Chapter 4: Bound to the Brothel Mistress
The goblin's skull caved in with a wet crack, and Candice didn't even flinch.
She stood in the clearing, breathing hard, her staff still crackling with residual energy. Six goblins lay dead around her—scouts, probably, judging by their light armor and the crude maps they'd been carrying. She'd tracked them for two hours through the forest, and now their blood soaked into the mossy ground, dark and steaming in the cold morning air.
It should have felt good. It usually did. The clean rhythm of combat, the satisfaction of protecting her village, the familiar burn in her muscles—these were the things that defined her. These were the things that made her Candice Dixon, hero of Thornwood.
But all she could think about was last night.
The ropes. Morgana's tongue. The way her body had shattered into a million pieces and then reformed itself into something new, something hungry.
She shook her head violently, trying to dislodge the memories. They clung to her like cobwebs, sticky and persistent.
She began the walk back to the village, her boots squelching through the mud. The forest was quiet now—the birds had returned after the brief violence of the fight, their songs tentative and questioning. Candice envied them. They didn't have to worry about succubus marks or binding rituals or the fact that their mana now glowed a humiliating shade of pink.
Pink. Of all the colors. She'd always been partial to blue, or even silver. But no. Her magic had to announce itself like a whore's undergarments, bright and garish and impossible to hide.
She wondered if Morgana had known this would happen. Probably. Probably she'd been counting on it.
The village came into view around midday—a cluster of stone buildings huddled behind the invisible barrier, smoke rising from chimneys, children playing in the square. Normal. Safe. Everything Candice had dedicated her life to protecting.
She passed through the barrier without incident, though she felt it now—a faint tingle against her skin, like static electricity. It had never done that before.
"Captain Dixon!"
A young guard jogged toward her, his face flushed with excitement. He was barely eighteen, still wet behind the ears, and he looked at her like she was a living legend.
"Found the scouts," Candice said, tossing him the crude maps. "There'll be more. Tell the watch to double the patrols on the eastern perimeter."
"Yes, ma'am." He hesitated. "Are you... are you alright? You look tired."
Candice forced a smile. "Long night. I'll be fine."
She made her way to her quarters—a small stone room above the barracks, sparse but functional. She'd never needed much. A bed, a desk, a chest for her clothes. Simple. Clean.
She sat down heavily on the bed, her hands shaking.
The mark on her stomach pulsed, warm and insistent. She'd been ignoring it all morning, pushing it down, pretending it wasn't there. But now that she was alone, it demanded her attention.
She pulled up her shirt and looked at it.
It was glowing. Not brightly—just a soft, pink luminescence, like a heartbeat made visible. The sigil of Lilith, burned into her skin, mocking her with its perfect curves and elegant lines.
She touched it.
A jolt of pleasure shot through her body, making her gasp. Her nipples hardened instantly, her thighs clenching together, her cunt flooding with heat.
She snatched her hand away.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no."
But she could feel it now—the need. The hunger. It had been building all day, a pressure in her chest that had nothing to do with the goblins and everything to do with the mark. She was wet. She'd been wet for hours, her undergarments soaked through, and she'd been ignoring it, pretending it wasn't happening.
She couldn't ignore it anymore.
She thought about touching herself. Just once, just to relieve the pressure. Morgana had said she couldn't cum alone, but maybe that wasn't true. Maybe she just needed to try harder.
She reached down, her fingers brushing against her trousers.
Nothing. No pleasure, no release. Just the same aching emptiness, the same desperate hunger.
She needed someone else. She needed Morgana.
The realization hit her like a physical blow.
She stayed in her room for the rest of the afternoon, pretending to rest, pretending everything was normal. She ate dinner in the mess hall with the other guards, nodding along to their reports, offering advice, being the leader they expected her to be.
But underneath the surface, she was counting the minutes until nightfall.
The Crimson Lotus sat on the eastern edge of the village, far enough from the main square that most people pretended it didn't exist. It was a three-story building of dark wood and red lanterns, elegant in a way the rest of the village wasn't. The windows were curtained, the door discreet.
Candice stood outside for a long time, watching the shadows move behind the glass.
She'd worn a hood and a dark cloak, disguising herself as best she could. It felt ridiculous—like something out of a bad romance novel—but she couldn't risk being seen. The hero of Thornwood, visiting the local brothel? The scandal would be worse than the mark itself.
Finally, she pushed open the door.
The main room was warm and dim, lit by a dozen candles that filled the air with the scent of jasmine and something muskier. Silk curtains hung from the ceiling, partitioning the space into private alcoves. A few patrons sat at the bar, their faces shadowed, their voices low.
A woman approached her—tall, blonde, with the kind of curves that made Candice immediately uncomfortable. She wore a dress of crimson silk that barely contained her breasts, and her lips curved into a practiced smile.
