Into the Mephisto

…

There was something about her. The beach was teeming with beautiful - and topless - young ladies, yet she alone held his attention. Was it the third breast? No, the mighty Mephisto didn’t swoon over so mundane a thing as a bonus titty. It wasn’t the fourth breast either, he was well versed with twins and that was the same thing with just an extra pair of legs.

No, there was definitely something about her.

He knelt at her side in the sand and she gazed up into his eyes. Hers were a beautiful shade of something or other, he couldn’t tell - he was scrutinising boobs number five and six.

Which was awfully rude he realised, after he cupped one.

He thrust aside his melancholy and shot her a devilish grin - fitting, frolicking as they were on Hell’s most popular nudist beach, Copacabangya. In reality all beaches in Hell were nudist beaches, but it wasn’t as exciting to just call them beaches. Where they sat on the sand they had a great view of the magma surf lapping at the ground bones that served as sand.

He’d have to pull out the stops to woo this one, there was something about her that he couldn’t put his finger on… Or both hands, even. So he decided to dust off a move he called ‘squeezing the lemon’.

From thin air behind his back he pulled a cocktail glass, complete with little yellow umbrella. With a flourish of the hands and a flick of the glass, suddenly it was full of the strongest drink magic had to offer.

She seemed impressed enough, but he wasn’t done yet. He reached slowly behind her ear, stole another glance at those magnificent tits, and plucked free a small green lime. It should have been a lemon, but lemons aren’t native to Hell and he couldn’t work miracles.

A moment later he had the lime in half and the cocktail glass pressed against his bare chest. He proceeded to juice the lime on his powerful nipple, the tender flesh succumbing to his dreadful areola. It wasn’t often he did this in public, but for some reason the girls went crazy for it. Deviants, he thought, juice oozing to the glass. The demoness perked up as expected and applauded with vigour, which did wonderful things to number five - nearly causing him to drop the glass.

Further effort at this point seemed gratuitous, but Mephisto was ever the showman. He readied himself for the final act of ‘squeezing the lemon’; he would grate the rind on his washboard abs and then present the cocktail held aloft upon his cock. They never saw it coming - the cocktail, that is to say.

But her eyes had drifted to the surf. They were a deep hazel, he noticed at last, and he followed them out to sea. A surfboard cut the fiery waves not far from shore, atop it a demon the spitting image of Mephisto himself. His legs were legs of ham, his arms were arms of leg ham, his tight chest was the crispy ham of a ham leg roasted on leg ham day.

He differed in two small but significant ways. First was the dreadlocks, whipping phallically about him as he soared through the waves. And second by the cock that hung a full quarter inch longer than Mephisto’s own - of that he could be sure, they had measured themselves each and every day while growing up.

The waves battered his face, and so did his cock for he rode his surfboard in a naked handstand - a move Mephisto knew to be called ‘salting the aubergine’. A soft gasp sounded beside him and the mysterious sextitted beauty was won, and not by him. She asked, breathless, “Who is that?”

To which he flatly replied, “Mephisbro.”

…