Chapter Text
Darxia doesn’t often visit without an explicit summons, but when she does, she’s in a foul mood.
One second, you’re pouring over an ancient text, and the next you’re staring at the ceiling, the familiar bite of demonic energy in the air. You haven’t even activated the summoning diagrams—nothing should be launching itself at you yet.
You focus on the creature above you and are only slightly relieved to see that it is, in fact, your sometimes-companion and always-nuisance of a succubus. It’s moments like this that you have to give some credit to the prevalent warlock stereotypes. Mages probably don’t get surprise visits from ill-tempered entities from the Twisting Nether.
You give a stuttering cough and glare.
“Take your time,” the demoness says, picking at her nails. She, at least, is unperturbed by your positions: you, flat on your back on the cellar floor, and she perched on your stomach. You’d have a thing or two to say if you could breathe.
“Darx,” you wheeze.
She ignores you.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” she drawls, not moving an inch, “that your energy has been spiking these past few days.”
You shove at her hips, but her hand catches yours, her grip vicelike.
“It also hasn’t escaped my attention, master, that you haven’t summoned me in, ohhh… a week?” She leans forward, nearly laying on top of you, her shifting weight squeezing the last reserves of air from your lungs.
Your mouth moves soundlessly beneath her pitiless gaze.
On an intellectual level, you know Darxia won’t kill you; she can’t. Her contract is very specific on that point. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop your body’s instinctual panic, which displeases you as much as it brings a smug light to your tormentor’s eyes.
“Oh, stop your fussing. The air will taste all the sweeter after a little pain.” She clicks her tongue and stretches.
You grunt as a hoof connects with your shin.
“As I was saying, we have a deal, and you—” She walks two fingers up your chest. “—are not making good on your end.” The fingers stop on your flickering pulse and press. “I’m getting hungry, dearest.” Her tongue flicks out, long and just a shade too violet. “And don’t you look like a snack.”
She finally lifts some of her weight from your chest, and you suck in a rasping lungful of air.
“Fuck.”
“Yes, precisely.”
You make to roll over, and surprisingly, she lets you.
“Are you out of your mind?” The role reversal doesn’t give you back your sense of control, and from the unrepentant grin on Darxia’s face, she knows who has the upper hand here.
“Poor little master, all out of sorts.” She pouts, plush lips doing nothing to distract from the unholy gleam in her eyes. “Perhaps if you took care of your body’s needs, you wouldn’t be so very weak to my influence.”
“Influence?” You straddle her middle and she arches suggestively. “Darx, you ambushed me; this isn’t the result of your dubious charms.”
“Hardly an ambush.” Her hands find your knees, sliding up your baggy, wash worn house robe. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for days now—hours, even.” Her lower lip juts out, comically unconvincing.
“I haven’t felt anything.”
“You never do.” She bucks under you, petulant.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy—”
“Replacing me, I know.” Her nails dig into your thighs and you wince.
Here you go again. Your spell tomes never mentioned that it was going to require a fel family meeting every time you want to bind a new demonic entity. Every one of your contracted companions—even Hargrym, your speechless felhunter—has an opinion on new additions. Mainly, that opinion is “no, absolutely not,” except with more hissing, spitting, and attempts at sabotage.
Demons, you’ve learned, are rubbish at sharing.
“Just because I’m learning to summon another demon doesn’t mean you’re getting replaced,” you say with a sigh. “We’ve been over this—”
“Tell that to Ebrak.”
A sharp sting on your arm makes you jump.
“Did you just tail whip me?!” You snatch said tail in one hand, ignoring her loud, suggestive moan when you squeeze it. “No, don’t do that, we’re—we’re not doing that right now.” You ignore the heat where your bodies connect, and the way Darxia’s wriggling has woken up parts of you that are better left sleeping. “And I still summon Ebrak! I summoned him just last week!”
“Yes, to light your hearth. I heard.” Her lip wobbles, and if it wasn’t for the fingers still crawling up your thighs, you might believe the mistiness in her inhuman eyes. “Poor little fire imp, abandoned by his mistress. I hear he can barely throw a spark, so dried up and deprived of your sympathetic magic—”
“And yet he nearly combusted my favorite reading chair when I asked him to light the candles,” you say, dry as kindling. “I’d say he’s doing fine.”
