“P-please…” she moans.

I watch the virgin beauty, floating above her. She’s twisting in her bedsheets. They’re covered in sweat and slick pussy juices, practically soaking.

“Please what?”

She hears my voice directly in her brain. I don’t make sounds, usually—that’s her job.

“P-please…” she says again. “I…I need it…”

She has—as the parlance goes—a great fucking rack. Her natural 36DD titties are covered with a healthy sheen of sweat, making them sparkle in the moonlight. It’s one of my favorite sights, seeing tits in this way. Exposed. Dripping with needy sweat. Her modest nightgown has been torn to shreds around her body. Small strips of cloth are even shoved up into her cunt in her desperate flurry to get anything inside.

“What do you need?”

“I need to cum…please. Please…”

She’s young. Nineteen. A virgin’s virgin. She has a boyfriend she keeps at arm’s length—a boyfriend she’s barely been texting once a day for the past week since I started invading her dreams. He probably would have complained more directly about her distance by now if she wasn’t so smoking hot.

“What will you give me if I let you cum?”

“Anything.” The answer is immediate. It always is. “I’ll give you anything. P-please. I c-can’t…I can’t on my own. I tried for sooo long…”

I know she did. As good as I am at making girls cum, especially gorgeous ones, I actually make it impossible for them to do so when I’ve got my grip on them unless I’m the one fucking them. She’s been edging for twenty of the last twenty-four hours. In the days prior to this, it was eighteen hours, sixteen hours, and so on.

“Your soul?”

“What? I-I…”

“Promise me your soul, doll, and I’ll let you cum.”

“I-I…”

I intensify her pleasure. A thought here, a little bit of a whisper there. She writhes in response, twisting and moaning. Her mind blanking with the intense edging need to cum and cum hard. As I said, I’ve been in her brain for a week now. I know all her triggers, all her important parts. She’s just a machine now, and all I have to do is press the buttons.

She could, I suppose still resist. She has the choice. It’s important—I guess capital-I Important that she chooses. If she doesn’t, then the boys Upstairs get real fucking upset and there’s a whole deal where I have to be hunted and they have to be paid off with a few early releases from Downstairs.

But, nobody resists me. I’m the best incubus there’s ever been.

“Y-yes!” she groans, thrashing, on the constant cusp of an ocean of orgasm. “Whatever you say! Whatever you want! My soul! I promise you my soul! Take it! Just let me cum, please!”

Grinning, sliding down on top of her slick, gorgeous virgin body—I enter her and take what’s mine. What she promised me.

Like I always do.

* * * * *

I’m an incubus. People think my job is just seducing women in their dreams—but it’s more than that.

Look, I’m not gonna lie—I’ve seduced thousands of women in their dreams. I know exactly what to give them so that they toss and turn and heat up and twist and writhe and moan and slide their nimble, precious fingers up inside their hot cunts and beg to give their souls to me just for the promise of one mind-blistering orgasm.

Of course I give it to them, if they give me what I want first. I’ve got the cock for it. There’s not a lot of sex demons around who aren’t beautifully hung. My cock is enormous, heavy, thick, and goddammit—my cock is gorgeous. You could hang black-and-white photos and Rococo-style paintings of my cock in the Museum of Modern Art, all right? It’s really fucking great.

All that to say, I’m good at what I do, all right? It’s a talent. It’s a gift. I was made to corrupt.

But. You know? I’m millions of years old. I’ve been around since pretty much the beginning of life on Earth. Humans, the way they talk sometimes, it’s all they’d like to know.

How did it all start? What’s the Creator like? What happened to piss him off so much? Why are there demons at all?

All the explanations there are more boring that you’d like. Enjoy the question, believe me. The question is the good part. Asking the question means you care. Once you have the answers? You just look for some new question—and that part, not knowing what you want to ask even though you feel like asking—that’s torture. A special part of hell is devoted to just that—trust me.

Anyway. So—I’m millions of years old. And woof—it does get boring just to seduce, corrupt, and fuck a girl in her dreams after a while. Even if they’re sparkling-hot gorgeous, like mine always are. Even if they’re super extra-special good girls, like a lot of mine are.

Demons like me operate on a kind of quota system. We have to grab so many souls per century or else we’re in the shit. Good souls are worth more, of course, because that pisses off the Upstairs (which the Downstairs fucking loves), and if you’re corrupting a bad soul, the Downstairs is just kind of confused.

So anyway. It’s the twenty-first year of this century and I’m already way past my quota. Thanks to a fun escapade I had with a super-religious sorority during rush week, I’ve already doomed more than seventy-five girls this year to an eternity of pain, suffering, and humiliation.

So, I’m good. I’ve kind of got free reign to do whatever.

I’m on vacation. So what does a demon—whose entire existence revolves around fucking up women and dooming them to eternal damnation—do with his vacation time?

Normally, I just corrupt more girls. I like it. I don’t exactly get soft. In fact, I’m pretty much always as hard as a fucking rock, streaming demonic precum and thinking about fucking up the mind and lives of one more girl. It’s a nice thought for me.

But—and I know I keep making tangents—I’m millions of years old. And it has gotten just a bit boring, doing what I do.

I’m surprised that it’s boring—I mean, I can think of plenty of humans who would kill to have this kind of power (and they’re probably on their way Downstairs). And I looked forward to it for millions of years before you stupid flesh-sacks finally showed up. I mean, goddamn, I am millions of years old, and human civilization has been around for what, ten thousand years? You guys take forever to get stuff done. Thank god you finally figured out the internet.

Well, no, actually. God had nothing to do with that one.

So, the question again—what does a demon do with his vacation?

I’d like to do something different, for once.

Lately, you know what I’ve been thinking about?

Bad girls.

* * * * *

From my eternal rocky perch Downstairs, surrounded by the normal fires and darkness and smoke and chorus of screams, I consider what I really want and where to go. I’ve got a special portal—it looks a little something like a big full-sized mirror—that gives me a high-definition view of whatever I want to see.

It’s an old tool for scouting out a place before I go there, and it also lets me see a considerable time into the past. The time range isn’t infinite—I can only see into the past five thousand years or so—but even with such a limited timespan I can keep up with most people.

As a demonic entity, I can go anywhere, look like anyone, and trick mortal minds into letting me into wherever without much trouble. So, my options are wide open—and I’m spoiled for choice.

I want someone horribly hot, first of all. No sense in taking a vacation with a girl if she doesn’t look sensational all the time—and I’m very particular about my aesthetic. I’ve noticed that the more someone cares about their appearance, they’re generally both A.) worse as a person but also, very important B.) really good-looking.

