Chapter 1: Virgin Savior Meets His Horny Demon Debt
Theo’s lungs burned, each gasp of the chilly night air a sharp protest. His worn sneakers slid on the damp, moss-slicked stones of the forest path. He was late. Spectacularly late. The party had started an hour ago, and the mere thought of walking into a room full of people—especially people like Brad Costas and his jersey-clad buddies—made his stomach clench into a nauseated knot. He could already hear the laughter, see the eyes turning toward him, the whispers beginning. Oh look, Plimpton’s here. Did his mom finally let him out?
He adjusted his glasses, the frames fogging slightly with his frantic breath. The forest was a tunnel of shadows, the moonlight cutting through the canopy in splintered beams that did little to illuminate the way. It smelled of rotting leaves and something else, something sweet and cloying, like jasmine left to fester.
A sound cut through the silence, stopping him dead. It wasn't an animal. It was a voice, low and guttural, chanting words that felt wrong in the air. Another voice, higher, strained—a woman’s—cut in with a hiss of pain.
Curiosity, that ancient killer of cats and nerds, overpowered his social anxiety. He crept off the path, his cargo pants snagging on brambles, and peered through a thicket.
The scene in the small clearing was impossible. A man in a dark, vaguely clerical robe stood with his back to Theo, his arms outstretched toward a figure pinned against the thick trunk of an ancient oak. The woman was… Theo’s brain short-circuited. She was a fantasy drawing come to life. Her hair was a cascade of crimson and black, a tangled mess around a face of sharp, impossible beauty. Her body was a cartoonish parody of desire, with hips that flared from a sliver of a waist into an ass so massive and perfectly round it looked like it defied physics. And her chest… God, her tits were like two overinflated beach balls straining against the thin fabric of her dress, so impossibly huge they seemed to have their own gravitational field.
But her face. One moment it was alluring, flushed with pain, her lips full and begging. The next, her skin flickered, like a corrupted video file, and Theo saw sharpened cheekbones, glowing red eyes, and a mouth full of needle-like fangs.
“—abjure thee, creature of lust, by the names of the most high—” the robed man—a priest?—intoned, pressing a silver crucifix against her forehead. It sizzled, and the woman, the thing, let out a guttural snarl.
“You dusty old fuck,” she spat, her voice a mix of silk and gravel. “Do you have any idea how much this dress cost? It’s velvet, you thrift-store John the Baptist!”
Theo’s mind raced. This was some sort of live-action roleplay, right? A very, very committed, very well-cast LARP. But the sizzling sound was real. The fear in her flickering eyes felt real.
The priest raised his voice, the chanting becoming more powerful. A symbol on the tree behind her began to glow with a malevolent white light. The woman cried out, a genuine sound of agony this time, her true demonic form stabilizing for a terrifying second.
Without thinking, without a single coherent plan forming in his panic-addled brain, Theo acted. He burst from the bushes, a lanky, flailing scarecrow of a man. “Hey! Get away from her!”
The priest spun around, startled. It was all the opening she needed.
Her hand, now tipped with black claws, shot out and wrapped around the priest’s throat. With a casual strength that was horrifying, she yanked him forward. Her mouth unhinged, distending to an impossible size, rows of fangs glistening in the moonlight.
Theo watched, frozen, as she stuffed the priest’s head into her maw. There was a wet, crunching sound, like a bag of chips being compacted. A pair of feet, still in sensible brown shoes, kicked feebly for a moment before she worked her jaw and swallowed the rest of him down with a single, grotesque gulp. A belch, smelling faintly of incense and old sweat, punctuated the silence.
She smoothed down her dress, her form settling back into its devastatingly curvy human illusion. She turned her cold blue eyes on Theo, who was standing there, mouth agape, a thin line of drool connecting his lip to his shirt.
“Well,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “That was a snack. Tasted like mothballs and regret.”
Theo tried to speak, but only a squeak came out. He pointed a trembling finger at the silver crucifix, which now lay smoldering on the leaf litter.
As he stared, the air above her navel shimmered. A symbol, complex and burning with a gentle orange ember-glow, seared itself onto her skin, just above the waistband of her impossibly tight dress. It looked like a twisted knot of thorns and eyes.
She looked down at it, poking the mark with a black-painted nail. It hissed. “Huh. A binding seal. Guess I’m yours now, dork.” She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on his graphic tee featuring a pixelated video game sword. “Fantastic. I get a lifetime supply of… whatever that is.”
Her eyes, full of mischief and a predatory hunger, locked onto his. She took a step forward, her hips swinging with an exaggerated, earth-shaking rhythm. “So. You saved me. How about you come over here and claim your reward? I promise I’ll be gentle. Mostly.”
The world tilted. The scent of jasmine and priest-blood filled his nostrils. The visual of her—those impossible tits, that monstrous jiggle of an ass, the mark of ownership burning on her stomach—slammed into the last remnants of his sanity. His vision tunneled, the edges going dark.
Theo Plimpton’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he crumpled to the forest floor in a dead faint.