Chapter 2: The Demon's Morning Surprise
The cedar-scented darkness of the dog bed had offered no real peace. Malachar drifted in a shallow, hate-filled haze, his body a map of aches—the deep muscular throb from the forced kneeling, the tender, oversensitive sting between his legs, the phantom pressure of the velvet collar against his throat. Every time he neared something resembling sleep, the memory of her tongue, her command, her kiss would jolt him back to a simmering wakefulness. The humiliation was a live wire under his skin.
A sharp, grating scrape of wood on floorboards severed the quiet.
Then another. Followed by the sound of Elara humming a off-key tune. It was aggressively cheerful.
Malachar’s eyes flew open. In the pitch black of the storage room, his pupils widened, drinking in the faintest sliver of light under the door. He uncurled from the nest, every movement stiff. The bell on his collar chimed softly, a sound he was beginning to loathe more than the screams of the damned. He rose to his full height, his horns brushing the low ceiling, and pushed the door open.
The bedroom was a chaos of motion. Elara, dressed in a pair of soft, faded sleep shorts and a thin tank top, her wild hair a fiery cloud around her head, was dragging her heavy oak wardrobe away from the wall. Her arms trembled with the effort, but her face was alight with focused energy.
“Come on, you bastard, move,” she grunted at the furniture.
He stood in the doorway, a towering statue of lilac muscle and simmering resentment. She hadn’t given him a command to appear, so he simply watched, tail twitching. The sight of her—the casual display of mortal strength, the faint sheen of sweat on her freckled shoulders—should have been beneath his notice. Instead, his gaze caught on the way the fabric of her top stretched across her back. The runes on his skin remained dormant, a cool grey.
She finally wrestled the wardrobe aside, revealing a stretch of blank wall. Panting, she placed her hands on her hips and noticed him.
“Oh! Fluffy! You’re up.” Her grin was immediate and dazzling. “Perfect timing. We’re going to test the familiar bond. Properly.”
Those words sent a cold spike through his gut, but before he could form a scathing retort, she’d turned back to the wall. She raised her hands, palms facing the plaster. A soft, rosy pink light began to emanate from her fingertips, bleeding into the air. She started to chant, her voice dropping into a rhythmic, guttural cadence that was nothing like her usual teasing lilt. This was the voice of intent, of will shaping reality.
A familiar, terrifying heat bloomed in Malachar’s groin.
It wasn’t the slow, seductive warmth of an incubus’s own power. It was invasive. A searing, urgent pressure that built from the inside out, as if his blood had been replaced with liquid need. His cock, soft and spent, thickened violently, rising to a painful, full hardness in seconds, the heavy weight of it bumping against his stomach. A gush of wetness soaked his cunt, making his inner thighs slick. It was sudden, stark, and utterly divorced from his own desire. This was her desire. Channeled through him.
He gasped, a sharp intake of breath. “Witch—stop this—”
She didn’t even glance back. Her chanting grew louder. The pink light intensified, swirling in the air before her, starting to etch shimmering lines into the wall.
The heat became an ache. A deep, throbbing, desperate ache. His cock felt like iron, the skin tight and straining. His pussy clenched rhythmically around nothing, a slick, hungry pulse. Pre-come beaded at his tip and dripped onto the floorboards. The runes on his skin, from his chest down his abdomen and across his thighs, began to glow a faint, responding purple.
“Elara,” he snarled, trying to muster his fury. But his voice was strained. He took a step forward, but his legs were unsteady. The need was a distraction, a buzzing static in his mind, making it hard to focus on anything but the empty, demanding throb between his legs.
“Mmm, just a minute, pet,” she called out absently, her attention wholly on the spell. The lines on the wall were forming a complex, spiraling sigil. “I’m almost done expanding the closet. Need a lot more room for your things.”
His things. The dog bed. The humiliation. The need. It all coalesced into a white-hot point of agony.
He couldn’t stand it. A low, wounded sound escaped him. He looked down at his own body, at the proud, leaking cock and the glistening, puffy flesh beneath it, both screaming for attention he could not give himself without her command. The binding didn’t forbid it, but the compulsion of her spell-made need was its own prison.
He sank to his knees there on the bedroom floor, away from his pathetic nest. His breath came in ragged pants. The rosy light from her hands seemed to pulse in time with the aching in his cunt.
He gave in.
With a groan of pure shame, his large, elegant hand wrapped around his own cock. The touch was electric, a shock of relief so acute it bordered on pain. He pumped his fist, the motion rough and frantic, his thumb smearing the copious pre-come over the swollen head. It wasn’t enough. The emptiness inside him was a louder scream.
