Chapter 5: The High Witch's Address
The words of the grey incubus were a poison seed, taking root in the fertile soil of Malachar’s potion-softened mind. Richer sustenance. The concept unraveled him more thoroughly than any command. Before he could process it, a gavel made of petrified bone struck a block of obsidian three times. The sound was absolute, silencing all murmurs.
A witch ascended to the central dais. This was the High Witch, Elara had murmured earlier. Agatha. She was ancient, her face a network of fine lines, her eyes the color of a winter lake. Her power wasn’t a shout; it was the pressure change before a storm, settling over the chamber and making the witch-lights flicker.
“We acknowledge the new bonds,” Agatha began, her voice dry as ancient parchment yet carrying to every corner. “We witness the pacts. Let the Rite of Acknowledgment commence.”
It was a droning liturgy. She spoke of balance, of responsibility, of the ancient accords between mortal practitioners and infernal entities. Malachar heard none of it. The potion’s “calm” had mutated. The warm syrup in his veins was now a low, insistent thrum, a focused heat that gathered in his groin and pulsed in time with his heartbeat. It wasn’t just relaxation. It was a subtle, magically-engineered need.
He shifted his weight, trying to find a position where the delicate silver chains didn’t press the charms directly against his nipples, which had tightened into sensitive peaks. The movement made the sheer toga whisper across the head of his cock. A spark of sensation, sharp and electric, lanced up his spine. A quiet, ragged sound escaped him before he could clamp his jaw shut.
Elara’s head snapped toward him, her green eyes wide with initial alarm. She scanned the space around them, thinking another demon had provoked him. Seeing no one, her gaze dropped to his face, then lower. His lilac skin was flushed a deeper violet where the chains lay. The gossamer fabric did nothing to hide the thick, rapid swell of his cock, rising against the translucent linen, or the way his pussy, the lips already slightly plump and slick, glistened. His breath was coming in shallow gusts.
Understanding flashed across her features, followed by a predatory gleam. The potion. It was working on him exactly as the Council intended—pliant, obedient—but it was also stoking the core of his nature. An incubus in a state of magically-enhanced, tranquilized arousal was a new and delicious problem.
As Agatha droned on about “appropriate conduits for chaotic energies,” Elara leaned in. She didn’t whisper. She let her lips brush the very tip of his pointed ear, her voice a warm, private stream in the cavern of formal speech.
“Look at you,” she breathed, her tone a mixture of awe and dark delight. “All wet and twitching for the whole Council to see. The potion’s got you by the balls, doesn’t it, fluffy? Making you all sweet and needy.”
He shuddered, a full-body tremor that made the chains sing a soft, shameful chorus. His eyes, when he managed to turn his head slightly toward her, were already glazing over, the gold being devoured by a rising tide of luminous, pulsing purple. Rune-light flickered in their depths.
“I can smell you from here,” she murmured, her hand coming up to ostensibly adjust the leash, but her knuckles brushed against his lower abdomen. The touch was fire. “You’re dripping on the inside, aren’t you? That pretty little cunt is sopping wet, and that big, stupid cock is so hard it hurts.”
He whined. It was a thin, desperate sound, torn from a place deeper than pride. He nodded, a frantic little jerk of his head.
Agatha’s voice rose, discussing “consequences for unregistered familiars.” Elara used the cover of the formal severity to deliver her promise, her words as explicit as a shove.
“You listen to every boring word. You stand still. You make me look good during this whole farce and at the feast. You don’t make a single, slutty scene.” Her nails dug slightly into the skin just above his pubic bone. “And when we get home… I’ll let you feed. Properly. You can fuck your dinner right out of me. How does that sound, my desperate little pet?”
The offer was a catalyst. The rune-light in his eyes swelled, flooding the iris completely, shining with a vulnerable, beautiful purple glow. His cock jerked violently, a fresh bead of precum welling and soaking a dark, transparent spot onto the gossamer. His pussy clenched on nothing, a soft, aching pulse.
“Yes,” he hissed, the word mangled by need. “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”
“You’d better be.” She straightened, returning her attention to the High Witch with a serene, attentive expression.
The remainder of the ceremony was an exquisite hell. Every minute was an epoch. The potion ensured he didn’t fidget, didn’t protest, but it did nothing to dampen the sensitivity of his flesh. The air moving across the damp spot on his toga was torture. The memory of her promise was a branding iron on his mind. He focused on the leash clasp, on the weight of her hand, on anything to keep from humiliating himself by coming untouched in front of the entire assembly.
