Chapter 3: The First Hunt
The foyer smelled like sex and shame. Ryan stared at Jane’s limp form, her jeans around her ankles, a slick sheen coating her inner thighs. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, stunned rhythm. She muttered something incoherent, a dribble of spit connecting her lip to the floor.
She will wake soon. She will remember everything. And she will be yours to command, the Incubus purred, its voice a satisfied rumble in Ryan’s skull. A devoted little pet.
“No,” Ryan whispered, the word scraping his throat raw. He scrambled away from her, from the evidence, his back hitting the stair banister. “No, no, no.”
The thing between his legs was still hard, a throbbing, heavy accusation. It bobbed obscenely, glistening with her fluids. He felt sick. He felt incredible. The conflict twisted his guts into a knot.
Run along, the demon suggested, almost casually. The afterglow is a private thing. She’ll find you when you call.
Ryan fled. He took the stairs two at a time, the power in his new legs propelling him with terrifying ease. He slammed the bathroom door shut, locking it, as if that could keep the world out. He braced himself over the sink, not wanting to look.
But he had to.
He lifted his head.
The god in the mirror stared back, cold and furious. The tattoos pulsed, a slow, relentless beat like a heart. They glowed brighter now, as if fed by what he’d just done. He saw it all again—the impossible architecture of muscle, each cut and ridge looking carved from stone. His shoulders were so broad they seemed to stretch the boundaries of the glass. His waist was a ridiculous, narrow V. And his skin… it was a canvas of dark, arcane art. The chains wrapped around his biceps, the sigils swirled over his collarbones, a particularly intricate knot of symbols sat right over his pounding heart.
He was a dream. A pornstar fantasy made flesh. He was everything the bullies at school pretended to be and weren’t.
He let his eyes travel down, past the sculpted abs, to the monster that had ruined Jane.
It was still erect, jutting out from his body, looking utterly alien. It was thicker than his wrist, the head a swollen, plum-colored dome. A fresh pearl of pre-come welled at the slit. It twitched.
He couldn’t believe it. Any of it. He touched his own chest, half-expecting the hard plane to be an illusion. It wasn’t. It was solid, warm, humming with power. He ran a hand down his stomach, the ridges sharp under his fingertips. He was fucking ripped. He was hung like a horse. He was a goddamn sex demon.
Believe it, the Incubus said, its tone shifting from gloating to matter-of-fact. This is the new baseline. This is you. And your new purpose is very, very simple.
“What purpose?” Ryan asked the reflection, his voice hollow.
To fuck. To fuck every hot, willing, and soon-to-be-willing girl you see. To spread this gift. Every time one of them cums on this magnificent cock, their will becomes an extension of ours. Imagine it. An army of devotion. A world where no one ever laughs at you again. Where they all just… kneel.
The vision flashed in Ryan’s mind: a sea of faces, girls from his school, from the street, all staring at him with Jane’s vacant, worshipful eyes. A cold dread washed over the heat in his guts.
“No,” he said, stronger this time. “That’s not me. I don’t want slaves. I’m not a… a rapist demon.”
You weren’t raping anyone. She was begging for it. They all will be. The marks do the work. You just have to stand there and look delicious. The Incubus chuckled. It’s the easiest job in the world.
“I refuse.”
Your refusal is cute. And temporary. The hunger will build. It will make what you felt this morning feel like a gentle tickle. You will fuck a sidewalk crack if it means relief. Or, the voice offered, a sly dealer making a deal, you can do it with style. With pleasure. Choose the pretty ones. Have fun with it. I’m not a monster, Ryan. I’m a connoisseur.
Ryan turned away from the mirror. He couldn’t look anymore. He had to cover it up. He had to be normal. Just for a day. Just to think.
He stumbled into his bedroom, away from the gleaming bathroom tiles. He went to his closet and pulled on his clothes.
It was a disaster.
