Feature Writer: Flit
Feature Title: I, SUCCUBUS 1
Published: 06.04.2022
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
Synopsis: A succubus and an incubus battle for supremacy.
Author’s Notes: This is intended to be the first in a series. My thanks to the lovely SimplySilver for her inspiration and assistance. Please feel free to let me know what you think. Thank you.
I, Succubus 1
My name is Vanya. This is a part of my story, but it is not the end of my story.
I am a succubus, but I was not born so. I was born human, and became a warrior, and then a bandit, and then a warlord. My band thrived in the desert, raiding and pillaging and fighting, sometimes at the behest of those who paid us, sometimes against those who wronged us, and sometimes against all comers. We were strong and they were weak and the strong take what they wish and the weak submit, for that is the way of things.
We were known. We were feared. We were admired. We were sought after. We looted and fought and won, again and again, for we were the strongest and we were the fiercest and we were the best and we knew it and loved it.
And then we were challenged. It had happened before, and we’d emerged triumphant time and time again, but this was different. This challenger was a man, alone. One man against an army, and yet he challenged us. We roared with laughter at his presumption, and then we commenced the slaughter, but it was we who were slaughtered.
The man was a sorceror, skilled and strong in his craft, and he summoned up legions of beasts and demons and horrors, and as many as we slew he brought forth more. Time and again they rose, time and again we fought, time and again we won but with each victory we lost men, some to wounds and some to death and some to panic and retreat, until we had dwindled to five. Five where we had been an army, five against numberless hordes, but we five stood and would not submit for though we were not the strongest that day we were determined to fight to the last, and we would have if we’d had the chance.
Instead we were captured. Foul magics erupted from the ground and ensnared us and we were held bound and helpless before him. Our struggles were to no avail, even the smallest of us could not slip free, even the strongest of us could not tear loose, and as we struggled he approached. Our adversary. Our conqueror. Our challenger.
He was a man and to look at him you’d think him nothing more than that, but his eyes glowed with magic and his spells and creatures had overrun my band, a band I thought invincible, a band that had challenged nobles and vexed kings. Armies had battered themselves to death against us and yet one man had prevailed.
I learned much about strength that day.
He regarded us for a moment, looking into our eyes with his sight beyond sight, and in the end he decided he liked what he saw in three of us, myself included. The other two, brave soldiers both, were thrown to his creatures and their fates were the fates of the weak. I honor their memory but they were conquered, and the conquered are the property of the conqueror.
The rest of us he brought to his lair and there he worked his will upon us and transformed us. Johann, who was a great brute of a man, became possessed by a rage demon and made mighty enough to shatter mountains, but his plans for Kristena and I were different. No possession for us, instead he used long-forgotten and longer-forbidden magics to alter our minds and bodies, to change our very nature and spirit, to implant seeds into our minds and when those seeds sprouted and took root, guided by his magics, we emerged as succubi.
He intended to keep us. To use us. To hold us in his thrall. And he did, for a time.
Under his command Kristena and I learned. We became sexual warriors, strong and fierce and proud, and our lust and our hunger fueled his ambition and served his plans.
Until it didn’t.
I won’t speak more of him now. Perhaps, in the future, I shall. Let it suffice to say that we left his service under terms…disagreeable to him and though he survived he did not do so unscarred. Perhaps he plots his revenge. Perhaps he shall try to carry it out. I welcome the challenge when it comes.
From there I drifted, learning more, conquering, gaining in strength, challenging and being challenged and winning. Testing my strength against others and proving myself, both in the demon realms and on other worlds, and on one of those other worlds I found Him. My adversary. The incubus. My master-to-be.
It’s a very rare thing when a succubus catches sight and scent of a worthy challenger and he catches sight and scent of her. There’s a mutual recognition that runs as deep as the ocean-sea and wide as the desert. Before you feel it you have your plans and thoughts and designs. After you feel it your plans and thoughts and designs stop mattering and you are in a battle for your life and mind and soul. It may be a battle that lasts for mere moments, or for entire human lifetimes. It may resolve quickly or slowly, but one way or another it becomes a part of you, and so it was with me.
