Chapter 7: Weekend
The morning light through his thin curtains felt different. It was Saturday. No library. No separation. Just hours and hours of unbroken time, and Demona’s consciousness swimming up to the surface beside him, her body already shifting, molding itself to his.
She didn’t speak. She just looked at him, her violet eyes soft and utterly focused. Then she slid down beneath the sheets.
Her mouth was on him before he was fully awake, a warm, wet shock that made his back arch off the mattress. It wasn’t the frantic hunger of the previous days. This was slow, deliberate, almost reverent. She took her time, her absurd lips stretching, her tongue mapping every vein and ridge with a worshipper’s attention to detail. She hummed, a low vibration that traveled straight up his spine.
When he finally came, pulsing down her throat, she didn’t pull away seeking energy. She swallowed, gently cleaned him with meticulous swipes of her tongue, and then rested her cheek on his thigh, breathing him in.
“All day,” she whispered, the words hot against his skin. “It’s all for me today.”
He made coffee. She followed him into the tiny kitchen, her nakedness a stark contrast to the chipped linoleum and humming refrigerator. As he waited for the pot to brew, she pressed against his back, her hands sliding around his hips. She nuzzled the space between his shoulder blades.
“You have a game today,” she murmured. “The one with the soldiers.”
“Yeah, maybe later,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep.
“Now,” she insisted, her tone gentle but immovable. “Play now. I want to watch.”
He set up on the couch, controller in hand. Demona didn’t sit beside him. She knelt on the floor between his legs, her back to the TV, her eyes locked on his face. She leaned forward, her cleavage swallowing him whole, the warm, impossibly soft weight of her surrounding him in a slick, slow rhythm. He gasped, his fingers fumbling on the controller.
“Keep playing,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. Her movements were a gentle, rolling wave. “Ignore me.”
He tried. He really did. He focused on the screen, on the digital soldiers racing through a dusty canyon. But the sensation was too much—the hot, silken pressure, the visual of her immense breasts enveloping him, the little sounds of satisfaction she made. His character ran headlong into a wall and was shot.
“You died,” Demona observed, never breaking her rhythm. A slow smile spread on her face. “Good.”
The afternoon was a haze of surrendered normalcy. He tried to watch a documentary about deep-sea fish. Demona lay on her stomach on the floor, head in his lap, her mouth busy, her tongue tracing lazy, devoted circles. The narrator droned on about bioluminescence. Harry’s hands tangled in her hair, not guiding, just resting, as his whole world narrowed to the wet heat of her worship.
During a shower meant to rinse off the sweat, she pushed him against the cold tiles and knelt again, the water sluicing over her head and shoulders as she took him deep, gagging slightly before relaxing her throat, her eyes streaming with water and dedication. She cleaned him with a thoroughness that felt less like hygiene and more like a sacrament.
Dinner was a frozen pizza. He sat at the small table. Demona slid under it, a phantom presence between his knees. He took a bite of pepperoni, chewed, and then his breath hitched. He looked down. She had him in her mouth again, her gaze unwavering, pupils blown wide. She ate while he ate, sucking gently, rhythmically, as he mechanically lifted slice after slice to his mouth, the flavors of tomato and cheese and dough mixing strangely with the building tension in his groin.
He never came. She’d bring him to the edge with terrifying expertise, then back off, letting the sensation subside to a dull, constant throb before beginning again. It was a continuous, low-grade current of pleasure thrumming through his entire day. He felt hyper-aware yet strangely numb, his body not his own, but a temple she was maintaining with single-minded devotion.
By nightfall, he was boneless, sprawled on the couch. The TV was off. The only light came from the streetlamp outside. Demona crawled up onto him, straddling his hips. She sank down onto him with a sigh that seemed to come from the marrow of her bones, finally taking him inside where she’d wanted him all along.
She didn’t move. She just sat there, fully impaled, her head thrown back, her throat working. Her internal muscles fluttered and clenched in a slow, endless pulsation.
“Master,” she breathed, the word slurred and thick.
He jolted. “Don’t call me that.”
“But you are,” she said, looking down at him. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused. Drool glistened at the corner of her swollen lips. “You are the master of this. Of me. I have had kings, warriors, mages. They crumbled. They were snacks.” She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against his chest, her lips brushing his ear. Her voice was a wet, wrecked whisper. “You are a feast that never ends. You fill me and fill me and you are still hard. You let me drink from you all day and you are still here. Still warm. Still mine.”
She began to rock, finally, a slow, grinding undulation. “This cock,” she chanted, her words breaking with each small movement. “This perfect, impossible cock. It is my sun. My reason. I am its slave. I want to live on it. Die on it. My Harry. My master. My god.”
Her movements became more frantic, her words dissolving into a sobbing, praising babble. She was chanting in languages he didn’t know, then back to English, to “yes” and “please” and “yours.” She came, her body seizing around him, a sharp, cry ripped from her throat. She didn’t stop. She rode the waves, over and over, until she was just a shuddering, weeping weight atop him, still connected, still trying to milk him from the inside out.
Finally, spent, she collapsed forward, her slick skin sticking to his. Her breath was hot and ragged against his neck. She was mumbling, her lips moving against his collarbone.
“...love it...love you...all for this...so good...my good, good master...”
She was asleep in seconds, a dead weight of utterly sainted exhaustion. Harry lay trapped beneath her, the words echoing in the dark, silent room. Master. God. The absurdity of it was swallowed by the sheer, terrifying sincerity in her ruined voice. He stared at the water stain on his ceiling, feeling her heartbeat against his, and knew, with a dull certainty, that nothing would ever be simple again. The machine had been a stopgap. This, her utter, drooling devotion, was the new permanent.