MEETING DEMONS (PTSD DREAMS) CARMELA ENCOUNTERS DEMON ASMODEUS VISITING THE MADONNA
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MEETING
DEMON SPIRITS:
(PTSD DREAMS)
CARMELA
VISITING MADONNA
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&
ENCOUNTERS
"ASMODEUS"
DEMON OF LUST
CREATED
BY
J. BECK
2025
MEETING DEMONS
(PTSD DREAMS)
CARMELA
VISITING THE MADONNA
(PICTORIAL NARRATIVE)
ENCOUNTERS
DEMON ASMODEUS
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Carmela stumbled through the iron gates of the old Gothic cemetery, the chill night air biting at her skin beneath the open tan fur coat.
The bottle of red wine in her hand sloshed with every unsteady step, its crimson contents staining her lips and dripping down her chin like blood from a fresh wound.
Her short, big blonde hair was disheveled, matted from the rain that had started to fall, and her jewelry—heavy gold chains and rings—clinked softly against the glass.
Black netted nylons clung to her legs, torn in places from thorns, and her heels sank into the muddy earth as she fled whatever ghosts haunted her that night.
She had come here seeking refuge, drawn by some desperate instinct to the weathered statue of the Madonna standing sentinel among the crumbling crypts.
She had come here seeking refuge, drawn by some desperate instinct to the weathered statue of the Madonna standing sentinel among the crumbling crypts.
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The Virgin, pregnant and serene in her sheer robes, her small cleavage subtly visible beneath the carved stone folds, seemed a beacon of purity in this forsaken place.
Carmela collapsed at its base, pressing her cheek to the cold marble belly, whispering fractured prayers through drunken sobs. "Protect me... please... from all this torment..."
But the cemetery was not empty. Eyes watched from the shadows.
But the cemetery was not empty. Eyes watched from the shadows.
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A black horned goat emerged first from behind a ruined mausoleum, its yellow eyes glowing faintly as it pawed the ground. Nearby, a sleek black cat slithered between headstones, its tail curling like smoke.
A thick black snake coiled lazily around a fallen angel's wing, tongue flicking. Hidden in the ferns, a black rat gnawed on a tarnished gold coin, its tiny teeth glinting.
Above, on the gnarled limb of a 200-year-old oak perched atop a feral embankment, a black rook and a magpie tilted their heads in unison, silent sentinels.
And deeper still, in the mouth of a stone grotto, a completely black wolf lay watchful, its breath steaming in the mist.
These were no ordinary beasts. They were familiars—extensions of a greater presence, circling her like a tightening noose.
These were no ordinary beasts. They were familiars—extensions of a greater presence, circling her like a tightening noose.
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She clutched the Madonna's pedestal tighter, but the stone offered no comfort. The air grew thick, scented with sulfur and something sweeter, more intoxicating than the wine.
Then he appeared.
Not with thunder or flames, but passively, as if he had always been there, leaning against a nearby crypt with indolent grace.
Asmodeus, the Demon of Lust himself, manifested in the form of a man who could unravel souls with a glance. Long, greasy black hair framed a face both cruel and beautiful, round wire-rim glasses with blue-tinted lenses perched on his nose, reflecting the moonlight.
A cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling lazily upward as he exhaled. He wore a red ruffled shirt beneath a tailored black suit, the fabric straining slightly over his form.
His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his trousers, thumbs hooked casually, drawing the eye to the subtle bulge there—an unspoken promise.
He said nothing at first. He simply watched her, standing close behind the Madonna statue now, as if claiming guardianship over the sacred figure.
He said nothing at first. He simply watched her, standing close behind the Madonna statue now, as if claiming guardianship over the sacred figure.
His presence was a passive siege: no words, no touch, just the weight of his stare tracing the open fur coat, the way it barely concealed her body, the black nets stretching over her thighs, the wine bottle trembling in her grip.
Carmela's breath hitched. The torment shifted—from the chaos she had fled, to something deeper, more insidious. Heat pooled low in her belly, an ache that the wine had only dulled before now amplifying.
The familiars drew closer: the goat brushed against her leg, the cat rubbed along her calf, the snake slithered near her heel. The wolf's low growl vibrated through the ground, the birds above cawed once in mocking harmony.
