Anissa’s Second

You’re in an old-fashioned interpretation of Hell. A lifeless landscape of crumbling stone and shifting sands. Fumaroles are the source for pillars of black smoke that rise above the desolation until they dissipate into the already grimy air. Puddles of mercury shimmer reflections of the grey skies and the red land, their reflections darker, more warped than the land around them. Pits of flame spits out blizzards of embers that drift in the still, **** air.

Around these pits cavort devils, men with horns, goat legs and snake-like tails, pointy goatees beneath cruel mouths filled with pointy teeth and forked tongues. They use tridents to jab at prisoners kneeling before them. The prisoners are men clad as priests, and women clad as nuns, their clothing heavy, constrictive, smothering their identities. You recognise one of them, Anissa.

Her face is grimy with the touch of smoke, and smears of dirt. Her hair is confined within a wimple. Her hazel eyes are filled with tears. Her hands sit in her lap, tied together with barbed wire in a mockery of prayer. Her breaths are so laboured you can hear each one of them. And the weight of her clothes is dragging her down, pulling her to the floor. But just as she’s about to succumb, a devil jabs with its trident, pricking her obscured breasts, forcing her to sit up straight.

You approach, disguised as another devil. Your face is sharpened unto the point of unrecognizability. Your skin is bright red. You sport cloven feet and a pointy tail. You grab the heavy sack cloth of her shoulder, feeling the rough fabric rub against her pale skin, and direct her towards one of the puddles of mercury. Her eyes are too dry to cry, her body too dehydrated.

“Are you enjoying Hell,” you titter.

“My Lord, protect me,” Anissa whispers. Her lips are bruised, and broken, chapped in the heat and the dryness.

“Why pray to him. He sent you here.”

“I was good.”

“He gave you gifts, and you tried to hide them. Look into the puddle. See, your friends who enjoyed God’s gifts, look how they are being appreciated in Heaven.”

And the silvery puddle of mercury shimmers and breaks into a vision. A vision of Heaven. A vision, like the vision before. Naked women. Naked men. One of the women is Spencer, her enhanced breasts almost comically so. She’s also kneeling, but her hands are on the ground, and her ass is in the air. Because you’re behind her, hammering into her doggystyle.

“Oh God. Oh God. So good. So good. This is heaven. This is true heaven.” Spencer screams into the white of Heaven.

Behind the two rutting figures stands a queue of Anissa’s other friends, Abigail, Layla, Blair, Karlee, Krystal; all naked, all waiting their turn, their naked bodies shorn of hair, their breasts exaggerations, their skin smooth, their stomach’s flat.

Spencer shivers with her orgasm. Then she’s sliding off your cock and crawling away, while Abigail quickly takes her place. Soon she is screaming the same words of wonder as your cock claims her. Spencer meanwhile staggers to her feet, staggers to the end of the line, and takes her place for her next turn.

“They’ll have pleasure for eternity. You will be suffocated by these clothes, because you’d rather these clothes than pleasure, you’d rather abstinence than true worship.”

Anissa is lost in the vision before her. She weeps dry tears. She screams no, eliciting laughter from the devils. She tries to rip her clothes off, but the cloth won’t tear. When strained it gathers weight, dragging her down, dragging her to kiss the gravel, her eyes never leaving the vision of sexual heaven.

Until the vision of Hell disintegrates in darkness. And you are no longer a devil, just a man, lying in his bed, the cap of dreams on his head.