Chapter 3: Confessions Over Carnal Worship
Jaxon awakens to Morrigan suckling his manhood, and they share an intimate interlude as Morrigan recounts her attempt to survive Donovan and Anita's attack with surrender, arching her back in a submissive gesture, only for Donovan to slash her across her breasts and then watch in amusement as she pawed at the wounds in horror as the cursed weapon drank in the blood that squirted from her nipples.
Jaxon came awake in the dark not from a sound, but from a feeling—a deep, wet, enveloping heat. His breath hitched, sharp in the quiet cabin.
Morrigan’s head bobbed between his thighs, her lips a tight, slick sheath around his cock. She wasn’t feeding. There was no frantic energy, no desperate pull on his essence. This was slow, deliberate, almost reverent. The faint violet glow from the boarded window caught the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her mint-green hair fanned across his stomach. Her eyes were open, watching him wake.
“Jesus,” he breathed, the word a ragged exhalation.
She hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight up his shaft. She pulled back until just the glistening head rested on her tongue, her gaze locked on his. Then she took him deep again, her throat opening with practiced ease, her nose pressing into the coarse hair at his base. She worked him with a rhythm that was pure worship, one hand gently cradling his balls, the other braced on his hip.
His fingers found her hair, not to guide her, but just to feel the silken strands. He didn’t thrust. He let her set the pace, this ancient creature on her knees for him. The sight alone was enough to make his heart hammer against his ribs.
After a long, dizzying minute, she released him with a soft, wet pop. She didn’t move away. She rested her cheek against his inner thigh, her breath warm on his damp skin. Her voice, when it came, was stripped of all its usual sly confidence. It was flat.Haunted.
“I tried to bargain with them,” she said to the darkness of the room. “When I knew I was losing. When I could feel Dhylec’s… appetite in the air.”
She paused, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his leg. Jaxon said nothing. He just stroked her hair.
“I’m a succubus. My body is my primary currency.” A bitter, hollow laugh escaped her. “I crawled to them.Literally. My wings were already broken. I was defeated. I couldn't get away. I presented myself. Back arched as best I could, breasts thrust out, parted thighs. I tried to look as vulnerable as possible. Harmless. Submissive. I told Anita she could watch. I told Donovan he could have any hole, any configuration, for as long as he wanted. I offered it freely.No struggle, no resistance. Just… use me.”
Her words hung in the mildewed air, cold and ugly. Jaxon’s hand stilled on her head.
“She laughed. A bright, tinkling sound, like shattered glass. Donovan… he just looked bored.” Morrigan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He said, ‘We don’t fuck the dinner, Morrigan.’”
She lifted her head then, looking at him. The memory of her terror laid bare. "That's when I knew they really meant to use that dreadful sword on me."
“He gestured with one hand. A flick of his wrist.” Her own hand came up, miming the motion. “And the sword obeyed, ravenous, terrifying. It cut a deep, clean, horizontal slice across my tits.”
Jaxon’s gut twisted. He saw the silver scars anew, not as marks of healing, but as inscriptions of a specific, cruel humiliation. His fingers caressed the firm flesh tenderly, eliciting a small moan.
“It didn’t even hurt at first. It was so precise," she went on. "Then the blood welled up, hot and sudden.” Her fingers went to her own chest, tracing the invisible lines. “It didn’t drip. It… it squirted in little arcs from my nipples. The sword, Dhylec… it made this sound. A wet, clicking chitter.”
She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. “I looked down. I saw my own blood spurting. That's when the pain hit me. I pawed at my boobs with both hands like I could protect them. But it was too late. Dhylek had tasted me. The pain was like nothing I had ever imagined....a million fangs and hooks tearing into my boobs. I couldn't do anything but scream. And they stood there. Arm in arm. Watching me squirm and wiggle as the sword gorged itself on my tits. Anita was smiling. She said… she said I looked like a macabre little fountain. It hurt so much and I begged them to make it stop.”
Cringing inwardly as the demon woman's voice trailed off, Jaxon gently palmed her breasts, then slowly kissed the tip of each nipple, enjoying the way they stiffened in response to him and how vulnerable she seemed with her sensitive breasts in his hands. He noticed her watching him intently, and wondered at the trust she placed in him. "It doesn't still hurt, does it?" he asked quietly.
She hesitated less than a heartbeat, then nodded. "A little. More like a deep ache. But your touch soothes it a little more each time you share your strength with me," she offered him a small, slightly shy smile. "Thank you for making me feel safe enough to be submissive to you," she said quietly. "And thank you for being so gentle with my breasts. It feels so nice when you touch them, but they're still so tender from being sliced."
His thumb stopped its tender circle over the silvered scar. The confession, so softly delivered, hung between them with more weight than any of her previous vulnerabilities. It wasn't just about trust. It was about the shape of the trust—a predator offering her throat.
His thumb stopped its tender circle. The silence that followed her confession wasn’t empty; it was thick, a listening silence. He understood what she was giving him—not just the memory, but the permission it implied. Her submission had been weaponized once, and used against her in the most cruel way imaginable. Now she offered it to him, freely.
“Come here,” he said, his voice rough. It wasn’t a command. It was an invitation.
She moved up the bed, her body a pale cascade in the violet gloom. She straddled his lap again, but this time she didn't lower herself onto him. She simply knelt over him, letting him look. His hands rose, palms up, a silent question. She nodded, once.
