Chapter 2: Sisterly Initiation
Moira gave my shoulder a final, squeezing pat. "Just breathe, darling. Get accustomed to the feel of it. I'll be downstairs if you need me." She left, closing the door with a soft click that echoed in the sudden silence.
Alone. The word had never felt so heavy. The room seemed to press in, the velvet drapes absorbing sound, the incense smoke coiling in the air like lazy serpents. My gaze was dragged back to the full-length mirror, to the impossible girl staring back.
Look at you. Standing there in your little schoolboy’s wet dream outfit. That skirt is so short I can almost see the lace of those panties. Let’s see the real you, sweetheart. The you that doesn’t need to play dress-up.
A shudder ran through me. The warmth bloomed in my chest again, that smooth, settling glow. I watched, mesmerized, as the pale peach of my human veil dissolved, washed away by a tide of deep, glossy crimson. The horns erupted from my forehead, a pleasant, cracking pressure. My tail unfurled from the base of my spine, the heart-shaped spade twitching with a mind of its own. The shirt strained even more violently over the full, heavy weight of my demon-breasts, the crimson skin stark against the white cotton.
Fuck yes. That’s better. Now we’re home. Look at that color. It screams ‘fuck me’. And these tits… gods, they’re perfect. So heavy. So full. I bet they’d jiggle so nicely if you just gave them a little slap.
My hands, now tipped with black claws, rose almost against my will. I cupped the overwhelming softness, the weight a solid, warm presence in my palms. My thumbs brushed over the nipples, and a sharp, exquisite pleasure shot straight to my core, making the empty ache between my legs clench violently. A soft gasp escaped my lips.
See? They’re not just for show, dummy. They’re wired directly to that hungry little cunt of yours. Every touch is a promise. Now look at that ass. Turn around. Let me see.
I turned, watching over my shoulder as the mirror reflected the plump, round curve of my demonic ass. The short skirt did nothing to hide it; the pleats framed it like a offering. The thin string of the purple lace panties cut a deep line between the cheeks.
What a masterpiece. Built for taking a pounding. I can already imagine the sound of a hand connecting with that flesh, leaving a red handprint on this beautiful red skin. Can you imagine it? The sting? The way it would make you even wetter?
I flinched, shaking my head. "No," I whispered to the empty room.
No? Don’t lie to me. I’m you. I feel that pulse. That deep, empty throb. You’re so wet right now you’re probably soaking through that tiny little lace. You’re empty, Brogan. And you need to be filled.
Revulsion warred with a terrifying, burgeoning curiosity. I focused, pushing the demon back. The crimson faded, the horns receded, the tail vanished. I was the pale, pretty human girl again, drowning in the suggestive clothing. The relief was immediate, but hollow. The ache remained, a constant, dull throb between my legs.
Pathetic. Hiding in that boring skin. You can’t mute what we are. This body was made for sin. It was made to be used, to be worshipped, to fuck and feed. That tight, wet little pussy isn’t going to fill itself.
I was just reaching up to touch my human-looking face when the door opened again without a knock.
Aisling slipped inside, closing the door behind her and leaning against it with a predator’s stillness. Her gaze was a physical touch, roaming over me from my strained crop top to the hem of my short skirt. A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips.
"Well, well, well," she purred, her voice a low thrum. "Look what the hell dragged in." She pushed off the door and sauntered toward me, her movements fluid and deliberate. Her eyes, a brighter, more mischievous amber than Moira’s, devoured me. "Mom’s little veiling lesson is cute and all, but sis… it doesn’t hide the main event. Gods, those tits are insane. And that ass in that skirt? You’re going to cause traffic accidents."
I crossed my arms over my chest, a futile gesture. "What do you want, Aisling?"
She stopped just inches from me, so close I could smell her perfume—dark orchid and something metallic, like ozone. "I came to see how my big sister was handling her… upgrade." Her gaze dropped to the noticeable tension in the front of my skirt, to the faint, damp patch that was indeed forming on the thin fabric. "Looks like you’re handling it just fine. A little pent up, maybe."
I ignored her, but a fresh wave of heat flooded my core, a traitorous response to her proximity. The empty feeling intensified, becoming a sharp, demanding need. "I’m fine," I lied, my voice tight.