“Well I am not!” Her palms slap your thighs with enough force to make you wince. “I agreed to this contract because I wanted a needy little slut, and you—are—not—delivering!” She emphasizes each word with another resounding thwap, and if she thinks you don’t notice the way she’s shifting around until she’s hitting the meat of your ass, you definitely do.
“Sorry,” you lie. “I’m an academic first, and omega… um. Probably fourth. After tea connoisseur and third rate tailor.”
The demonic screech you get in response is less than sexy.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a ritual to prepare.” You risk shifting your weight off of the tantruming succubus, knees cracking against the cellar floor.
She doesn’t move from her spot beside your chalked diagram, instead curling as if on a mattress and not swept stone.
“You’re going to make me watch you summon my replacement?” Her tail drapes over a bare thigh, still twitching.
“I can barely make you abide by our contract terms—and those are literally written in blood.” You stretch, back and shoulders taut from hunching over your work. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the tug on my magic when you came through,” you continue, pointing. “You’re not supposed to do that without a summons.”
Your mana levels have been fluctuating for several days—Darxia is right about that—but you still felt the slight drain of her demonic portal. You probably could have stopped her if you weren’t so caught up in the complexities of your newest project, but your succubus is wily and her timing was no accident.
“Whoops.” Her smile is predatory.
You huff. “Yes, whoops, you awful harlot.” The tome on your desk is still open to the correct spell, and you trace a careful finger down the page, looking for the place you left off. “Let’s see… Base components? Check. Amplifying runes…? Check. Power source? Well, that’s me, so ch—”
A pointy chin digs into your shoulder.
“No,” you say before she has the chance to speak.
Demonically warm hands bracket your hips, smoothing the front of your robes with gentle circles.
“Let’s not fight, dearest,” Darxia breathes into your neck. Her kiss turns into a nip.
You flinch at the sting. “No one is fighting or fucking.” Best put your foot down now, before she spends the whole day moping around and pretending to masturbate to get your attention.
“Ugh—!” Her hoof stomp echoes through the room, your lack of rugs making for a less-than-homey study space. It’s the best room for a summoning circle, though, and that’s enough to make up for the damp and cobwebs swaying from exposed beams.
“Can you go back without siphoning from me?” you ask absently, still skimming the tiny script that looks like it’s been inked in demon blood. “I need all my power for this.”
The yowl Darxia makes is not unlike a cat’s, though it reverberates in a way that has your small hairs standing on end.
“Could you not do that in my ear? And stop—ah, stop that!”
She’s apparently decided that an intimate massage is in order, fingers splaying over your belly and then inching downward. It feels good—of course it does—and even moreso when she meanders down to the cleft of your legs.
You’re growing damp despite yourself.
“That’s not the safe word,” she whispers, gently stroking you through your robes. Her tongue flicks against your ear, then into it, fingers unwavering despite your feeble attempts at bucking her off.
“That’s—hah—because this isn’t sex,” you whine, voice cracking over the word ‘sex.’
She chuckles as your hips—accidentally—cant in time with her movements. “Then why are you making that face?”
“You can’t even see my face, yooou—oh, you wretched creature.” Your legs spread of their own volition, head falling back to rest on Darxia’s shoulder.
She presses circles over your clit as a reward.
“Mm, yes, that face.” Her other hand cups your neck, nails drawing thin lines up and down the column of your throat. “The one you make when you want me to take control.”
“The last thing I need is for you to—”
Her nails scrape hard enough to silence your protest.
“Let’s not mince words, hm?” she croons, hand dipping under your sagging neckline. Smooth fingertips skim the swell of your breast, barely there until they find your nipple and pinch.
You can’t help but squeak in response.
“Mistress, you know I live to serve—” You’d laugh if you had the lung capacity. “—so let me help you.”
“Help me, what?” you grit out, trying to tamp down on your exasperated grin. “Forget what I’m doing?”
A tsk, tsk in your ear. “Oh no, if I’m not enough for you, by all means, finish the spell. In fact, if you let me have a little taste—” Her tongue laves up the side of your face. “—I’ll even help you summon your next little playmate.”
Condescending as that is, it’s a tempting offer; you could use the extra power source.
“Should I get that offer in writing, or—?”