His other hand slipped between his thighs. Two fingers, slick from his own wetness, pushed into his cunt without ceremony. He was so open, so ready, that they slid in to the knuckle effortlessly. A broken cry tore from his throat. He fucked himself on his fingers, curling them to drag against that delicious, sensitive spot inside, while his fist stroked his cock in a messy, frantic rhythm.
“Fuck… oh, fuck…” he whimpered, his forehead dropping to the floor. His tail lashed wildly behind him. “Please… please…”
He didn’t know who he was begging. Her? Himself? The uncaring magic? He was a writhing, sniveling mess on the floor, fingers plunging into his own soaking cunt, hand jerking his massive dick, all while his mistress calmly worked on a home improvement spell a few feet away. The runes on his skin blazed brighter, a vivid, shameful purple. He could feel the color creeping into the edges of his vision
He was so close. The tension coiled, unbearable. His balls tightened. His cunt clenched viscously around his fingers. “I’m… I’m gonna…”
Elara stopped chanting.
The rosy light vanished. The sigil on the wall settled into a permanent, faintly glowing etching.
The searing, magical need in his groin snapped off like a switched light.
The climax that had been seconds away receded violently, a tidal wave pulling back from the shore. It left a hollow, agonizing void. A frustrated scream ripped from Malachar’s throat, raw and ragged. He collapsed onto his side, his own come-streaked hand still wrapped around his half-hard cock, his fingers still buried in his unsatisfied cunt. He shuddered, gasping, tears of sheer frustration burning his eyes.
The click of her tongue was the softest of sounds.
He looked up, vision blurry. She stood over him, hands on her hips, looking down with an expression of mild, curious disappointment. The runes in his eyes swirled fully now, a pathetic, luminous purple.
“Look at the state of you,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “All worked up and nowhere to go. And you’ve made a mess on my floor.” She shook her head. “Aren’t you supposed to be the expert on this sort of thing? You couldn’t even wait for me to finish.”
The shame was colder than any hellfire. He pulled his hands from his body, wiping them on the floorboards as if he could erase the evidence. He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Now,” she said, her brightness returning. She gestured to the wall. “Look what I made for you!”
The wall where the wardrobe had been was gone. In its place was a dark archway leading into a space that shouldn’t exist. The closet had been expanded, not into the next room, but into something else. The air that wafted out was dry and warm, carrying a scent of polished stone, copper, and that underlying, sweet velvet musk that was uniquely him.
Malachar pushed himself up onto his elbows. The physical need was gone, but the emotional devastation was a fresh wound. He peered into the new space.
It was a chamber. Small, but not a closet. The walls were smooth, polished basalt. Shelves, carved from the same stone, lined one wall. A low, wide pedestal of dark wood, like an altar, dominated the center. It was clearly meant for him. It was spacious, regal even. A place for a sovereign being. Not a dog bed.
The kindness of it, the consideration, was somehow worse than the cruelty.
“See?” Elara said, kneeling beside him. She didn’t touch him. Her green eyes were earnest. “I told you we’d get you proper things. That’s yours. You can put whatever you want in there. Your space.” She paused, then nodded toward the mess on the floor. “But you’re cleaning that up first.”
He just stared into the chamber. His own private hell, beautifully crafted. A gilded cage.
“How?” he finally croaked, his voice ruined.
“The bond,” she said simply, standing up. “I tapped into you. Your energy. Your… essence. It’s a two-way street, fluffy. I pull, I shape. I used a bit of what makes you you to make a space for you. Sympathetic magic. It’s why you felt… all that.” She waved a hand at his spent, crumpled form.
He understood. She hadn’t just tortured him for fun. She had used his own arousal as a battery, as raw magical fuel. She had siphoned his desperate need to power a spell for his own comfort. The elegance of the violation left him breathless.
“Now, up,” she said, her tone turning practical. “Cleaning supplies are under the kitchen sink. I want the floor spotless. Then you can explore your new room.”
The binding tugged at him. He hated the tug more than the command.
He hauled himself to his feet, his body feeling used and feeble. He kept his eyes downcast, the purple rune-light in them casting a soft glow on the sticky floor. He moved past her, toward the hallway, his tail dragging behind him like a dead thing.
As he passed the new archway, he felt it—a gentle, warm resonance from the stone, a quiet echo of his own captured power. It was a perfect fit. It felt like home.
That was the most terrible thing of all.