Aisling laughed, a light, bubbling sound that didn’t match the hunger in her eyes. "You are so not fine. You’re vibrating. I can feel the need rolling off you. Mom gave you the ‘our sacred legacy’ speech, didn’t she? Talked about power and predation and all that noble-sounding bullshit." She leaned in, her breath warm against my ear. "She didn’t tell you the good part, did she? She didn’t tell you how to use this glorious new body of yours. What it really feels like."
My breath hitched. The internal voice purred in agreement.
Listen to her. She knows. She’s not trying to put a pretty bow on a fucking chainsaw. She wants to show you how to turn it on.
"What are you offering?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Aisling’s smile was all sharp edges and promise. "A real education. The stuff you won’t find in Mom’s dusty old books. I’m offering to show you what this body can do. How it works. What it needs." Her clawed finger traced a line from my jaw down my neck, over the straining fabric of my shirt, stopping just above my navel. "I can teach you how to make the ache stop. And how to make it so, so much better."
A hot, prickling flush ignited across Brogan’s cheeks and chest, a traitorous bloom of crimson that even her veiled human skin couldn’t conceal. Her breath hitched as a fresh, slick heat pulsed between her legs, the delicate lace of the panties growing damp against her swollen folds. The empty ache there became a demanding, rhythmic throb, a visceral need her old body had never known.
Oh fuck, she sees it. She sees how wet you are, how bad you need it. Don’t just stand there, you stupid bitch, let her touch you.
Aisling’s grin widened, a flash of sharp, white teeth. “There she is,” she whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. Her hands, cool and sure, came up to settle on Brogan’s hips, her thumbs stroking slow, deliberate circles on the bare skin above the skirt’s waistband. “Let’s start with the basics.”
Her touch was electric, a jolt that shattered Brogan’s fragile composure. Aisling’s palms slid upward, over the thin cotton of the crop top, until they cupped the overwhelming fullness of Brogan’s breasts. She squeezed, not hard, but with a firm, knowing pressure that made the heavy flesh yield perfectly in her hands.
Gods, yes, squeeze them. They’re so full they’re aching. Feel how soft they are? How they just spill over your hands? Pinch the nipples. I need you to pinch them, make it hurt just a little, make the pleasure shoot straight down to my cunt.
Brogan bit her lip, a low whine trapped in her throat as Aisling’s thumbs found her nipples through the fabric. She rolled them, the friction a delicious torment that made Brogan’s knees tremble. The sensitive peaks hardened into painful, exquisite points, and a fresh gush of wetness soaked the lace between her legs.
“See?” Aisling murmured, her breath hot against Brogan’s ear. “They’re not just decoration. They’re direct lines to every hungry part of you.” One hand abandoned a breast, sliding down Brogan’s trembling stomach, over the pleated skirt, and cupping the plump, firm curve of her ass. Her fingers dug in, possessive and strong. “And this… this is a masterpiece. Built for leverage.”
She’s grabbing my ass. She’s actually grabbing it and it feels so fucking good. I can feel her fingers pressing into the flesh, I want her to spank it, to leave marks, to bend me over and just take what she wants.
Aisling’s other hand joined the first, both kneading the generous curves of Brogan’s backside, making the thin skirt fabric rustle with the movement. “So, big sister,” Aisling purred, her voice laced with dark amusement. “Tell me. How does it all feel? This new body of yours.”
Brogan opened her mouth to form a denial, to say it was strange or frightening, but the slutty internal voice ripped control from her, the words pouring out in a husky, wanton torrent she didn’t recognize as her own.
“It feels like these tits are so heavy and full they need to be sucked on for hours, until the nipples are raw and red,” the voice moaned through Brogan’s lips, her own hands flying up to grope herself, squeezing her breasts hard. “And this cunt is so empty and wet it’s dripping, it’s begging for a thick cock to stretch it open and pound it deep, to fuck the ache away and make me scream.” She arched her back, pushing her ass into Aisling’s hands. “And this ass is so plump and hungry, it needs to be filled too, it needs to be used, every hole stuffed and leaking and fucking ruined.”
The vulgarity hung in the incense-thick air, raw and shocking. The transition was so abrupt, the loss of control so absolute, that for a second, there was only the sound of Brogan’s ragged breathing.
Then horror crashed down. Brogan’s hands flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp, her eyes wide with utter shame. She stumbled back from Aisling’s touch, her body humming with the very need she so desperately wished to deny.
