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"Damn it, for the last time Franky, you are NOT a college frat boy!"

"Fuck you, Eric, yes I am."

"No, you aren't. These delusions have to stop."

"Well, this chick is gargling my dick like I am a frat boy. Between her opinion and yours, I think I'll listen to the person giving me some bomb as fuck head right now."

"Franky, that isn't a chick giving you hea-"

"Oh, fuck off dude. It's the twenty-first century, love is love and we respect people for who they choose to be."

"No, that isn't the problem. Do you even remember where we are, dip shit?"

"Yeah, in the hottest party all year my man!"

"Hottest, sure... but this isn't a party Franky. This is Hell. We're in Hell. And we're demons."

"No shit sherlock, but calling it Hell doesn't get the blood flowin, you feel me? Call it a party, call it a rave. Call it something exciting. You think hot chicks are gonna wanna blow us in "Hell"?"

"I'm not gonna argue with you on this. Look, I get it, we watched a few Earthworld movies from the 80's and 90's. I understand that you saw the frat boy archetype and wanted to base your entire personality around it, but uh... your coworkers have been noticing your shift in character. They don't like it, Franky. They think it's immature. They want you to cut it out.

"They can cut these nuts out! Fuck those losers, cha!"

Eric sighed and rubbed his head. Despite living in Hell and having become accustomed to agony, nothing could top the pain of enduring Franky's bullshit. He had been assigned as Franky's partner almost five hundred years ago. Even then, Franky insisted upon basing his aesthetics and behaviors around some stereotype that was common in Earthworld. It had once been samurais, and then cowboys, and now it was... this.

Franky donned a black leather jacket and tight blue jeans. His hair was dark brown and had been slicked back. All in all, he had the appearance of a greaser, if you were going simply off of fashion, that is. If you were going off of physique, it was a different story. Franky was tall. Like, really tall. His skin was colored a sickly fusion of dark green and purple, and yellow splotches took residence all over his body. Dozens of black, beady eyes littered his face, and underneath them sat a gaping mouth, from which a long, slimy, slug-like tongue often dangled out. It made Franky look like a pathetic dog in Eric's opinion.

Another thing one might note about Franky was that, well, his dick was fucking massive. While rumors about its true size could vary, one of the most common assertions was that his bone was two feet long, and was almost equally wide. Whatever the case may be, the demon had a tree branch tucked between his legs, and he loved making use of it.

Eric, on the other hand, was not so brash in his appearance. Sure, he too stood incredibly tall, being almost on par with Franky. Still, he preferred to present himself as what is considered "normal" for demons. Red, leathery skin, white ivory horns on the top of the head, a long, spiky tail, and unlike Franky, Eric did not sport a mammoth pecker. Franky despised Eric for how he appeared. Demons have the ability to shapeshift after all, and Franky always felt disgusted with how most demons seemed to conform to a rather stereotypical appearance. It felt to him like doing so gave some humans power over demons, by means of profiling them and claiming "they all look the same," alongside other speciesist nonsense.

"Damn bottom-feeding token demon," Franky thought every time he had the displeasure of laying eyes upon his coworker. He would never blurt such a thing out loud, of course. Saying something so obscene would surely entail a visit from Demon Resources.

Besides, Franky would endure as much Eric-fueled agitation as he had to if it meant continuing what he loves most. Torturing the damned.

Despite what Franky might want you to believe, the person being throat fucked on the ground was in fact, a man. See, Franky's thought process is a little different from yours and mine. Franky sees anyone he can forcefully dominate and torture as being a woman. His mind is wired that way, and while he may espouse bullshit lines that corporate has fed him for the sake of maintaining Hell's optical stability (What a load of shit, am I right?), he really just associates weakness with femininity. Big shocker, that horny old Franky is a damn pig.

"Don't you think you're going overboard, buddy? We have to get through another three-hundred thousand souls to meet our quota for the day. Speed it up, would you?"

Franky paid Eric no mind as he continued humping the man's mouth. Well, mouth is a generous term. What it really was, was a mammoth-sized hole that had been forged from the relentless thrusting the man had endured. Jagged, boney spikes jutted out from Franky's shaft, their sharpness designed to rip and tear through flesh. Hence the aforementioned void Franky had carved out.

The man's jaw had been crushed and pulled downward to make way for the pulsating meaty intruder. His teeth had been chipped and, in some areas, downright torn off as his gums were eviscerated with every hump and pump that came. His tongue had already been shredded into little pink ribbons. Some of it had been washed out with the excess blood that poured from his mouth. Other bits and pieces were pushed deep into his throat, having been tagged by Franky's member and subsequently taken along for the ride.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm so close fuck, fuck I'm gonna cum. Take it bitch! Take my fucking baby batter bitch," Franky blurted out in short, pleasure-filled moans. Eric promptly turned away. Even he had to admit he didn't like what came next. Literally.