She spins you so fast that the room blurs, candlelight streaking.
“No need, dearest.” Her smile is all sharp teeth and victory. “You can trust me.”
If anything, her reassurance makes you more doubtful, but when she tugs you to the couch in the corner, and you go willingly. Hopefully, even.
Look, growing up as a kid into the occult was lonely, and most adults are even more wary of your kind. Life before your summonable companions was bleak. Darxia, for all her faults, fights hoof and nail to stay by your side. She alone seeks out your attention and touch, and you’re just not strong enough to withstand that kind of focus.
Also, her tongue is basically prehensile.
“So how do you want m—”
A taloned hand shoves you into the overstuffed cushions. “I want you to shut your mouth and spread your legs.”
You obey, though apparently not well enough.
A cloven hood plants itself between your knees and Darxia leans in, fisting your hair by the roots.
“Pretty, pretty mistress,” she says, voice soft where her treatment is not. “If you want me to lick that slick cunt of yours, you had better spread—your—legs.”
This time you do, wide enough to feel a draft even covered by folds of your robe. You’ve gone undergarment-less today—due to laundry rather than sexy reasons—and the rush of cool, cellar air raises chill bumps. Darxia’s violet tongue tip races them down your neck and chest, leaving even more in her wake.
A harsh tug on your scalp pricks tears in your eyes. You close them, arching up.
“Much better.” She bites your clothed breast, tongue flickering over your nipple.
You don’t mind mussing a bit of fabric, but this robe has been with you since your tailoring apprenticeship, and it had better not go the same way as your favorite cloak’s lining. You open your mouth to tell your lover to keep her claws sheathed this time, but she, sensing your restlessness, grips one knee and yanks. Your head bounces back against the cushions with a muffled fwump, limbs akimbo, robe flipped up to your hips.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep your mouth shut?” she purrs, but there’s an edge there. Like a knife, you can press harder if you want to feel pain.
And because you’ve always had a thing for beautiful blades, you ask, “Who’s the familiar here?”
Darxia’s grin is, for lack of a better term, demonic.
“Oh, I had hoped you would feel the same.” Her wings flutter behind her, anticipatory. The hand on your knee tightens, and you’re certain her nails draw blood.
“Now,” she says, assuming that deeper, layered tone that means she’s weaving a charm, “turn around.”
Her magic hits your brain like six shots of gnomish liquor—the kind that looks like a science experiment and comes with multiple warning labels. It fizzes down your spine, relaxing muscles and electrifying nerves.
“There’s no need to—”
A pinch to your inner thigh has you scrambling to obey, the warmth of her charm working you over like an actual heat.
“Don’t fight it, dearest.” Her hand presses between your shoulder blades, bowing you until your face tips into the seat cushions. “It will make things easier.”
“What things?” Your voice is muffled, so you turn to face the room.
Darxia winks, bopping your nose. “Patience.”
“Patience is a virtue,” you gripe. “We deal more in vices.”
Inhuman eyes roll to the ceiling. “So be desperate, then.”
You don’t see it, but you feel the razorlike lash of her tail on your bared thigh. You manage to stay silent, but your breath catches.
“Now,” she says with relish, “what more do you need for this spell of yours?”
The question throws you—Darxia is bratty, willful, and selfish, and she’s already made her opinions on your new familiar clear. If she’s seducing you as a distraction, why is she—?
Another tail lash loosens your tongue.
“Just—just the incantation, I think.” You have to bite back a moan at the way she teases, fingers dancing up the backs of your thighs only to lightly stroke at your folds. Her magic is making it hard to think, and your words keep slipping as if through a sieve. “But I—oh, just touch me already—”
She pauses, and you rock back into her retreating hand.
“What else, hm? A satyr’s hoof? A child’s scream?”
You hope your thwarted pleasure is supercharging her, because the only thing it’s doing for you is layering sexual frustration over your magical haziness.
“All the reagents are there,” you manage, and get a little pinch to your clit for your effort. You roll your forehead back into the seat and groan. “I just need to check over the diagram agai—”
“It looks fine.”
You peek at her, and she actually looks… serious? No, contemplative. Her glowing eyes are on your painstakingly chalked summoning circle, though her hand still strokes you with quiet purpose. You can hear her tail flicking the edge of the couch, but it doesn’t touch you—for now.