She also has to be horrible, obviously. Someone who has all the amazing mixtures of the worst of humanity in the highest volumes possible. I’m not talking just snotty or shitty or vain or greedy—though, ugh, that’s all amazing. I mean she better be stealing, homicidal-curious if not homicidal (though what a dream if she was genocidal), and some real old breaking-the-ten-commandments-stuff—hates her parents, worships false idols, all of that. To do all that, she probably has to be rich as fuck, because in the world you’ve made for yourselves, the only people with the power to be really evil all the time are the ones with the most power over others—which means lots and lots of money.

That narrows down the criteria some.

Where I finally settle on is a beautiful mansion in the snowy mountains of Colorado. I have a sort of love/hate relationship with America and Americans. They’re really fantastic at hating each other, which I adore, but also just so goddamn self-righteous about every last little thing that can tear them apart.

You’re all going to die some day! Why aren’t you thinking about how you’re all going to die?

It’s very strange, as a demon, when people aren’t nicer to each other. I don’t think there’s much hope for you.

Anyway. The more hate the better; suits me fine.

So, Colorado. On the crest of one of the Rocky Mountains (you lot are so cute about naming things) is a billionaire’s abode. One of several, from what I can make out. His eldest daughter lives there with her family, who she mostly despises.

Casting Call at the Abode:

There’s Portia, the matriarch.

Lucy, the virgin teen daughter.

Archie, the dummy Husband.

And then a whole lot of help, most of them beautiful women.

They all kind of interest me, but I’m most interested in Portia, of course.

She’s the kind of rare, exotic beauty that I’d like to see more of. A lot of, as a matter of fact. And I’m not just talking about the twisted, black, burnt-up roots that are her soul, gorgeous as that is.

I’m talking about real, concrete physical beauty—she’s in gloriously tip-top shape. Her vanity leads her to work out every morning, and every morning a different workout—pilates, yoga, high-intensity cardio. She posts each one on Instagram to her millions of followers just to soak in their jealousy of how easy she makes it look.

She’s tight as fuck. The kind of waist to hips to tits ratio that just makes your mouth water. Jawline like a goddamn marble cliff. Brilliantly smooth skin. Big, firm, beautiful breasts. She’s got brilliant blond hair and—while she is a mom, or a “mom”—she actually refused her husband’s pleas to ever be pregnant.

Instead, they’ve got an adopted daughter who they’ve raised practically from birth, eighteen years-old just last week.

And—here’s the important bit—Portia has just turned forty.

So she’s gorgeous. Vibrant. Healthy. She looks half her age already—but she doesn’t look as good as she used to and she knows it. And it’s driving her crazy—especially because her adopted daughter Lucy, who is gorgeous herself and honestly looks somehow like a younger version of Portia, is just now peaking with her own beauty and understanding the kinds of privileges both that and billions of dollars will give her.

Modeling agencies are calling. Attention is spilling in for Lucy, and none of it is for Portia, and it’s driving her nuts.

This is the kind of situation a demon would normally be all over if it wasn’t so patently obvious that Portia was already going to be going Downstairs.

I learn all I need to know about Portia from watching—through the powers of my portal—a brief exchange with her husband one evening some three years ago.

He walks into her bedroom—they have separate bedrooms, just to give you the lay of the land—where she’s spending one of the several hours a day she regularly spends looking at her reflection in the mirror. Behind her is the windowed door to the balcony and beyond that, the mountains.

“Dear,” he says. “I’d like to talk to you about my finances this month. There’s been some kind of halt in my deposit…”

It doesn’t look like she’s paying attention. She’s rubbing a finger over her lips, making sultry fuck-me faces that dummy Archie only ever sees in photos or second-hand via the mirror. His pathetic cock gets so hard looking at her and she hardly ever lets him fuck her. He never, not once, has emptied inside of her. She thinks it’s gross.

Not for long.

Anyway:

“Do you think I should get surgery?” she asks him.

“Surgery? For what?”

“My wrinkles.” She points to her face, putting on a fake smile. “Creams aren’t getting it done, are they?”

“You’re…” he struggles. Sweating suddenly. Heart beating. In a full panic. “You’re lovely just as you are, dear.”

“I thought you were smart, darling. Can’t you answer a straight question? I’m sure you’re not as stupid as you’re acting.”

“Oh. Uh. Yes. Well. Wrinkles, they’re natural for everyone, and—"

“But you see them, don’t you? I’m not going crazy?”

“Crazy? No. Of course not. It’s just, they’re lovely. You’re lovely, everywhere. No matter how many wrinkles you have.”

“So you think I should have surgery, then? For my wrinkles? That you’re saying definitely exist?”

He’s practically soaking in sweat now.

“No. I mean. Yes. I mean. You should do whatever makes you happy, dear. You’re so beautiful.”

She sneers, beautifully. Everything she does is beautiful.

“This is why I’m docking your allowance this month, Archibald. I knew you’d want to storm in here and say disparaging things about me. Why would I pay you if you’re just going to insult me? What kind of wife would that make me? I have to stand up for myself, you know.”

“I…I…but I…you…” he gulps, shuddering, defeated. “Yes, dear. I’m so sorry, dear. You’re right.”

She can afford to pay him. She can afford anything. He sulks out of the room and she immediately slides her skirt down and touches herself, almost immediately cumming.

Cumming to the thought of humiliating him.

You see? Evil as fuck. I have to get into this woman’s pussy and pronto.

* * * * *

I arrive in the middle of the night, when the house is asleep. I’m an old dog—pretty much one of the oldest dogs you could even imagine—and these old tricks die hard.

I open the massive, ceiling-tall windows leading out into the balcony as I approach. It’s not necessary—I can be anywhere, arrive anywhere—but it adds to the effect.

She’s sleeping. I watch her for a little while, turning in the covers. The thread count of the sheets is somewhere in the six figures and the whole bedding set also cost her six figures.

Her dreams are of her childhood. A father who was never there. A mother who didn’t care much for her. She’s trapped in several different interconnecting mansions full of people who don’t care about her.

She’s never known affection, really. She’s known people who have been jealous of her, who have given her things, who have spoiled her—but compassion is foreign to her in both giving and receiving.

So, that’s hot as hell.

It’s a simple thing to slide into her dreams. If you were in the room, and a mortal (as I assume most of you reading this are), you’d see a shadow crossing her face. If you were immortal like me, you’d see my gigantic, hulking frame—all nine feet of me, with a cock half-hard and still as long and thick around as a paper towel roll. Muscles on muscles. Adonis was a fucking wimp compared to me. My eyes empty, black fire.