She tried to pray again, but the words dissolved into whimpers. Asmodeus took a slow drag on his cigarette, exhaling toward her, the smoke wrapping around her like invisible fingers.
Still, he did not move. Did not speak. He merely existed there, tempting her with his stillness, his indifference—a king waiting for tribute.
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The minutes stretched into an eternity of torment. Her body betrayed her first: nipples hardening beneath the coat, thighs pressing together against the growing wetness.
The wine bottle slipped from her fingers, shattering on the stone, red spilling like an offering at the Madonna's feet. Carmela's hands clawed at the statue, but her hips shifted restlessly, seeking friction that wasn't there.
"Please..."
She whispered at first, unsure to whom.
Asmodeus tilted his head slightly, the blue lenses catching her desperation. A faint smile curved his lips, but he remained passive, hands still in his pockets, cigarette burning down.
The ache became unbearable. The familiars pressed in—the goat nuzzling her thigh, the cat purring against her skin, the snake's cool body winding up her ankle.
Visions flashed unbidden: his hands finally emerging, gripping her, claiming her against the profane altar of the cemetery.
"No more..." she gasped, sliding down the statue to her knees in the mud and wine. Tears mixed with rain on her face. "I can't... I need..."
Her voice broke. She crawled forward, away from the Madonna's silent judgment, toward him.
Asmodeus Watched, Unmoving.
"Please."
She begged now, openly
Voice raw & drunken with lust.
"Take me. Possess me."
"Anything... just end this torment."
"Fuck me, demon... I beg you."
Only then did he remove one hand from his pocket, flicking the cigarette away. His fingers brushed her cheek as he stepped closer, the familiars parting like a dark sea.
And in the shadows of the unkempt Gothic cemetery, beneath the watchful eyes of beasts and birds, Carmela surrendered completely to the Demon of Lust—who had won her not with force, but with the exquisite cruelty of temptation fulfilled.
Carmela’s knees sank into the cold, wine-soaked mud as she crawled the final few feet toward him.
Carmela’s knees sank into the cold, wine-soaked mud as she crawled the final few feet toward him.
The fur coat had fallen open completely now, the tan pelt framing her bare skin like an obscene offering.
Rain slicked her body; the black netted nylons were shredded higher up her thighs, exposing pale flesh marked with scratches from brambles and the insistent brush of the familiars.
Her heavy jewelry swung between her breasts with every ragged breath—gold chains catching the faint moonlight, glinting like shackles she no longer wanted removed.
The demon Asmodeus had still barely moved. One hand now rested lightly on the pregnant Madonna’s stone shoulder, a blasphemous parody of protection, while the other remained buried in his pocket, the fabric of his trousers pulled taut across the unmistakable swell of his arousal.
The demon Asmodeus had still barely moved. One hand now rested lightly on the pregnant Madonna’s stone shoulder, a blasphemous parody of protection, while the other remained buried in his pocket, the fabric of his trousers pulled taut across the unmistakable swell of his arousal.
The cigarette had burned down to a stub between his lips; smoke drifted from his nostrils in slow, deliberate curls that snaked toward Carmela and wrapped around her throat like ghostly fingers.
Through the blue-tinted lenses of his round glasses, his eyes—ancient, amused, ravenous—never left her.
The familiars tightened their circle.
The black goat pressed its horned head between her thighs from behind, nudging with deliberate insistence, forcing her legs wider.
The familiars tightened their circle.
The black goat pressed its horned head between her thighs from behind, nudging with deliberate insistence, forcing her legs wider.
Its coarse fur scraped the sensitive skin high on her inner thighs; its hot breath grazed the damp lace that barely covered her.
The black cat leapt silently onto the base of the Madonna statue, arching its back and purring so deeply the vibration thrummed through the stone and into Carmela’s palms.
The snake slithered up her calf, over the ruined nylon, its cool scales tracing the same path the goat’s muzzle had taken, until its forked tongue flicked once—shockingly intimate—against the heat radiating from her core.