"Welcome to the Crimson Lotus," she purred. "How can I help you tonight?"
Candice cleared her throat. "I'm here to see Morgana."
The smile flickered. "Do you have an appointment?"
"She's expecting me."
The woman's eyes narrowed, taking in Candice's hood, her cloak, the nervous energy that practically radiated from her. Something flickered in her expression—recognition, maybe, or curiosity.
"Follow me."
She led Candice up a narrow staircase, past doors that were definitely not soundproof, to a corridor at the back of the building. At the end of the corridor was a single door, black wood banded with silver.
"She's inside," the woman said. "Good luck."
She left before Candice could ask what she meant.
Candice stood outside the door for a long moment, her heart pounding. This was insane. This was a mistake. She should turn around, go home, pretend this never happened.
But the mark pulsed, and the hunger burned, and she knew she had no choice.
She opened the door.
Morgana's private chamber was exactly as she remembered it—crimson silk, black velvet, the obsidian divan, the mirror that didn't reflect. But the witch herself was different tonight. She was lying on the bed, propped up on one elbow, wearing nothing but a sheer purple robe that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Her eyes traveled over Candice slowly, taking in the hood, the cloak, the obvious tension in her shoulders.
"Back so soon?" Morgana asked, her voice dripping with amusement. "I thought you'd hold out at least a week."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
Candice crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Morgana by the hair, pulling her into a rough kiss. The witch laughed against her mouth, but she didn't resist—she kissed back with equal ferocity, her hands working at Candice's cloak, pushing it off her shoulders, tugging at her tunic.
"Eager," Morgana murmured. "I like it."
"Just—" Candice gasped as Morgana's teeth found her neck. "Just fuck me. Please."
"Please?" Morgana pulled back, her eyes gleaming. "The mighty Candice Dixon, begging? What would the village say?"
"I don't care what the village says. I don't care about anything. I just need—"
"I know what you need."
Morgana pushed her onto the bed.
The sheets were cool against Candice's heated skin, a welcome contrast to the fire burning inside her. She sprawled across the velvet, her clothes half-torn, her chest heaving, her legs already spreading in invitation.
Morgana stripped off her robe and stood over her, completely naked, absolutely confident. The violet mark on her own stomach pulsed faintly, its lines looking slightly more refined than they had been yesterday. Candice noticed that in the dim candlelight—the way it seemed to shimmer now, less of a scar and more of a true brand.
"Look at you," Morgana said, her voice thick with hunger. "Have you been thinking about me all day?"
"Yes," Candice admitted. "Every minute."
"Tell me what you thought about."
"No."
"Candice."
"I thought about your mouth." The words tumbled out, rough and broken. "I thought about your tongue on my nipples. I thought about the way you tied me up. I thought about your cock inside me, filling me up, stretching me open."
Morgana groaned. "Fuck. Keep going."
"I thought about your fingers in my cunt. I thought about you making me cum, making me scream, making me yours."
"You are mine." Morgana climbed onto the bed, positioning herself between Candice's legs. "You've been mine since the moment you put your hand on that statue. You just didn't know it yet."
She leaned down and took one of Candice's nipples into her mouth.
Candice arched off the bed, a strangled cry escaping her lips. Morgana's tongue was hot and wet, circling the sensitive peak, her teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of pain-pleasure shooting through Candice's body.
"A-again," Candice stammered. "Do it again."
Morgana obliged, sucking harder, biting down until Candice was writhing beneath her. She moved to the other breast, giving it the same treatment, her hands roaming down Candice's sides, her nails scraping lightly against her ribs.
"Please," Candice begged. "I need more."
"Where do you need it?"
"You know where."
"Say it."
Candice closed her eyes, her face burning. "In my cunt. I need it in my cunt. I need you to fuck me with your cock. Please, Morgana. Please."
The witch smiled. "That's my good little slut."
She produced the strap-on from somewhere—Candice didn't see where, didn't care—and fastened it around her hips. It was the same one from last night, purple-silver and enchanted, the length of it glowing faintly with magical energy.
"Spread your legs wider."
Candice obeyed.
Morgana settled between them, the tip of the strap-on pressing against Candice's entrance. "You're so wet. I can feel it. You're practically dripping."
"I know. I've been like this all day."
"Poor thing." Morgana pushed forward, just an inch. "Did you touch yourself? Did you try to get yourself off?"
"Yes. It didn't work."
"Of course it didn't. You can't cum without me." Another inch. "That's the curse of the succubus mage. You can never satisfy yourself. You need someone else to do it for you. You need me."
Candice wanted to argue—she always wanted to argue—but Morgana chose that moment to thrust fully inside her, and all coherent thought evaporated.