He cupped her breasts again, his touch feather-light along the silver scars. He leaned forward and took one tightened nipple into his mouth. He didn’t suckle with force. He laved it with a slow, tender sweep of his tongue, then blew a cool breath across the wet peak. She shuddered, a gasp catching in her throat. “Oh.”
“Does that soothe it?” he murmured against her skin.
“Yes,” she breathed. “And… other things.”
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same meticulous attention. His calloused thumbs stroked the undersides, supporting their full weight. He was rebuilding the memory, touch by touch. Her head fell back, mint-green hair sweeping the frayed blanket. A soft, continuous sound of pleasure vibrated in her chest.
When he finally leaned back, her eyes were heavy-lidded and dark. “Better?” he asked.
“Different,” she corrected, a sly shadow of her old self returning to her smile. “Now they just ache for your mouth in a whole new way.”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. He grasped her hips, his fingers pressing into the swell of her ass. “Then come down here and show me what you need.”
She guided him, her hand wrapping around his thick, hard length. She positioned the blunt head at her entrance, already slick and eager. She held him there, just pressing, not taking him in. “You see?” she whispered, her gaze locked on his. “I’m so wet for you. Not from fear. From this.”
Then she sank down, taking him inside her with a slow, inexorable roll of her hips. She engulfed him completely, a tight, hot, perfect fit. They both groaned, a shared sound of relief and consummation.
She began to move, a lazy, grinding rhythm. Her hands braced on his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin. “This is what I offered them,” she said, her voice a husky murmur near his ear. “But they didn't just want to dominate me. Not even to kill me. They wanted to make it hurt.”
They wanted to make it hurt.” Her hips stilled, seated fully on him, her inner muscles fluttering around his buried length. “But you… you make it feel. That’s a different kind of power.”
Then she shifted, a subtle change in her posture. The seductive tension bled away, replaced by a profound stillness. She lifted herself off him with a soft, wet sound and lay back on the rough blanket. She didn’t pose. She simply opened herself, one arm flung above her head, the other resting on her stomach. The violet light traced the lines of her body, the silver scars, the dark triangle between her thighs. It was the most vulnerable he had ever seen her—not a presentation, but an offering.
“Make love to me, Jaxon,” she said, her voice quiet, stripped of all guile. “Not like a succubus and her feeder. Not like a monster and her keeper. Slowly. Like I’m just a woman.”
The request shattered him. He moved over her, bracing his weight on his elbows. He kissed her, a deep, searching kiss that tasted of salt and shared history. He nudged at her entrance again, finding her impossibly wet and ready. He pushed in, not with a driving thrust, but with a gradual, relentless fill that made her whimper into his mouth.
“Just a woman,” he echoed against her lips, beginning to move.
It was a slow, rolling tide of sensation. Each withdrawal was agony, each return a homecoming. He fucked her with long, deep strokes that touched her womb, his pace maddeningly deliberate. The raw, slick sounds of their joining were softer now, a private rhythm. He watched every flicker of feeling on her face—the flutter of her eyelids, the parting of her lips, the faint crease of unbearable pleasure between her brows.
Her hands came up to cradle his face, her thumbs stroking his stubbled cheeks. “Right there,” she’d whisper. “Don’t stop.” Or simply, “Yes.”
There was no performance, no strategy. Just the building heat, the coiling tension in their guts, the shared breath. When her orgasm came, it wasn’t a violent shattering but a deep, unspooling wave. She clenched around him with a rhythmic, milking pressure, a soft, continuous cry vibrating in her throat. It pulled his own release from him, a hot, pulsing flood that felt less like taking and more like merging.
He collapsed beside her, spent. For long minutes, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing. The violet pulse from the window seemed louder now, more insistent.
Morrigan didn’t move. She lay on her back, staring at the darkened ceiling, one hand resting on her lower belly. “We have to leave this place,” she said, her voice thin with a new kind of fear. “Soon. Tonight.”
Jaxon turned his head on the pillow. “The beacon?”
“It’s not just a beacon. It’s a… sensor. Dhylec feeds on magical signature. My power, my life force—it’s a scent to that thing.” She swallowed. “I was a drained husk before. Now?” She gestured weakly at her own body. “You’ve filled me back up. I’m regenerating. I’m shining in the dark, Jaxon, and that sword’s hunger is a bottomless pit. It will catch the scent of what’s inside me now.”
She finally looked at him, her green eyes wide in the gloom. “If Donovan and Anita know I’m still alive, they won’t just hunt me. They’ll be furious. Humiliated. They’ll make what they did to me before look like a courtesy. They will finish the job, and they will make sure they finish me this time.”
The quiet of the cabin became brittle, charged with a peril more immediate than the damp or the rot. The warmth of their bodies on the blanket was already cooling.
Jaxon sat up. The old bedframe groaned. He looked at the boarded window, at the persistent, hungry glow seeping through the cracks. Then he looked back at her, at the woman-monster lying spent and vulnerable, offering him the truth of their doom.
“Then we go,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He swung his legs off the bed. “Now. Put on something of mine.”
He stood, his bad knee protesting, and began pulling on his clothes with the swift, efficient movements of a man who’d weathered sudden storms. The time for tenderness was over. The thing in the ruins was sniffing the air, and it had caught a scent it thought it had already consumed.