“How would you like to play a game, mistress?” Her inflection sets off several alarm bells despite your scattered thoughts. It’s too smooth, too… sweet.
“Does it involve an orgasm?”
There’s the suggestion of nails, enough to make you reflexively close your legs. A living cord wraps around your thigh, nearly pulling you off the couch. You splay, off balance, and more exposed than you were to start.
“Have I ever left you wanting?” she asks, conveniently forgetting the times she’s done just that.
You tilt your head enough to mumble, “That tavern in Dun Morogh?”
Sharp-tipped hands wrench your hips back into proper presentation.
“You said you didn’t want the dwarves to see us fucking.”
Your robe hem has slid up to your middle back, leaving your lower half entirely bare to the succubus’s ministrations.
“So you left me—” You suck in a gasp when you feel her hot breath on your cunt. “You—you left me with my robe g-gaaaaping—”
She plunges the full, writhing length of her tongue into you.
You try to buck back, but her tail tenses in warning. You can only grit your teeth and wind tighter as she plays you like a wet fiddle, slick sounds occasionally interspersed with her strange, inhuman vocalizations. It should be eerie, having a demon between your legs, but instead it’s just… perfect.
Her tongue curls at an angle that has you tensing hard enough to hurt. Per usual, she’s uncareful of her teeth, the pleasure-pain welcome as she toys with the swollen bud of your clit.
You’ve already forgotten your banter, so when she pulls back, you beat the couch with a fist.
“Oh, yes, I remember,” she says, ignoring your fury. “Didn’t I make that up to you? I seem to recall a noise complaint from the innkeeper.”
She licks a stripe up the curve of your ass—smugly, you can tell from her huffing, little laugh—and returns to making your eyes cross before you can tell her that that hardly excuses strange dwarves seeing your hickey-covered tits. Her pace picks up, the flex of her tongue driving you farther into the couch.
“Falling stars, Darx,” you pant. Your thighs burn, knuckles paling around the thick upholstery. You have to swallow back a plea to please let you come.
Which, of course, means she stops.
“No, no, no, no, nooo—” You shake your head, probably getting a worse imprint of the stitching on your face.
“Stop it, you.” There’s a swat to your backside. “I’m trying to help.”
The cushions swallow your frustrated scream.
Hooves cross the cellar floor, but you don’t look up to watch. Whatever is on her mind, Darxia will make it known—meanwhile, you’re in the corner, ass in the air and dripping slick onto the furniture.
If she’s going to reduce you to an omega stereotype, you think, she’s damn well going to see it through.
The first syllable of her True Name hardly passes your lips before something heavy hits the cushions a whisper from your head. You freeze, eyes wide on the pattern in front of you.
“Let me make the rules of our game, hm?” Her voice is closer than you expect, the threat soft but implicit. “Now why don’t you use your tongue while I’m using mine?”
That’s more than agreeable, but when you meekly lift your head, you see that it’s not reciprocation that she wants from you.
“What?” You ask, eyes level with the thick spine of your summoning tome. Then your spell-and-sex-addled brain catches up to her meaning. “Oh, no. Not happening.”
The fact that she doesn’t lose her mind at the n-o word means that she thinks she’s already won.
Darxia tap-tap-taps her fingers along your ass.
“If you want my help—which you do—and if you want an orgasm—which you most certainly do—” She tuts at your grimace, gleefully unsympathetic. “—then you’re going to do as I say. And I say you should boost our combined power by coming in my mouth.”
“While I summon another demon.”
“Yes, obviously while you summon another demon.”
Your eyes flick between her and the book, your neck twisted at an angle.
“Is this a jealousy thing?” you ask, mystified and not at all less horny. Her questing fingers aren’t helping matters.
She sneers. “It’s a power thing.”
“Like a power boost thing or a power play thing, because—ow!” You rub yourself where her latest disapproving tail lash has left a welt. “Stars, that was mean.”
“Should I leave, or are you going to stop wasting my time?”
You’d point out that she’s the one who showed up and inserted herself unannounced, but the fear that she’ll follow through is too great. Pettiness is one of Darxia’s most endearing qualities.
You open the tome with a stifled sigh.
“Raise your hips,” she says when you’ve found your page. “I’m not bending more than I have to.”
