the semen away from his undershirt with his gloved hands - he had nothing else to clean himself up with - with questionable success. When there was at least no big streak of white left on his undershirt, he got up, did a few battle moves against an imaginary opponent, then picked Sparda up and headed for the door of the room, determined to find a way out of Hell, preferably after beating the living shit out of the butt-ugly devil responsible for him being there in the first place.