His favorite graphic tee, the one with the faded anime character, strained across his new chest and shoulders. The seams whispered threats of ripping. His soft, baggy jeans were the worst. He couldn’t even button them over his hips. The denim was painfully tight across his quadriceps, and the fly bulged ominously, unable to contain the semi-hard weight it was now tasked with holding.
“Shit,” he hissed, tugging at the fabric.
You look like a sausage casing, the Incubus observed with glee. Just give it up. Go commando. Let it swing. See what happens.
Ryan ignored him. He found a hoodie, a dark grey one that was a size too big. He yanked it on, pulling the strings tight so the hood cinched around his face. He shoved his hands into the pouch pocket. He found a pair of loose, black joggers that had elastic at the waist. He could just get them on, though they clung to his thighs and ass in a way that felt obscenely revealing. It was the best he could do.
Every inch was covered. No skin showed. No glowing tattoos. He looked in the full-length mirror on his closet door. He looked like a guy trying too hard to hide a body that was screaming to be seen. The hoodie obscured his new shoulders, but the joggers left little to the imagination about the shape of his legs and ass.
Jane was still downstairs.
He couldn’t deal with her. He couldn’t face what he’d done.
He just had to get out.
He crept downstairs, moving with a silence that was new to him. Jane was sitting up now, leaning against the wall by the front door. She had pulled her jeans up but hadn’t fastened them. She was staring at her own hands, a dazed, soft smile on her face. She didn’t look at him as he slipped past.
“Ryan?” she murmured, the voice distant and dreamy.
He didn’t answer. He unlocked the door, yanked it open, and ran out into the morning air.
He didn’t know where he was going. He just ran.
He just ran.
The cool morning air did nothing to calm the furnace inside him. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat of panic synced with the subtle pulse of the tattoos hidden under his hoodie. Each stride covered too much ground; his new muscles propelled him with an alien, terrifying efficiency. He passed his bus stop without stopping. He needed to walk. To think.
The thought of school, of the hallways and the locked stares, made his stomach clench. How could he possibly sit in a classroom like this? How could he hide what he’d become? Jane’s vacant, post-orgasmic face flashed behind his eyes.
You’re worrying about the wrong thing, the Incubus chided, its voice a smug whisper in the corridors of his mind. You should be planning your next meal. I’m peckish.
“Shut up,” Ryan muttered to the empty street. He shoved his hands deeper into the hoodie pouch, feeling the hard lines of his abdomen beneath the fabric. A low, insistent throb had begun again between his legs, a dull ache that pulsed in time with his heart. It was a thirsty, empty feeling.
A familiar scent cut through his turmoil—roasted beans, steamed milk, the sweet promise of sugar. He looked up. He’d wandered, aimlessly, to the strip mall. His usual coffee shop, ‘The Grind,’ sat nestled between a dry cleaner and a vacant storefront. It was a Tuesday ritual. A small, normal thing. A piece of his old life.
Go in, the demon urged, its tone suddenly bright and helpful. Get a coffee. Be normal. See what happens.
“Nothing will happen,” Ryan whispered to himself, pulling the hood tighter. “Everything’s covered.”
He pushed the door open. The bell jingled, a sound so mundane it almost hurt. The warm, caffeine-scented air enveloped him. He kept his head down, beelining for the back corner table, the one shrouded in shadow away from the window.
“Hey! Ryan!”
The voice was bright, female, and familiar. It froze him in his tracks halfway across the scarred wooden floor. He knew that voice. It was Chloe, the barista. The one with the dyed-red hair and the small silver nose ring. The one he’d secretly sketched in the margins of his physics notebook. The one who usually just said “total’s seven-fifty” without really looking at him.
He slowly turned.
She was leaning over the high counter, her usual bored expression replaced by a wide, genuine smile. Her eyes, a warm hazel, were locked on him. Really seeing him. “Long time no see,” she said, tilting her head. “You getting your usual? Large cold brew with room?”
He could only nod, stunned. She remembered his order.