The polished basalt of his new chamber seemed to mock him, its warm resonance a lullaby for captured things. He found the cleaning supplies exactly where she’d said, under the sink amidst jars of dried beetles and bundles of thyme. The citrus-smelling spray and the rough cloth felt absurd in his large, claw-tipped hands, tools for a mortal chore. He scrubbed at the evidence of his own degradation—the sticky streaks on the floorboards, the damp spot where he’d knelt—until the wood was bare and scentless again. Each pass of the cloth felt like erasing a part of his own history, his centuries of terror reduced to a simple stain to be removed.
Finished, he stood in the center of the quiet living room, the empty silence a pressure against his skin. The cottage was still, waiting. He heard the rustle of paper from her bedroom.
Elara emerged, pulling on a worn leather jacket over her tank top. She beamed at the clean floor, then clapped her hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound. “Excellent! All clean. Okay, I’m going shopping.”
She bustled past him toward the front door, grabbing a large, slouchy canvas bag.
“Shopping,” Malachar repeated, his ruined voice flat. The word was so mundane it seemed to profane the entire catastrophic situation.
“Yep!” She shoved a water bottle into her bag. “I’m a first-time incubus owner. I was up all night researching what you’ll need. Proper oils for those horns, special cloth for rune-polishing, this mineral pumice for tail-scale maintenance—it’s a whole thing!” Her tone was bright, academic, as if she were preparing for a new exotic pet.
A cold fury tightened his throat. “Owner,” he hissed, the word a venomous dart. “I am not a thing to be owned, you stupid girl. I do not need your mortal trinkets. I have existed since before your bloodline was a notion in a drunkard’s eye. I can take care of myself.”
She finally looked at him, pausing with one hand on the doorknob. She didn’t glare. She just rolled her eyes, a profoundly casual dismissal that made his tail spike straight out in rage. “Sure you can, fluffy. That’s why you were eating my pussy like a starving man yesterday and sobbing into the floorboards an hour ago. You’re the picture of self-sufficient independence.”
He took a threatening step forward, his horns nearly brushing the doorframe. “I will shatter every bone in your—”
“While I’m gone,” she interrupted, her voice dropping into that soft, commanding register that slithered past his rage and coiled around his spine, “I want you to play. Use your hands. Get that pretty cunt of yours all nice and ready for me. But you are not, under any circumstances, to come. Do you understand? Not until I get back.”
The command settled into the binding, a cold, intricate lock clicked into place deep within his pelvis. The sheer, playful cruelty of it stole his breath. It was a perversion of his own nature, a starving man ordered to cook a feast he couldn’t eat.
“Fuck you,” he spat, but it was already a weak defiance.
She just grinned, swung the door open, and stepped out into the morning light. “Be good, my naughty pet!”
The door clicked shut. A moment later, through the window, he saw her kick a broomstick leaning against the cottage wall. It rose, and she mounted it, soaring into the sky above the treetops with a whoop of delight. He was alone.
The silence expanded, filled only by the thunder of his own heart. The command was an itch, a low thrum, a persistent, whispering ache. He stood rigid, fists clenched, fighting it. He wouldn’t. He was Malachar. He would master this.
He lasted perhaps three minutes.
A tremor started in his thighs. His cock, which had softened after the cleaning, began to fill again, a heavy, traitorous weight. His pussy, remembering the brutal, unfinished frustration from earlier, wept in anticipation. The empty cottage offered no distraction, only the ghost of her scent and the memory of her words.
“Fuck,” he growled to the empty room. The sound was desperate.
He sank to the living room rug, a braided thing stained with old tea and herb fragments. The command didn’t force the action, but it made inaction a special kind of torment. The need was a living thing now, squirming inside him, and the only permissible relief was to stoke it higher.
With a snarl of utter defeat, he shoved both of his large hands down between his legs.
The feeling was immediate, overwhelming euphoria. He moaned, a deep, resonant sound that shook his chest. His left hand gripped the base of his cock, his fingers unable to fully circle its girth, while the fingers of his right hand speared into his sopping lmk cunt. He was too big, too desperate for finesse. He used three fingers, then four, stretching himself open, the thick digits plunging in to the last knuckle. The stretch was glorious, a biting, full feeling that made his eyes roll back.
“Oh, gods, oh fuck,” he chanted, fucking himself onto his hand with ragged thrusts of his hips. His left hand pumped his shaft, his thumb smearing pre-come over the throbbing head in a slick, frantic rhythm. It was a crude, animalistic act, nothing like the seductive artistry he was capable of. This was pure, base need. Sweat beaded on his lilac skin, making the glowing purple runes shine. His tail thrashed against the floor, knocking over a small pile of books.
