Chapter 4: The Toy Box
The dawn light filtered through the cottage’s grimy windows, finding Malachar already awake and stiff in more ways than one. Every muscle ached with a deep, satisfying soreness, a phantom echo of the vibrator’s relentless buzz and the agonizingly slow crawl across the floorboards. The memory burned, a humiliation that made his cock twitch against his thigh. He’d failed, of course. He’d come before she gave permission, a shuddering, messy climax onto the rug that had earned him a disappointed click of her tongue and ten sharp strikes with the crop on his inner thighs. The marks were already fading, his demonic flesh healing fast, but the sting of it—both physical and psychological—lingered.
He found her in the living room, curled in the velvet armchair amidst the remnants of last night’s toys. The trunk was closed. In her lap lay a heavy, leather-bound tome titled “Aethreal Symbiosis: The Care and Keeping of Incubi.” She was nibbling on a thumbnail, freckled nose scrunched in concentration.
She looked up as he hovered in the doorway. Her green eyes, clear and bright, lit up. There was no residual anger there, no icy displeasure. Just a warm, open smile that disarmed him completely.
“There you are, fluffy. Come sit with me.”
Her voice was soft, inviting. It was worse than her teasing. He moved cautiously, his tall frame folding onto the floor at her feet, his back against the chair. The posture felt dangerously close to devotion. He stared at the cold hearth, expecting a reprimand, a new punishment.
“I got an invitation this morning,” she said, her fingers gently carding through the hair at the base of one of his horns. The touch sent a bolt of pure, unwanted pleasure straight down his spine. He fought not to lean into it. “From the Witch Council. We have to register you.”
Malachar remained silent, but a low rumble started in his chest.
“It’s not a suggestion,” she continued, her hand trailing down to massage the tight muscle of his shoulder. “Anyone who binds a demon as a familiar has to have a separate ceremony. They’re still… wary. So there are rules. Lots of them.”
She lifted a formal-looking parchment from beside the book and read it aloud, her tone shifting to an official mimicry. “The Council will provide the appropriate ceremonial garb for the familiar to wear. Prior to the Rite of Acknowledgment, the familiar must consume a provided potion to ensure… ah… ‘tranquil compliance and truthful testimony’ during the proceedings. A feast will follow for the witch alone.” She lowered the paper, wrinkling her nose. “The potion part is annoying. And ‘tranquil compliance’ sounds dreadful for you. You’re so much more fun when you’re grumpy.”
He finally spoke, his voice a gravelly morning scrape. “You intend to dose me with some Council witch-brew.”
“I have to,” she sighed, her fingers still working his muscles. “It’s mandatory. If we don’t comply, they could dissolve our bond. Or worse, declare you rogue and have you hunted.” Her hand paused. “I don’t want that.”
The statement hung in the air, simple and startling. He turned his head to look up at her. Her expression was serious, no trace of a sing-song tease.
“And the garb?” he asked, suspicion dripping from the words.
“A package will arrive. I imagine it will be terribly dignified. Probably covering up all your best parts.” She grinned then, a flash of her playful self returning. “A tragedy.”
Malachar looked away again. A ceremony. A potion. A feast he wouldn’t be allowed to attend. It was a parade of subjugation, designed by fearful little mortals to put a chain on a power they didn’t understand. Rage, hot and familiar, bubbled up. He wanted to smash the chair, tear the parchment, reduce this entire cottage to splinters and scream his defiance into the sky.
But beneath that rage was a newer, more terrifying sensation: the deep, animal memory of the crop’s bite, the searing helplessness of the vibrator rocking inside him while he crawled. The soreness between his legs was a testament to her will. She had broken his body’s resistance already. His pride was the next bastion, and it was crumbling.
He didn’t grumble. He didn’t curse. He simply gave a single, tight nod, his horns dipping forward.
“Good pet,” she murmured, and the praise was a poison he drank greedily. Her hand slid from his shoulder, down the plane of his chest, over the smooth lilac skin dotted with those deep purple runes. She palmed his cock where it lay half-hard against his thigh, feeling him jump at her touch. “You’re still sore from last night, aren’t you?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“And you’re being so quiet and obedient this morning because you think I’m still cross with you.” She wasn’t asking. She leaned forward, her breath warm against the pointed shell of his ear. “You’re afraid of the crop.”
A shudder wracked him. His eyes, of their own volition, began to glow with a soft, internal light. Not the full blinding rune-color of loss of control, but a tell-tale amethyst shimmer.
“Say it,” she whispered, her hand tightening.
“I am,” he gasped, the admission torn from him.