“Cool, coming right up.” She turned to the machine, her movements oddly energetic. She glanced back over her shoulder, her gaze sweeping over him. “Hey, have you been working out? You look… bigger.”
The words hung in the air. She said it without her usual distracted tone. There was a focus there, an appraisal that made his skin prickle under the layers of clothing.
She doesn’t know. She can’t know, he thought frantically.
She senses it, the Incubus corrected. The vessel calls, even wrapped in burlap. She hears the whisper.
Chloe finished his drink with practiced speed. Instead of calling his name and placing it on the pickup counter, she walked around from behind the bar, carrying the cup herself. This was unprecedented. She stopped right in front of him, holding the drink out. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, reaching for it. His sleeve rode up just an inch as his hand extended.
Just an inch.
The cuff of his hoodie slipped back, revealing a sliver of his wrist, and with it, the very edge of the black, intricate chain tattoo. It glowed softly, a vein of ember in the dim café light.
Chloe’s eyes dropped to his hand. Her breath caught. The friendly, professional mask slid off her face. Her gaze fixed on that tiny exposed band of otherworldly ink. The smile vanished, replaced by a naked, hungry curiosity. “Whoa,” she breathed, her voice dropping to a husky register. “What is that?”
She grabbed his wrist before he could pull away. Her fingers were warm and surprisingly strong. She pushed the sleeve back further, revealing more of the coiling, luminous design.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, her thumb tracing the symbols. A full-body shiver ran through her. “Ryan. This is… this is insane.” Her eyes lifted to meet his, and they were dilated, the hazel nearly swallowed by black. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Where does it go?”
She was leaning in now, her body inches from his. The scent of her perfume—vanilla and something sharp—mixed with the coffee smell. It was overwhelming.
“It’s nothing,” he stammered, trying to tug his arm back. Her grip tightened. “Just, you know, a tattoo.”
“It’s not nothing,” she insisted, her voice trembling with a sudden intensity. “It’s moving. I saw it move.” She looked around the nearly empty café. A sophomore community college student was plugged into her laptop in a far booth, and a woman in her forties—a regular Ryan thought of as the ‘yoga mom’—was reading a paperback by the window. Chloe didn’t seem to care. Her focus was absolute. “Show me more.”
“I really shouldn’t…”
“Please.” The word was a throaty plea. She used her grip on his wrist to pull him closer. Her other hand came up and tugged at the drawstring of his hoodie. The knot came loose. “I need to see. Just a little.”
She yanked the hoodie open.
The loose fabric fell apart, revealing the tight tee shirt underneath. It strained against the new, impossible width of his chest and shoulders. The dark, swirling tattoos were clearly visible through the thin cotton, their glow casting faint shadows along the contours of muscle.
Chloe made a sound like she’d been punched. “Fuck,” she exhaled. Her hands flew to his chest, palms flattening against the hard planes. She could feel the heat radiating through the fabric, the subtle pulse of power. “What have you done to yourself?”
The laptop girl looked up from her screen, her earbuds slipping out. The yoga mom’s paperback lowered slowly into her lap. They were both staring now, their earlier preoccupation forgotten.
You have their attention, the Incubus hummed. The signal is broadcasting. Let the receivers tune in.
“Chloe, stop,” Ryan said, but his voice lacked force. The ache in his groin was intensifying, a demanding pressure. Her hands on him felt too good, a dangerous contrast to the terror.
“I can’t,” she hissed, her fingers clawing at the hem of his shirt. “I need to see it. All of it.” With a frantic grunt, she grabbed a fistful of fabric and pulled upwards.
The cheap graphic tee ripped at the seams with a loud tear.
Ryan’s torso was exposed. The full, breathtaking map of interwoven demonic script glowed against his skin, pulsing with a slow, deep light. The coffee shop’s fluorescent lights seemed to dim in comparison.