He was a creature of raw sensation. The rough drag of his own calloused fingers inside his hot, clutching channel, the tight slide of his fist on his veined cock, the coiling tension in his gut—it built and built, a wave threatening to crash. He could feel the orgasm approaching, a precipice of mindless release.
The binding lock snapped taut.
A strangled scream ripped from him as he was wrenched back from the edge. It was agony. A physical, cramping denial that made his whole body seize. He sobbed, drooling onto the rug, his hands still moving, still working, because stopping was impossible now. The command was a loop: play but don’t finish.
He lost track of time. The sun moved across the floor. He was a writhing, pathetic creature on the braided rug, his lilac skin sheened with sweat and saliva, his horns scraping the floor as he tossed his head. His hands were a blur of motion, fucking into his own body with a relentless, sobbing rhythm. His cock was an angry, dark purple, leaking a constant stream of fluid. His cunt was a ruined, swollen mess, glistening and achingly open around his pistoning fingers. He babbled, words in ancient tongues and broken Common, pleas and curses meant for her.
“Elara… please… let me… I can’t… you bitch… I need it… I need…”
When the front door finally opened, he was beyond coherent thought. He was a whimpering, trembling heap, his body still twitching with aborted movements, his rune-filled eyes glassy and unseeing. The sound of her footsteps was distant, miles away.
“Wow,” Elara’s voice cut through his haze. She dropped her heavy canvas bag by the door with a thump. She stood over him, surveying the scene—the sweat-damp rug, his utterly debauched form, the smell of sex and despair thick in the air. “You really went for it, huh?”
He couldn’t even form words. A thin, continuous whine was all he could manage.
“Alright, come on,” she said, her tone brisk, businesslike. “Enough of that. Clean yourself up. Go on. Use the cloth you used earlier.”
The binding provided a new focus. The command to clean overrode the endless loop of stimulation. His hands, sticky and slick, fell away from his body. He whimpered at the loss of contact, the sudden emptiness a new kind of torture. He dragged himself up, movements shaky and slow, and stumbled toward the kitchen for the cloth.
He wiped himself down mechanically, the rough fabric scraping over his oversensitive flesh, making him shudder. He was hollow, exhausted, every nerve scraped raw.
When he returned, standing unsteadily in the center of the room, head bowed, Elara was smiling. She gestured to the bulging canvas bag like a presenter on a stage.
“Good boy,” she said. “Now. I brought you presents!”
She began pulling items from the bag with the brisk efficiency of someone unloading groceries. Each object landed on the low wooden table with a soft thud or a metallic chime. “Okay, let’s see. First, the essentials.” She held up two small, elegant jars. “This balm is for your horns. Prevents drying and cracking. This oil is for the runes—keeps them from fading and itchy. And this pumice block is for the scales on your tail. Gotta exfoliate.”
Malachar stared. The mundanity was an insult layered atop the profound. She had bought him grooming supplies.
Next came a thick, leather-bound tome. She flopped it open, revealing intricate diagrams of demonic anatomy. “This is for me. Incubi and Succubi: A Caregiver’s Guide. There’s a whole chapter on nutritional needs and emotional enrichment. Who knew?”
His tail lashed once, a violent snap against his calf. “You are compiling a bibliography of my degradation.”
“I’m being a responsible owner,” she corrected, her voice sweet. Then her grin turned wicked. “Now for the fun stuff.”
Her hand dove back into the bag and emerged with something that made the air itself seem to thicken. It was a dildo, but it was obscenely large, far bigger than any human counterpart, carved from a deep, violet stone that pulsed with a slow, internal light. Runes identical to his own were etched along its formidable length. “This is enchanted,” she said, hefting its significant weight. “It’ll fuck you itself. I got it in your shade and everything.”
A hot, shameful thrill shot through Malachar’s gut. His traitorous cunt clenched around nothing.
Next was a flat, matte black pad, about the size of a dinner plate. She tapped it, and it emitted a low, resonant hum that Malachar felt in his teeth. “Grind pad. Variable settings. For when you’re feeling lazy.”
Then came the chains. She pulled out several harnesses fashioned from delicate, silvery links, so fine they looked like spiderwebs forged in metal. They jingled, a soft, mocking music, as she laid them out. One was clearly for the chest, another a complex arrangement of straps, and a simpler cuff-like set for wrists and ankles. “These are just pretty,” she said, but her tone promised they would be used.