The rat scurried closer, gold coin forgotten, tiny claws scratching over her discarded wine bottle as if tasting her spilled desperation. From the grotto, the black wolf’s growl deepened into a low, rolling thunder that pulsed straight between her legs.
Above, the rook and magpie began a soft, mocking chatter that sounded almost like laughter.
Above, the rook and magpie began a soft, mocking chatter that sounded almost like laughter.
Every sensation assaulted her at once. The rain was ice on her flushed skin, yet inside she burned. Her nipples ached, rigid and begging for touch that never came.
Her clit throbbed in time with the cat’s purr, swollen and slick, straining against the soaked scrap of fabric clinging to her. The ache inside her had become a void—vast, hollow, unbearable.
She could feel her own wetness sliding down her thighs, mingling with rain and mud and wine until she was filthy, anointed, ready.
Still, Asmodeus did not move to take her.
Still, Asmodeus did not move to take her.
He simply watched, lips curving in that faint, cruel smile, as if her unraveling were the finest entertainment Hell had ever granted him.
Carmela’s hands clawed at the ground. She arched her back involuntarily, presenting herself to the night, to the familiars, to him. A broken sob tore from her throat—half prayer, half scream.
“Please…” The word was hoarse, shredded. “I’m burning… I can’t—look at me, please look at what you’ve done…”
His gaze traveled slowly down her body: the open coat, the trembling breasts, the ruined stockings, the obscene spread of her knees in the mud, the way her hips rolled in tiny, helpless circles seeking friction that wasn’t there.
Still, he waited.
Her pride shattered next. She dragged herself forward until her cheek pressed against the polished leather of his shoe.
Tears streaked the mud on her face as she kissed the toe, then the ankle, mouthing her way up the crease of his trousers like a supplicant.
“I’ll do anything,” she whispered against the fabric stretched over his calf. “Anything you want. Just touch me. Fill me. End this.”
Her hands reached for his thighs, trembling, desperate to pull that hidden hand free, to feel him hard and hot against her palm. But he shifted—just slightly—so her fingers grasped only air.
A whine escaped her, animal and raw.
“Louder,” he said at last. His voice was velvet and smoke, the first words he’d spoken, low and unhurried. “Let the Madonna hear exactly how far her refuge has fallen.”
Carmela’s whole body shuddered at the sound. She threw her head back, rain cascading over her upturned face, and cried out to the desolate sky:
“Fuck me! Please, Asmodeus—take me, ruin me, breed me right here on her holy ground! I’m begging you—I need your cock inside me, I need it now, I’ll die without it—”
The words echoed off the crypts, profane and piercing.
Only then did the demon move.
He withdrew his hand from his pocket at last—slowly, deliberately—and threaded his fingers through her wet, tangled blonde hair. He did not pull, did not force.
He simply held her there, suspended on the edge of mercy, letting her feel the promise of what was coming.
His thumb brushed once across her wine-stained lower lip.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
And in the shadows of the unkempt Gothic cemetery, surrounded by the triumphant gazes of his familiars, Carmela finally broke—utterly, willingly, gloriously—into the exquisite damnation she had begged for.
Asmodeus’s dry laugh rolled through the rain-soaked cemetery like distant thunder, low and mocking, utterly devoid of warmth.
His thumb brushed once across her wine-stained lower lip.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
And in the shadows of the unkempt Gothic cemetery, surrounded by the triumphant gazes of his familiars, Carmela finally broke—utterly, willingly, gloriously—into the exquisite damnation she had begged for.
Asmodeus’s dry laugh rolled through the rain-soaked cemetery like distant thunder, low and mocking, utterly devoid of warmth.
His fingers remained loosely threaded in her wet blonde hair, holding her face just inches from the strained fabric of his trousers, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the sharp mix of tobacco, sulfur, and something darker—pure, undiluted want.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Coose,” he drawled, the childhood pet-name her mother had once used now twisted into something filthy and shaming on his demonic tongue.
It struck her like a lash across the soul, stripping away the last pretense of dignity. Coose—the clumsy little goose who always waddled after things she couldn’t have. The name burned hotter than any slap ever could.
Fresh tears welled in Carmela’s eyes, but they were no longer tears of despair. They were tears of pure, humiliating need.
