There’s a Demon…
Copyright © Emmi Lawrence
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission from the author.
Mini (Approx 1200)
There’s a demon living in my bathroom. He claims he’s harmless. Kind. In rare instances he even uses the word delightful. Though if that truly is the case then it’s a wonder that he sneaks peeks at me around the shower curtain.
Sometimes he appears as a child. Talk about disturbing. He blinks owlish eyes and stares as I shave. Then he gathers the tiny pieces of hair, collecting it in a pale pile that he hides away somewhere. I keep expecting him to throw a tantrum one day and coat me in a hurricane of stubble.
On Mondays he becomes one of those typical interpretations. You know the type—cloven hooves, forked tail, antler thingies, bright red body with a black goatee he swirls into two separate curling points. He gets mad when I call them antlers. He also insists that he looks that way on Mondays in order to keep my world from imploding. Something about Mondays being the worst day of the week and he just wants to be a part of that. The worst part.
Honestly, I don’t mind that he looks that way on Mondays because any and all attraction I have for him is inexplicitly gone. I can fumble about in the morning, trying to relieve a hangover and still get myself at least partly presentable for work without worrying about popping random woodies.
On Tuesdays he turns into a drag queen. His favorite color is gold, so he wears skintight dresses that accentuate his very fine ass and turns his skin a deep brown because he likes the contrast. I’m lucky though. The makeup sort of poofs into place on his face without any of the residual brushes and powders and dirty cotton swabs I’ve had to deal with in past relationships.
Wait. That’s not what I meant. We’re not in a relationship. Forget I said that.
On Wednesdays he refuses to get out of the shower. I’ve tried pushing, prodding, begging and finally just gave up and showered with him. Not with him, with him. There’s space between us. I’m not a demon lover. Not on Wednesdays at any rate because he’s grumpy and sour and his dick sprouts these thorny bumps that scare me every time I look at it.
Actually, I try to avoid showering on Wednesdays. I’ll take one Tuesday night and listen to him prattle on about whichever demon is messing with humanity that week. And I admit I like watching him hitch up his dress so I can see some sweet butt cleavage. He pretends he doesn’t notice me jerking off with conditioner in hand. I pretend to care about the fate of humanity.
Thursdays are my favorite weekdays. He’s never the same. Ever. But he’s always sans makeup and dresses, wearing worn jeans and nothing else. Some days he’s bald, white, with abs I could break my fist on. Other days he wears black hair to his waist, Asian features crinkling up as he mumbles what I assume are sweet nothings in a language I don’t understand. Some days he looks young enough I feel dirty imagining nasty things about him. Other days he’s old enough to be my father and yet always manages to make my dick hard when he leans against the wall and blows smoke rings at the vent in the ceiling.
Last Thursday he sat reading a magazine on the toilet, his jeans rolled up and the start of his crack showing. Told me he wouldn’t let me use the toilet until I let him blow me. So I got one before I went to work. And then another after getting home.
On Fridays he’s short. And I don’t mean dwarf short. I mean small enough that he sits on the faucet and kicks my fingers when I try to wash my face. Those are my least favorite weekdays. Though watching him dance around the sink to avoid all the puddles can be entertaining. At least until he sees me smiling and bites my hand.
Saturdays he is at an all day support group to help him get over being relegated to my bathroom. I’ve tried to explain to him that if he can leave for his support group then he technically didn’t have to live in my bathroom. He ignores me and demands I go order pizza and bring him a slice slathered with pineapple and pepperoni. That’s why I don’t try to reason with him.
Sundays are cheat days. He crawls out of the bathroom, his antlers beginning to sprout for Monday morning and his tail just a little, wiggling nub. When I say crawl, I mean crawl. He glances all around as if someone might show up one day to put a stop to his subterfuge. Then he sniffs my hair, pokes my shoulder. If I open my eyes he goes scampering back into the bathroom to try again in a few minutes.
On the other hand, if I fake a snore and roll over, he climbs in behind me and kisses all over my neck and shoulders. Pumps me till I’m leaking. Then he pushes me onto my back and mounts me, shoving my cock into his body and riding me until he’s breathless and groaning and doesn’t care anymore that I’m no longer pretending to sleep.
We spend the rest of the day curled up, eating in bed and letting him catch up on all the shows he wants to watch during the week but can’t because he’s “stuck in the bathroom.” Honestly, I think he just wants to watch them with me and I get home too late. Saturday’s support group might as well be his method of punishment for me staying away for so long. Or maybe he’s actually at a support group. What do I know?
Then he insists on going dancing. Sometimes we actually go out, after he spends an hour making sure his hair covers his sprouting antlers and I spent an hour trying not to call them antlers. Other times we just blast pop in the living room, push the couch against the wall and dance until our clothes start to slip off our bodies. Then we fuck like we’ll never get to fuck again.
The night usually ends with me sticky, exhausted and probably drunk in a tangled mess of sheets, while he runs away like Cinderella, straight into the bathroom. He doesn’t leave shoes in his wake though. Just splatters of semen and a few hickeys. On particularly energizing nights, I’ll follow him and try to convince him to come sleep with me.
He always turns me down, frowning over his antlers and wiggling his stump of a tail, telling me that Mondays need to be the worst to keep things in their natural order and they won’t be the worst if I have morning sex with him.
When I was offered a promotion and a job out of state, I considered moving for all of a second. The heartbroken expression on his face and his subsequent disappearance from Tuesday through to the following Monday left me so lonely I bought his favorite pizza and set it out to tantalize him to come home. Then I let his antlered, tailed, red-skinned self fuck me bent over the sink to prove I wouldn’t be leaving.
There’s a demon living in my bathroom. And kind of in my heart. Personally, I like it that way.
Look, I wrote something short. Astounding, isn’t it? After I finished, my SO compared the first line to There’s a Wocket in my Pocket and that just made this story that much funnier.
This one actually came from a more serious idea about a demon and a lost necklace and a bicycle, but I was in a happy mood so you get There’s a Demon… instead. I may or may not ever write that other one. Frankly, it sounds a little lame now.