A pair of heavy, black manacles followed, clanking on the wood. “Enchanted handcuffs. The magic in them responds to my voice.” She glanced at his furious, frozen form. “I thought you might like that.”
She pulled out a few smaller, wrapped parcels for herself, winking as she tucked them away. Then, with a flourish, she produced a luxurious bedspread, a deep, iridescent black that shimmered with threads of purple and crimson. It was beautiful, sumptuous. She folded it neatly and set it aside without a word of explanation.
Finally, she lifted a small, circular mirror in a plain lead frame. She turned it toward him. He saw his own reflection—the lilac skin flushed with anger, the glowing purple eyes full of helpless rage, the velvet collar. Then her thumb stroked the frame, and his image wavered and vanished, replaced by a view of her own bedroom, empty and waiting.
“Two-way mirror,” she chirped. “So I can always check in on my cute pet when I’m out and about. Make sure you’re not getting into trouble.”
That was the final, unbearable violation. Privacy was a concept for mortals in their brief, fragile lives; for an ancient being, it was the bedrock of self. She had demolished it with a trinket. A sound escaped him, a low, guttural vibration of pure, undiluted hatred that made the candles gutter.
“You vile, rancid little cockroach,” he snarled, the words dripping with a venom cultivated over centuries. “You think these baubles mean anything? You think this surveillance changes the fact that the moment this spell falters, I will peel the flesh from your bones in strips so thin they will be translucent? I will fill your new closet with your own screaming viscera. I will use that mirror to show you your intestines before you die staring at them.”
Elara listened, nodding slightly as if considering a mild complaint about the weather. She began casually repacking the items into the bag, all except the mirror, which she propped against a candlestick, still showing the empty room.
When his tirade ended, chest heaving, she simply shrugged. “Cool story, fluffy.” She shoved the now-heavy bag against his legs. “Put your new things away in your room. Organize them however you want. I’m going to make dinner.”
She turned and walked into the kitchen, leaving him standing there, tremors of apocalyptic fury wracking his frame, a bag of balms and toys and chains at his feet, and the unblinking eye of the mirror capturing every humiliated tremor.
The command to organize was a trivial, grating footnote to the epic scale of his wrath. He wanted to hurl the bag through the window. He wanted to smash the mirror into dust. He stood rigid, battling the compulsion, for a full minute. The binding did not tighten, did not punish; it just waited, a silent, immutable law of reality as certain as gravity.
With a roar that shook dust from the rafters, he snatched up the bag, the canvas straps straining in his grip. He stormed toward his new chamber, the basalt archway seeming to drink his anger into its warm, dark depths. He flung the bag onto the central wooden altar. The contents spilled out, the chains jingling merrily, the large violet dildo rolling to a stop pointing accusingly at him.
He stared at the pile. The care behind the balms was an intimacy that sickened him. The predatory intent behind the toys was a challenge that aroused him. The mirror on the wall outside was a sentence. He could not destroy any of it. The command was to organize.
His movements were jerky, violent. He slammed the horn balm and rune oil onto a stone shelf. He threw the pumice block after it. He snatched up the harnesses, the cold chains slitherling over his knuckles, and hung them on a protruding piece of basalt like condemned men on a gibbet. The enchanted handcuffs he dropped into a dark corner.
He picked up the enormous dildo. The stone was warm, almost alive. The runes pulsed against his palm. A vivid, unwelcome image flashed in his mind: the thing moving on its own, pushing into him, filling him exactly as her command earlier had forbidden. A fresh slickness dampened his thighs. He threw it onto the bedspread, which he had spread roughly over the altar.
Finally, he picked up the grind pad. His thumb brushed its surface. It activated instantly with a deep, intrusive buzz. He dropped it as if burned. It lay on the black fabric, humming ominously.
It was organized. A museum of his capitulation.
From the kitchen, the smell of onions sizzling in butter wafted through the cottage. A mundane, domestic scent. He stood in the center of his chamber, his breath slowly steadying, the purple light in his eyes fading back to a simmering gold. The silence was complete, broken only by the faint, persistent buzz of the pad and the distant, cheerful clatter of a pan.
He looked at the mirror on the wall in the other room. From this angle, he could not see its surface. But he knew it saw him. It would always see him.
Elara’s voice floated in, conversational, warm. “You want garlic in this, fluffy?”
He didn’t answer. He reached out, his claw tracing the edge of the velvet collar around his throat. Then his hand fell. He turned and walked out of his chamber, past the watching mirror, and toward the kitchen light, to stand in the doorway and watch his owner cook.