Fresh tears welled in Carmela’s eyes, but they were no longer tears of despair. They were tears of pure, humiliating need.
The word echoed inside her, unraveling her further, until she felt small, ridiculous, exactly the desperate, quivering creature he named her.
The familiars sensed the shift and pressed their advantage. The black goat shoved its muzzle harder between her spread thighs from behind, the tip of one curved horn grazing the soaked lace of her panties with deliberate cruelty.
The familiars sensed the shift and pressed their advantage. The black goat shoved its muzzle harder between her spread thighs from behind, the tip of one curved horn grazing the soaked lace of her panties with deliberate cruelty.
The snake tightened its coil around her ankle and slid higher, its smooth body gliding along the inside of her trembling leg until the cool weight of it rested against the heat of her sex, pressing—just pressing—without mercy.
The cat’s purr became a growl that vibrated straight through her clit. The wolf in the grotto rose to its feet, yellow eyes fixed on her exposed, arching form.
She was surrounded, displayed, degraded—and still he did not give her what she craved.
“Please…” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. She tried again, louder, but it came out a pathetic bleat. “Please, sir—”
Asmodeus exhaled a slow plume of smoke directly into her upturned face. “Not good enough, Coose. Little drunk geese don’t get fucked just for begging. They have to earn it.”
His free hand finally emerged from his pocket. He unhurriedly unbuttoned his suit jacket, then the top two buttons of his red ruffled shirt, revealing a sliver of pale chest marked with faint, ancient sigils that seemed to pulse in the dim light.
She was surrounded, displayed, degraded—and still he did not give her what she craved.
“Please…” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. She tried again, louder, but it came out a pathetic bleat. “Please, sir—”
Asmodeus exhaled a slow plume of smoke directly into her upturned face. “Not good enough, Coose. Little drunk geese don’t get fucked just for begging. They have to earn it.”
His free hand finally emerged from his pocket. He unhurriedly unbuttoned his suit jacket, then the top two buttons of his red ruffled shirt, revealing a sliver of pale chest marked with faint, ancient sigils that seemed to pulse in the dim light.
But he still didn’t touch her beyond the grip in her hair. He simply let her watch, let her imagine.
She could feel her own arousal dripping freely now, sliding down her thighs in warm rivulets that mingled indistinguishably with the cold rain.
“I’m your goose,” she sobbed suddenly, the confession ripping out of her. “I’m a stupid, filthy, drunk little goose who ran to the Virgin and ended up on her knees for a demon. I’m disgusting. I’m shameful. I—I don’t deserve your cock, but I need it, I’ll die without it—”
Her voice rose, frantic and broken.
“I’m your goose,” she sobbed suddenly, the confession ripping out of her. “I’m a stupid, filthy, drunk little goose who ran to the Virgin and ended up on her knees for a demon. I’m disgusting. I’m shameful. I—I don’t deserve your cock, but I need it, I’ll die without it—”
Her voice rose, frantic and broken.
“Please, Asmodeus, use your shameful little Coose! Fuck my mouth, my cunt, my ass—anywhere, everywhere—just stop teasing me! I’ll crawl through this whole cemetery on my hands and knees for you, I’ll lick the mud from your shoes, I’ll let your beasts mount me first if that’s what you want—just please, please fill me, breed me, ruin me forever—”
She broke off into a desperate, animal whine, pressing her open mouth against the hard line of his erection through the fabric, mouthing at it, licking the wool like a starved thing, tears and rain and smeared lipstick staining the dark material.
Only then did satisfaction flicker behind the blue-tinted lenses.
She broke off into a desperate, animal whine, pressing her open mouth against the hard line of his erection through the fabric, mouthing at it, licking the wool like a starved thing, tears and rain and smeared lipstick staining the dark material.
Only then did satisfaction flicker behind the blue-tinted lenses.
“That’s better,” he murmured, voice velvet-rough. His grip tightened in her hair—not painful, but absolute. “My pathetic, perfect little Coose.”
He pulled her head back gently, forcing her to meet his gaze as the rain poured down both of them.
“Now,” he said softly, “open that pretty mouth wide and show me exactly how grateful a shamed goose can be.”
