The Devil greeted me, his face bathed in the gentle light given off by the plane’s control panels. His eyes seemed to twinkle good-naturedly. “So, ready to do a little painting of me?” he chuckled. “Go see my boys further down the plane and get yourself kitted out”.
The artist went to the middle seats of the plane. Two blonde tall, fit men in identical suits smiled up at him, vibrating with the desire to comply with his every wish. They produced a pack of high quality hand made paper wrapped in cling foil, and began to brutally tear the wrapping off. “Enough!” the artist screeched, “Treat such things with respect!” The two red faced men hung their heads and apologized. They handed over the paper whilst flicking nervous glances towards their master at the head of the plane.
The artist returned to where the Devil stood. “Are you ready to begin my portrait” he demanded. Just then, a shaft of light lanced through the cockpit window, illuminating his face brightly, showing up hatred, lust and broken promises playing across his features like a dark electric storm. “I can not work for such a one”, the artist realized. The Devil seemed to be looking at something over the artist’s shoulder. The artist’s hairs on the back of his neck slowly became erect, at the same time a wave of sexual lust passed through him. He turned and managed to walk away two or three paces.
His legs were tackled out from under him, and he was wrestled to the ground. She sat astride him, legs wide around his waist, her breathing caressing his face with the sweet smell of spring flowers and freshly cut grass. Her left hand worked its way into his trousers and undergarments and began to caress his member and testicles, and he began to feel the rolling waves of excitement possess him and control leaving him. A cold sharp point against his stomach dragged him back to some realization of the obscene precariousness of his situation. The artist thrashed frantically against the Succubus, trying to stop her progress, but she pressed the plunger and the substance travelled with an unstoppable certainty through the barrel of the syringe, out through its wicked needle and into his stomach.
From “The Devil needs an artist” by Nick Victor.