I narrow down the field of her dreams. I put her inside of her bedroom, where she is, right now. I disperse the thoughts of her parents, except for the hot ones that are all tied up with her sexuality.

She hasn’t cum for a good month or two, and that was because she read an article about how it was unhealthy not to. A caress here, a whisper there, a stroke here, and she’s already wet for me both in real life and in the dream.

I’m good at what I do.

She’s alone in the room in her dreams. Tied to a chair with her arms behind her. Feet bound. I stand in front of her—me, my actual immortal form. She can see everything but my face.

She can, of course, especially see my cock.

“Why do you want this so much?”

At first, she thinks she doesn’t—but it’s a dream. And in dreams, dream logic rules—so she does want it because she’s been asked why she wants it.

“I…I don’t…”

Her voice has a soft accent to it. Something European. It’s been so long since I’ve fucked someone who wasn’t completely American. I’m looking forward to this.

“Sure you do. Why do you want this cock? You’ve been begging for it for days now.”

“Days?” she asks, dazed.

“That’s right. Days. Days and days of begging for cock. This cock.”

I make it harder before her eyes. I was standing some feet away—and then a blur—and I’m standing right in front of her. She’s salivating in the dream and in real life. Her pussy is too.

“C-cock,” she stumbles over her words. “B-big cock. Th-that cock. Is so big.”

It’s in front of her face. Streaming precum. Grinding the air before her lips. Her tongue doesn’t reach; she tries.

“Right? Is that why you want it so bad? You want cock. You really, really want this cock. No other cock will do.”

“C-Cock.”

“You can’t cum unless you get this cock. Do you agree?”

“Y-yes,” she says, almost instantly.

Most girls put up more of a fight, but that’s okay. She’s a bad girl.

She doesn’t know it, but that’s a binding agreement. I’m a demon, after all. Now, she really can’t cum until she gets this cock.

I leave the dream, then, just leaving her in the room with my shadow-self stroking my giant cock while watches, dripping with lust that carries with her until she wakes up in a desperate, wet, edging panic of arousal.

* * * * *

The next day, she’s out at the pool. She drinks mojitos and toys a lot with the fit of her thousand-dollar swimsuit. Her cunt itches, but it’s a mental itch—a needy itch, a heated sensation that doesn’t go away even if she rubs it a little.

It’s a beautiful, cool sunny Colorado day and the pool is warmed with some million-dollar system or other. Like a lot of my kind, I don’t really understand technology that much, and because I spend so much time in dreams, my understanding is a little skewed.

It took me about six months to figure out that smartphones don’t actually bite people; there are a lot of dreams people have about being chased by them.

She’s tanning by the poolside. Her skin hardly needs it. It’s gorgeous and bronze and lush. Lucy is out there too, diving and swimming.

Portia hides her gaze behind sunglasses, but she’s watching Lucy intently. So am I. The youth of her sexy sway and gait. The length of her limbs. The firmness of her tits. She’s really devastating. She’s probably well on her way to becoming just like Mommy—an evil, gorgeous, heartless bitch. My Cock throbs for her.

Maybe I should make this a two-fer?

Jealousy emanates off Portia in a heavy, dark miasma. I can see that kind of thing. What you register as “vibes” are actual physical aspects for me. Portia took a long cold shower this morning after her spat of unusually lusty dreams, and that worked for a while, but watching her daughter’s gorgeous form is really heating her up.

Portia’s had enough to drink, and has been in the sun long enough, that it’s not so hard to nudge her asleep. I can’t necessarily will someone asleep all the time—like, someone wired on espresso is going to stay wired—but she’s so close that I barely have to exert any will for her to go under.

I keep the dream the same as her reality—showing Lucy diving, swimming, walking, diving again. I’m behind her. Portia knows I’m there without looking, in the way that dreams go.

“She thinks she’s better than you,” I say.

“Yes.”

She agrees so easily. God. You know, I’m surprised to even hear myself say this—but I get awfully tired of hearing “no, please, stop” all the damn time.

It’s exciting to hear a woman say “Yes.”

I’m curious to hear it more.

“She thinks she’s better than you,” I say again, “but of course she’s not. She needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Yes,” she nods. Licking her lips. “A lesson.”

“That makes my Cock hard, Portia. When you understand she needs to be taught a thing or two. That makes me really hard. You like my hard Cock, don’t you?”

She’s wet now. “Yes.”

“Do you remember teaching other bitches lessons? What you used to do? I’m sure you can if you think hard enough.”

“Other bitches?” She struggles. “A lesson?”

This is an old trick—but like all of them, a good trick.

I made an assumption that she has some kind of budding, formative memory at a poolside. I figure—she’s rich, she’s tan, she looks smashing in a swimsuit—why wouldn’t she?

And of course she does. The landscape of the dream begins to change as she shifts it subconsciously.

In a dream, if you make someone try to recall something specific, then they create the memory for themselves. Then all you have to do is fuck with some choice details, make sure it lands in the right neural pathway, and viola—instant corruption.

“Don’t you remember, Portia? Don’t you remember those other girls at the pool?”

She takes us back to when she was eighteen. She really is the spitting image of Lucy—or would that be the other way ‘round?

We’re at a country club her dad owns. It’s a summer day and quite crowded. There’s two new girls there—posh young nouveau riche cuties talking loudly about how hammered they got the night before.

Portia is walking behind them. Everyone’s eyes are on her and not them.

But I can change her memory; I can change her reality. So, I turn up the dials—as she passes, some men are openly stroking themselves to the sight of her, though their dicks are all disappointingly small. Women become hotter, sexier, curvier, and touch their bodies wantonly at her passing. They whisper jealously and admire her choice of clothing. Several cat calls and whistles as she struts. She soaks in their lust. As far as she knows, this is always how it’s been.

I change a few more things too. Her original memory has her wearing functional but stylish sandals. Lame.

No, my girl doesn’t wear anything but heels. They’re tall and beautiful and so is she. Her swimsuit gets tighter, more revealing. A deep plunge into her substantial cleavage. Her bone structure alters just slightly to wear the outfit in a more devastating structure—a change that I have to make in real time, too.

I’m not sure how much I can hold myself back if I keep going—it’s so tempting to change everything, and I’m not a demon of lust because I’m good at resisting temptation.

The original memory has her just saying something snide to the girls as she passes:

“Oh, girls? The kiddie pool is that way.”

Several nearby men laugh, trying to impress Portia and get on her good side.

But that—while mean—isn’t quite mean enough. I wonder how mean we can make it and still keep her halfway sane?