“Smart demon.” She released him and sat back. “We’ll prepare for the Council’s nonsense later. But first…” She closed the incubus book with a decisive thump. “I think you need a reminder of who you belong to. A reminder that isn’t about punishment. Get on the rug. On your back.”
The command was gentle but absolute. He moved, his body obeying before his mind could formulate a protest. The woven rug was rough against his skin. He lay back, looking up at her as she stood and shed her simple dress, letting it pool around her ankles. Her freckled skin was pale in the morning light, her small breasts tipped with pink, the auburn hair at the junction of her thighs a bright flame.
She knelt over him, straddling his hips, but didn’t lower herself onto him. Instead, she reached behind her, her hand finding his already weeping cock. She guided the broad, blunt head through her wet folds, back and forth, coating him in her slick, but not taking him inside.
“This,” she said, rocking gently, letting him feel the heat of her without the relief of entry, “is mine. This ceremony, that potion, those ridiculous clothes… it’s all just pageantry. For them.” She leaned down, her wild hair a curtain around their faces. “But this? Here? You are mine. You swallow their potion because I tell you to. You wear their silly robes because I allow it.”
She lifted her hips and then sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable motion.
Malachar cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound. The fit was exquisitely tight, hot, and overwhelming. She took him to the hilt, seating herself fully, feeling him throb inside her.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands flying to her hips, his claws pricking her skin.
“Yes,” she agreed, beginning to move. She set a slow, grinding rhythm, riding him with a deliberate, crushing pressure. “You feel that? That’s where you live now. Not in some hell. Here. Buried in my cunt.”
Her words were filth, a vulgar incantation that unlocked him. His eyes flooded completely, the gold and red vanishing beneath a luminous, pulsating violet, the runes within the light swirling madly. A broken whine escaped his lips. His hips bucked up to meet her, losing all rhythm, all pride.
“Please,” he begged, the word foreign and desperate on his tongue.
“Please what, my needy little pet?” she cooed, speeding her pace, her own breath coming in sharp gasps. Her inner walls clenched around him, milking his length.
“Please… let me… I need to…”
She slammed down harder, taking him deeper, and he saw stars. “Come for me,” she commanded, her voice cracking with her own rising pleasure. “Fill up your witch. Now.”
It was the permission he’d been denied the night before. With a roar that shook the windowpanes, he obeyed. His release was a torrent, pumping into her in hot, endless pulses, his whole body bowing off the rug. The force of it triggered her own climax; she clenched around him, crying out, her juices mixing with his seed as she rode out the convulsions.
She collapsed onto his chest, both of them slick with sweat, panting. The air reeked of sex and sage. Malachar’s eyes were still wide, fully violet, utterly spent. He was pliant beneath her, a vessel emptied.
After a long while, she pushed herself up, his softening cock slipping from her with a wet sound. She patted his heaving chest.
“The package from the Council will arrive today,” she said, as if commenting on the weather. She stood, her legs slightly unsteady, and reached for her dress. “When it does, you’ll drink what they send. You’ll wear what they send. And you’ll be perfectly compliant.”
He looked at her, his rune-filled eyes holding a depth of helpless understanding. The rebellion was gone, smothered not by fear alone, but by this devastating, addictive ownership.
“Yes,” he whispered, the word a vow of surrender.
The silence after his surrender was thick, broken only by their slowing breaths and the drip of wax from a guttered candle. Elara slid off him, her skin glistening, and padded to the washbasin without a word. She returned with a damp cloth, its warmth a shocking contrast as she cleaned the spend from his belly and thighs with a practicality that felt more intimate than the sex had been.
“The courier will be here by noon,” she said, scrubbing at a patch of drying slick on his hip. Her touch was firm, proprietary. “I can feel the ward chime tingling. They use sylvan messengers, all leaves and twigs, very dramatic.”
Malachar watched her face, the concentration in her green eyes, the way her freckles seemed to darken against her flushed skin. He said nothing. His body felt heavy, used, perfectly hollowed out. The violet glow in his eyes had faded back to a simmering gold, but the runes on his skin pulsed faintly with every beat of his heart.
A sharp, crystalline ping echoed from the front garden, like a bell made of ice. Elara tossed the cloth into the basin. “See? Dramatic.” She stood, pulling her dress over her head, and went to the door.
He forced himself to sit up, the muscles in his abdomen protesting. Through the open doorway, he saw a construct of woven hawthorn and owl feathers deposited on the step, a long, slender box tied with silver cord resting in its twiggy grasp. Elara took the box, and the construct disintegrated into a pile of autumn leaves scattered by a sudden breeze.
She brought the box inside, setting it on the low table with a thud. The silver cord unwound itself, slithering to the floor like a snake. Inside, folded on a bed of black velvet, lay the “ceremonial garb.”
