Chapter 1: The Binding of Flesh and Flame
The air in the bedroom tasted of ozone and burnt sage. Elara Mosswood stood barefoot in the center of a hastily drawn chalk circle, her wild auburn hair escaping its messy bun, her oversized band t-shirt slipping down one shoulder. A single black lace strap of her panties peeked above the waistband of her sleep shorts. She ignored it, her freckled face a mask of concentration as she traced the final sigil in the air, her voice a low, steady chant that made the candle flames gutter and stretch toward the ceiling.
The circle erupted.
Violet fire roared upward in a column, sucking the heat from the room. The pages of half-read grimoires fluttered in a sudden wind. And in the center of it all, a form coalesced from shadow and anger.
Malachar materialized with a sound that was less a roar and more the tearing of reality itself. He was huge, easily seven feet of sculpted, lethal muscle, his skin a startling, beautiful shade of twilight lilac. Deep purple runes, ancient and glowing with captured power, swirled across his chest, down the hard planes of his abdomen, and over the thick muscle of his thighs. Curving ram’s horns, black as polished obsidian, swept back from his temples. A slender, rat-like tail lashed the air behind him in furious whips.
And he was, as Elara’s spell had insisted, fully formed.
A truly gigantic cock, thick and heavy and a shade darker than his skin, jutted proudly from a thatch of black curls, already half-hard and leaking a bead of slick arousal at the tip. Below it, nestled between his powerful thighs, was a puffy, pretty little cunt, glistening with wetness that caught the candlelight. The contrast was obscenely perfect.
“You mortal worm,” he snarled, his voice like grinding stones. His eyes burned molten gold, fixed on her with pure, undiluted hatred. He lunged.
And was brought up short as if he’d hit an invisible wall. The binding runes etched into the floorboards flared white-hot. A choked gasp tore from his throat as an unseen force seized his limbs, wrestling his majestic form down onto his knees with a thud that shook the cottage. The submissive position visibly tortured him. His tail beat against the floorboards in helpless rage.
Elara let out a slow breath, a wide, delighted smirk spreading across her face. The initial fear melted away, replaced by giddy triumph. She stepped out of her protective circle and approached him, the casual sway of her hips an insult.
“Wow,” she breathed, circling him. “The illustrations in Daemonologie for the Determined really did not do you justice.” She stopped in front of him, tilting her head. “Malachar, right? Big, scary incubus. Terror of the midnight hour.” She reached out, ignoring his flinch, and ran a single fingertip along the smooth, cool curve of one horn. “And now you’re my cute little pet.”
He shuddered, a full-body convulsion of rage and something else. “Do not touch me, witch. I will devour your soul and use your skull for a—”
“For a chamber pot, yeah, yeah.” She rolled her bright green eyes. “The last demon said that too. He’s currently tending my herb garden. He’s great with rosemary.” Her finger trailed down from his horn, over the sharp angle of his jaw. His skin was surprisingly warm. She felt the tense muscle there jumping under her touch. “The binding’s airtight, fluffy. You can’t hurt me. You can’t disobey a direct command. You’re stuck.”
His golden eyes followed her hand with searing intensity. “I will find a way to break it. I will make you beg for death.”
“Promises, promises.” Her hand dropped lower, hovering over his chest. The glowing runes there pulsed with a light that seemed to sync with his quickening breath. She could smell him—smoke, oud, and the dark, sweet musk of his arousal. It was heady. “You’re already getting excited, aren’t you? Is it the summoning? Or is it me?”
“It is the outrage,” he hissed, but the protest was weak. His enormous cock had stiffened further, bobbing against his stomach. A fresh trickle of wetness gleamed at the tip.
Elara’s playful dominance crystallized into something sharper, hotter. She knelt before him, putting them almost eye-to-eye. The heat radiating from his body was immense. She saw his gaze drop to the exposed lace on her shoulder, to the swell of her breast under the thin cotton shirt. A low, involuntary growl rumbled in his chest.
“See something you like, demon boy?” she purred.
“I see a dead woman,” he muttered, but his eyes were starting to change. The molten gold was being invaded, flooded from the pupil outward, with the same deep, vibrant purple as his runes.