I keep replaying the memory, like a loop on a digital file, just about ten seconds of her walking, sneering, chiding, and strutting off. I make it concrete; push it in with all the formative instances of her other memories. There’s learning to walk, and her first orgasm, and her best Christmas, and now this. It’s going to shape everything about her.

First I alter her own perception of her appearance. Making her remember herself looking a lot more like Lucy. Small changes in the eyes and nose are all it takes. She can so easily see her and Lucy looking exactly the same. And it helps, of course, that I modify her bikini in the past once more so that it mirrors Lucy’s in the present day exactly.

I experiment. Change the sneer. Change what she says.

“Get out of here, you dumb sluts.”

or

“They let you in here? Really?”

or

“Don’t you think you belong somewhere else?”

And so on. None of it lands right. None of it quite mean enough.

I don’t need to be subtle. Neither does she. She’s a fucking billionaire heiress and—while this will feel damn real to her—none of this is really real.

On the next playthrough, I have her hip-check one of the girls. She falls into the pool. Portia, replaying this memory, experiences a little cum in real life as she dozes next to the pool. Her body twitches, writhes in the sun. Lucy stops to look at her, her eyes gliding over her mother’s gorgeous, orgasming form.

That’s encouraging.

There’s Little Cums and Big Cums. My cock delivers Big Cums—that’s what Portia can’t have without me. She knows what it will be like—how good it will be—without knowing all the way. The way you might understand the shape of a table in the darkness just by touching one end of it.

Little Cums are what I call “normal” cums. Normal to you.

Either way—she can’t have either without my interference, and she definitely can’t have a Big Cum without My Cock inside her.

In the dream, I turn up the heat a little more.

Next playthrough, instead of just a hip-check, Portia adds in a bit of a leg sweep, tripping one of the girls on her heavy heels. The girl lands hard and rough on her side on the concrete lip of the pool—there’s a squeal as something goes wrong in her hips—and then falls into the water, dragging her friend with her who lands just as roughly.

Then—icing on the cake—I have Portia push her heel on top of the girl’s face as she struggles to come up for air. She pushes, and squirms, and drags, but Portia stays firm, and her legs are strong, and the girl can’t shift her. No one at the pool is stopping Portia; in fact, they’re cheering her on. Telling her how right she is to take out her rage, to express her superiority. The girl in the pool is losing strength, losing the battle. There’s no way she’ll get up in time…

“—Mom!”

Portia, cumming, is shattered from her dream as Lucy shakes her awake. Still shaking with orgasmic pleasure, her cunt slick and her nipples tight, she pulls Lucy in. A natural reaction, seeking the warmth and connection. She shudders and snuggles in tight, groggy, mind blind with blissful fury, still easily recalling how real it felt as she dreamt of her food pushing the girl down further into the pool, further, making her drown…

“M-Mommy?”

Lucy is having trouble speaking. Her own body is responding to Portia’s. And Portia’s fingers slide up hard against Lucy’s cunt—slipping, probing, searching—hot and hungry. Slick juices of lust escape Lucy’s virgin pussy, mixing in with the wetness of her hard-hard swimmer’s body so freshly exited from the pool.

Portia doesn’t pull away, not at first. She looks at her daughter with new eyes. Appreciative eyes. Seeing her in that swimsuit—which she now remembers herself, conveniently, wearing an exact replica of in her memory. She bites her lip and then licks them. There’s nothing that Portia loves more than herself, and now she remembers her daughter looking an awful lot like her in one of her most favorite memories.

“Y-you were, um,” Lucy struggles slightly but not seriously. Portia’s fingers haven’t moved. “You were having a nightmare. I thought. And. You were screaming.”

Screaming for Cock. My Cock.

“You’re such a caring girl,” says Portia. She pulls her hand away from Lucy’s cunt, finally, but only in a way that maximizes the amount of pressure she applies to her clit on the way out. “I’m so thankful to have you around.”

* * * * *

I spent the rest of the day tinkering and toying with Portia’s memory.

Some of the changes have to do with wardrobe. I have a lot of thoughts about wardrobe and how women should dress—and of course, bad women in particular.

Women get the wrong fucking idea about everything. There’s this big consciousness about body types that’s been rising up with the mortals lately. Gotta say, I don’t care and I’m not exactly gonna be cancelled, am I? Go ahead, call up Downstairs, tell them about all my immoral opinions. I got a review coming up in five hundred years.

My kind of girl? My fucking bad girl queen? She’s tight. She’s tall. She’s thin. She’s busty as fuck and she loves how she looks and she doesn’t spend three months of excuses explaining a poor appearance inside the thirty minutes it takes her to get ready. No, my bad girl vacation dream is putting on XXXS skirts and blouses and wondering if they’re too baggy.

Skirts. A lot of fucking skirts. Portia now purely remembers living almost the entirety of her life in skirts, and if she wasn’t in a skirt, she was in a sexy fucking dress. She’s worn pants exactly twice—and I made that happen during both of the worst experiences of her life (someone delivered to her the wrong order at a restaurant at her birthday, and she found out she didn’t get a new stables when she was fourteen to replace the one she got when she was thirteen—what can I say, it’s awfully fucking easy being a billionaire).

Yoga pants and tights are good. They’re acceptable. I will allow them.

She’s also got boots. High heels. No fucking knee-high boots. I cannot emphasize this enough. What the fuck are those trying to advertise? Thigh-highs are all about height and tightness, and ankle boots are showing off a lady’s skin and length. Knee-high boots are like midi-skirts—the worst of two worlds that are only encouraging people to take a mental dump on how you look.

Blouses are tight. She’s got a lot of white blouses. Why? Because it’s hard as fuck to hide when you wear white, and she knows it—and she’s got nothing to hide.

Dresses are tight. Her average dress is so fucking tight it puts her goddamn pelvic bones on display—love that shit. Do that to my demon cock all day long. The dresses that aren’t tight are so fucking flirty and loose that I can reach all the way down or all the way up at will.

Rompers. Plenty of rompers. The only kinda-sorta exception to the skirts/dresses/tights rule. But again—either so fucking tight you could sharpen the edge of a knife with her covered ribs or so fucking loose that the only thing keeping them in place are her constantly erect nipples.

Portia knows that now. It didn’t take much. She understood a great deal of this already; now she just lives it.

I know it’s really taken hold during an encounter she has with her longest-standing maid, Madeline.

Madeline is twenty-three and took this job to help pay for college; but the job itself is so demanding and pays so little in recompense that she can’t afford to go anymore. She works twelve hour shifts and operates on an independent contract, so her wages belong entirely to her but she has to pay her own taxes and insurance and there’s nothing leftover in the form of benefits. I see this kind of thing all the time with billionaires; by which I mean, mostly I see billionaires Downstairs after they employed so many people in this fashion.

