Chapter 7: Scientific Method
The quiet, after days of feasting, was a physical thing. It had weight. It pressed against Mike’s eardrums as he wandered the newest wing of the mansion—a long gallery of silent statues, their faces blurred as if carved from candle wax.
He could still hear it, though. The distant, low thunder of Charlie’s contentment, a seismic hum that traveled through the floorboards. The faint, happy clatter of Gluttonia in some distant, ever-busy kitchen. Lucifer’s precise, echoing footsteps on a floor above, measuring her domain.
He was alone, and for the first time since the transformations began, he felt the shape of the power he’d been riding. It wasn’t just happening to him. He had, in some way he barely understood, started it. The thought was a spark in the dry tinder of his old curiosity.
The summoning circle was still there, in the sub-basement. Not the original sad chalk on concrete, but a permanent inlay now, etched into a floor of polished obsidian, the lines filled with cold, glowing silver. The room had grown too, becoming a vaulted summoning chamber. Waiting.
“Just a test,” he muttered to the empty air, his voice swallowed by the acoustics. “Just to see if it’s me.”
He didn’t have the old book. He didn’t need it. The words came to him, not from memory, but from a place deeper, a hot, wanting place in his gut that had been fed and empowered by the presence of two demonic royals and a Sin made manifest. He spoke them, his tone not uncertain, but demanding.
The silver lines of the circle blazed white-hot. The air cracked, not with the smell of sulfur, but of hot fur, wet earth, and a sharp, coppery musk. The light didn’t coalesce into one form. It split, twisted, and landed with three simultaneous, soft thumps.
Mike took a step back.
They were kneeling in a triangle, each facing him. Dog girls. Demon girls. Three of them.
The one on the left had fur the color of burnt charcoal, her ears tall and pointed, a sleek tail swishing slowly across the obsidian. Her eyes were molten gold. The one on the right was frost-white, with icy blue eyes and a puff of a tail. The one in the center was a deep, rusty red, her eyes the green of a forest at dusk. They wore identical, simple leather harnesses and cuffs, highlighting taut, athletic stomachs and modest curves.
They inhaled in unison, their noses twitching. Six eyes, three sets of nostrils, flared. They scented the air—the residue of celestial power, the thick perfume of gluttony, the cold steel of royal ambition. They scented him.
The red one’s lips peeled back from very white, slightly pointed teeth. Not a snarl. A smile.
“Master,” all three said, their voices a discordant harmony—one husky, one sharp, one a low purr.
“Cerberus?” Mike guessed, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“A piece,” said the black one.
“A third,” said the white.
“The fun part,” finished the red, her green eyes locked on his.
They moved as one. There was no pounce, no dramatic leap. One second they were kneeling, the next they were around him, a blur of fur and warm skin and soft, inquiring hands. Their movements were unnervingly synchronized, as if three bodies shared a single swift purpose.
“Power on you,” the white one murmured, her cold nose pressed against the pulse in his throat.
“Contracts. Strong ones,” the black one said, her hands sliding under his shirt, palms hot.
“You’re a well,” breathed the red one directly into his ear, her voice a vibration. “We’re so thirsty.”
Their coordination was absolute. His clothes were gone, not torn, but simply removed with an effortless, practiced ease that left him exposed and staggering back against the cold obsidian wall. They didn’t ask. Their shared intent was a tangible force in the room, a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
The red one claimed his mouth, her kiss deep and searching, a mapping of territory. The black one sank to her knees before him, her gold eyes holding his as she took him into the surprising heat of her mouth without hesitation, her tongue a clever, relentless pressure. The white one pressed against his back, her cool hands skating over his chest, her sharp teeth grazing his shoulder.
It was an onslaught of sensation, a dismantling of his control. He groaned into the red one’s mouth, his hands tangling in her thick fur. The black one’s rhythm was steady, devouring, her throat working. The white one’s chill hands found his hips, her grip possessive.
He felt the build, the inevitable surge, far too quickly. A strangled sound caught in his throat.
They felt it too.
They pulled back, all three, as one entity. The red one grinned, her lips wet. “For us,” she commanded, not to him, but to the situation.
He was on his back on the obsidian floor, its cold a shock against his skin. They were on him, over him, a living blanket of fur and desire. The white one straddled his face, her musky scent filling his senses, her cool weight a demand. The black one guided him into her, a tight, searing sheath, sinking down with a low, shuddering sigh that her sisters echoed. The red one positioned herself over his mouth, her taste earthy, complex.
They began to move.
It was a rhythm that defied human coordination. A rolling, undulating wave that passed through the three of them and into him. When the black one rose, the white one ground down. When the red one arched, the black one moaned. Their pleasure was shared, magnified, a circuit closing through his body. Their little sounds—whimpers, growls, sharp intakes of breath—wove into a single, desperate symphony.
Mike was lost in it. A tool, a conduit, drowning in a triple-pointed hunger. He could only hold on, his hands gripping the black one’s furred hips, his mouth answering the red one’s movements, his world reduced to scent and heat and the building, unbearable pressure in his core.
It broke.
A white-hot tide ripped through him, endless, wracking. He cried out, the sound muffled.
They took it. They drew it in.
As the pulses subsided, he felt it happen. A deep, gurgling churn, not from one belly, but from three. The black one atop him gasped, her golden eyes flying wide. Her hands flew to her stomach.
It swelled.
Not with fat. With a rapid, liquid inflation. It rounded outward, the taut athleticism disappearing under a smooth, firm dome of newfound fullness. It pressed against his own stomach, a warm, heavy weight. A matching gasp from the red one. He could see, from his angle, the curve of her belly distort, pushing out against her leather harness, becoming a ripe, full orb. The white one shuddered above him, her cool skin heating as her own abdomen distended, a perfect, round swell forming beneath her navel.
They collapsed around him, a tangle of limbs and soft, furred bellies. The three domes pressed together, a trio of taut spheres, warm and heavy with the evidence of his release. They panted, their shared breath fogging the cool air.
The red one, her green eyes half-lidded with sated bliss, patted her bloated stomach with a soft, drum-like sound. “A good first offering,” she purred.
The black one nuzzled into his neck, her new weight a comfortable pressure on his hip. “The well is deep.”
The white one simply sighed, tracing the curve of her own inflated belly with something like reverence.
Mike lay there, the cold floor seeping into his back, the warmth of the three dog girls radiating into him. The distant hum of the mansion seemed to pulse in time with his slowing heartbeat. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling, where the shadows danced.
He had done that. Not just witnessed. Not just desired. He had acted, and the reality had bent, violently and beautifully, to his will. A slow, shaky smile spread across his face.
From somewhere far above, through layers of stone and magic, he thought he heard the faint, approving echo of Lucifer’s laughter.