The Choir Boy

The Choir Boy

Journal Entry 1: Reflection on my Life

Arkham, the high priest in what most of the world would call our "demonic cult" is my lord and master. I am a young eunuch of 20, I was kidnapped as a child to serve the old demon gods. I have accepted my fate.

What the hell am I doing here you ask? Well, my voice was what got me in trouble. When I was 5 or so, one of the cult members heard me singing in church and decided I had a "heavenly voice." He deemed my voice to be of use to the cult for the ceremonies necessary to call forth the great devil god to rule over the upper and lower realms. After all, it is rumored that Hell is, in places, (including the gods chamber) just as beautiful as Heaven. Ha! Maybe the demons got home sick when God cast them out and wanted to recreate home as perfectly as possible but with their own unique and twisted touch.

Anyway, the member abducted me and brought me to Arkham. I remember being terrified when the cult member led me down the dark macabre halls of the secret catacombs. Mutilated bodies of humans and demons alike lined the stone walls. Some, trophies of enemies posed in painful death throes, others, "saints" with their bodies mysteriously preserved by dark powers. So lifelike, they appeared as though they would jump off the walls and grab you. If that wasn't bad enough, I was mortified when I got my first look at my future master.

By a window with the red light of a cloudy evening sifting in through shear curtains, a tall imposing figure with an expression as cold and unmovable as stone stood. His head bald and shiny, half his face burnt, but not in any natural way. It was as if the fire that had burned him had become a part of him and continued to burn beneath his skin. The black priest-esque clothing added to his frightening presence and when he turned his two-toned eyes on me they reflected and magnified the evening light until it danced like hellfire.

He didn't seem human.

In time I would learn more about him and come to accept him for who he is, evil bastard and all.

I was forced to sing for this terrifying man and he too approved of my voice. I was then taken away to be prepared so that my voice would be "preserved." Meaning; I was to be castrated. For you see, that is what a eunuch is; a man that has had "his manhood chopped off," so to speak. It's been done for millennia for various reasons, strange that the reason it was done to me is the same reason it was done in the Christian churches of yore; to keep a male child's falsetto voice for life. Eunuchs are said to have voices like that of the angles. Voices that not even the sweetest sounding woman can match or surpass in highness nor beauty.

Maybe my voice was what ultimately got me into more trouble; it drew the attention of the high priest himself.

For my remaining childhood years I was left alone, except for being trained in the religion of the cult. Slowly I gave up the desire and the hope of ever seeing my family again, I suppose being taken so young was to my advantage; it lessened the pain of separation and loss. That's not to say I never wondered what life would have been like had I never been stolen from them but I only had faint memories that provided me very limited knowledge in regard to what a "normal" life was; the cult was all I knew for many long years. To survive I adapted, I merely did and learned what I was told to but I still held on to the last bits of free will and sanity that the cult so wished to snatch away.

Perhaps it was also that fact, the retained ability to think, that helped seal my fate.

Arkham would sometimes look into my eyes from afar; from a balcony overlooking a court yard, from across a hall, from the back pews of the sanctuary when I would be on the alter singing. I could tell that he knew I was very capable of thinking for myself if I wished to and the intensity of his gaze told me that he wanted something of me.

In my teen years Arkham approached me directly, took me under his wing. He had plans for me, I would be more than just a simple choir boy, I would be his protégé as well as his lover. He taught me many things normal cult members didn't get the privilege to learn; secret rituals that granted true power.

Demonic power.

When I was a child I had personally thought it was bullshit, the cult stuff, just all smoke and mirrors but after I witnessed what he could do, it opened my eyes to the truth; there really are realms and powers beyond that of the human.

Of all the power-granting, mesmerizing, horrific rituals I've seen and experienced, my favorite is a simple, very carnal one; the bloodletting ritual. My master never fails to make it intensely erotic and loving in a twisted way, the feelings enhanced by the sweet nectar that is his blood. Taking a long silver knife, he draws many cuts in his skin then pulls me close, my naked body becoming covered in the warm rivers of blood running from his neck and down his chest. I lap up every bit of the precious magic drenched liquid and suck his self-inflicted wounds greedily for more.

Concerning my own blood, he has a more sinister place to gather it from. Not once, even from the beginning, have I refused. He rams his long thick cock up my ass and fucks me until I quite literally bleed. I won't lie; I always have and still do enjoy it. Everything; how he brutally stretches my inner walls with no prior prep, slams desperately, passionately, wildly into me hard enough to make me bruise and bled within minutes, how he always pulls out before he cums only to forcefully flip me over and shove his cock down my throat to spill his seed in my mouth; making me consume his sweet juice and a bit of my own blood.

Not giving a moment for breath he powerfully flips my limp form over again onto my stomach. I pull my trembling legs under me for support and spread my legs so that he may harvest the reward of his efforts; my blood running thick and free from my anus. He swirls his tongue around outside and thrusts it inside, gathering every last drop while loosing pleasured moans from my lips. The world may find it sick and twisted but if you can't do things like that in Heaven, I'd rather burn in Hell, lying on a bed waiting for my master to come and play.

After the deed is done, while he cleans and heals our dangerous wounds with his dark magic, he never fails to whisper "mine" into my ear as a warning and reminder. He doesn't need to worry; I already know that I forever belong to him.

******

My master goes today to meet the elder Son of Sparda to secure his help in raising the Temen-ni-gru. Many nights whilst we lay together in bed he spoke madly of how he would steal Sparda's power for himself and take over Hell and Earth and live forever. He promised I would always be by his side, his eternal lover.

Though I think I believe what he says, I worry for him. He taught me the history of the Legendary Dark Knight and I believe those powers are not for him to mess with. Although he may be strong and already wields great demonic power that he has gained through his dark magic over the years, he underestimates the twins. I have tried to talk him out of it, but he will hear nothing of it. Though I fear, no, I know this will end badly; the part inside me that loves him can't help but pray for his safety. He is an evil man but isn't that what I too have become? Regardless, good and evil are beyond my worries now and my master is all that I have.

A/N: This can perfectly stand on it’s own but I got an idea the other day (and if I ever get around to it) I might expand this.