He watched other familiars be presented. A gnarl-hound was commanded to emit a harmless plume of shadow. The floating eye-cluster was ordered to rotate in a specific pattern. When the slate-grey incubus was called forward with his warlock, he performed a simple task—extinguishing and relighting a candle flame with a thought. He did it with bored efficiency, his eyes meeting Malachar’s for a fractured second. There was no pity there. Only a faint, knowing amusement.
Finally, it was their turn. “Elara Mosswood, and the entity designated Malachar,” Agatha intoned.
Elara gave a gentle tug. He followed, walking with a stiffness that had nothing to do with resistance and everything to do with trying not to grind his thighs together with every step. The focused attention of the room was a physical weight. He felt every gaze on the chains, on the revealing fabric, on the obvious, rigid outline of his arousal.
“The entity will demonstrate the binding’s stability,” Agatha said. “Command it to kneel.”
“Kneel, Malachar,” Elara said, her voice clear and firm, devoid of its usual playful lilt.
He sank to his knees on the cold basalt, the impact shuddering through him. The change in position made his cock, trapped against his belly, throb insistently.
“Now, the seal.”
Elara reached out. She didn’t use her hands. She whispered a word in the old tongue, and the purple runes scattered across his skin—the ones born from their botched summoning—flared to life, emitting a soft, concordant glow. A collective murmur rippled through the watchers. The runes were proof of a bond, deep and personal.
“Adequate,” Agatha said, her winter eyes giving nothing away. “The bond is registered. You may partake of the feast.”
It was over. Elara murmured, “Up.” He rose, his legs trembling.
He rose, his legs trembling.
Elara led him not back into the milling crowd, but through an archway into an adjacent hall. The air here was thick with the smells of roasting meat and spiced wine, a cloying contrast to the ceremonial incense. The room was long, with a high table on a dais for the witches and warlocks, and a lower, longer table running parallel to it on the floor below. This lower table was flanked not by chairs, but by a continuous bench lined with strange, padded constructions.
They were cushions, but shaped unmistakably like riding saddles, each one positioned before an individual platter. The deep burgundy leather was polished to a soft shine, and each saddle was subtly raised at the front, forming a distinct, rounded ridge. Elara was guided to a seat at the high table. A Council attendant, his face blank, pointed Malachar wordlessly toward one of the saddle-cushions at the lower bench.
Malachar approached it, the potion’s haze making his movements loose. He lowered himself onto the leather, the chains at his hips chiming softly. The moment his weight settled, the shaped ridge pressed firmly against the seam of his body, the raised bump aligning perfectly with the swollen, aching flesh of his pussy through the gossamer toga.
He froze, breath catching. Then the cushion moved.
It was a slow, subtle, rocking undulation, a mechanical kneading that rolled the firm leather ridge directly against his clit. A shockwave of sensation, blunt and electric, tore through him. An unstifled, high-pitched moan leaked from his lips before he could seal them shut.
Elara, just settling into her carved chair at the high table, turned at the sound. Her eyes dropped from his mortified face to the saddle cushion, then scanned the rest of the lower bench. Her expression shifted from confusion to cold, dawning comprehension. Every familiar—the hellhounds, the shadow-slinkers, the other incubi and succubi—was seated on an identical device. Some looked bored. Others, like the slate-grey incubus across the way, wore masks of stoic endurance. But a few… a few had their heads thrown back, their bodies moving in tiny, helpless rhythms.
The Council wasn’t just humiliating them with sheer fabric and chains. They were pacifying the dangerous ones, the sensual predators, by turning them into writhing, publicly-stimulated toys for the duration of the meal. It was efficient. It was brutal.
Her gaze locked back onto Malachar. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table, his entire body rigid with the effort of holding still against the cushion’s persistent, maddening rhythm. His eyes were wide, the purple rune-light swirling violently within them, a silent scream.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice cutting through the low din of chatter and clinking plates from the high table. “Oh, I see,” she said, her tone conversational, as if discussing the wine. “They’ve put you on a milking bench. How inventive.” She took a sip from her goblet. “You can enjoy yourself, pet. It’s clearly what the furniture’s for. Don’t strain yourself trying to be a hero. My promise stands. Be a good, quiet boy and you’ll get your reward at home.”