So Madeline is lovely and brunette and petite, but quickly her body and hands are becoming hardened. The soft features of her face hollowed out as she deals with the constant stress of obeying Portia’s orders. Thick purple circles under her eyes that get baggier by the day.

The logic trap she falls inside is plain to see; she’s around all this money. This living, oozing opportunity—doesn’t it just make sense that it would rub off on her somehow?

Poor girl. Doesn’t have enough dragon in her to understand that wealth is for hoarding.

It’s an hour or two after the incident with Lucy at the pool. I can still smell Lucy’s lust all over Portia’s body. It interests me a great deal; I’ve been so focused on Portia that I haven’t thought much about Lucy, but it’s pretty clear from her reaction to her mother basically fingering her that she’s all fucked up and ripe for corruption.

Probably she’s so desperate for attention from her narcissistic mother that she’s convinced herself that pleasing her sexually will make Mommy love her “again.” Truth is, Mommy never really loved her—Mommy functionally can’t love her because she’s got a heart as dark as the fucking abyss—but I keep it in the back of my head as something to experiment with.

So Portia is strutting through the house in her bikini and heels and one of those sexy fucking transparent silk poolside robes. She sees Madeline dusting around some artwork near the fireplace.

“What the fuck is that shit?”

Madeline stops, frozen. She knows that tone. Thus far, she’s been able to avoid it being used on herself. Like a lot of abusive situations, she managed to put herself in the middle of the abuser-abusee relationship, trying to explain to the other servants that if they just obeyed and smiled they’d be beyond reproach. She even—poor thing—resents the girls who can’t just follow orders for the trouble they bring.

Like the victims are the issue. Fuck, but you humans are so deliciously hopeless.

Portia grabs her and forcefully bends her over a couch. Squeezing her ass roughly. Holding her head down into a pillow. She takes Madeline’s heels and rips them off her feet.

Portia has seen them before. She’s never quite liked them enough. But now she knows why—they’re too fucking short. Just three inches. What the fuck is that? What the fuck is Madeline, a fucking grade school teacher? What kind of common tramp wears three-inch heels? Not in her fucking house.

Why the fuck does she have so much money and power if everything isn’t going to be perfect all the time all around her?

She shoves the heel of the shoe into Madeline’s face.

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s a shoe, ma’am.”

She hits her with the shoe, the heel slicing into her forehead just a bit.

“Are you fucking talking back to me? Is that how you think you and I operate? I say something, and you’re smart?”

Madeline is hyperventilating. She knows she’s being mistreated; she just can’t make it make sense. Somehow, this is all her fault. Somehow, she can make it right. She just needs to…needs to…

“Please,” she whimpers. “I apologize. I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything. I c-can go change…”

“Into what?” Portia sneers. “Some other pair of heels that I paid for that you should have been wearing already? Now you’re being disrespectful.”

There are other servants watching now. They see the imperious form of their literal Queen standing over a servant. My dark shadow behind her like a blooming volcano of lust.

Portia shoves Madeline’s face down a little more. The poor thing is having trouble breathing.

“Let this be a lesson to you. Your heels need to be no less than 101.6 millimeters. I will measure it. Do you understand?”

The gathered servants nod fearfully. Some of them run, heels clicking, back to their quarters to change before Portia notices.

She turns her attention back to Madeline.

“You’ll leave. Now. Don’t take anything. Don’t pack anything. Get out.”

She lets the little brunette up for enough air to respond.

“I-I don’t have a car…I don’t—I don’t—I don’t—”

She slaps Madeline hard.

“I don’t care, stupid. You’ll walk.”

The road down the mountain twists and turns. It’s at least fifteen miles to the nearest town through rough terrain, and Portia just took her shoes.

She towers over Madeline. Seething and red with fury. Dripping wet. She likes the sting on her hand; wants to feel it again. I did some of that—I pushed and prodded—but Portia took it home.

This is something she wanted to do.

Holy shit.

I might be in love.

* * * * *

She doesn’t know why, but later that night, Portia feels compelled to dress up. And—not just wear a hot dress that she uses to fuck up the brain of Archibald from time to time. But dress up, like she’s going to attend a gala dressing up.

Wide, tall, walk-in closets await her. She spends a great deal of time deliberating, thinking, choosing. She instinctively knows there’s a best option without quite knowing how or why or even what she’s dressing up for. But she does—choosing a red gown with a deep plunging neckline that exposes all of her shoulders and clavicles. Her tight midriff exposed, showcased by criss-crossing strips of cloth. A long slit up one side. She pairs it with smashing black six-inch stilettos and spends about an hour getting her hair done in a substantially sexy “fuck me” do, cascading down one side in heavy layers and locks. I watch all of it, watch her put herself together, and even I am still impressed by the end result.

Of course, I also prod her continuously with the thought that even just as little as five years ago, getting ready like this would have taken less time.

I want her jealous. Vulnerable. Open. I want her in the right mindset for when she meets me.

She waits until nearly midnight. She has one too many glasses of wine before sending the servants to bed. Her pussy, soaking, grinds softly into the pillow of her seat at the table she has set up in her quarters. Her desperation only growing. She was so certain that if she presented herself, made herself ready and open, that it would happen.

That what would happen?

She doesn’t know for certain. All she knows is that it’s important. That it has to do with her endlessly lusty cunt. She needs to feed it, needs to cum so bad.

When enough time has passed, when I feel her desperation has reached her zenith, I open the balcony windows again. According to her memories, this is something that’s happened at least a dozen times. Of course, in actuality, this is only the second time we’ve met. But she remembers several encounters with me—most of them shadowy and indistinct, but all of them orgasmic. The indistinct desire she has of waiting for it suddenly has a form to wrap around.

Her eyes flash with open lust as I walk toward her, shadows swirling around my massive form until I’m dressed in something that matches her occasion—a dark suit with a crisp white shirt. I leave it open so she can admire the muscles underneath, which I’ve attuned her body to respond to with wet delight. This is my “mortal” form. I’m bad at subtlety, so I’m still close to seven feet tall—but I’ve foregone the deep dark red skin, the wings, the tail, the horns, and so on.

“Hello at last,” she says. She leans forward to show me her cleavage—which was already on display. “I was hoping tonight would be the night we could talk. Get to know each other.”

“I know.”

She licks her lips. She loves my confidence. She’s so used to seeing men break down and cower before her, to give her everything she wants without question. It’s exhausting for her. Boring.

I sit down and just wait for her to talk. I can tell she’s not used to it; she’s used to having men do everything they can to impress her.

