She was a redhead. Pale, with a dusting of light freckles over the top of her chest and, to match her Gaelic blood, vibrantly bright green eyes. Her eyes were narrowed to slits and her full lips moved with the rising and falling rhythms of Aramaic.

In the points of the circled pentagram carved into the basalt floor of this room, stood long beeswax tapers. Wax dripped down their long, smooth sides and puddled around the base.

Melinda kept chanting. She was alone, though two silent, malevolent sentinels stood outside the room’s only door. They could hear nothing of what happened inside, as a warm wind caught the flames of the candles and they began to twist counter-clockwise, melding together in a way that defied all terrestrial physics, blurring together into a glowing ring that grew in intensity until its light banished the darkness from every corner of the room.

The basalt floor became warmer, and the candles melted to flow along the grooves cut deeply into the stone. The wax turned black, and the room grew pitch black. Goosebumps rose over Melinda’s nude flesh, from the arch of her feet to her neck, and the book she had been reading from suddenly became too heavy to hold.

It fell to the floor without a sound, spine-first, and snapped shut. Then it disappeared, and the pentagram was suddenly glowing bright, suffusing the room with a deep red light and Melinda shook with excitement: She had done it. There was no mist, nothing so dramatic as a blurring between the points of the pentagram.

Her pale nipples hardened and a ghostly touch, slightly warmer than her own skin, drifted over her shaven mound before traveling over her hip. She swore she could feel three distinct fingertips as the touch caressed her mons, then a fourth fingertip as it traveled over her hip.

She felt warm breath cascading down over her neck and it was so warm that she felt it travel down the perfectly smooth, lean arch of her back to her well rounded, high, muscled rear. She tensed involuntarily, and murmured “Thank you,” and she was proud, because she had done what she had been trying to since she first found herself in possession of that Aramaic tome. Then the touch left her.

She would have despaired, had he not appeared without warning before her. A lean, hard face with eyes of such a deep brown they were almost black, over a straight nose and between slightly pointed ears. Black hair, this also lightly covering thick pectoral muscles that joined with broadly muscled shoulders, and a thin trail of hair over an unnaturally flat stomach.

He moved slightly, taking a step towards her, and she saw the muscle ripple and as her green eyes met his she felt herself stiffen unnaturally. He was a foot away now, arms relaxed by his sides, and she knew she had to break her gaze, look else wheres, but she could not. Her head tipped back to keep staring at him, her hair cascaded back over her shoulders and hung just shy of her ass.

The ass that had complimented her traditional Irish beauty and drawn so many to her, all to be rejected. For this. She wanted to look down, but until his eyes dropped to examine her body she could not – it was not that she wouldn’t, it was not that she was so entranced by those dark eyes that she couldn’t, it was that her neck refused to respond. Her eyes refused to move else wheres. She was paralyzed.

Melinda was supple, lean, with full hips, small, pert breasts with pale dime-sized nipples. Her legs were cleanly lined, long, her stomach flat and toned with two small ridges of muscle. He bent slightly, examining the freckles brushed across the top of her chest, and she felt his breath again, moist and warm, drifting over her skin. She knew it then, knew that she had achieved her goal.

She looked down over his body, the essence of masculinity, virility, without an ounce of fat marring his perfection. Between his legs hung a large, thick phallus, veined and perfect, flaccid but still firm, surrounded by slightly curled black hair, his testicles hanging low and large underneath. She felt that she was in control of herself again and reached to touch him.

Here, on this basalt floor, he was in his domain. He did not need an invitation from Melinda to move beyond this pentagram. She had carved one into the concrete of her basement floor at home, practiced until she had summoned increasingly powerful demons, banishing them all after proving to herself that she could do it. She had heard a rumor about this place, this building whose front housed the Slaughterhouse Club, where deep bass beats overflowed and red light pretended to aspire to the atmosphere of this room.

Where feeble, prideful and unmindful humans played at this. And after interviewing the floor boss, she had been invited into the imposing marble corridor behind the club, had been allowed to wander its length until she came to this door, pushed it open, and saw what she wanted. This basalt floor, where the demons she would summon did not need her permission to leave the pentagram scribed deep into the floor. Melinda craved this. Needed there to be no restriction on the one she would summon next; Belial.

Before her hand could cross the few inches of space between them, his hands were on her hips. Firm, dangerously powerful. She delighted in this, smiled wolfishly. Belial smiled back thinly, and to her eyes this sight was perfect. Her eyes were wide now, bright green, reflecting the clean red light. She focused single-mindedly on one sentence, one sentence that could be translated into English only as…

Make me yours.

He didn’t need to speak. I will. She smiled wider, felt those hands lift her off her feet, the thick muscle of his chest and back easily taking her weight. She crossed her legs behind his back, feeling the perfection of his skin on hers and shuddering in anticipation. For any mortal she was an inspiring beauty, sexy beyond earthly imagining. Any human male would have been achingly hard for her in moments.

Belial had seen better. With elemental magic he filled the small spaces between their skin with a formless warmth that soaked into her skin and aroused her unimaginably, she grew damp. Then wet, more excited than she had ever been in her life. His perfect shaft was hard for her now, more elemental magic guiding the perfectly formed head to her labia. Her hands rested on the broad muscles of his chest, her eyes again locked with hers.

