One Hundred Years of Mephisto

…

With one last shudder, she slumped flat against the furnace that was Mephisto. Her chest heaved against his, desperate to feed her aching lungs, ragged from a full minute of screaming her pleasure. She slid down to his side, utterly spent and on the verge of a restful sleep, but behind her unfocused eyes raged a fire that would not be denied.

The night was still young.

She blinked back the haze and murmured under her weary breath, “I love you, Mephisto. Let us never be apart again.” Foolish, thought Mephisto, to think you know love before your twentieth year. But he could not deny the hold of something on his own heart too, and in turn he held his tongue. Maybe, with time, she could be something more than yet another-

The door banged open, and across the threshold crashed a storm of fury and scorn. A woman, a fine vintage of middle years, wizened and full of the bosom, bore down on them with a terrible rage. “How dare you, Mephisto,” she wailed, “to take this thin breasted trollup to our bed! How could you spurn my love!” She collapsed into tears at his feet, her shoulders slumped in broken despair.

The fire roared inside his vixen however, and she rose from the soiled sheets. She yelled back, “I am not some harlot that lacketh morality, I am your daughter! And I see no marriage band upon this chiselled forearm. If you will not claim him, I shall!” With her part said, she draped herself over Mephisto’s wide chest and glared daggers at her mother.

It was not the first time Mephisto had been torn between the affections of two wild women, and it would not be the last. Neither really knew the taste of love, but Mephisto was a patient teacher, and they were eager to be taught. With one cool hand he calmed his vixen, and with the other he beckoned to her mother.

It was time to begin the lesson.

The door tore free of its hinges, and slid across the floor with a grinding squeal. Into the room stepped a diminutive beauty, her skin the precious leather of a wanderers saddlebag, her hair the colour of fresh ground flour wafting through the house. Her bosom was like two great sacks of barley, stretched against their seams by the slow passage of time but offering exciting new scents and sensations because of it.

Across to the bed she stormed, and she stood over him not with despair but with the full conviction of her many years. “Is this your regard for my love, Mephisto,” she spat, “to receive my tender attention for decades, only to take my daughter and granddaughter in my place the moment my hair starts to thin?” She raised her raisin-like right fist to deliver her disdain upon his body. “Shame on you, shame on-“

Mephisto caught her fist in his vice-like grip, at once enveloping it entirely and pulling her down to meet him in a gentle kiss. Her soft body went rigid at the touch of his lips, before once again melting into his familiar embrace. He had to admit that she probably did know the true feel of love, she was quite old after all, but in the end what did it really matter? He would have to fix that door though.

…