Chapter 20: woof
The air in the apartment was no longer air. It was a broth, a thick, palpable stew of sweat, sex, and musk so potent it felt like breathing syrup. The scent of old paper from Harry’s books was a ghost, a memory drowned under oceans of salty skin, tart arousal, and the tang of countless spendings that had soaked into every porous surface.
Months had passed in a blur of grasping hands, desperate mouths, and the endless, wet sounds of claiming.
It had started as a trickle. After Seraphiel’s fall, another had come within the week. A bratty, youthful thing named Elyra who thought to seduce him with acrobatic displays. Demona and Belphina had wrestled her into a collar while she was still trying to impress him with a handstand. Then two more arrived together, hunter-class succubi with a tactical plan. Kaia, silent and efficient, had sabotaged their ritual circle with a well-placed piss. Harry had broken them on the kitchen floor.
Now, they didn’t even bother with tactics. They just… arrived. Drawn like moths to a grotesque, irresistible flame. The door was never locked anymore. It was always opening, another silhouette stepping out of the mundane hallway into the humid, throbbing reality of Harry’s world.
The apartment was a kennel.
Bodies carpeted every inch of available floor. Sleek, voluptuous forms in a tangle of limbs and languor. They slept in piles, a mountain of jiggling flesh that rose and fell with a single, congested breath. Breasts, asses, the slick glimpses of labia, all pressed together, glistening with a perpetual sheen of exertion. The posters on the walls were stained, peeling, obscured by the press of a back or a flung-out arm.
The kitchen was a symphony of clutter. Dozens of identical stainless steel dog bowls lined the linoleum, some licked clean, some still holding water or the cheap kibble Harry bought in fifty-pound bags. It was efficient. They didn’t need fine dining. They needed calories to burn.
A red-haired succubus with emerald skin lapped lazily at her water, her tongue making slow, circles in the bowl. Another, with twin ram’s horns, was nosing a piece of kibble across the floor with her snub nose before snapping it up with a click of teeth.
The furniture was gone. The couch had been devoured by the mass, flattened into a spring-filled pancake. The coffee table was just a memory under a hill of prone, sighing flesh. Harry’s bed was the epicenter, a damp, stained island upon which he currently sat, propped against the headboard.
He wasn’t scrawny anymore. Not exactly. A hard, lean muscle defined his arms and chest from the constant physicality of his role. His eyes, once wide with confusion, were heavy-lidded, watchful. They held a calm, deep-seated authority that had settled into his bones.
Demona was curled at his right hip, her head in his lap, her absurd lips parted as she drowsily nuzzled the base of his cock. It lay semi-hard against her cheek, a thick, veined weight she treated as her personal comfort object. Belphina was on his left, using his thigh as a pillow, one hand idly cupping her own breast, squeezing absently, her blonde hair a tangled mess.
Kaia was draped over his feet, her cheek on his ankle, breathing slowly. Seraphiel was on the floor beside the bed, her aristocratic face soft and empty, tracing the patterns in the stained carpet with a finger.
And there were so many others. A dozen. Two dozen. More. They had names once. Lyra, Morwen, Zara. The names had melted away, replaced by sounds, by gestures. A snap of Harry’s fingers, a point.
The air hummed with their need. It wasn’t a conscious thought. It was a biological imperative, a cellular hunger that radiated from them in heat waves. The room was eighty-five degrees at all times.
“Master,” Demona slurred, not lifting her head, her voice a thick, syrupy drawl. “Feels… empty.” She rutted her hips slowly against the mattress, a mindless, grinding motion.
“Uh-huh,” Belphina agreed, her eyes glazed. “Need the good stuff. The fill-up.”
Harry’s hand rested on Demona’s head. He scratched behind her ear, a gesture that made her whole body shudder with a bliss that was almost painful. A low chorus of whines and soft barks echoed through the room. Heads lifted. Dozens of eyes, glowing with faint, hungry light, fixed on him.
He didn’t speak often. Words were becoming unnecessary. He moved.
He shifted, and Demona and Belphina scrambled, understanding. They positioned themselves on their hands and knees at the edge of the bed, facing the room, their enormous asses presented, jiggling slightly. An invitation. A promise.