It could barely be considered clothing.
A harness of dangly delicate chains awaited, each link fine as a thread. Elara lifted it, and the chains chimed with a soft, high sound. Charms hung from them—crescent moons, stylized eyes, tiny locked boxes—all in a beautiful, polished silver that would compliment his lilac skin beautifully.
The “pants” were a mere whisper of fabric, a sheer toga of gossamer linen so thin it was nearly translucent. Elara shook it out, a ghost of a garment. “Well,” she said, her voice dripping with amused contempt. “They certainly want a show. Up you get.”
Malachar rose, his nakedness suddenly feeling more exposed than ever before. She approached him with the harness, her fingers cool as she began to clasp the chains around his torso. Each clasp clicked shut with finality. The silver chains lay against his charcoal-lilac skin, the charms cool against his heat, draping over his pectorals and winding around his ribs. They framed his body like a cage made of jewelry, drawing attention to every contour.
“Arms out,” she instructed, and he obeyed, letting her fasten more chains across his shoulders and back. The metal traced the lines of his muscles, the charms dangling just above his nipples, brushing his skin with every breath. She knelt to attach the lower straps, her face level with his cock and the soft, puffy folds of his cunt. Her breath warmed him there, but she didn’t touch him beyond the necessary adjustment.
Next, she took the sheer toga. She draped the fabric around his hips, knotting it loosely at his side. It fell in a single, flimsy layer, barely concealing his cock and pussy, doing nothing to hide the dark curl of hair or the promise of his flesh beneath the transparent weave. He felt absurd. He felt like a displayed offering.
“There,” Elara said, stepping back to survey her work. Her gaze was clinical, appraising. “A pretty, compliant pet. Just what they ordered.” She turned to the box, pulling out a small vial filled with a liquid that shimmered like molten opal. A note was tied to it.
She unrolled the parchment and read aloud, her tone flat. “‘Potion of Veracious Calm. Ensures truthful testimony and placid demeanor for the duration of the Rite. Administer one hour prior to proceedings for full effect.’” She looked at him, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “It’s supposed to take full effect in an hour, so I have you drink it now. That way it’ll be going into effect when we arrive at the Council.”
She uncorked the vial. A scent like rain on stone and night-blooming jasmine filled the air. She held it out to him. “Bottoms up, fluffy.”
Malachar took the vial. His pride screamed, a distant, fading echo. He met her eyes, saw no room for negotiation, and tipped the potion into his mouth. It flowed over his tongue, surprisingly cool and sweet, with a complex aftertaste of herbs and something faintly metallic. It tasted quite good, a fact that annoyed him deeply.
He handed her the empty vial. Almost immediately, a soothing warmth spread from his stomach, unknotting the tension in his shoulders, softening the edges of his resentment. It was not a violent compulsion, but a gentle, insistent invitation to relax, to not care so much. He stumbled back to the couch, his limbs feeling loose and heavy.
Mal flopped on the couch, the chains tinkling softly with the movement. The potion’s warmth seeped into his bones, making his thoughts drift like smoke. He watched through lidded eyes as Elara glanced at the hourglass on the mantle.
“I need to get ready,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Try not to ruin your pretty chains.”
She disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Malachar lay on the couch, the sheer fabric doing nothing to warm him. He focused on the feeling of the chains against his skin, the weight of the charms, anchoring himself to the physical reality as the potion worked to smooth away his sharp edges. Time stretched, syrupy and slow.
When the bedroom door opened again, the sight punched through the gathering fog in his mind.
Elara emerged, transformed. Her wild red curls had been tamed, pulled back into a half-up, half-down style that left soft tendrils framing her face. She wore a black lace off-the-shoulder dress that clung to her waist and flared at her thighs, the fabric delicate and revealing. Her witch hat, sleek and black, perched atop her head at a confident angle. Black heels lifted her, making her legs seem endlessly long.
She did a slow turn, the dress whispering against her skin. “Presentable?” she asked, a playful smirk on her lips.
Malachar’s breath caught. The potion softened his fury, but it couldn’t touch the visceral, hot punch of desire that lanced through him. He hated to admit it, but his little witch looked quite delicious. The lace hinted at the curves he’d just had his hands on, the heels accentuated the defiance in her stance, and the whole ensemble was a weapon aimed directly at his crumbling resolve.
The lace hinted at the curves he’d just had his hands on, the heels accentuated the defiance in her stance, and the whole ensemble was a weapon aimed directly at his crumbling resolve. She approached the couch where he lay draped, the potion making his limbs languid and his thoughts slow. “Time to go,” she said, her voice cutting through the warm fog. From the box, she drew forth a final item: a slender silver chain leash, its clasp a perfect match to the delicate harness already binding his chest.
