The Devil's Quill - 1. Story

The Devil’s Quill

by G-Galloway

With apologies to Tartini…

I dreamed of the Devil, and it was the most fantastic, most erotic, most frustrating dream of my life.

He knocked on the door of my small cabin, very late at night, in the middle of the worst snow storm that had ever hit my town. As soon as I opened it, I knew that it was Him.

Swathed in a black robe, his broad shoulders were like a square block of stone, and an intoxicating spicy fragrance filled my lungs. With a quick movement, he tossed back his hood to reveal the most handsomest face (excuse the redundancy, but the Devil is beyond common grammar). The symmetrical lines of his perfect skull were visible throughout his lean face; sharp cheekbones, angular jaw, pointy chin and fleshy lips. And I knew that he was the Devil because of his yellow eyes, speckled with bloody red.

Before I could say a word he pushed me with his muscular arms, knocking me over the floor and shutting the door behind Him. And then he thrust himself upon me and started to rape me on the wooden floor.

Although… can you say that you’ve been raped if each second gave you the utmost pleasure you’ve ever experienced?

His lips and hands were as soft as they were burning, working on every inch of my body as leisurely as if he intended to spend the rest eternity all over and inside me. I was being literally possessed by the Devil, so savagely and deliciously that the very memory still speeds up my pulse. If that is what the flames of Hell are supposed to be, I’d as soon sin until damnation.

When he was done, he rose with a triumphant spark burning in his yellow eyes. Only then could I have a proper look of that perfect, well-built body I had just felt upon myself. Yet the burning sensation lingered on my skin as if he were still gripping me.

It took me a while to catch my breath. My heart was pounding hard and my limbs felt numb. When I finally managed to stand up, the Devil smiled at me.

‘Dear, dear. You are the first poor soul I have truly enjoyed in a thousand years!’

I am not sure what answer would have been proper when the Devil himself admires you as a nice lay.

‘T-t… Thank you?’

He cackled with the most sensual sound. ‘I’ll tell you what. As a gesture of appreciation, I’ll grant you one wish.’

I shook my head. ‘I won’t do deals with you! A pact with the Devil—’

‘Oh, I am not offering you a pact!’ He cried. ‘Just name whatever you want from me and you’ll have it. No strings attached; no games. And feel privileged; I rarely do that.’

The idea took a while to sink in since I could not believe that the Devil was offering me a present. Once I realised that there would not be a trap there, I began to think of the possibilities.

I could have asked for all the wealth or power imaginable… but when I saw my desk, all covered with scribbled sheets and stains of ink, my heart stopped for a moment and I knew exactly what my wish would be.

‘Give me the best prose that human kind has ever known.’

The Devil showed the widest smile of the night.

‘Well… there’s no way to cheat you on that.’

As he spoke, he produced a quill pen out of nowhere, dipped the tip into my fireplace and then sat at my desk, burning lines of compact text at full speed. He filled the first sheet within seconds and passed it on to me while he continued writing.

I looked at the sheet, and from the very first line I was trapped in a thunderstruck trance.

In the first page I fell in love with a passion that I’d never felt in real life; in the second one my heart was broken with the most horrid tragedy, so disturbing that it could have made me commit suicide had it not been for the third page, where all the joy of forgotten childhood dreams made me cry and tremble; and then the fourth page was narrated in such an erotic way that I had an orgasm without even taking my hands off the paper.

Indeed, there are no words to describe those words!

And there was no pause as the Devil was writing at the same speed I read, taking me from one emotion to another with a wit and skill that could only come from diabolic inspiration.

And then I woke up.

I jumped off the bed, still aroused from that last page, and immediately ran to my desk and started writing, trying to remember what I had just read, but all my efforts were in vain. I banged my head on the table, broke all my quills and burned all sheets of paper, as nothing I wrote was even close to those mesmerising stories from Hell.

Now, years later, I’ve come to believe that the Devil did visit me, just to show me that I could never ever write like Him.

© 2008 G-Galloway

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