Chapter 4: Six versus one
The heels sank into the carpet of dry leaves, each step a sharp report in the silent clearing. A shadow detached itself from the pines with startling speed, a muscled forearm hooking around her throat and yanking her off her feet. Her back hit the earth, the impact punching the air from her lungs. Malazar’s grinning, goat-like face loomed above her, his red fur matted and his eyes burning with frank hunger. “You wore the heels,” he rasped, his breath hot and smelling of clove and rust.
“I counted six of you shits,” Izza coughed, her hand already scrambling for the silver dagger at her thigh. “Figured you’d appreciate the show.” The other five emerged from the tree line, their coarse laughter like stones grinding together. Malazar’s claws ripped through the supple material at her chest, the cool night air hitting her skin as he exposed her. “We do,” he growled, his other hand fumbling with the fastening of his own rough-spun trousers.
He was already painfully hard, his cock springing free, thick and ruddy and inhumanly hot against her bare stomach. “Every time, you arrogant fuck,” Izza spat, but she didn’t struggle as he forced her legs apart. He sheathed himself inside her with a single, brutal thrust, the sudden fullness a violation she’d learned to anticipate, to use. She arched against him, a sharp gasp escaping her as he began fucking her with rough, possessive snaps of his hips. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her dagger, her other hand clawing at the dirt.
“You love it,” Malazar grunted into her ear, his pace quickening, each drive pounding her into the leaf litter. “You love knowing you make us this stupid, this weak.” He was right, and the hateful thrill of it coiled in her gut, hot and shameful. One of the other demons crouched beside her head, his cock sliding against her cheek, smearing her skin with wet heat. She opened her mouth, taking him in to muffle her own choked cry as Malazar pounded into her, the filthy, rhythmic slap of flesh drowning out the forest.
The demon in her mouth groaned, his hips jerking as he fucked her throat with shallow, desperate thrusts. Izza relaxed her jaw, letting the bitter-salt taste flood her senses, and her own body went slack beneath Malazar’s relentless pounding. The fight left her muscles in a sudden, intentional wave, a tactical retreat into utter vulnerability that made Malazar shudder above her.
“Finally,” he rasped, his rhythm stuttering for a second in triumphant surprise. Izza released the dagger, her fingers splaying open in the dirt, a white flag. She yielded completely, arching to meet his next thrust, a raw, guttural sound of concession tearing from her throat around the cock filling it. This was the permission the pack needed, and hands were suddenly everywhere, pulling the ruined suit from her legs, turning her hips.
Malazar withdrew, his place immediately taken by another, the brutal penetration drawing a sharp cry she didn’t bother to stifle. She spread her legs wider, an invitation, and a third demon knelt before her, his rough tongue lashing against her clit as another cock pushed against her ass. “Fuck me, then,” she snarled, the words ragged and thick with defiance even in surrender. “Do it, you disgusting fucking animals.”
Her world narrowed to a chain of sensations: the scrape of fur, the burn of stretch, the wet, slapping cacophony of their use of her. She came violently around the cock pumping into her cunt, the orgasm a shockwave of pure sensation that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with release. Malazar watched, stroking himself, his intelligent eyes gleaming with a strange, possessive fondness amidst the depravity.
Malazar’s hand stilled on his cock as he saw her eyes focus through the haze. “On your knees,” he commanded, the order a guttural rasp. The demons hauling her up obeyed, forcing her into the damp leaves with her back to Malazar’s view.
They formed a crude circle around her, their cocks jutting toward her face like a grotesque fence. “Let’s see that famous mouth work for something other than clever insults,” one sneered, grabbing a fistful of her short hair. Izza let her body go lax, a puppet in their hands, but her gaze was sober and calculating as it swept the rank offerings before her.
She remembered Elara’s clinical assessment in the apothecary—their excitement was a fatal hesitation. With a sudden, decisive movement, she leaned forward and took the nearest demon into her mouth, swallowing him deep until her nose pressed into coarse fur. Her hands shot up, not to push away, but to grasp two other thick lengths, her fists pumping their slick shafts with a rough, practiced rhythm.
The demon in her mouth groaned, his hips stuttering. The two in her hands pulsed, leaking fluid over her knuckles. The remaining two could only watch and thrust uselessly at the air. Izza controlled the pace, a slow, deep suck followed by a twisting jerk of her wrists, dictating their ragged breathing. “That’s it, you predictable fuck,” she thought, the words a venomous mantra in her mind as she worked them.
Malazar watched, fascinated, as she turned their dominance into a service she performed. She was not submitting; she was demonstrating. A sharp, wicked grin spread across her face, impossible for them to see but clear in the defiant set of her shoulders. She was proving the professor’s theory in the most visceral way possible, and the tactical victory was a sharper thrill than any of their touches.