Title: Iblīs’ Affliction
Author: Nero Seal
Genre: M/M Romance, Dark Elements, Thriller
Release Date: May 29, 2020
Publisher: Seal Publishing
Cover Artist: Sublime Novels
Iblīs (Arabic إبليس)—the primary devil in Islam.
“If you sleep with the Devil, don’t expect to get out of hell.”
DEMANDING. NEEDY. DANGEROUS. Slater is everything Talha doesn’t want but is everything the crime lord needs. The bloodiest ripper of Anatolia, nicknamed Iblīs, kills for him and warms his bed. Yet, there’s no love.
Stuck in a power play, symbiotic relationship, Talha knows that if he shows weakness, he'll fall at the hands of his own weapon.
THIRST FOR BLOOD, SEX, AND PAIN drives Slater crazy. The need to murder wrenches his soul, and only Talha can cool the deep itch that grows stronger every day. Only Master can understand what Slater needs because Master belongs to Slater.
Then Master changes the rules to cheat the game. But Talha doesn’t grasp, that there’s no escape from Iblīs’ affliction.
“Play with me…”
“No.” The sharp reply made Slater’s cheek twitch.
“I’m bored, Master. Play with me.” Irritation found its way into his voice alongside the demanding notes.
“No. I need you fit.” Not compromising, Talha glanced at his watch. “Entertain yourself. I have to work.”
“Fine…” Slater hissed.
Talha reached under his seat and pulled out the laptop. Slater’s focus slipped down but stumbled over the shirt. Too many pieces of clothing covered this muscular body for Slater’s liking. The desire to spoil Talha’s designer suit, so the man would strip, poisoned his blood.
His tennis shoe bumped against the black leather of the seat in front, as Slater spread his legs apart. The zipper vibrated against his groin, coming undone slot by slot a moment before he shimmed his ass out of his jeans and took his heavy cock into his palm. His gaze traveled up Talha’s smooth, square jaw to the hard line of his mouth. Five years older than Slater, Talha was broader, an inch taller, and a bit more muscular. At thirty-three, with his hair brushed back, he looked a couple of years older. His slightly arched brows and nose, broken in fights, enhanced his predatory aura.
Lust spiked Slater’s blood, splashing red desire all over his vision. Relaxing against his seat, he licked his lips. Talha’s rough skin allured him to lean closer and moisten it with his tongue.
At the hazy edge of his vision, Zaal’s face contorted in disgust, the conflict of interests twisting his features in an unreadable grimace. Slater didn’t care.
The air scraped his throat with every shaky breath; precum leaked over his fingers, marring his jeans. The uncomfortable atmosphere thickened as emotions streamed through the air. Disgust, hatred, contempt, discomfort, ignorance—all had colors and scents that crawled under Slater’s skin, igniting his depravity. His soul burned with all-consuming arousal. Slater craved Talha to look, and Talha did.
A surprised glance held and lingered. The rough mouth curled up in a lopsided smirk as a long, index finger brushed over the chapped lips, betraying Talha’s building arousal. Slater shivered under his cannibalistic stare.
“Need help?” Talha murmured. The cloud of discomfort emitting from Zaal darkened.
Slamming his laptop closed, Talha put it aside and removed the table. The papers scattered over the floor. His foot slid up the denim fabric toward Slater’s groin. Pressing down, it scratched the skin on the back of Slater’s hands and terminated the stimulation. Not gentle, not caring, but rough, authoritative, merciless. Pressure crushed Slater’s cock and balls, making him shudder.
“Hurts…” The weak complaint only made Talha’s lips twitch.
“Hands.” The husky voice seeping into Slater’s soul demanded obedience.
Instantly dropping his hands, Slater welcomed the direct skin to sole contact. His lungs burned from oxygen deprivation, forcing his nails to scratch a long trail under his t-shirt to alleviate the pressure in his chest and gain more pain. Up and down, the rough underside of the shoe rubbed his cock, the cruel heel meeting his balls with every thrust.
“You’re such a horny dog, aren’t you?” Talha observed.
Slater whimpered and closed his eyes, concentrating on the burning sensation growing in his lower belly. His thighs shook following the jerky rhythm of Talha’s foot as the cleansing pain burned every thought out of his head, leaving only lust behind.