Chloe gasped, her hands hovering over his skin, afraid to touch yet unable to look away. “Oh, god…” she moaned.
Movement came from the side. The sophomore girl was standing now, her laptop forgotten. She drifted towards them as if sleepwalking, her eyes wide and fixed on Ryan’s chest. “What… what is that?” she murmured.
From across the room, the yoga mom stood up. Her book fell to the floor with a slap. She took a step forward, then another, her sensible shoes moving with unthinking purpose. Her gaze was locked on the V of muscle leading down from Ryan’s hips, on the dark trail of hair visible above his joggers.
It’s a feeding frenzy, the Incubus laughed. And you’re the chum in the water.
“Let me see,” Chloe demanded, her politeness utterly incinerated. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his joggers. The sophomore girl reached out, her fingers brushing the swirling tattoos on his lower back. The yoga mom was there now, too, her hand joining Chloe’s, both of them tugging at the elastic.
“Wait, stop—” Ryan’s protest was smothered under their focused desperation.
The joggers and his boxers were pulled down in one rough, concerted yank.
His cock sprang free, monstrous and thick, curving up against his stomach. It was fully erect now, a deep, flushed red, veins standing in thick relief along its formidable length.
Three sharp, simultaneous intakes of breath filled the quiet café.
Chloe dropped to her knees first, her hands wrapping around the base. Her mouth was already open. The sophomore girl shoved in beside her, her smaller hands struggling to find a place to hold on the massive shaft. The yoga mom, her face a mask of stunned lust, ran a trembling hand over the hard ridges of his abdomen, her fingers tracing the glowing script there.
“Mine,” Chloe growled, but it was a weak claim.
The sophomore girl didn’t speak. She just leaned in, her tongue darting out to lick the broad, glistening head. The yoga mom’s hand trailed lower, her fingers curling around him from the other side, stroking what Chloe couldn’t cover.
They were tearing at his clothes, at each other, a tangle of frantic hands and hungry whimpers. His shirt was gone, ripped to shreds. His joggers and boxers were around his ankles, trapping him. He was pinned against the edge of a table, three women clawing to get a piece of him.
Ryan could only stand there, a prisoner in his own unbelievable body, as the feeding frenzy began.
Chloe’s mouth was a wet, hot shock as she took the first few inches of him. She gagged immediately, her eyes watering, but she forced herself deeper, a obscene gurgle escaping her throat. The sophomore girl, whose name tag read ‘Megan’, whimpered as she kissed and licked the shaft, her fingers desperately trying to stroke what she couldn’t fit in her mouth.
“Let me,” the yoga mom breathed, her voice surprisingly firm. She pushed Chloe’s shoulder. “My turn.”
“Fuck off, Beth,” Chloe snarled, pulling off with a wet pop, saliva stringing from her lip to his cock. “I saw him first.”
“You’re choking,” Beth retorted, her sensible hands now pushing Ryan back hard against the table. His hips hit the edge, and the impact sent a jolt through him. “You don’t know what to do with that.”
The Incubus chuckled in Ryan’s head. A catfight. Classic. The prey debates who gets the first bite.
Megan didn’t argue. She just scrambled onto the table behind Ryan, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind in a clumsy hug. Her small breasts pressed against his tattooed back. “He’s so hot,” she moaned into his ear, her breath hitchy. “Like, burning up.”
Chloe seized the opportunity. While Beth was distracted, she shoved Ryan’s legs apart, her gaze fixed on the heavy weight swinging between them. “Hold him,” she commanded to no one in particular.
Beth grabbed his left arm, pinning it to the tabletop with a strength her yoga class never revealed. Megan clung tighter from behind, anchoring him. Ryan felt their combined weight, their desperate grips. He was stronger now, vastly stronger, but the shock and the swirling, electric pleasure from their touch paralyzed his will.
“Get on with it,” Beth hissed, her eyes glazed as she stared at Chloe.