I challenged another to combat over something trivial, the excuse didn’t matter, the point was the battle. I wished to conquer him and I did, drained him of life and soul and took his strength for my own, and I did so publicly. I did it as an advertisement and challenge and because I enjoy displaying my strength, and others watched as we knew they would. Watched as we fought. Watched as I conquered. Watched as I feasted. I took my time and relished in it, relished in the gazes of those watching, knowing full well that I might tempt some of them to challenge me in turn.
But one set of eyes fixed on me in particular, one set seemed to drill through me.
I sensed him before I saw him, caught up in the moment as I was, and it was with some difficulty that I wrenched my gaze from my victim to my adversary, to my Master.
The challenge was in a stone amphitheater, with rising seats up the sides so a crowd could watch duels, sexual and nonsexual alike. There were wards up to keep away the mundane, the peasants and goatherds and the like, but if you know what to look for it stands out like a beacon, and it drew crowds and He was among them.
I was riding my opponent to his doom, and his doom was close, but he and the crowd were both expecting it to take longer because I enjoyed prolonging it. I’d planned to prolong it further, but that was before I locked eyes with Him. When I did so all matters concerning my unfortunate challenger left my mind. I held my gaze on Him and dropped my hips hard and abandoned all patience and pretense of waiting. My victim screamed out his doom as I tore his soul free from his body and swallowed it whole, and in his scream was a challenge and a promise, and He knew it.
I was proud. Haughty. I thought I was invincible. And in my pride, I let myself grow overconfident and I roared out my challenge there and then.
It was foolish. It was reckless. Worst, it was weak. And he took full advantage of it.
My previous opponent lay forgotten on the sands, reduced to a husk, and with a gesture I summoned fire and reduced him to ash. I meant the gesture to be a display of power, and it was, but it drained me at a moment when I was already drained. In time my power would have been restored and enhanced by my victim, but not then, not that fast, and I took my lightly-taxed reserves and diminished them.
Prideful. Arrogant. Foolish. Weak.
He stepped down onto the sands, accepting my challenge, and we regarded each other for a moment. I could feel the strength radiating off him, the masculinity, the power, and I wondered what he would taste like as I drained his life and essence and soul. I was anticipating my victory before the battle, something I’d always cautioned my underlings against when I was human, a warning I’d cast aside since my escape from the sorceror, a warning I should have paid more heed to.
He looked at me in turn, but his countenance gave no sign of his thoughts. He was naked, as was I, the custom in that arena. An imp flew up from the announcer’s table, ready to announce the challenge, but I stifled it with a gesture, not wanting anything to interfere. I wanted to call down my own challenge, be the harbinger of my own victory.
The crowd watched, interested now as they had not been before. This was something new, something powerful, something unexpected. The clashes of succubi and incubi are things of legend, rare events few are privileged to witness, and the thought of seeing such a contest piqued their interest. Some were human and some were alien and some were demonic and some were something else entirely but all watched as we stared each other down.
I spoke first, and that was a mistake. I should have waited, should have taken all the time I was given to refresh and renew and let my energy return, but I wanted to appear strong. The appearance of strength is not the same as strength. That lesson I re-learned that day.
“Hello, prey,” I said, turning to one side to walk in a slow circle, and he matched my motion, turning to the other side so we stalked each other around the arena. “Care to die beneath me?”
“Hello, slave,” he said, returning the gibe, “care to kneel before your new master?”
I reached out towards my possessions and called my sword to my hand with a gesture, the blade long and curved and wickedly sharp, and I made a show of whipping it back and forth, letting the edge sing in the still air of the arena.
He gestured in answer and a long metallic glove appeared on one of his arms, the guard extending down to his elbow, a defensive weapon that I took as a gesture of weakness.
I was wrong.
I stopped my pacing, turned to face him, my legs spread apart, my heart racing, my mind afire with lust and need and determination, and that feeling is blissful. The feeling of seeing the most delicious prey you’ve ever faced standing across from you, about to be yours.
He stopped in turn, faced me, rolled his shoulders, let his arms clench and unclench, his fists as massive as my thighs, but I’d faced large opponents before and his size didn’t intimidate me. In fact, it aroused me all the more. Conquering something larger than you, something that looks stronger, something that looks invincible…well. That’s the sort of thing that makes an impression. That’s the sort of thing that causes talk. That’s the sort of thing that gets me really fucking wet.