And Carmela—lost, broken, gloriously damned—obeyed without hesitation, lips parting in trembling surrender as the demon of lust finally began to claim what she had begged so beautifully to give him.
Asmodeus’s fingers tightened in her sodden hair, yanking her head back so sharply that Carmela’s throat was bared to the cold rain.
The sudden arch of her back thrust her breasts forward, the tan fur coat slipping off her shoulders entirely and pooling in the mud behind her like a discarded skin.
Naked now except for the shredded black netted nylons clinging to her thighs and the gaudy jewelry that jangled with every tremor, she was utterly exposed—mud-streaked, wine-stained, rain-drenched, and shaking.
He looked down at her with lazy contempt, the blue-tinted lenses reflecting her ruined face back at herself.
He looked down at her with lazy contempt, the blue-tinted lenses reflecting her ruined face back at herself.
“Listen to you,” he said, voice low and arid, each word a fresh brand.
“Carmela Soprano—North Jersey princess, queen of the McMansion, devoted Catholic wife and mother—on her knees in a graveyard, begging a demon to fuck her like a common whore.
And not just begging. Groveling. Waddling after my cock like the fat little Coose you always were.”
The pet-name landed again, harder this time, and Carmela whimpered, cheeks burning crimson even through the cold.
She tried to lower her eyes in shame, but his grip prevented it, forcing her to meet his gaze while he catalogued her degradation.
“Look at the state of you,” he continued, conversational, as if remarking on the weather.
“Look at the state of you,” he continued, conversational, as if remarking on the weather.
“Lipstick smeared like a five-dollar hooker. Mascara running down those plump Italian cheeks.
Tits heaving, nipples hard as fucking pebbles because a goat and a snake have you dripping down your legs. You reek of cheap red wine and cheaper desperation.
The Madonna you crawled to for protection is watching you debase yourself at my feet, and you still can’t stop humping the air like a bitch in heat.”
A broken sob tore from her throat. The truth of it was unbearable—yet it flooded her with fresh, humiliating heat.
A broken sob tore from her throat. The truth of it was unbearable—yet it flooded her with fresh, humiliating heat.
She could feel the slick evidence of her arousal coating her inner thighs, could hear the wet sounds her body made with every involuntary twitch of her hips.
The familiars reveled in her shame.
The black goat mounted the air behind her, front hooves scraping her lower back as it mimed what she craved, its thick, ridged cock brushing teasingly along the cleft of her ass—never entering, just dragging through the mess she’d made of herself.
The snake coiled fully between her legs now, its body pressing directly against her swollen, lace-covered clit, undulating slowly so that every scale rasped over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
The cat leapt down and began licking—long, deliberate strokes of its rough tongue—along the underside of one breast, then the other, lapping at rain and sweat and humiliation as if it were cream.
Above, the rook let out a harsh, mocking caw that sounded exactly like laughter. The magpie answered with a chittering trill.
Above, the rook let out a harsh, mocking caw that sounded exactly like laughter. The magpie answered with a chittering trill.
Asmodeus released her hair only to crouch before her, bringing his face level with hers. He pinched her chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing her mouth open wider.
“Tell me again who you are, Coose,” he commanded softly. “Tell me exactly what you’ve become, loud enough for every dead soul in this cemetery to hear.”
Carmela’s voice shook, thick with tears and lust. “I’m—I’m Carmela Soprano,” she choked out, “and I’m a pathetic, drunk, faithless slut who betrayed her husband, her children, her God, all because I couldn’t control my greedy cunt. I’m a worthless goose who waddled straight into Hell’s lap and spread her legs for the Devil himself. I’m disgusting. I’m shameful. I’m nothing but a hole begging to be used.”
Each confession was punctuated by a fresh sob, yet her hips rolled shamelessly against the snake’s coils, chasing the degradation as much as the pleasure.
Asmodeus smiled—slow, cruel, satisfied.
“That’s right,” he murmured. He straightened, towering over her again, and finally—finally—began to unbuckle his belt with deliberate leisure. The sound of leather sliding through metal was deafening in the rain-soaked silence.
“But you’re not just any hole, Coose. You’re my hole now. And before I let you taste even a single inch of what you’re crying for, you’re going to thank every one of my beasts for helping strip the last shred of decency off you.”