Elara’s breath hitched. The book had mentioned this. When the runes fill their eyes, their need is absolute. Their pride shatters. They become pliant. Desperate.
She decided to test it.
“Malachar,” she said, her voice dropping its teasing lilt for a moment, becoming a soft command. “Stay perfectly still.”
The binding spell seized him, locking every mighty muscle. Only his eyes could move, widening slightly in fresh humiliation. The purple bled faster, now almost completely overtaking the gold. A thin, desperate whine escaped his clenched teeth.
“Look at you,” she whispered, her curiosity blazing into raw hunger. She let her gaze travel hungrily down his body. “All that power, all that history… and you’re mine to play with.” Her hand, which had been hovering, finally settled on his inner thigh. The muscle there was like iron, quivering under her palm. He was burning up.
She leaned in closer, her nose almost brushing his skin. The dark, sweet scent of his pussy was intoxicating. “I wonder,” she mused, her words a hot whisper against the sensitive skin near his hip, “how that pretty little cunt tastes when you’re desperate.”
Another whine, higher this time, tore from him. His tail lay still now, a limp curve on the floor.
She didn’t kiss it. That would be too kind. She flicked out her tongue, a quick, flat stripe from the bottom of his slit all the way up to the swollen apex.
He jerked against the binding spell, a ragged sob choking him. The taste was complex—sweet like overripe fruit, salty, with an electric tang of magic. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
“Fuck,” she breathed against him, and then she dove in, abandoning any pretense of clinical study.
She ate him with the same enthusiastic recklessness she applied to her spellwork. She licked into his hot, clutching entrance, fucking him with her tongue, reveling in the way his hips tried and failed to buck. She sucked the puffy outer lips, nipped at the tender inner flesh with her teeth, and when her tongue found his clit—a hard, throbbing pearl—and circled it ruthlessly, he utterly broke.
The sounds he made were nothing like a demon’s roar. They were broken, keening cries. “Please… ah, fuck… witch… Elara…”
Hearing her name on his lips, begged in that ruined voice, sent a jolt of pure lightning straight to her own core. She was soaked, aching. She worked him faster, drinking down the copious wetness, guiding him with filthy, murmured words. “That’s it, my naughty pet. Come for me. Come all over my face.”
His back arched violently, the spell allowing it only so far. A shattered scream was ripped from his throat as he came, his cunt clamping rhythmically around her tongue, a flood of his essence spilling into her mouth. She swallowed it, magic and all, feeling a secondary, warmer heat bloom in her own stomach.
She pulled back, panting, her chin glistening. His eyes were completely purple now, glassy and unfocused. His huge cock wept a steady stream of pre-come onto the floor. He was utterly spent, trembling, his proud head hanging low.
Elara stood up on shaky legs. The power dynamic had irrevocably shifted. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking down at the devastating creature she’d brought to his knees.
“Good boy,” she said softly.
He didn’t even have the strength to look offended. A single, exhausted tear tracked through the rune on his cheek.
She reached down, cupping his chin, forcing his head up. Those purple, rune-filled eyes stared into hers, filled with a vulnerable confusion that was more intoxicating than any show of force.
“Now,” Elara said, her voice casual again, but with a new, undeniable edge of possession. “Let’s get you cleaned up. And then you can tell me all about what else that magnificent mouth of yours can do.”
The purple haze in Malachar’s eyes took a long time to fade. Elara let him kneel there, shuddering through the aftershocks, while she rummaged through a carved wooden box on her dresser. The candles burned lower. The scent of sex and magic hung thick in the air, mingling with sage and dust.
She returned with a length of black velvet ribbon and a small, cold iron bell.
“Look at you,” she said, her tone conversational as she knelt before him again. He flinched, a minute tensing of his spent muscles. The runes on his skin had dimmed to a soft glow. “A complete mess. My mess.”
“I am not—” he began, his voice gravelly and torn.
“You are,” she interrupted lightly. She held up the ribbon. “The familiar bond is strong. But I’m a believer in belts and suspenders, fluffy. Just in case.”