Her permission was a knife cutting a taut string. Some of the terrible tension left his shoulders, but a hotter, shakier tension replaced it. He gave a weak, jerky nod. He tried to just sit, to endure the sensation passively, but the cushion’s movement demanded a response. It begged for friction.
He held out, jaw clenched, for three excruciating minutes. Servers placed platters of food before the witches—succulent meats, glazed vegetables, warm bread. They placed identical platters before the familiars. No one at the high table looked down. The chatter was about ley-lines, obscure components, and petty coven politics. The soft, continuous rocking of leather on leather beneath them was part of the room’s ambient noise.
Then Malachar heard it. To his left, a hitched, desperate sigh that broke into a soft, continuous whine.
He turned his head. The incubus there was small, slender, his skin a pale shade of cobalt. His horns were little more than nubs. He couldn’t have been more than a century old. And he was not holding still. His hips were moving in tiny, frantic circles, grinding his own sheer-clad pussy down against the saddle’s ridge. His head lolled against the shoulder of a bored-looking witch who was debating the merits of different cauldron metals. The young demon’s eyes were completely glazed over, solid pools of shimmering cerulean rune-light. His mouth was open, his breath coming in soft, pathetic whimpers with every grind. He was lost to it, shamelessly riding the cushion in full view of everyone who couldn't be bothered to look.
That was the sign. That was the approval. If that mewling thing could succumb, then he, Malachar, could stop fighting.
A low, shuddering breath escaped him. He relaxed his death-grip on the table. He allowed his hips to tilt forward, just a fraction, increasing the pressure. The leather ridge pushed more insistently against his clit, now slick with his own arousal, the toga soaked through and clinging. A broken sound, half-groan, half-sob, rattled in his chest.
He began to move. Slowly at first, just a slight rocking to match the cushion’s rhythm. The dual sensation—the machine’s motion and his own deliberate grind—sent fireworks sparking behind his eyelids. His cock, trapped and ignored, throbbed painfully, dripping onto the leather saddle beneath him. He couldn’t care. All his focus, all the potion-heightened need, was centered on that one swollen, screaming point of contact.
Then the cushion changed. It began to vibrate.
A deep, internal hum joined the rocking motion. The ridge against his clit wasn’t just kneading now; it was buzzing, a relentless, teasing stimulation that blurred the line between pleasure and torment. Malachar’s eyes rolled back, showing slivers of white. A loud, ragged moan tore itself from his throat. His hips bucked involuntarily, his whole body arching as he ground down hard, seeking more, seeking the peak the machine was cruelly withholding.
He was fucking the saddle. His hands scrabbled at the smooth table edge for purchase. The charms on his harness jingled a frantic accompaniment. He was dimly aware of Elara’s gaze on him, heavy and approving. He was aware of the young incubus beside him moaning louder, their sounds forming a obscene duet under the civilized chatter. He was nothing but a body, a hungry cunt, a vector for this devastating, impersonal pleasure.
His climax built like a landslide—slow, then all-consuming. The vibrations tuned to a fever pitch. His moans dissolved into continuous, high-pitched whines, the sounds of a creature utterly broken. His thighs shook violently. The witch next to the young incubus finally noticed, frowned in mild distaste, and nudged her demon to be quiet. She didn’t look at Malachar at all.
Release slammed into him. It was not the cathartic burst she gave him, but a sharp, shocking seizure of his entire nervous system. His pussy clenched rhythmically around nothing, drenching the already-soaked toga and the leather beneath him with a fresh gush of fluid. His cock gave a final, pathetic jerk, adding a stripe of cum to the mess. He slumped forward over the table, forehead resting on his arms, body humming with aftershocks, utterly spent.
The cushion continued to rock and vibrate softly, a taunting reminder. On the dais, Elara took a delicate bite of her roast pheasant and smiled.
On the dais, Elara took a delicate bite of her roast pheasant and smiled. She watched Malachar shudder through the final pulses of his humiliating climax, his big body curled and slack over the lower table. The saddle-cushion continued its gentle, post-climax undulation beneath him, a mechanical afterthought. His cheek was pressed to the wood, his face turned toward her, his eyes closed, those beautiful purple rune-lights slowly receding like a tide.
The warlock to her left, the one in dark green robes, leaned in slightly. He had been observing the lower table with academic curiosity. “Remarkable specimen,” he said, his voice a low, cultured baritone. He gestured with his fork toward Mal’s sprawled form. “I’ve never seen one of that size and… potency… so thoroughly pacified. The binding must be extraordinarily precise.”