Chloe didn’t need encouragement. She spat into her hand, slicking his length, then positioned herself over him. She was still in her jean shorts. She shoved the fabric aside, not even bothering with the button, and guided him to her entrance. She was soaked, her wetness slicking his head instantly. “Oh, fuck yes,” she chanted, “fuck yes, fuck yes.”
She sank down, impaling herself in one brutal, sitting drop.
Her back arched, a silent scream stretching her mouth. She was too tight, too small for what he now was. Her body strained to accommodate him, her inner muscles fluttering in a frantic, painful rhythm. She began to move, riding him with ragged, uneven bounces, her hands braced on his stomach for balance. Each descent forced a choked gasp from her.
“I can’t—it’s too much—” she sobbed, but her hips didn’t stop. They pistoned faster. Her climax hit her like a seizure. It wasn’t a wave; it was a detonation. Her body locked, her head thrown back, and a gush of hot liquid spilled out around where they were joined, soaking his thighs and the floor beneath the table. She slumped forward, her face hitting his chest, twitching.
One, the Incubus counted.
Beth didn’t wait for Chloe to recover. She yanked the dazed barista off by her hair, dumping her onto a nearby chair where she curled, mumbling. Beth, her sleek leggings already pushed down, climbed onto the table in front of Ryan. Megan still held him from behind. “Lift me,” Beth ordered, her voice stripped of all maturity, now just raw need.
Megan’s hands slid under Beth’s thighs, hoisting her as Beth guided Ryan inside her. Beth was wider, deeper, and took him with a grunt of profound satisfaction. “God, that’s it,” she moaned, her eyes rolling back. She began to fuck herself on him with a smooth, practiced urgency that was terrifying. She ground against him, chasing a feeling with the single-minded focus of an addict.
She came in under a minute. A deep, internal quaking that made her cry out sharply, like she’d been stabbed. Her release was another flood, adding to the mess coating Ryan’s skin and the table. She sagged in Megan’s hold.
Two.
Megan let Beth slide off onto the floor, where she lay panting. The shy sophomore now maneuvered around, her face flushed with a boldness her earbuds never hinted at. She pushed Ryan down onto his back on the table. Scattered sugar packets and a cold porcelain mug dug into his skin. She climbed over him, straddling his hips, her small hands guiding him into her with a reverence that was gone in an instant.
“It’s so big,” she whispered, then began to bounce, her little cries echoing in the quiet shop. She came almost immediately, a sharp, startled shriek, her body convulsing. She didn’t stop. She rode through it, orgasm ripping into another one, her juices mixing with the others, dripping down his balls and onto the wood. Her eyes lost all focus before she finally collapsed sideways off of him, landing on the floor in a heap beside Beth.
Three. A messy trifecta.
The coffee shop air was thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and spilled espresso. Ryan lay on the table, utterly drenched. Pussy juice slicked his stomach, his thighs, his still-throbbing cock. It pooled under his back, soaked into his hair. Chloe, Beth, and Megan lay around the table in various states of unconscious collapse, their clothes disheveled, their bodies utterly spent. Soft, post-orgasmic whimpers escaped their lips.
Ryan’s own breath sawed in and out of his lungs. He was still rock hard. The tattoos across his chest and arms glowed with a fierce, satiated light. The empty, hungry throb was gone, replaced by a low, perpetual hum of power.
See? the Incubus mused, its voice rich and smooth. No one got hurt. They got the best fuck of their pathetic little lives. And now… they’re ours. It paused. You’re welcome.
Ryan stared at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars he’d stuck there as a kid that now seemed ludicrous. The bell on the coffee shop door jingled.
“Hello? I’m here for the 9 AM mocha twist—” The new customer’s voice, a man’s, died in his throat.
Ryan slowly turned his head. A middle-aged man in a delivery uniform stood frozen just inside the door, his gaze darting from the three unconscious, half-dressed women to Ryan, naked and gleaming and wet on the table, his inhuman cock standing at attention against the morning light.