She looped the velvet around his throat. His breath hitched. It wasn’t the texture—it was soft—it was the intention. She whispered a single, guttural word over the ends, and they fused together seamlessly. The iron bell hung from the front, a tiny, weightless pendant. A subtle violet light pulsed once within the velvet, then sank into the material, leaving it looking ordinary. A secondary binding. A choke-chain made pretty.
“There,” she said, sitting back on her heels to admire her work. The black stood stark against his lilac skin. It looked right. “Now, let’s clarify your role. You’re a familiar. A battery. I’ll pull on your magic when I need it for my work. It’s apparently considerable, so that’s handy. And in return, I’ll keep you well-fed and… happy.”
The word ‘happy’ seemed to jolt him back to some semblance of himself. The molten gold rushed back into his eyes, drowning the vulnerable purple. A snarl twisted his perfect mouth. “Happy,” he spat. “I will only be happy when I’m painting these walls with your brains, when I can finally split your smug little skull in half.”
Elara didn’t even blink. Her hand moved faster than he could track, given his weakened state.
She smacked him—a sharp, open-palmed strike directly against his swollen, sensitive clit.
The sound was a wet, sharp crack in the quiet room.
Malachar’s entire body bowed. A choked, guttural moan ripped from his throat, long and wanton and utterly devoid of anger. It was pure, shocked sensation. His cock, which had softened slightly, jerked violently back to full, aching hardness, a fresh pearl of pre-come beading at the tip.
“You say the naughtiest things,” Elara chided, her voice a singsong of false sympathy. She watched the conflict rage in his eyes: utter hatred warring with the traitorous, white-hot jolt of pleasure-pain that still resonated through his core.
Before he could formulate another threat, she rose and simply settled onto his lap. His massive thighs were like stone pillars beneath her. She wrapped her arms loosely around his neck, feeling the tension thrumming through him. He was frozen, trapped between the binding’s compulsion, the humiliation of his body’s response, and the startling intimacy of her weight.
“I don’t see why this can’t work well for both of us,” she said, her breath teasing the skin near his horn. She wiggled slightly, feeling the hot, hard length of him press against her thigh through her shorts. “You get a steady source of energy. A safe place. I get a powerful ally. And we can have… this.” She rolled her hips, a slow, deliberate grind against his stomach.
He growled, a low, continuous rumble of frustration. “I am an Incubus of the Seventh Circle. I am not a lapdog. I will not be anyone’s pet.”
Elara leaned back, just far enough to look directly into his burning eyes. She smiled then, a wide, genuine, terrifying smile that crinkled the corners of her green eyes. She tapped the velvet collar with one finger.
“But you already are, Malachar.” She said it softly, as if explaining a simple fact to a child. “You’re wearing my collar. You came on my tongue. You’re in my lap.” She punctuated each point with a gentle squeeze of her arms around his neck. “So. Deal with it.”
The growl died in his throat. He had no retort. No spell to break. Only the humiliating truth of her words, the warm weight of her body, and the relentless, aching throb between his legs that yearned for more of her touch, even as his pride screamed for vengeance.
The candle flames dipped low. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpane. Inside, the demon and his witch sat in a silence thick with unfinished business, the terms of their deal hanging in the air between them, sealed not with a handshake, but with a collar and a moan.
Inside, the demon and his witch sat in a silence thick with unfinished business, the terms of their deal hanging in the air between them, sealed not with a handshake, but with a collar and a moan.
Eventually, Elara shifted, sliding off his lap. Her legs were a little unsteady. “Right. Up you get. Time for the grand tour.” She snapped her fingers.
The binding compelled him. He rose, his movements stiff with residual humiliation and spent pleasure. The bell on his collar gave a tiny, ridiculous chime. He looked down at it, his expression pure murder.
“This way, fluffy.” She led him out of the bedroom, through a cluttered living area where dried herbs hung from the rafters and crystals glittered on every surface, and into a small, adjoining room she used for storage.
It was… not a room for a person.
In the corner, nestled between a stack of old almanacs and a cracked crystal ball, was a large, circular dog bed. It was plush, filled with cedar chips, and lined with soft fleece. A heavy brass bowl sat beside it. A chewed-looking rubber bone rested against the wall.