But I’m not a man, am I?

“You’re the man of my dreams,” she says.

I smile. “I’m not really a man at all, Portia.”

She takes that in stride. “But you do have a cock, yes?”

“For you? I have the Cock.”

She nods and, pleased, I allow her a Little Cum for that. Her eyes roll back and she bites one plump lip.

But there is almost no relief. She squirms, brain overheating for about fifteen or twenty seconds—vision blurry and re-associating all that pleasure with just my form. And then right after—perhaps a second or two of calm—and then she’s immediately at the edge again.

Needing to cum for me, always.

“T-the Cock. Yes.” She loves saying it. Loves hearing it from her own mouth. “The Cock. It’s so important. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She leans over, fully invested. Leaning her luscious jaw into one long-fingered hand. Eyes ablaze with lust.

“Tell me. Tell me everything. I want to know.”

“Tell you what?”

“About you! Tell me about…about how this is possible. You’re making me cum, aren’t you?”

I nod.

She smiles. She enjoys the power I hold. “I’m remembering different things than I remember. I’m…I’m acting differently. More open. More open about lusts I’ve had for a long time.”

I lean back. This is very different conversation than I’m used to having. Most women are scared. In fact, most are terrified. They’re turned on, of course—but they’re terrified.

Please stop…

Please leave…

I’ll give you anything, just let me alone…

You get the idea.

I’ve had no experiences, as far as I can recall, with a woman who was truly interested in what I do.

“Please, tell me? You can tell me. I want to know. I don’t mind it. I don’t mind any of it. I don’t mind all the mean thoughts I’ve been having.”

“The mean things you’ve been doing.”

“Oh, Madeline?” She purrs after a moment. “No. That was rather lovely, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And vanity, too. I’ve been exceptionally in love with myself lately.”

“You should be.”

“I know.” She tosses her hair back and then to one side. There’s a mirror set-up nearby on purpose so she can look at herself. She’s gorgeous. “Can I touch you? I want to touch you. Feel you. Push my body up against yours. I want to slide on your lap. Slide against your Cock. The Cock. May I please?”

She’s hard to resist. I’ve made her hard to resist. I pull her into me—chair and all—with one arm. She giggles delightedly at my strength, knows she weighs less than a feather to me.

“I want to make you an offer, Portia.”

“An offer? Does it have to do with Your Cock?”

Her hand has attached to my knee. She’s slowly moving it closer to my center. Her tits pressing into my arm. Looking up at me, girlish. The way she’s always wanted to look up at someone; the way I made sure she wanted.

“I’m going to tell you something first, though. You won’t like it.”

“Okay.”

“Are you ready?”

“I’m ready for anything you’ll tell me.”

She’s not, but I like that she says it.

“You’re getting old now.”

“Excuse me?”

It is remarkably fun to see the look on her face.

“Lucy is much younger than you. By all rights, I should probably go after her instead of you.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a fact of life, Portia. You’re getting older. Less beautiful by the day. You know you are. You’ve passed the threshold. One day you’ll get so old you’ll die.”

She tries to withdraw from me, but the feeling of my body is too good to ignore. It’s delightful to see her angry like this, though. She’s trying to be cordial. Her face bright red.

“So?”

“So. You don’t have to.” I can see her confusion. “You don’t have to die. You don’t have to grow old. You don’t have to become less beautiful. In fact, Portia…I can make it so you become beautiful forever. Wanted…forever. Immortal. Gorgeous. Unstoppable. Irresistible. I can make it so you never have to suffer a single consequence for making others suffer. For making them squirm. You’ll never have to be scared for a second in your life again of someone seeing your true nature. They’ll see it—and you’ll destroy them with a thought. And not like now, where you can throw them in jail or manufacture rumors about them. I mean atomically destroy them. What do you think?”

I already had my answer. As I spoke, she had started grabbing my Cock. By the end of my talk, she had me unzipped and uncovered and was stroking me wantonly, like it was a control column for an airliner and it kept her from crashing into a sea of orgasms.

“Fuck. You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious as hell.”

We all have little jokes we like.

“How?”

“Do you mean how would I give it to you, or how is it possible?”

“Both, I suppose.”

I tell her in short order the whole deal. Incubus. Downstairs. Upstairs. As I do, she keeps stroking. My precum streaming all down her arm, pooling into her thighs around my lap.

She thinks about it, looking at me dreamily. Stroking me. Her arms are tireless and they’d have to be, because there’s a lot of me to stroke.

“I want someone at my side. The more I look at you, the more I think you’re the one. You’re real fucking bad, Portia.”

She squirms delightedly, like I was the first man she had a crush on who told her she was pretty.

“Someone immortal,” she says.

“Yes. Someone immortal. Someone who surprises me. Like you did today with Madeline.”

She looks at me, understanding flashing in her eyes.

“You had a different plan originally.”

“Yes. I was just going to toy with you. Fuck you for a few weeks and then make you lonely and hateful and needy the rest of your life.”

She groans. “Fuck. That’s hot. But I changed your mind?”

“Yes. I’ve never done this before, but I know how. There are demons that are born that way, and there are demons that are made. The latter are usually much worse.”

“I want it.”

“You’re not worried about the wrath of Upstairs?”

“You don’t seem to be. Are you?”

“Not really. They’re a bunch of pussies.”

“I fucking hate pussies. Archie is a pussy.”

I smile. “I know, doll.”

“What do I say? Do I just say, please take my soul? ‘Cause, um, please take my fucking soul.”

I shake my head. “I’m not looking for another soul-slave.”

That’s what I call the girls I take. They belong to me forever. I can go back and fuck them any time they’re alive; of course, I don’t, because it makes them miserable, and that’s what I like the most.

“What do I do, then?”

“This kind of power is a big deal. You’d have to sacrifice your humanity entirely. Instead of aging, you’d grow more demonic. Eventually you won’t be able to hide it. The way other people get liver spots or wrinkles, you’d grow horns.”

“Red skin.”

“Eyes like mine.”

“Hooves?”

“If you want. Some get talons. Tails. There’s a lot of options.”

She only pushes in on me harder. Her tits, heavy and shining with needy sweat, pushing against my body.

“Like I said…I want it.”

“You’d have to kill someone.”

She strokes faster, nodding.

“Yes. And?”

Fuck. I have to admit—I’m impressed.

“There’s a ritual. I’ll take care of that part, make sure it gets done right. You just have to kill your husband.”

“Oh fuck, really?” she’s excited. Her strokes going up my whole length. She’s so in shape; it’s quite the arm workout. “That’s amazing. Fuck him. I’ve wanted him dead for years, I just knew I would be blamed.”