He gestured lazily. The goat withdrew. The snake uncoiled. The cat sat back on its haunches, tail flicking.
Carmela understood. Humiliation complete, she lowered herself onto her elbows in the freezing mud, ass high, face pressed to the wet earth, and began to crawl—slowly, trembling—toward each familiar in turn, pressing grateful, tear-soaked kisses to fur, scale, and paw while whispering broken words of thanks for her own ruin.
Only when she had debased herself before every creature in the circle did Asmodeus speak again.
“Good little Coose,” he said, voice rich with dark approval. “Now come here and earn your reward.”
And Carmela—shattered, filthy, gloriously humiliated—crawled back to him on shaking limbs, ready to surrender everything for the privilege of being used exactly as the shameful creature he had named her.
Asmodeus looked down at the trembling, mud-smeared wreck that had once been Carmela Soprano, and his voice dropped to a silken, venomous purr that cut deeper than any shout ever could.
“Christ, look at you, Coose. Just look.”
He circled her slowly, boots squelching in the filth, forcing her to twist her neck to keep him in sight like a dog straining on an invisible leash.
“Big-shot mob wife, huh? All those years playing the perfect little Italian Madonna in your marble kitchen, rosary in one hand, Visa Black Card in the other. And now? Now you’re nothing but a fat-titted, wine-soaked pig wallowing in graveyard sludge, ass in the air, begging a demon to split you open because you’re too weak to keep your legs closed.”
He stopped behind her, nudged the goat aside with one polished shoe, and crouched. One gloved hand gripped her chin, wrenching her face up toward the stone Madonna’s serene gaze.
“See her up there? That’s what you thought you were—pure, untouchable, better than everyone. But we both know the truth, don’t we, you hypocritical cunt? You’ve been a greedy, cock-hungry slut your whole life. All those confessions in church weren’t for forgiveness—they were foreplay.
You got wet just whispering your sins to some dried-up priest who couldn’t even get hard anymore.”
He leaned closer, breath hot against her ear, words dripping acid.
“And now you’ve crawled to the real thing. Not for salvation—for a fucking. You threw away your husband, your kids, your immortal soul, because your sloppy, dripping hole couldn’t go one more night without being stuffed. Pathetic. Absolutely fucking pathetic.”
Carmela sobbed openly, body shaking with shame and unbearable arousal, but he wasn’t finished.
He leaned closer, breath hot against her ear, words dripping acid.
“And now you’ve crawled to the real thing. Not for salvation—for a fucking. You threw away your husband, your kids, your immortal soul, because your sloppy, dripping hole couldn’t go one more night without being stuffed. Pathetic. Absolutely fucking pathetic.”
Carmela sobbed openly, body shaking with shame and unbearable arousal, but he wasn’t finished.
“Say it, Coose. Say what you are. Loud. Let every corpse in this shithole hear exactly how low Carmela Soprano has fallen.”
Through chattering teeth and streaming tears, she forced the words out, voice cracking:
“I’m a pathetic, faithless, cock-starved whore… a dirty, drunk, middle-aged pig who betrayed everything for a demon’s dick… I’m a worthless, leaking cunt who doesn’t deserve anything but to be used and thrown away…”
Asmodeus laughed again—dry, cruel, delighted.
“Louder, you stupid bitch. Make the Virgin blush.”
She screamed it then, raw and ragged, the confession echoing off crumbling tombs:
“I’M A FILTHY, DISGUSTING, COCK-ADDICTED CUNT!
A FAT, DESPERATE, SHAMELESS GOOSE WHO SOLD HER SOUL FOR A FUCK!
I’M NOTHING! I’M GARBAGE!
PLEASE, PLEASE JUST USE YOUR WORTHLESS WHORE!”
Her voice broke into animal howls of humiliation, hips jerking helplessly, pussy clenching around nothing, dripping openly onto the sacred ground.
Only then did Asmodeus straighten, unhurried, and finally free his thick, straining cock from his trousers. He let it rest heavy and hot against her tear-streaked cheek, smearing precum across her smeared lipstick like a brand.