“Yes, mistress.” Your tone might be thick with sarcasm, but you still do as she says.
“Ooo, I do like the sound of that.” She resettles, kneading your ass.
“Is this really going to amplify our power?”
“Mm, probably.”
“Probably?”
Fingers spread you suddenly, and Darxia dips in, one long thrust of her tongue that has your nose hanging an inch from the yellowed page.
She pulls back to flick the thin, purple tip over your clit. “Won’t it be fun to find out?”
Well, you didn’t pursue this path to be a hand wringing priest.
You take a deep breath.
Summoning is part art, part science, and part business transaction. In order to attract beings of similar—or, gods willing, greater—power than you, you have to be tricky in your wording. Decent warlocks can entice strong demons while weeding out weaker opportunists. You have to understand the magical theories, be flexible enough to adapt them to your needs, and also be cutthroat in the crafting of contracts and loopholes. Every summons is a half an agreement, sent between realities. It’s a bribe, an offer, a blind request, a—
“—N ejdlg nz hrni ni glwlgil hgmjibmhmfbl. lbb nz nh ni, rlbbe mjd oep mgl denjv hrl aeih—”
—well, from an outside perspective, it sounds like a murloc having a stroke, but it’s really very sophisticated stuff.
You’ve never had an audience for one of these, but beyond a muffled snicker at your pronunciation of “dark powers,” Darxia seems content to simply tongue fuck you into near incoherence. If you were under the impression that she’s here to help, that’s quickly thrown out the window as she uses every dirty trick in the book to get you to trip up in your chant. You actually have to pause at one point—very hard to do with a language that’s half alive and picking up momentum—to breathe through a sob, the pattern of her tongue making your legs quiver in near-orgasm.
Through a haze of unshed tears, you see the circle on the floor pulsing an angry red. The candles have lit of their own accord, their flames a similarly bloody shade.
Darxia yanks your hips up farther, twisting her tongue with inhuman force.
“—n bnwl nj zlmg ez ao aea glmdnjv hrni,” you slur, reaching the finish line with a hoarsely shouted, “SMJ OEP NAMVNJL!”
Something is coalescing in the circle now, but you’re too far gone to appreciate it. If you didn’t know better, you’d think your succubus is eating more than your sexual energies, her slick, sloppy noises loud even over the hiss and sputter of dark magic. You feel amazing, though—strong, like a current of power is running right through you, branching toward both the summoning diagram and to the demon with her mouth on your cunt.
The moment the other demon presses through the barrier, you come with a strangled sound. The burst of energies flowing in both directions is like its own magical orgasm, whiting out your vision with the force of it. Darxia bears you down to the couch, wringing a warbling cry from your throat, and then pinning your legs open to chase the kind of tearful overstimulation that only she can create.
You can’t tell if your desperation is a result of her magic or your own biology, but now that your task is finished, you chase the feeling. Your head hits the armrest and you twist your forehead against it, panting. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the great, hulking figure of your newest companion, glowing green eyes fixed on your writhing form.
“Say his Name,” Darxia hisses behind you. The little kitten licks she gives your clit are bad for your higher brain functions, but it’s less distracting than getting railed by her tongue.
The terms of your contract were met when the demon accepted your summons—all you need to do now is Name him. His True Name is there, just out of reach, but as your spiral toward another trembling orgasm, you see it in your mind’s eye.
“Ror’draash,” you whisper, “seal he oepg anihglii.”
Come to your mistress.
It’s with the sound of breaking chains that your new doomguard crosses the boundary of his summoning circle. As if he is suddenly made real, you can sense him with more than your eyes, your nose catching the heavy scent of alpha demon, your ears hearing the great stomp of his hooves as he steps fully into the this plane.
“Oh, what fun,” Darxia says, and then you are pulled back, against her chest, as the other demon looms.
Ror’draash is massive, his ruddy frame seeming to shrink the room around him. Many of his features are reminiscent of Darxia’s, but where she is slender and tapered, he is thickly built, shaped for brute, physical force. His face, too, is different, inhuman in all the ways hers isn’t, crafted to frighten mortals rather than draw them in. His bottom jaw juts like an orc’s, his teeth fanged, two rows of spikes under fel green eyes that burn with something hotter than fury.