“What the hell was that?” Brogan gasped, her hands trembling as she pressed them against her flaming cheeks. The vulgar words still echoed in the room, a phantom presence. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to say any of that.”
Aisling didn’t look shocked. She looked fascinated, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips as she leaned back against the poster of Brogan’s bed. “Of course you didn’t mean to. Not the ‘you’ that’s still clinging to that boring boy-brain, anyway.” She tilted her head, her amber eyes gleaming. “That other voice? The one that just took the wheel and drove you right into Filthville? That’s your trait, sis.”
Brogan stared, her mind reeling. “My… trait?”
“Every succubus has one,” Aisling explained, her tone casual, as if discussing a favorite color. “A little something extra, a unique demonic flavor. Mom’s is emotional manipulation—she can make you feel pure bliss or crushing despair with a whisper. Yours…” She gestured at Brogan’s head. “Yours is that deliciously filthy little guide in your mind. It’s not a separate person. It’s the pure, unfiltered id of what you are now. An inverse conscience. It tells you to indulge in every dirty impulse your old self would have suppressed. And sometimes, when the hunger is strong enough, it can just… take over.”
The revelation landed like a physical blow. This wasn't a temporary madness or a side effect; it was a fundamental part of her new reality. The voice was her. “It can take over?” Brogan whispered, a fresh chill of fear cutting through the heat in her veins.
“Oh, yeah,” Aisling said with a wicked grin. “It’s like autopilot for sin. Pretty handy when you’re too conflicted to let yourself enjoy the really good stuff.” She pushed off the bed and took a step closer, her movements fluid and predatory. “Want to see mine?”
Before Brogan could answer, Aisling’s hands went to the waistband of her own tight jeans. She unbuttoned them, slid the zipper down with a slow, deliberate hiss, and pushed the denim just low enough to reveal the smooth, pale skin of her lower abdomen. A faint, shimmering heat haze distorted the air just above her pubic bone. Then, from that nothingness, flesh began to form, thickening and lengthening with a soft, wet sound of shifting biology.
Brogan’s breath caught in her throat. It was a cock, but unlike any human one. It was a deep, wine-red, smooth and utterly seamless, as if carved from living stone. It was already fully erect, thick and heavy, the head a darker, plum-colored shade, beading with a single drop of clear fluid. It curved slightly upwards, a proud, menacing shape that was both alien and terrifyingly compelling.
“Comes in handy,” Aisling said, her voice a low purr as she gave herself a slow, possessive stroke, her fingers wrapping around the girth. “Especially when I find a pretty new sister who doesn’t know yet how badly she needs to be fucked.”
Brogan’s body reacted before her mind could form a protest. A violent, full-body shudder wracked her frame. The empty ache between her legs, which had been a constant thrum, became a sharp, screaming void. Her internal voice, which had been momentarily silenced by shame, roared back to life, not as a whisper, but as a deafening scream.
Oh, fuck. Look at it. It’s so thick. It’s perfect. It’s going to split you wide open. You need it inside you. You need to feel that stretch, you need to be impaled on it, you need her to fucking ruin you with it. Let me out. Let me have it. GIVE ME CONTROL.
“No,” Brogan whimpered, stumbling back a step, but her legs were weak, her resolve melting under the twin assaults of visceral need and the voice’s relentless demand. She could feel the transformation bubbling up from within, the human veil becoming a suffocating mask.
Please, just let go. You’re fighting what you are. You’re a cunt made for fucking. That dick was made for this cunt. Let me show you. Let me have it. I’ll make it feel so good. I’ll make us whole.
Aisling took another step, her demonic cock standing rigid between them, a promise of violation and ecstasy. “Stop fighting it, Brogan. Let her out. Let me meet my real sister.”
The voice’s begging became a command, a wave of pure, demonic will that smashed through Brogan’s last defenses. She felt a final, internal snap. Her back arched violently, a guttural cry tearing from her throat as the human disguise was violently shed.
Crimson skin erupted across her body in a wave of scorching heat. The horns spiraled from her forehead, the tail lashed the air behind her. The white crop top strained to its absolute limit, the buttons threatening to pop, revealing the deep red, heavy swell of her true breasts beneath. The short skirt now seemed even shorter against the vibrant red of her thick thighs.
The shift was complete. The conflicted brother was gone. In his place stood the succubus, raw and hungry, her glowing amber eyes fixed on Aisling’s cock with naked, unabashed hunger.