Despite how Franky might act, he isn't actually turned on by the sexual activity he's engaging in. That's just a part of the show. What really gets his heart pumping is the inflicting of utter suffering onto his victims. So, as he neared his climax, he placed his hands on the head of the man and performed one final thrust, smiling wide as he eagerly awaited what laid ahead.

And then, he came like a fucking water fountain.

The man screamed and screamed as Franky's goo began pumping into him at an unnaturally high rate, but all that noise amounted to was muffled groans. The liquid ran down his throat, filled his lungs, burst through his nose, and leaked from his ears. His eyes melted and gave way as streams of ejaculation poured from them, drenching his face in the sticky substance. But sticky, my friend, was not the only property Franky's semen possessed. You see, that's when the sizzling began.

The vile gloop began boiling the man's skin, causing air bubbles to rise from his flesh and, eventually, pop. The man eventually ceased his meaningless cries and yells, and as his body began giving way, he slowly reached forward, desperately reaching out for something... anything. His now gelatinous form pooled into a puddle on the ground, the only evidence of his existence being what bones and hair strands remained of him.

It would not be the end of his torture, of course. That's where the element of infinity comes into play. In some time, maybe a day, perhaps a week if he was lucky, his body would be reassembled by some great force from beyond. He would come back, and when he did, the same fate would meet him once more. An inescapable, horrendous, inhumane death. A death in which he would be ultimately violated and humiliated, again and again. A death in which he could not even think, for the torture he was subjected to rendered even producing a coherent thought impossible. In fact, thinking was so impossible that he eventually forgot why he was there in the first place, as did all of Hell's inhabitants.

All he could now perceive was an existence of screaming, pain, and hopelessness, and he couldn't even remember what he had done to deserve it.

"Fuck yeah! I'm the mother fucking semen demon bitch! Whooooo! Oh yeahhh," Franky exclaimed. He proudly gave his dick a smack and watched it wobble back and forth. To him, every successful torture was worthy of celebration. By this point, Franky had taken off his shirt and began swinging it above his head. He also appeared to be chugging several bottles of beer that he seemingly conjured up from nowhere, somehow.

"Where the fuck did he get those bottles... oh never mind. You've got to help me clean this whole mess up later man. We can't keep doing this shit to people without cleaning up between sessions."

Eric had a point. The entire area was covered in gore and bodily fluids, all of which had once been Franky's victims, who were now awaiting their resurrection. Eric wished he could do things his way, seeing as how it was far less messy. He hadn’t been able to because it was Franky's turn to carry out punishment as he saw fit. They each maintained control over what torture methods they implimented for a decade at a time, as per their arrangement. For now, it was Eric who served as Franky’s assistant.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Here, lemme crack a cold one open and I'll help you right after."

"No, Franky, it's not going to be right after."

Franky rolled his eyes and pressed the tip of the beer bottle against his lips, downing the drink in a few brief moments. He wiped his mouth with his oversized arm and sighed.

"Whatever, you called my bluff, I admit it. I'm gonna down a few bottles, and I'm gonna smoke a few joints after that. And THEN I'll help you out, deal?"

"No- fuck, dude, come on. You know what you did. Right?"



"No, I don't know?"

"You called him the fucking B word, man!"



"Oh yeahhhh, I did, didn't I... Oops. My bad man."

"Yeah, your fucking bad.”

"I guess I'm gonna have to talk to Demon Resources then, huh?"


"Shit...," Franky sheepishly murmured, hanging his head down in shame. He had heard horror stories about the Demon Resources department. Rumor had it that it was run by some of the most twisted and depraved beings Hell had to offer.

"Keep your head up pal, I'm sure they'll cut you some slack. Just listen intently, only speak when spoken to, admit your faults, all that stuff, alright?"

Franky lowered his head and looked towards the ground, quietly scuffing his feet on the floor while rubbing the back of his now profusely sweating neck with his right hand.

"Yeah, maybe you're right. I'll try telling them all the things they want to hea-”

Franky didn't even have time to be surprised as a presence appeared behind. Something huge wrapped its claw around Franky's mouth. In an instant, both entities had vanished, dissipating into smoke.

"And there he goes,' Eric spoke, scratching one of his horns with a talon that protruded from his especially lengthy middle finger (a finger that had been normally proportioned prior to Eric meeting Franky, mind you). "Finally, some time to myself."

The place Franky found himself in looked to be a small office. He sat perfectly still in his chair, anxiety bubbling within him. His worry was almost palpable. Before him stood a beast even larger than himself. It had the appearance of a minotaur, having the head of a buffalo, the body of a man, and the legs of a horse. A golden ring hung down from its nose. That same nose huffed and puffed repeatedly as the monster faced Franky, standing perfectly still, eyes locked onto the demon.