It was different from last night. Deeper. More intense. The magic pulsing through her, making the strap-on feel like a living thing—like Morgana's own dildo, hot and hard and perfect.
"Fuck," Candice gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
Morgana began to move. Slow at first, long strokes that pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in. Then faster. Harder. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall with every thrust.
"You feel so good," Morgana panted. "Like you were made for this. Like your cunt was made for cock."
"Yours," Candice agreed, mindless with pleasure. "All yours."
"Say it again."
"All yours. I'm all yours."
Morgana drove deeper, angling her hips to hit that spot inside Candice—the one that made her see stars. The mark on her stomach was blazing now, pink light spilling across the sheets, and she could feel something building inside her, something massive and inevitable.
"Not yet," Morgana said, sensing her approach. "You don't get to cum until I say."
"Please—"
"No." Morgana withdrew completely, leaving Candice gasping at the sudden emptiness. "You wait. You take what I give you. That's the lesson."
She flipped Candice onto her stomach and pulled her hips up, exposing her ass. She pressed the strap-on against her again, but this time there was no slow build—she drove in hard, one brutal stroke that made Candice scream into the pillow.
"That's it," Morgana growled. "Scream for me. Let the whole brothel hear how much you love being fucked."
The pace she set was punishing. Each thrust was a shockwave, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Candice gripped the sheets, her knuckles white, her body trembling.
The pressure was building again—higher and higher with every stroke. Her cunt clenched around the strap-on, trying to draw it deeper, and she could feel the magic flowing between them, pink and purple light intertwining.
"I'm close," she sobbed. "Please. Please let me cum."
"Not yet."
"Please—"
"Not. Yet."
Morgana slowed down, teasing her, drawing out the torture. Candice was crying now—actual tears streaming down her face—her body shaking with need.
"Morgana, please—"
"What are you?"
"Your slut."
"What else?"
"Your whore. Your cunt. Your fucktoy. Whatever you want me to be."
Morgana leaned over her, pressing her breasts against Candice's back, her lips against her ear. "Then cum for me."
The release was instantaneous and devastating.
Candice screamed—Morgana's name, the gods' names, every curse word she knew—as the orgasm tore through her. The mark on her stomach flared white-hot, and she felt the mana pour out of her in a flood, pink energy that flowed into Morgana and made her moan with pleasure.
The witch's own mark blazed, drinking in the power, its lines sharpening, its color deepening. For a moment, the two marks were connected by an arc of light, pulsing in tandem, bound together.
Then it faded, and they collapsed together on the bed, breathing hard.
The following nights fell into a rhythm.
Candice would spend her days slaughtering goblins, protecting the village, keeping the barrier intact. And her nights at the Crimson Lotus, bound and fucked and drained until she couldn't think, until she couldn't remember why she'd ever resisted.
The goblins kept coming. Their scouts became raiding parties, and the raids became full-scale attacks. Candice fought them all, her magic growing stronger with every battle. Her mana could now coat her staff in a thin layer of purple fire, and after one brutal skirmish with a Level 40 shaman, she realized she could cast a minor healing spell. She was getting stronger, faster, more deadly.
After two weeks, she was Level 32. After three, Level 34. The gains accelerated, each night at the brothel seeming to unlock new potential within her.
But there was one detail that soured her growing power, fanning a quiet, constant annoyance in her chest. It was Morgana. Every time Candice came—every time that pink energy flooded into her—Morgana's own mark pulsed brighter. The imperfect brand on her stomach was now almost identical to Candice's own, its dark red lines fading to a vivid, healthy pink.
And Morgana's power level, she had admitted with a smirk, was climbing just as fast. While Candice's gains were hard-won on the battlefield, Morgana's came from doing nothing but lying on her back, opening her legs, and taking what Candice gave her.
"I'm already stronger than everyone in the village except you," Morgana said one night, tracing a fingernail across Candice's collarbone. "And I'm catching up to you. All this power, without training or fighting. It's a joke how easy this is."
Candice's jaw tightened. "We'll see how long that lasts."
By the end of the second month, everything had changed.
Candice stood in the forest, her breath misting in the cold air, her staff glowing with purple-black energy. Three goblin warriors lay dead at her feet—not the weak scouts she'd been fighting before, but elite soldiers, Level 45 and up.
She'd killed them in under a minute.
The power coursing through her was intoxicating. She could feel it in every fiber of her being—the strength, the speed, the magic. She was Level 40 now. She'd gained ten levels in two months. Ten.
It should have made her happy. It should have felt like victory.
But all she could think about was tonight. Morgana. The Crimson Lotus.
She was already wet.
The mark pulsed, warm and demanding, and she knew she'd be back. She'd always be back.
She was becoming everything she'd ever feared. A slut. A whore. A woman who spread her legs for power.
But she was already stronger than she'd ever been. And she was just getting started.