“That’s right, Coose,” he murmured, voice rich with dark satisfaction. “You’re not a wife. Not a mother. Not even a person anymore. You’re just a warm, wet set of holes that learned how to beg properly.”
He tapped the head of his cock against her parted lips—once, twice.
Her voice broke into animal howls of humiliation, hips jerking helplessly, pussy clenching around nothing, dripping openly onto the sacred ground.
Only then did Asmodeus straighten, unhurried, and finally free his thick, straining cock from his trousers. He let it rest heavy and hot against her tear-streaked cheek, smearing precum across her smeared lipstick like a brand.
“That’s right, Coose,” he murmured, voice rich with dark satisfaction. “You’re not a wife. Not a mother. Not even a person anymore. You’re just a warm, wet set of holes that learned how to beg properly.”
He tapped the head of his cock against her parted lips—once, twice.
“Now open that lying Catholic mouth and start proving you’re worth the cum I’m about to waste on a piece of trash like you.”
Carmela—utterly broken, utterly degraded, utterly his—opened wide with a desperate, grateful whimper, ready to choke on every last shred of her former self if it meant he would finally, mercifully, let her debased body have what it no longer had the right to want.
In the pouring rain of the desolate Gothic cemetery, Carmela Soprano—portrayed by Edie Falco—kneels broken and degraded in the mud before Asmodeus.
Her tan fur coat lies discarded behind her, leaving her completely exposed save for torn black fishnet stockings clinging to her thighs and heavy gold jewelry glinting against mud-streaked skin.
Short, disheveled big blonde hair is plastered to her face; smeared lipstick and running mascara mark her tear-stained cheeks. Her mouth is stretched wide around the demon’s thick cock, throat visibly working as she takes him deep, eyes rolled up in humiliated surrender.
Asmodeus, stands over her with casual dominance—long greasy black hair slick with rain, round wire-rim glasses with blue-tinted lenses, cigarette dangling from his lips trailing smoke.
Asmodeus, stands over her with casual dominance—long greasy black hair slick with rain, round wire-rim glasses with blue-tinted lenses, cigarette dangling from his lips trailing smoke.
His red ruffled shirt is open at the collar, black suit trousers pushed down just enough to free his erection, one hand loosely tangled in her hair guiding her rhythm while the other remains casually in his pocket.
Behind them looms the pregnant Madonna statue in sheer robes, serene and judgmental.
The black horned goat stands close, muzzle nudging Carmela’s raised ass; the black snake coils possessively around her thigh; the black cat perches on the statue base watching intently; the black rat gnaws its gold coin nearby; the black wolf’s glowing eyes peer from the stone grotto; and atop the ancient oak, the black rook and magpie observe the scene with tilted heads.
The atmosphere is dark, hyper-realistic, wet, and erotically charged—every detail of filth, shame, and demonic possession captured in stark cinematic realism.
The atmosphere is dark, hyper-realistic, wet, and erotically charged—every detail of filth, shame, and demonic possession captured in stark cinematic realism.
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. . .