“There she is,” Aisling breathed, her grin widening.
The newly dominant Brogan didn’t speak with words. She moved with a primal grace her previous self could never have managed. She closed the distance between them, her claws reaching for the straining buttons of her own shirt. With a sharp tug, she ripped it open, sending buttons skittering across the floor. Her magnificent, H-cup breasts spilled free, the crimson nipples hard and aching.
She then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the pleated skirt and the flimsy lace panties beneath, pushing them down her thick thighs in one smooth, deliberate motion. She kicked them away, standing fully naked and exposed before her sister, her body a testament to demonic desire.
She turned, presenting the plump, round globes of her ass to Aisling, looking back over her shoulder with a look of pure, wanton invitation. Her tail lifted, coiling aside to offer an unobstructed view of her slick, swollen folds, glistening with her need. The inner voice, now the sole occupant of her mind, finally spoke aloud, her voice a husky, desperate rasp.
“This cunt is yours,” she moaned, spreading her legs wider. “It’s so empty. It needs your fat demon cock buried deep inside it. Please, Aisling. Fuck your sister. Make me feel what this body is for.”
Aisling’s answering grin was a sharp, predatory thing. “With pleasure, sister.” But instead of moving forward, she crossed her arms, her gaze sweeping over Brogan’s offered body with a critical, appraising gleam. “But first, I want to hear you say it. All of it. I want you to look at yourself in that mirror and tell me what you see. Don’t hold back.”
No! Brogan’s consciousness screamed from the prison of her own skull, a silent, frantic protest. Don’t give her this!
But the demonic impulse controlling her body just let out a throaty laugh, a sound of pure, wicked delight. “You want a tour? Gladly.” Her body, moving with a sensuous sway that was entirely foreign to Brogan’s own mind, turned to face the large, ornate mirror. She ran her crimson hands over her own form, her black claws tracing paths of sharp sensation.
“Look at these fucking tits,” the voice purred, her palms hefting the heavy, soft weights, fingers squeezing until the flesh bulged between them. “They’re so massive and perky, these H-cup monsters with nipples the color of wine that get harder than stone the second you even think about touching them.” She pinched one sharply, and a jolt of pleasure-pain made the body arch its back, a moan slipping from its lips. “They’re so sensitive I can almost come just from playing with them, and they jiggle with every step, a constant, sloppy reminder of what a fat-titted slut I am.”
Brogan watched, helpless, as her own hands slid down the impossible narrowness of her waist. “And this waist,” the voice continued, claws digging into the soft crimson skin, “it’s so tiny you could put both hands around it and have fingers left over, just a little handle to hold onto while you’re pounding into this plump, greedy ass from behind.” One hand smacked the mentioned ass cheek, the sound a sharp crack in the room, the flesh jiggling enticingly. “This ass is so thick and round it’s like two perfect pillows, made for leaving handprints on and for grinding back against a cock until it screams.”
Stop it! Please, stop! Brogan begged internally, the vulgarity like acid in her mind.
The body ignored her, its hands now sliding between its own thick thighs, fingers spreading the slick, swollen folds open for the mirror to see. “And this cunt,” the voice moaned, two fingers sliding easily into the dripping, tight heat, “gods, this cunt is so hungry it’s dripping all over the floor. It’s pink and puffy and utterly empty, and it clenches around nothing all day, begging for something thick and hard to stretch it raw, to pump it full of come until it’s leaking and satisfied.” The fingers thrust in and out, a lewd, wet sound accompanying the motion. “It’s the heart of me, this desperate, leaking hole, and it’s all yours to ruin.”
Aisling watched, enraptured, her own demonic cock twitching with obvious need. “Beautiful,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Now you’re getting it.”
The demon controlling Brogan withdrew its glistening fingers and turned back to Aisling, a look of pure, unadulterated hunger on its face. “Now, please,” it begged, “fuck me. Use my slutty body. I need it.”
Aisling’s answer was a low growl. She closed the distance in two swift strides, her hands shoving hard against Brogan’s shoulders. The body, willing and pliant, fell backward onto the large bed with a soft gasp, its crimson limbs splaying across the dark velvet.
“Don’t worry,” Aisling said, climbing onto the bed and straddling her sister’s hips, the thick, wine-red length of her cock pressing against Brogan’s slick stomach. “I’m going to use every single part of you.”