"So uh, how may I help you today, mister boss man Sir," Franky nervously inquired, gulping down the thick chunks of saliva that had been accumulating within his mouth. The creature remained silent, which only served to steep Franky into an even deeper state of anxiety.

Franky was about to speak again, but he caught himself. He noticed a tiny pair of hands wrap around the Minotaur's neck. Then, a small, imp-like creature hoisted itself up onto the shoulders of the beast and proceeded to sit comfortably on its head. The imp was inky black from head to toe, and had a dog-like snout. Individual strands of hair flowed down its mostly bald head, and some hairs even dangled from its pointy ears. A miniature nametag adorned its chest, displaying the name "Daryl". In Daryl's hand was a little cup of coffee.

"Sorry about my secretary here, he can go overboard when it comes to scheduling my meetings. So! Mister Franky H. Valentine, what brings you here on this fine, fine day?"

"Well, if I had to guess, I'd say your secretary is what brought me here. Seems like he does a little more than arrange your schedule, huh," Franky responded, forcing a laugh to try and lighten the mood. Daryl seemed to find his comment amusing, as he reciprocated Franky's chuckle before sipping on his drink.

"As I said, he can go overboard. But, Mister Valentine, I'm sure you know I'm a busy man. As much as I would like to go over all the pleasantries and engage in small talk with you, I simply don't have the time. So, please, could you tell me what you're doing here?

Franky released a deep sigh and slouched into his seat. Though Daryl's friendly demeanor somewhat quelled his angst, he still knew he wouldn't be able to steer this conversation in the direction he wanted it to go. He knew he would have to comply with Daryl's requests to appease him.

"Well Sir, I uhm... I used inappropriate language in the workplace today."

"Oh, and what would that language be," Daryl inquired, once again sipping from his steaming cup of cocoa.

"Well, I used the B word, Sir. I used it several times while performing my duties earlier today."

"Aha, so that's why you're here! Fantastic, the first step in improving is acknowledging the problem! Now, would you tell me why such language is unacceptable in a workplace environment, Mister Valentine?"

"Well, it's because uhm, it expresses derogatory attitudes towards women, which is bigoted and disrespectful to them, Sir?"

"Ding ding ding ding ding! We have a winner, and that winner is you, Mister Valentine! As you know, we in Hell want to promote an environment that is safe for women to exist as equals to men. And, well, let us be honest with ourselves, we can't have that if our demons are not showing women the respect they deserve. Wouldn't you agree, Mister Valentine?"

"I do Sir, I understand."

"Very good, very good! I'm so glad we're on the same page here, I have faith that you'll take this conversation to heart and better yourself from here on out," Daryl said, offering a grin. "Oh, and I should mention, if I ever catch you doing this kind of thing again, I'm going to send you to Level Zero of Hell, do you read me loud and clear, Mister Valentine?"

Franky froze. He would be sent to Level zero? Panic immediately swept through his body as the prospect crossed his mind. To be sent to such a barbaric place, even he could not fathom such a thing. The place where the defective demons go. A Hell within Hell itself. Even imagining what might await him there made him wince.

"I understand Sir, I promise this isn't going to happen again. I won't let you down, I mean it.”

"Very good Mister Valentine. So, tell me, what are you going to do the next time you're dealing with a woman in the workplace?"

"I'm going to fuck her until her womb is ripped from her body and her asshole is collapsed and leaking. Then I'll melt her into nothingness, Sir."

"And what else," Daryl asked, raising an eyebrow towards Franky.

"And... I will not use derogatory language to state or imply she is inferior to or less capable than men, Sir."

"That's what I like to hear, Mister Valentine. That's how professionals should carry themselves. Our operation in Hell ought to be built off of mutual respect. Do that, and we'll likely never have to talk again. But, and I mean this wholeheartedly," Daryl began as he leaned over the minotaur's head and stared into Franky's soulless eyes, "Fuck this second chance up, and I won't hesitate to make you wish you were never born. Now get the fuck out of my office."

Daryl's wicked smile was the final thing Franky saw before he was sent back. When he returned, he found that the area had already been cleaned up. He hated to admit it, but Eric was an efficient bastard. Eric had gotten busy with another victim, having taken it upon himself to work towards the pair's daily quota in Franky's absence. A young woman was on her knees beside Eric. He gripped her hair firmly, holding her against his left leg. She was someone Franky had recognized as a past victim of his. Her face was completely still, and her eyes possessed a one thousand-yard stare. As they eventually drifted to meet Franky's gaze, the woman gently parted her lips to speak to him.

"Please... help... me," she whispered, "You... kill me instead... I can't stand this... make him stop." Eric released her from his grip, approaching Franky.

"So, how'd it go?"

"Honestly? It went better than I expected. I think he liked me."

"Who did you talk to?"


"He definitely didn't like you."

"Fuck you, man."

Written by Icydice
Content is available under CC BY-SA