“I’ll help you bamboozle any police.”

She thinks about all this for a moment. Letting it sink in. The thought of her husband’s murder for her own damnation making her blush and squirm. Thinking with edging thoughts, vulnerable thoughts, needy thoughts.

“Know what I hope?”

Fuck, but it makes me hard to see her smile.

“What’s that?”

“I hope you don’t even need him dead. I hope you just want to see me do it. I hope it makes you hard. Not just the murder. And not just my willingness to go along either.” She leans in, pushing her hands up against my Cock. “I hope it makes you hard to think about how I want it. About how, if I knew I could get away with it? If I had someone’s help? Someone magical? I would have done it a long time ago. How it makes me wet thinking about it.”

I hadn’t actually bothered to look at too many of her feelings or memories about Archibald. I got enough of a sense that she hated him and that was all I needed.

But this is more than hate; this is homicide. And she’s excited about it.

I get the feeling—not for the first time—that I’m not dealing with just some normal everyday average bad girl here.

“What if, though, I had a proposition for you?”

I raise an eyebrow. Now I’m interested. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think you could offer me if I did you one better?”

* * * * *

A couple of hours later, Lucy waits for Archibald in her bedroom. She’s wearing her mom’s lingerie and heels—a sparkling hot deep navy blue combo that shows off the length and bustiness of her trim figure.

She had called Archibald into her room, citing some kind of distress.

So he showed up, concerned—Lucy, taking after her mother, almost never asks Archibald for anything—and now looks slack-jawed at Lucy like the fool he is.

She waits for him on the four-poster bed. Posing, at Portia’s instruction. Blond hair dripping down, shining in the dim light.

“Lucy?”

“Come to me, Daddy.”

His pathetic little dick is immediately hard at the sight of his daughter like this.

“Uh. Uh. Wow. Maybe we should, um…”

He stumbles through his words, reaching back toward the door. It’s deeply dark in the room—dark enough to hide Portia and myself in one shadowy corner. Of course, I add a few shadows of my own just for effect.

“Please,” says Lucy, “don’t you want me?”

“I…I…shit.”

“She treats you so poorly. You don’t want someone beautiful? Someone who wants to see you? I’ve loved you for so long. Won’t you come take me?”

This is a fantasy for Archibald. I didn’t have to be a demon of lust to see it—for anyone to see it. Even Portia saw it. And now it’s here, available for him and gift-wrapped in lingerie. He steps toward her.

“But you’re…you’re so young. My daughter. I can’t…oh fuck.”

Lucy slides off the bed and struts toward him. The strap of her bra falling down one arm, a nipple exposed in the light.

“I’m eighteen now,” she says. “A big girl. I know what I want.”

She takes him by the arm; he blubbers silently, protesting even as she pulls him toward her.

“Come here,” she says. “I want to feel the moonlight on my skin. I want to feel free.”

Guiding him, she steps out to the balcony. It overlooks a drop of several thousand feet into several million tons of rock. I took the liberty of adjusting the railing so a certain section of it will fail entirely if pushed upon, though it looks perfectly sturdy.

Archibald doesn’t know it, but he steps directly onto the chalk-and-blood runes I instructed Portia to draw earlier. And now the subject is on the inscription, and the moonlight binds him—his soul is subject to whomever takes it now.

“Look,” says Lucy. “Up there. Look at the moon. Don’t you see how lovely it is?”

Archibald looks. “I…yes, I suppose so. It is rather lovely tonight. As are you.”

He’s trying suddenly to be suave. I hold my derisive laugh in. Portia doesn’t.

“What?” He looks around. “What was that? Was that…is she…?”

Lucy takes him by the face and turns him back toward her.

“Don’t think about her,” she says.

He softens in her grip, smiling like an idiot.

“Y-yes. Yes, all right.”

“After all, you never did, did you?” Lucy’s still smiling, but her voice isn’t. “You never really cared about Mommy, did you?”

“I…I don’t know what you mean.”

“You never cared about her.” All the warmth has drained from Lucy’s countenance. “You’ve brought this on yourself.”

Portia pushes forward out of the shadows, visible once again. She pushes hard against Archibald and shoves him through the faulty railing. He’s able to catch himself, momentarily—and then Portia doubles down, grinding her tall heel into his hand and chest. Then he screams and falls while they smile and laugh and smile.

That’s his last thought. I always know.

They’re smiling. God help me, why are they smiling?

I Know why.

Lucy is smiling because she’s cumming harder than she ever has—because I want her deeply conditioned to associate this act with pleasure. Every part of her cums, every atom sings orgasm, every piece of her flesh on fire. She’s on a demon-infused acid trip—gifted with just a droplet of my Unholy Cum that I transport to her lips to utterly break her mind for the rest of her life.

And Portia is smiling because I enter her the same second she pushes Archibald off the balcony—pushing her gown aside and thrusting into her sopping, murder-wet cunt.

I’m not going to lie—I’m a demon and I do fucking like all this—but the timing is necessary for Portia’s transformation. For her descent.

I’m already close to cumming because I am as such on command—and the timing, again, is so important. I thrust hard into Portia’s ultra-tight cunt and cum explosively after just a few thrusts. I can make sex last long—but she needs my cum in her now to complete this ritual.

The second my cum hits her body, Portia begins to transform. The dripping sticky evil mess utterly shattering her being. The Big Cum rocking her body highlights her changes as she thrashes, her limbs growing longer. All of her thinner, tighter, taller. Her skin becoming smooth, poreless and a deep burnished shade of red. Tits growing larger but still perky and glorious. Her hair a deeper, more violent shade of gold than before. Every part of her heightened, demonized, sexualized to the max.

Lucy, feeling her grip on sanity go away, looks at her mother during these changes and sees nothing less than a demonic mirror image of herself. The brow of Portia just slightly more pronounced to make room for horns as she evolves and grows. Taller. Tighter than her daughter now. Bustier. Her skin more glamorous.

I withdraw from Portia’s demon form, my hard cock dripping with her juices and mine all over the ritualistic drawings, to allow her to stretch, to move, to admire herself. She sees her reflection in the window, smiling gorgeously with fanged teeth.

Then our gaze, together, falls to Lucy. Broken Lucy. Obedient Lucy, who absolutely had to do what Mommy said or else she’d go insane.

She probably will still go insane. If I wasn’t so constantly hard, that would be enough to put me there.

Portia looks at Lucy and then to me for approval—May I?

I nod. Of course she may. That’s the whole reason Lucy is here. This is all part of the ritual.