“What should I do with you?”
Holding his breath, Slater listened to the voice of his master. The voice that had guided him through so much pain and pleasure; the voice that knew what he needed better than anyone else. More. Rougher. Harder. This wasn’t enough; chasing his pleasure, he thrust his hips forward, imprinting himself into Talha’s shoe. A shudder ran through his body, and a weak, shaky plea escaped his lips, “More, Master.”
“No.” The sharp reply made Slater’s cheek twitch.
“I’m bored, Master. Play with me.” Irritation found its way into his voice alongside the demanding notes.
“No. I need you fit.” Not compromising, Talha glanced at his watch. “Entertain yourself. I have to work.”
“Fine…” Slater hissed.
Talha reached under his seat and pulled out the laptop. Slater’s focus slipped down but stumbled over the shirt. Too many pieces of clothing covered this muscular body for Slater’s liking. The desire to spoil Talha’s designer suit, so the man would strip, poisoned his blood.
His tennis shoe bumped against the black leather of the seat in front, as Slater spread his legs apart. The zipper vibrated against his groin, coming undone slot by slot a moment before he shimmed his ass out of his jeans and took his heavy cock into his palm. His gaze traveled up Talha’s smooth, square jaw to the hard line of his mouth. Five years older than Slater, Talha was broader, an inch taller, and a bit more muscular. At thirty-three, with his hair brushed back, he looked a couple of years older. His slightly arched brows and nose, broken in fights, enhanced his predatory aura.
At the hazy edge of his vision, Zaal’s face contorted in disgust, the conflict of interests twisting his features in an unreadable grimace. Slater didn’t care.
The air scraped his throat with every shaky breath; precum leaked over his fingers, marring his jeans. The uncomfortable atmosphere thickened as emotions streamed through the air. Disgust, hatred, contempt, discomfort, ignorance—all had colors and scents that crawled under Slater’s skin, igniting his depravity. His soul burned with all-consuming arousal. Slater craved Talha to look, and Talha did.
A surprised glance held and lingered. The rough mouth curled up in a lopsided smirk as a long, index finger brushed over the chapped lips, betraying Talha’s building arousal. Slater shivered under his cannibalistic stare.
“Need help?” Talha murmured. The cloud of discomfort emitting from Zaal darkened.
Slamming his laptop closed, Talha put it aside and removed the table. The papers scattered over the floor. His foot slid up the denim fabric toward Slater’s groin. Pressing down, it scratched the skin on the back of Slater’s hands and terminated the stimulation. Not gentle, not caring, but rough, authoritative, merciless. Pressure crushed Slater’s cock and balls, making him shudder.“Hurts…” The weak complaint only made Talha’s lips twitch.
“Hands.” The husky voice seeping into Slater’s soul demanded obedience.
Instantly dropping his hands, Slater welcomed the direct skin to sole contact. His lungs burned from oxygen deprivation, forcing his nails to scratch a long trail under his t-shirt to alleviate the pressure in his chest and gain more pain. Up and down, the rough underside of the shoe rubbed his cock, the cruel heel meeting his balls with every thrust.
“You’re such a horny dog, aren’t you?” Talha observed.
Slater whimpered and closed his eyes, concentrating on the burning sensation growing in his lower belly. His thighs shook following the jerky rhythm of Talha’s foot as the cleansing pain burned every thought out of his head, leaving only lust behind.
“What should I do with you?”
Holding his breath, Slater listened to the voice of his master. The voice that had guided him through so much pain and pleasure; the voice that knew what he needed better than anyone else. More. Rougher. Harder. This wasn’t enough; chasing his pleasure, he thrust his hips forward, imprinting himself into Talha’s shoe. A shudder ran through his body, and a weak, shaky plea escaped his lips, “More, Master.”
Journalist, poker player, casino events manager, designer, and SEO specialist, Nero Seal tried it all before committing to the idea of being an M/M fiction writer. Living in one of the most homophobic countries in the world, he has a lot to say. Being an avid traveler, he creates his imaginary worlds from the places he’s been and the people he’s met.
Characters always talk in his head, forcing him to write their stories, using his 49 kinks as the ultimate weapon of allure. When the voices in his head aren’t slaving him around, he is drawing, hiking, and procrastinating important things in favor of momentary gratification.
