Page 23 of The River of Hatred

“Aw, man.” I stomp my foot. “Lana told me about having to swim in the sewers of Asmodeus’ ziggurat and I made fun out of it for months. Now she’s gonna hear I swam in literal poop. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Sariel throws his head back and laughs. Even Ithuriel turns to look at the Fallen’s mirth. “The fuck was she doing swimming in Uncle’s sewers?”

Since I’m watching Itha, I can see how his facial muscles clench at Sariel’s moniker for Asmodeus. It’s almost like it causes him pain to hear Sariel has made a life here in Hell without him.

“The same thing we’re doing now, Sar-Sar,” I mutter. “Looking for the damned rift to the human world. Aren’t we about to swim through shit for it too?”

“Fair enough,” he smirks. Why does no one care that our last moments of smelling relatively good are upon us?

“Do either of you ancients have a plan for us to not – literally – smell like shit after this trench?” I ask, exasperated.

The fallen angel swings an arm around my shoulders. “Itha and I will store our things in the ether. There’s a clean pool on each side for the demons.”

“So, we’re swimming through excrement naked?” I ask for clarification.

“I will not be unclothed,” Itha says stiffly.

Sariel laughs rather evilly. “You’ll sink like a sack of bricks in all that steel.” He shakes his head at the angel.

Ithuriel doesn’t even flinch. He’s as stiff as he was on day one. “Then I will store my armor away, but I will remain in my linens.”

“Suit yourself,” the Fallen says in a singsong voice.

It’s then I have a thought. “Wait. Are there no demons to overlook the punished sinners in this trench?”

“There are,” he answers. “They’re flying above the waters.”

“How come they get to fly? And how come they can’t carry us?”

Sariel flicks my nose again. He likes doing that, the patronizing ass. “The answer to both of your questions is that they’re incorporeal. But even if they weren’t, do you think angelface over there would let a demon fly him over a river of shit?”

“No.” Ithuriel’s deadpan answer makes me laugh despite our stinky prospects.

My nose must’ve gotten somewhat desensitized to the stench as it gradually grew stronger because before I know it, we’re standing on the banks of the Stygian River.

It’s somehow even worse than I imagined. The wide trench is filled with a murky dark brown river of thick excrement. The liquid churns and bubbles constantly and the sight is so revolting I’d feel nauseated even if it wasn’t for the smell. Sinners are submerged in the river, some up to their necks, some completely underwater. Most are thrashing and flailing in the putrid waters, choking on the filth, though some are unmoving, their faces frozen in anguish and despair. Looks like they checked out. I don’t blame them.

The walls around the trench are slick and slimy, streaked with waste and growing algae. And above the swirling waters and wailing sinners are shadowy, half-corporeal forms, mocking the punished below. If they care about our presence, they’re not letting on.

“I really don’t want to go in there,” I whine futilely.

“Neither do I, sweetcheeks, but such is life in Hell,” Sariel replies, patting the top of my head. “Now, strip.”

With a groan, I drop my backpack and start removing my leather armor. As soon as my fingers touch the fastenings, Itha turns away. I can hear rustling behind me as Sariel tackles his vest and leather pants, and clinking on my other side, where Ithuriel unbuckles his plate. A minute later, the angel’s still wearing his linen underclothes, like he said he would, I’m in my bandeau and panties, and Sariel…

Every thought in my sinful head comes to a screeching halt when I turn around and see the fallen angel standing there, buck-naked.

“Sweet mother of…” I mutter, my eyes caressing his body from the top of his black-haired head to his surprisingly attractive feet. His skin is a warm, golden tan expanse of silk, lovingly stretched over defined muscles. He has a smattering of dark hair on his forearms and calves, and a line of it between that delicious V of oblique muscles – an arrow pointing to the culmination of all my dark fantasies. I can now confirm that Sariel’s cock makes my mouth water even in the most unappetizing circumstances.

Thickening in front of my eyes, it’s already large. Larger than what I thought I wanted, if you had asked me ten minutes ago, but the sight of it now makes my womb ache with the need to have it inside of me, filling me. Beneath it, his balls hang heavy and round. As I picture them emptying after his wrestle with Ithuriel, my pussy starts weeping. I clench my thighs instinctively.

Sariel chuckles and lifts his arms above his head, stretching like a lazy cat. He turns to the river, presenting me with the tightest, roundest ass in existence, and snaps his fingers. From the corner of my eyes, I can see our belongings disappear into the ether, but I can’t take my gaze off of the Fallen’s sculpted back muscles. It’s not until he’s waist-deep in the Stygian that I finally look away.

Ithuriel’s beautiful face is turned to where the fallen angel waits for us to join him. The expression of hunger mixed with pain on it twists my stomach and sends another pulse of lust to my clit. He wakes out of his reverie with a violent twitch and, with a furtive glance at me, starts wading through the muck to where Sariel stands, keeping a good distance between them.

With no choice, I take a deep breath of the foul air and prepare to never feel clean again, ever. I step in, the vile mud squelches between my toes, and I gag. Not the best start.

“Come on, poppet,” Sariel calls out to me. “Mind over matter.”

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