(TO BE CONTINUED)
FROM
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS
APPENDIX II:
"Conspiracy of Crows"
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/07/the-young-sopranos-appendix-ii.html?m=1
(The Ghost of Tony Soprano
Appears to Carmela)
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS
APPENDIX III
THE GHOST OF TONY SOPRANO
APPEARS TO CARMELA
FURTHER
REFERENCES:
MEETING DEMON SPIRITS:
LILITH SUCCUBUS & INCUBUS
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/01/meeting-demon-spirits-lilith-succubus.html?m=1
FURTHER INTRODUCTIONS
OF DEMONIC DEITIES
LAMIA & JOHN KEATS
(PTSD DREAMS)
AN
INTRODUCTION
PART 2
FEMME DEITIES & DEMONESS’:
VISITING THE MADONNA
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/an-introduction-part-2-femme-deities.html?m=1
INTRODUCTIONS
DEMONS & FAMILIARS:
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/introductions-demons-familiars.html?m=1
THE MOTHER GODDESS
VISITING THE MADONNA
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/the-mother-goddess-visiting-madonna.html?m=1
ELECTRA
AKA: "ELLIE"
MEETING DEMON SPIRITS:
BALAAM THE FALSE PROPHET
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/electra-aka-ellie-meeting-demon-spirits.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA:
"MATTY ORLANDO"
RETURNS TO VISIT MAMMON
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-returns-to.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA: "MATTY ORLANDO "
MEETING DEMON SPIRITS: MAMMON
(PTSD DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-meeting-demon.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA: "MATTY ORLANDO"
VISITING THE MADONNA
(& MEETING WOLF-DEMON AAMON)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-visiting.html?m=1
DEMONS
"LILITH & AAMON"
(MEADOW & JACKIE JR)
A SUPPLIMENT FOR
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/demons-lilith-aamon-meadow-jackie-jr.html?m=1
AN
ANALYSIS
OF
"THE UNHINGING CRUX"
(Meadow's Virgin Islands Confessions)
FROM
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS(TYS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/12/analysis-of-unhinging-crux-from-young.html?m=1
AN ANALYSIS &
PHOTO ALBUM OF MEADOW'S MANY FACES
W/CARMELA COMPARISON
FROM
THE
YOUNG SOPRANOS
A SUPPLIMENT
OF
"THE YOUNG SOPRANOS"
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/07/read-young-sopranos-source.html?m=1
"MATILDA"
FROM LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL (1994)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-from-leon-professional-1994.html?m=1
MATILDA II
FROM LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-ii-from-leon-professional.html?m=1
"MATILDA" III
FROM LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-iii-from-leon-professional-1994.html?m=1
"MATILDA" IV
RESCUING BEETHOVEN
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-iv-rescuing-beethoven.html?m=1
"MATILDA" V
MATTY ORLANDO
DATING "JOHNNY B. GOODE"
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-v-dating-johnny-b-goode.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA: "MATTY ORLANDO"
VI
MAKE-UP PRACTICE SESSION
W/ JOHNNY B. GOODE
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-vi-make-up.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA:
"MATTY ORLANDO"
VII
MEMENTO MORI
(DRUNKEN DREAMS)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-vii-memento.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA
"MATTY ORLANDO"
SUBWAY RAT DREAMS
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-subway-rat.html?m=1
MATILDA
AKA:
"MATTY ORLANDO"
VII
MATTY ORLANDO'S
(Narrative)
"SECRET LIFE"
(W/ OUT JOHNNY B. GOODE)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matilda-aka-matty-orlando-vii-matty.html?m=1
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
RESCUES BEETHOVEN
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime.html?m=1
MORE
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
DATING
JOHNNY B. GOODE
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime-dating-johnny-b.html?m=1
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
MEMENTO MORI
(ROMANCING THE DEAD)
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime-memento-mori.html?m=1
"MATTY ORLANDO"
(ANIME)
MAKE-UP PRACTICE SESSION
W/ JOHNNY B. GOODE
https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2025/10/matty-orlando-anime-make-up-practice.html?m=1
"Johnny B. Goode"
(Live at the Fillmore East, NYC, NY - 1970) · Johnny Winter
https://youtu.be/gEayVWiJtLg?si=iePgaGvJVwQXTAmp
"TOYS IN THE ATTIC"
AEROSMITH--1975
"MATTY ORLANDO"
INSPIRED
BY:
LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL
(1994)
https://youtu.be/Pf0JW-cAFTs?si=-BMWviJ-Dham07HD
FURTHER
REFERRALS:
READ
THE YOUNG SOPRANOS
(SOURCE)
(W/ +36,000 TOTAL GLOBAL VIEWS)
RAYMOND CURTO JR
DIMEO CRIME FAMILY
(FICTITIOUS CHARACTER WITH MS)
"Our Vision: A World Free of MS"
Delivering Breakthroughs to a Cure
Invested $1.1 billion into research since 1946
Please Consider
Donating to MS SOCIETY:
https://donate.nationalmssociety.org/pages/8528
CAITLYN (MOLTISANTI) SOPRANO
(FICTITIOUS CANCER SURVIVOR)
Please
Consider Donating:
ST JUDES
CHILDREN HOSPITAL
ALL
AI GENERATED IMAGES
CREATED BY USING
WORD PROMPTS
2024-25
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