Elara winced, rubbing the back of her neck. “Okay. So. I was, uh, expecting something more… animalistic. A fox, maybe. Or a raven. The spell for a sentient familiar was right next to the one for a spirit-guardian in the grimoire, and the ink smudged a little, and…” She trailed off, waving a hand at the setup. “Look, I’m sorry. The furnishings are a bit odd. But it’s cozy! And tomorrow, we can go to Magic Row. Pick out some proper things for you. A nice chair. Whatever you like.”
Malachar stared. The lilac skin of his face darkened with a flush of pure, undiluted rage. The runes across his chest began to glow brighter, a dangerous purple light.
“A dog bed.” His voice was terrifyingly quiet. “You expect me, Malachar, Devourer of the Singing Saints, Breaker of the Argent Vault, to sleep in a dog bed. Like a pet. From a mortal pet store.”
“Well, where else are you going to sleep?” Elara asked, folding her arms. Her tone was reasonable, which made it infinitely worse.
“I do not sleep! I am an ancient incubus! I am a sovereign being of desire and dread! I will not be tamed and kept by some… some twenty-year-old witchling who still has glitter on her spellbooks!” He took a step toward her, his horns nearly scraping the low ceiling. The air crackled with heat. “I will shred this pathetic nest. I will burn this cottage to the ground. I will peel the skin from your bones while you—”
“Cum.”
She said it softly. A simple, casual command.
His tirade cut off in a wet, choked gasp.
It wasn’t like before. There was no touch, no buildup. The binding spell took the word and forged it into a white-hot wire of pure compulsion, hooking directly into the core of his being.
His back arched so violently something popped in his spine. A scream, torn from a place deeper than pride, shattered the quiet of the room. His gigantic cock jerked, untouched, and erupted, hot stripes of come painting the floorboards, the stack of books, his own trembling thighs. His pussy clenched on nothing, spasming, another rush of slickness joining the mess. It was brutal, clinical, and utterly overwhelming. It ripped through him like a lightning strike, leaving only shattered nerves and empty, twitching muscles in its wake.
He collapsed forward, catching himself on his hands and knees, head hanging low, strings of saliva and semen dripping from his lips. He dragged in ragged, broken breaths.
The aftershocks slowly subsided. The trembling in his limbs settled from a quake to a shiver. The humiliation, fresh and scalding, began to boil back up through the haze of forced pleasure.
He lifted his head. His eyes were pure, swirling purple again, but filled now with a hatred so profound it seemed to suck the light from the room. “I am going…” he wheezed, his voice raw, “to murder you. Slowly. I will use your own… your own intestines to strangle you. I will feast on your terror. I will—”
“Cum.”
Again.
The sound he made this time was beyond language. A high, shattered shriek that broke into sobs. His body convulsed, another orgasm brutally wrung from him with zero mercy. It was less fluid this time, dry, wrenching pulses of agony and pleasure that left him curled on his side, heels drumming against the floor, his tail wrapped pathetically around his own ankle. Tears of frustration and overstimulation cut tracks through the runes on his cheeks.
Silence, except for his desperate, hiccupping breaths.
Elara walked over. She crouched beside his shuddering form. He flinched, a full-body recoil from her proximity. She reached out and gently brushed the wild, sweaty curls from his forehead. His skin was fever-hot.
She leaned down and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his brow, right between the base of his horns.
“Sleep well, my naughty pet,” she whispered, her voice warm and genuine.
She stood, snapped her fingers once more, and pointed to the deep, plush dog bed.
Moving like a marionette with cut strings, Malachar dragged himself across the few feet of floor and crawled into the fleece-lined nest. He curled in on himself, his massive frame looking suddenly small and broken in the absurd bedding. The purple glow of his runes flickered, faded, and went out, leaving him in the dark, clad only in his velvet collar.
Elara smiled softly, closed the door, and left him there, wondering if the wetness on his face was from tears, sweat, or come, and knowing, with soul-crushing certainty, that he was, indeed, utterly and completely hers.