A ripple went through the horde. Whimpers. The wet sound of mouths watering. A succubus with violet skin and a tail like a scorpion’s crawled forward, her tongue lolling.
Harry stood up on the bed. He was the conductor. The source.
He reached down, wrapped a hand in the hair of the violet-skinned succubus, and guided her mouth to him. She took him with a grateful, choking eagerness, her jaw stretching obscenely. He didn’t thrust. He just let her worship, let her hollow her cheeks and slurp, her eyes rolling back in her head.
Another, a petite one with bat-like wings folded against her back, nuzzled at his balls, licking and cleaning with frantic devotion.
He looked out over his domain. A hand reached out from the pile and stroked his calf. A forked tongue flicked against his heel. The smell was overpowering. Pussy. Dripping need. Unwashed, primal, animal.
He pulled from the violet one’s mouth with a wet pop. She mewled, chasing the loss with her tongue. He pointed at two others in the pile near the window. “You. Come.”
They scrambled over the others, a tangle of limbs and excited yips. He didn’t use their names. He didn’t know them. One had stripes. One had feathers instead of hair. They were his.
He took the striped one first, bending her over Belphina’s broad back. He shoved into her from behind, a single, deep, claiming stroke that made her scream a sound that was half-sob, half-bark. She clenched around him instantly, her body seizing up, squirting a jet of clear fluid that splashed over Belphina’s spine and onto the carpet. He fucked her with short, brutal pumps, a piston servicing a machine part. She babbled. “Yesyesyesgoodgoodfullsomuchohmasterfull—”
He pulled out, dripping, and turned to the feathered one. She was already presenting, her face pressed into Demona’s ass, her own rear high. He entered her with the same ruthless efficiency. Her channel was tighter, hotter. She howled. Her feathers puffed out. He pounded her, his balls slapping against her soaked folds, the sound a rapid, wet percussion in the thick air.
He was not making love. He was feeding. He was maintaining. He was pouring his essence into the void inside them, and with each spill, the void yawned wider, demanded more. They were caught in a feedback loop of desperate consumption, and he was the infinite well.
He came inside the feathered one with a grunt, flooding her, feeling her womb grasp at him. She collapsed, twitching, a stream of white already leaking from her used hole onto the floor.
He didn’t stop. He moved to the next. And the next.
An hour later, he was slick with sweat and their fluids. The room was a chorus of satisfied, drowsy pants. The ones he’d used lay where they fell, in puddles of their own making, stupid smiles on their faces, tails (if they had them) giving feeble, contented wags.
He sat back on the bed, spent for now. Demona and Belphina crawled up to him, nuzzling under his arms, licking the salt from his chest. They were his prime bitches, his favorites, but even their eyes held that same beautiful, dumb emptiness. The cunning, the rivalry, the ancient pride—all melted away, replaced by a single, radiant focus: him. His cock. His seed. His presence.
He looked at the door. It was ajar. Beyond it, the normal world persisted. The hallway. The landlord. The library job he’d abandoned months ago.
A shape appeared in the doorway. Another. Two more succubi, newcomers, their eyes wide with predatory intent as they peered into the gloom. They sniffed the air. Their expressions shifted from ambition to dazed, instinctual hunger.
Demona lifted her head from Harry’s chest. She didn’t snarl. She just panted, her tongue hanging out, and gave a soft, welcoming woof.
The newcomers hesitated for only a second. Then, on all fours, they crawled inside, pushing through the forest of limbs, their collars manifesting from the ether as they crossed the threshold. They found empty bowls and began to lick them clean.
Harry leaned back. He accepted the tongue Bath Belphina was giving his neck. He watched the new ones assimilate. The pack grew. The smell deepened. The hum of mindless need grew louder, a soundless vibration in the core of his skull.
He was not overwhelmed anymore. This was his ecosystem. This was what he did. He reached for the bag of kibble beside the bed, tore it open with a grunt, and poured a fresh pile onto the floor between the mounds of sleeping, jiggling flesh.
The sound of scraping teeth and happy, slobbering consumption filled the room.
He closed his eyes. The momentum was its own gravity now. He wondered, idly, when the floor would finally give way.