Elara dabbed her lips with a napkin, following his gaze to where Mal, in his spent daze, was unconsciously nuzzling his face against her thigh beside her chair. His hips gave another weak, involuntary grind against the still-vibrating leather. “Oh, he’s hardly tamed,” she chuckled, her tone light and conspiratorial. She reached down and carded her fingers through the thick hair at his temple, her touch making him whimper softly. “He’s more like a particularly stormy river I’ve decided to swim in. I just like how feisty he is. Makes the calm moments more rewarding.”
Mal’s awareness was a blurred, sticky mess of aftershocks and potion haze. The primary sensation was the relentless, low-grade thrum of the cushion against his oversensitive, swollen pussy. It was too much, an agony of sensation on raw nerves. A broken, seeking sound escaped him. He clumsily pushed himself up from the table, the chains clinking, and slid off the saddle. His legs nearly buckled. He didn’t look at anyone. Driven by a base instinct for comfort, for an anchor in the sensory storm, he slumped to his knees on the dais floor beside Elara’s chair and let his heavy head rest against her thigh.
She didn’t pause her conversation. Her hand merely moved from his temple to stroke through his hair in long, possessive pulls, her fingernails scraping gently against his scalp. It was a grounding, dominating kindness that unraveled him further. He turned his face into the soft black lace of her dress, inhaling her scent of herbs and witchcraft beneath the feast smells, and began to move again. His hips rocked in a slow, pathetic rhythm, grinding his aching cunt against the polished wood of the dais floor. The pressure was blunt, unforgiving, and exactly what his fevered body craved. Each grind sent a dull, punishing shock through his core.
The green-robed warlock watched this display with even greater interest, a small smile playing on his lips. “I can see that. The feistiness is… palpable.” He took a sip of wine, his eyes thoughtful. “Mine, Kaelen, is more settled. A useful focus for my work, but perhaps lacking in… spontaneity.” He glanced toward his own incubus, who sat quietly on his own cushion, observing the hall with detached silver eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d ever consider a play date of sorts? It can be beneficial for them to socialize with their own kind. Kaelen could use the stimulation. And I would dearly love to get your thoughts on some of the experimental rune structures I’m working on. Your binding glyphs have a fascinating, chaotic elegance.”
Elara’s eyes lit up. She gave Mal’s hair a firm tug, stilling his desperate grinding for a moment. “A play date! What a fabulous idea.” She released him, clapping her hands together once in a happy, sharp sound that made Mal flinch. “I’d love to compare notes. And I’m sure Mal here would love to have a friend.” Her voice dipped into a teasing, sugary tone directed at the demon nuzzling her leg. “Wouldn’t you, fluffy? Someone to share all your little troubles with?”
Mal heard the words through a thick fog. Play date. Friend. The concepts were alien, terrifying. He pictured the grey incubus, Kaelen, his weary, knowing eyes. He imagined being presented to him like this—chains, sheer fabric, dripping and desperate. A fresh moan, this one of pure distress, vibrated against Elara’s thigh. His grinding against the floor became more frantic, less for pleasure now and more to drown out the looming future. His cock, soft and spent, began to fatten again against his thigh, a traitorous response to the overwhelming cocktail of humiliation, overstimulation, and her casual planning of his further exposure.
“Splendid,” the warlock said, raising his glass to her. “I’ll send a sylvan missive to your cottage to arrange it. Next week, perhaps?”
“Perfect,” Elara beamed. She looked down at Mal, her smile softening into something more privately predatory. She leaned close, her whisper for him alone. “Look at you. Making plans for us. Getting all excited again.” Her hand left his hair and trailed down to cup his jaw, forcing his face up. His eyes were once more swimming with half-formed purple light, his lips parted. “You’re a mess. You’re going to come again just from rubbing on the floor like a bitch in heat, aren’t you?”
He couldn’t speak. He nodded, a frantic jerk of his chin, his hips never stopping their shallow, frantic thrusts against the unyielding wood. The friction was brutal, punishing his sensitized flesh, but the coiled tension in his gut was building again, low and insistent.
“Do it then,” she whispered, her thumb stroking his lower lip. “Come on the Council’s floor. Let your new friend’s master see what a greedy, insatiable thing I have.”