“Ror’draash,” you say again, and though your voice is soft, the force of his True Name seems to hit him in the barrel of his chest.
“Mistress,” he growls. His shoulders heave, wings flexing with a crack that usually spells listeners’ doom.
“Well don’t just stand there, big boy.” Darxia’s hands are under your robe, finally lifting the oversized piece of clothing off of you and tossing it free from the path of destruction. “I know you didn’t accept this invitation just to stare.”
Intent is part of the summoning spell. Ror’draash knew exactly what he was getting into when he let himself be bound, much as Darxia knew you were an omega.
Ror’draash tilts his head, the dark line of his horns seeming to absorb what little light is left in the room. His eyes follow the swell of your breasts and the sweat still cooling on your skin before dipping to the glistening mess of slick between your legs. Darxia holds one of your knees flush to the couch, keeping you open and vulnerable.
Hot breath blows past your ear in an irritated sigh.
“Honestly,” she huffs, “I have to do everything.”
You’re thrust—quite unceremoniously—into large, three fingered hands, the heat of them much greater than a human’s. The front of your doomguard’s great, armored belt digs into your belly and chest, warm from wherever Ror’draash was before this. Thick fingers wrap around your middle, flexing as if testing your softness.
“On the couch,” Darxia commands, and you turn to see her on her side, one leg curled under, patting the cushion by her thigh. “If you fit.”
You’re doubtful of that, too, but Ror’draash turns and, after a moment, settles his weight onto the already noticeable sag of your couch, his tail flicking out to lay beside his leg. You’re pulled into his lap as a consequence, and Darxia wastes no time in tugging the knee nearest hear out wider, so that your cunt is pressed against the sizeable bulge under Ror’draash’s belt. When you gasp, rocking slightly, a large hand cups your ass and Ror’draash gives a little thrusts his hips, as if unsure. The moan he gets in reply must be acceptable, because you’re pulled further into him, riding him through armor and cloth, the fabric under you swiftly darkening with slick.
Darxia isn’t content to simply feed on ambient energies. She repositions so she can toy with you herself, playing with your breasts while they bounce.
“Now isn’t this lovely?” she says, and gives your nipple a cruel little twist.
You gasp and arch, but she just continues with, “But wouldn’t it be lovelier with a nice, fat cock in you? Ror, dear, your mistress needs to come around a knot like I need a good meal, and luckily—” There’s a draft as she repositions to just behind you, one hand traveling down the damp skin of your stomach to resume her earlier torture. “—I am a natural born problem solver. Eeeverybody wins.”
You almost choke on air when she finds your clit again, glad for the false heat of her charm as it makes the zinging oversensitivity more pleasant than painful.
“Please,” you find yourself saying, even though you hate using that word with demons.
“See? You’re making our poor mistress beg!” Her words may be sympathetic, but her tone is all wicked amusement. “Some familiar you are,” she says as if she has ever brought you anything but frustration, sexual or otherwise.
The fabric of Ror’draash’s covering is almost rough to your swollen, aching flesh, and you’re glad to feel it ripped aside—and to hear the unbuckling of armored latches. Beneath you, metal shifts.
Darxia hums in approval as the doomguard’s cock springs free, though the length of it feels thick as a limb against you.
You glance down and balk.
“That—‘s going to kill me,” you groan, but when his hand cups your ass and pulls, you don’t resist, working yourself against his superheated flesh. The underside of his cock is textured—almost ribbed—and his knot sits beneath you, intimidating even partly engorged.
“As noble a death as that would be—” Darxia has no problem reaching between you to give Ror’draash a little stroke. You catch her thrilled expression when he responds with a growling half-thrust into her hand. “I have many plans for us, dearest. Better resign yourself to living.”
“But—hah—” You have to grit your teeth as a particularly good thrust has your clit riding against the head of his cock, the violently red-purple skin smeared with precum and slick. “—will I—be able to—walk?”
She clicks her tongue. “Let’s find out. Wph nh nj dnwirnh.”
You catch the gist of her command, but it does nothing to prepare you for being lifted onto Ror’draash’s monster cock. Instead of rocking against it, you’re placed astride, and the thick head barely wedges into you before you’re bucking back.
“Oh no—no, no, no—”
“That isn’t the safe word,” Darxia sing-songs, and then presses you down.