The murder portion of the ritual is important—abandoning humanity. But abandoning humanity and embracing demonic power are different. There’s all kinds of things you can be other than a human. A djinn, an angel, a tovox…it’s a long list. If Portia remained unhuman for long enough, all kinds of powers would sweep around to try and recruit her.

So. To be a demon—to be a sexual demon—she needs to doom someone to Downstairs using an Offer of orgasmic pleasure, and the sooner the better.

Portia stands over the fallen, kneeling Lucy, holding her head in one hand. Her gown no longer serves any function but to be decorative over the exaggerated length and curves of her hellaciously hot body. Her wet, almost steaming pussy is directly over Lucy’s face.

“Promise your soul to me,” she says to Lucy. “Promise it, and I’ll let you have my pussy. I’ll impale you on his fucking Cock—on your Real Daddy’s Cock. Wouldn’t you like that? Wouldn’t you like a Real Daddy after that fucking pussy sucked so much as a dad?”

Lucy whimpers. She’s a broken human being. It makes me so fucking hard, how damaged and pliable she is. She thought this was about getting back at Archibald for being a bad husband to her Mommy—and it’s turned into a demonic sex ritual. I can see the madness in her eyes.

“Y-yes. A R-real Daddy…” she looks up at me with hunger and need. “Big C-cock Daddy.”

“Promise. Your. Soul.” Portia wraps her hand tighter into Lucy’s thick hair. “Promise me your soul, and I’ll let you cum on his Cock.”

“I-I…”

My Cock, dripping wet before her, is a sight her mind can barely comprehend. It’s so big. I’ve been quiet, just taking in the sheer presence of my demoness. But now, I take Lucy by the ankles and pull her up so that it rests right above her bare, virgin snatch.

“Or you can say no, of course,” says Portia. “It’s just…then you’ll never have him. Inside you. Ever.”

Lucy squirms, hips grinding upward. “Oh…oh fuck it’s so big…”

“Just say yes, Lucy. Swear it. Swear your soul to Mommy.”

I grind the head of my impossibly hard cock against her clit. Lucy cries out with a soft, urgent edging flood of pleasure.

“Y-yes, Mommy! Yes! Yes, yes! I swear my soul belongs to you.”

Her voice distorts beautifully as the ritual completes, locks her in. Portia groans with sudden power and lust and pulls her daughter’s face into her waiting, needy cunt. At the same time, I shove my gigantic cock inside her virgin pussy.

The two of us, demons, having our way with this hapless, mindfucked virgin. We love it. Very quickly I turn Lucy over so that her belly faces down. Portia holds her at her waist by the arms, and I hold her by one leg and, of course, support her with the overwhelming strength of my Cock.

This way, I can stare at who I really want while doing my demonly duty.

We fuck Lucy ruthlessly. Choking her. Shoving her gorgeous face into Portia’s hot dripping cunt and gifting her with Big Cum after Big Cum—more than I usually do, to be honest. I’m feeling—dare I say it?—kind.

But Portia is the real prize—my demon, my demon wife.

That’s her prize for offering up her daughter and Archibald both, for her proposition.

She’s not only my demon girl, my demon slave—she’s my demon wife.

Lucy is a distraction and I fuck her like one, focusing entirely on Portia. Portia, whose existence is now purest dark pleasure as she revels in her new demonic body with her daughter’s tongue sliding up and down her clit.

I allow Lucy a little of my cum—gifting her with another Big Cum—and then push away.

I exit Lucy’s trembling, shuddering, cum-lost body and reveal my full and final form to Portia. My towering presence even taller than her impressive height. Wings expanding. The balcony shudders under my weight; I flap my wings one time and the windows all shatter.

Portia gasps, moaning, and kneels before me.

“Master,” she moans, forehead touching the ground. “My True Master.”

This is a bit of heresy. Her Master is supposed to be the man Downstairs. But—oh well. I’m a demon; breaking rules is fun.

I am—and remember, I’m millions of years old—more turned on than I have ever been.

I take her and fling her into her daughter’s bed. I don’t have to hold anything back like I do with mortals. I take her like she doesn’t want it, forcefully pushing my Cock up and inside her even though she’s begging me to be inside her.

She’s so fucking tight. You’ve never fucked immortal, demon pussy, or else you wouldn’t be able to read anymore. But it’s tight. It’s wet. It’s perfect for a huge cock like mine.

Most mortal girls can barely even take half my true length.

Portia? I’m bottoming out in her and she’s screaming in ecstasy.

“Yes, Master! My Master! Oh my god, my Master yes!”

We fuck up the ceiling, against the walls. Plaster raining down on us. Heavy art falling to the ground. The servants below think there’s an earthquake—scared for their lives—and that only makes me fuck Portia harder.

Her claw-like nails dig into my flesh, urging me to go deeper. Fuck her harder.

“Break me!” She begs over and over. “Break me on Your Will! Break my body, please!”

She’s so stupidly fucking hot. She could walk anywhere, any time, have anything she wanted. I bet even angels want to fuck her—but now she belongs to ME.

I’ve fucked millions, and I last as long as I want. But with Portia, suddenly I can’t hold it in forever. It’s a delightful experience and one I can’t wait to have again.

But I need to cum.

She senses it.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes yes yes Daddy, Master, oh god Husband, please, cum in me, cum in me cum in meee!”

I explode, cumming harder than I can ever recall. Filling her now-immortal cunt with demonic seed. It floods her womb, floods her entire body with my deep evil. She cums with me, screaming for her Master, screaming how she loves me, screaming that she’ll do anything for me. The servants’ ears downstairs are bleeding. They’ll probably be mad by morning, even from just hearing demons fuck.

As the orgasm slowly subsides—which takes nearly an hour, another high-point of being a demon—I reflect that she’s probably pregnant. That will just make her more cruel down the line. The thought of that makes me fuck her harder for the next few minutes, grunting and plunging into her with a turgidity that surprises even me after cumming so hard.

Lucy looks at us from the foot of the bed, fingers buried in herself. Her mind completely gone—murder, slavery, demons. She’s completely mad. She Little Cums every nine seconds, looking at her new demonic parents. Somewhere inside her brain the scant remains of her sanity are screaming with terror.

Ugh. I have to stop thinking about that or I’m going to be too hard to function.

The kind thing to do would be to institutionalize her. But she’s got a birthday party soon and I think it would be more fun to show her off.

Portia recovers somewhat and crawls up next to me, sinking her gorgeous demonic form under my massive arm.

She looks at me, blazing coals in her eyes. “Master,” she moans. “I’m so hungry for new souls. Who can we take next?”

# # #

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