Please. I’ve waited so long.

I know.

He lowered her with delicious slowness, giving her what she had not allowed herself to experience until now. Though she could not know it then – she would with time – it was incredible, beyond what a mortal could have given her. She slid down, and there was no pause as her virginity gave way, her blood mixing with her excitement and coating him as she was parted for the first time, stretched around his thickness, penetrated deeply, until her cervix brushed the tip and yet there was more, and she longed for it.

Thank you, thank you, oh Master: Make me yours.

Another two inches slid inside her easily, inexorably, and her cervix parted around the head. She took him more deeply than any mortal woman should, but that was no problem. She was no longer mortal. She was succubi, one of Belial’s, and with sudden power over lesser succubi and, for that matter, lesser demons. She gave him the purity of her spirit and Belial saw into her soul, knew she could be trusted, and instinctively Melinda knew she was his favoured one.

Her lips parted to release a small pleasured cry, and no sound emerged. His hands brought her lower, and then she had taken his full length and her clitoris touched his pubis. Her nerve endings reverberated, responding to this new sensation of being filled, the gentle lubricated friction of her clitoris on his skin, made slightly rough with the black hairs crushed between their bodies. She was so close, and now she needed this release. Belial lifted her until his length had almost completely withdrawn from her.

She clenched herself around him, holding the head inside.

No! Please. Don’t.

He watched her dispassionately, saw the sudden longing in her eyes, the glow behind her irises becoming ever more apparent as her transformation into one of his succubi continued, and then he lowered her again, filling her completely once more. The force of her orgasm snatched away her consciousness, slamming against every nanometer of her nerve endings.

She was throbbing against his unyielding hardness and her body was pleasuring him better than any mortal woman could hope to achieve. She regained consciousness thirty seconds later, as the last of the first series of aftershocks passed, just in time for the second series to hit her. Then she was able to cry out, a single pure note of ecstasy and her eyes were glowing now, suffused with the kind of magic the Celtic druids had always acknowledged. Belial smiled at her again and she knew beyond any doubt her place in his coterie. She came again, almost blacking out once more.

Then a whirling sensation, disorientating and lasting but a second, and all the more disorienting for its brevity. She was somewheres else now. Melinda did not care where, as she was still with him, still had Belial’s length pressed inside her, was still spread delightfully around him. Experimentally, she moved.

She felt her nerves tingle, all of them, as if molten copper had poured into her system and was thrumming with orgasmic energy. She ground her clitoris against him hungrily, feeling him move, inside her as those incredibly formed muscles – nothing so pompous as the kind of muscle a bodybuilder developed, but instead the lean and purpose-hardened muscle of a warrior – moved her along his cock.

She was screaming now, her ecstatic joy echoing off the chamber’s walls, and she lost count of her orgasms. As she had lay in her bed every twilight, and some dawns, she had never known herself to be multi-orgasmic. This was something else, and she thought it was Belial’s doing. Then she could take no more, an hour later.

Master. Thank you.

He was still smiling.

You’re welcome, Melinda.

He lifted her from him and she didn’t feel hollow, as if she was missing something, as her sex adjusted itself instantly back to something akin to her virginal tightness. He set her down on unsteady feet, and she knelt as she remembered what must come next. She took the base of his member in her hand, steadying herself with her free hand on her hip, and she began underneath, licking slowly to the tip, taking up her moisture and the residue of her maiden’s blood, swallowing after every pass she made.

She looked up at him, staring into his eyes, as she finished cleaning him. She sat back on her haunches, waiting. He took her by the shoulders, raised her to her feet, and lifted her, those powerful hands suddenly underneath her arms and taking her weight on her shoulders. She found herself laying back on a canopied bed and then she felt Belial’s shaft enter her again.

He rode her to his completion, her orgasms building up to one mind-breakingly powerful one that sent her spinning off into a senseless bliss in which she perceived nothing but the unadulterated pleasure her body gave her and the sense of Belial’s shaft throbbing inside her, filling her with what she, in her state of incredible self-awareness, felt as a distinct liquid heat. Belial rose from her and she admired his body as he admired hers, her muscles quivering with the aftershocks. Her sex tightened again and spilled not a drop of the gift her long sought-after master had given her. She was thankful.

Melinda stretched out on the bed in his personal chambers and fell quickly into sleep. Belial disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared before Melinda.

On the floor of Slaughterhouse Club, the floor boss sent one of his lads to check on Miss Matthews, who had quite rightly drawn attention with her lithe, nubile form and natural good looks. And of course, her black halter-topped dress. This ‘lad’ was one of the three minor demons that hunted at Slaughterhouse, picking the choicest nubile females for their lord’s enjoyment.

He was dressed in immaculately shined shoes, a black dress shirt underneath his waistcoat, and had one hand nonchalantly resting in the pocket of his slacks. With his Saxon good looks attracting the glance of the few girls he passed, he made his way to her side. He began directly, with a smile.

“Enjoying yourself, miss?”

THE END