She hooked it to a central ring at his collarbone. The metal was cold. It clicked. “On your feet, pet.”
Malachar rose, the motion fluid and unprotesting, the potion smoothing the edges of his humiliation into something distant and manageable. The gossamer toga fluttered, offering no modesty. The chains chimed with every step as she led him to the cottage’s front door. Instead of opening it, she pressed her palm against a specific knot in the woodgrain. The air in the hallway rippled, warping like heat haze over a desert, and a silvery aperture spiraled open within the door itself, showing not the garden but a vortex of blurred stone and shifting light.
“Waypoint,” Elara said, as if explaining rain. She tugged the chain. “Try not to vomit.”
She stepped through, pulling him after. The world dissolved into a screaming corridor of impossible geometries. His stomach lurched, knotting violently. It felt like his intestines were being spun on a cold, metallic reel. The nauseating pressure built in his chest, a wrongness that defied his demonic constitution. He clenched his jaw, focusing on the slight weight of the leash, the silhouette of her heels and calves ahead of him. He pushed through.
They solidified on the other side. The sudden stillness was a shock. The nausea receded, leaving a bitter taste in his throat. They stood in an antechamber of polished black basalt, lit by floating orbs of witch-light. The air was different here—stale, recycled, and thick with the cloying scent of ceremonial incense overlaying something muskier, bestial.
A pair of stone doors, towering and engraved with binding runes, swung inward without a sound.
The Council chamber was a cavernous, circular room, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Tiered stone benches rose around the periphery, packed with watching figures. Witches in elegant robes, warlocks in tailored coats, their faces a mosaic of curiosity, disdain, and mild boredom. And behind each one, a familiar.
Elara’s fingers tightened on the leash, her posture straightening as they entered the arena of eyes. Malachar followed a half-step behind, as required. His own gaze swept the room, the potion allowing him to observe with detached clarity.
He saw everything. A witch with a hellcat coiled around her shoulders, its eyes smoking embers. A warlock trailed by a hulking rage demon, its stone fists clenched. There were a few others of his kind—an incubus with slate-grey skin leashed to a stern-looking man, a succubus whispering into her mistress’s ear. But they were outliers. The majority were indeed demonic animals: hounds of flickering shadow, ravens with beaks of obsidian, things that slithered or stalked but did not speak. They were pets. He was… something else. The sheer fabric and the chains declared it.
Elara began to mingle, moving with a practiced ease that surprised him. She nodded to a silver-haired witch, exchanged a few polite words with a warlock whose familiar was a floating cluster of eyes. Malachar followed, the chain a taut line of connection. The basalt floor was cool under his bare feet. He kept his gaze forward, feeling hundreds of eyes on his exposed skin, on the charms dangling against his chest, on the obscene transparency of the toga.
His eyes met another’s. The slate-grey incubus across the room, standing behind a tall warlock in dark green robes. The other demon’s harness was simpler, leather and iron, and he wore actual trousers. His gaze held a weary recognition. When Elara was drawn into a deeper conversation with his warlock, a discussion of regional ley-line disturbances, the space between the two demons became a private bubble.
Malachar spoke first, the words a low gutteral growl in their native tongue, meant to slip under the murmur of mortal conversation. “How long?”
The grey incubus’s tail gave a single, slow flick. His eyes, the color of tarnished silver, scanned Mal from horns to heels. “Almost five years,” he replied in the same language, his voice a dry rustle.
“Why?” Malachar’s question was sharp, desperate beneath the potion’s calm. “Why remain? Why not fracture the bindings, tear his throat out, and go home?”
The other incubus almost smiled. He glanced briefly at the back of his warlock’s head, a look that held a complex filament of ownership. “He treats me fine.” His gaze returned to Malachar, dropping to the silver chains, to the leash in Elara’s hand. “Sure, I am not free-roaming. But I feed on him often. He is… generous. And attentive.” The incubus leaned forward slightly, the scent of ozone and cedar briefly cutting through the incense. “I get endless pleasure from his magic. It is a different sustenance. Richer.” He paused, letting his meaning sink into the space between them. “Why would I purposely try to go back to the screaming wastes? To the endless, meaningless hunt? Here, I am wanted. I am used.”
The warlock turned, breaking the connection, asking Elara a question about herb compatibility. The grey incubus straightened, his face smoothing into a neutral mask of obedience once more. But his final words echoed in Malachar’s skull, mingling with the potion’s haze, weaving a new and terrifying possibility into the fabric of his bondage.