You don’t have time to wonder if you’re splitting in two, because Ror’draash is already there, hot as a length of hammered steel and just as hard, hilted to his half-blown knot. You tremble, overwhelmed, and slide forward, resting your forehead on his clay-colored chest.
“There—that wasn’t so bad, hm?” Her hand smooths down your back.
“D-don’t—don’t talk t’ me,” you mutter through a jaw that wants to chatter.
It’s so much—too much—but then warmth suffuses through your back, and Darxia’s spell soothes the sharp ache, turning pain to mere tenderness. You can feel the pulse of Ror’draash now, in you, holding as still as he can, though each unwitting clench of your core makes him twitch.
“I thought you liked it when I use my tongue?” Darxia laughs, then slaps your ass, the force of it making you sputter and jerk against your newest lover.
Ror’draash, apparently having had enough of your banter, thrusts up, and if you thought he was deep before, it’s nothing on the way he moves inside of you.
“Oh—oh—” You’re suddenly very aware of how near you are to another orgasm. Your fingers dig into Ror’draash’s broad shoulders, trying and failing to find a rhythm between your demons’ ministrations.
“Just let go,” Darxia whispers.
So you surrender to the feeling, concentrating on the blaze of heat and sensation between your legs, Ror’draash’s cock stoking a felfire inferno where his ridges catch and pull. His knot is impossible, insurmountable, but as you bounce, two pairs of hands help you bear down, working you open.
“I’m—” You try to catch your breath, but the air is dense and close, hot with demon flesh.
“Are you coming again, dearest?” Darxia doesn’t sound surprised.
You shake your head, half wild with need. Something is building in you, but it feels too powerful to be an orgasm.
“Yes, you are,” she croons. “Let me have it, sweetling. Come for us.”
You’re splitting, breaking open on his knot, the pressure at your entrance so great it’s as though you will burst.
—And then he is inside, seated so fully that you’re sure you’ll never part, stretched to a point past pain.
You come on a sob.
Except, to say that you come is to say that Stranglethorn is warm—an understatement of comedic proportions. Instead, you shatter, hips stuck so that each thrust is a push-pull between you and Ror’draash, his own desperate climax so close that he takes you in hand, heedless of your smaller size, and grinds you down on his knot. His grunts are the loudest sound in the room—louder than even your thundering heartbeat—as he works himself to completion. His knot swells even further as he comes, the hot rush of his seed reminding you that this is a demon filling you up. For all that you’ve fooled around with Darxia, you’ve never actually ridden a demon cock.
“There’s a girl, mmm—” If anything, Darxia sounds as blissed out as you.
You peep an eye open—though when you closed them, you’re not sure—and peer down at your succubus, who has slumped over on the couch. Her tail is flicking languidly, but otherwise she’s unmoving.
“Good for you?” you ask through sex-numb lips. You’re still fluttering from violent aftershocks, straddling Ror’draash, head on his sweltering shoulder.
“Don’t act like you got nothing out of it.” Her tail flicks against your sweaty thigh, but not hard enough to hurt. Tender aftercare, from her. “I saw you squirt slick everywhere.”
You can’t bring yourself to argue, yawning wide against your lovely, new alpha demon. “Are you well, Ror’draash?”
“Yes, mistress,” he rumbles, and a massive hand pets down your back.
You ought to feel more wrung out than this—not only did you just get railed within an inch of your life, but summoning greater demons takes an incredible amount of power.
“I think your magic thing worked,” you mumble and shudder as another hot spurt fills you. Your belly is fairly sloshing with demon come, and you dread to think of the state of your couch.
“Of course it did, darling. I’m quite gifted.”
“And great at sharing,” you add, only half joking.
Who knew that Darxia could compromise? Not you.
She pinches your thigh, but it’s halfhearted. “Don’t slander me like that again.”
Ror’draash brushes her hand away. “Hush now.”
To your astonishment, Darxia doesn’t bicker, instead curling in tighter and closing her eyes. You think one of her hooves is resting against the doomguard’s calf.
Oh, you think as your eyelids grow heavy, this could be nice.
You don’t even consider dismissing your companions as you drift off, dreaming not of lonely days gone by, but of a future with hooves and horns and two pairs of hands to hold.