The imp flew up again and this time I let it rise, let it call out its announcement, a formality warning all to stay out of the arena on pain of forfeiture of life and limb, and then the imp flew down to his perch and rested.
“Name your stakes,” the creature screeched.
“His life and soul,” I said, raising my sword, letting the curved tip point towards Him.
“Her submission and servitude,” He said, raising his mailed fist and pointing a finger straight at my heart.
“Accepted,” I said.
“Accepted,” he repeated.
And then our battle began.
Most succubi don’t fight with swords. Nor do I always, but I was raised to the blade and carried it over from my human life. A human lifetime’s training married to a succubus’ strength and speed and practice against all manner of creatures have made me more deadly than I could ever have dreamed. And if, upon occasion, I get a little…overenthusiastic and my foe bleeds out before I can claim him properly, well, it’s a small price to pay.
Because most of my opponents are prepared for a succubus’ charms but few are prepared for that and the blade but He…He was prepared for both. He was prepared for anything.
I leapt forwards, eager for the contest to conclude, seeking a quick victory, and that was another error. Never seek out a victory before its time. Let it come to you, let it seek you out, and seize it with open arms. Chase after victory and it flies away, and so it was. My sword lashed out almost without my conscious thought in a vicious thrust, but he moved so quickly and subtly that I almost didn’t realize he wasn’t there until my lunge found nothing but empty air, throwing me off-balance. I whipped the sword around in a backhand, but my posture was all wrong and the blow was slower than it should have been, slower and far less sure, and he knocked it aside with that mailed glove, catching the flat of the blade with an expert’s grace.
I had a choice, let go of the blade or let it carry me off to the side and leave myself open, and like a fool I chose the latter, holding onto it even as he used it to send me stumbling and then, before I could right myself, his unmailed hand caught me with a vicious slap, making my vision go black for a moment, leaving me dizzy.
He didn’t go for the finish right then. He could have, and it might have worked, but what he did was much, much worse. He stepped back and smirked at me, an insult to my pride, and to my skill, and the crowd knew it and hooted and roared and laughed and the combination undid me.
Foolishness. Arrogance. Weakness.
I should have taken the time he gave me and regained my composure. I should have let my ears stop ringing and my hand stop shaking and my heart stop pounding. I should have let the white-hot rage that flowed through my veins dissipate, for an angry fighter is a poor fighter, and instead I let that rage carry me forwards into his trap.
I stepped in with a violent slash, the sword slicing in from his left, the side opposite his mailed fist, expecting him to dodge backwards and be put on his heels, but he didn’t. He stepped into the blow, his hand coming down to encircle my wrist before I could complete the strike, and he pulled me past him hard, twisting viciously as I went, and this time I didn’t have a choice about keeping the sword. This time the sword flew free, flying up in the air. I fell, sprawling on the sand beneath it, holding up a hand to try to catch the sword before it impaled me, but he reached out and caught it first, the tip inches from my face. He drew it back, holding it out in front of him, letting me see him holding my weapon, and then…
…then he snapped it over his knee, shattering my blade with contemptuous ease.
It rocked me to my core. It shouldn’t have, a blade is just a blade, not a warrior, but the effortless way he’d disarmed me and then destroyed the blade smashed my hopes of an easy victory. Truly, if I’m honest, it destroyed my hopes of any victory at all, but I didn’t let myself see that then. I see it now.
“You cling too tightly to what you were,” he said, stripping off his gauntlet, throwing it to the side to stand naked before me, naked and erect, his body glistening with sweat, his muscles standing in sharp relief, and it came as a shock to me to realize how aroused I was. “You forget what you are, succubus.”
“Then remind me,” I purred, rubbing my thighs together, then spreading my legs apart in open invitation, my black-lipped sex dripping with arousal. “Show me. Use that cock you men are all so proud of. Show me what I’m meant to be.”
I didn’t think he would. I thought he’d be too cautious, too wary. I thought he’d fuck like he fought, and I was right, and I was wrong. He fought defensively, letting my arrogance lead me to him, letting my blundering guide him to victory. But he fucked like the world was on fire. His fighting was a castle that could not be sieged. His fucking was an onslaught, one for which I was utterly unprepared.
With a gesture from his fingers chains erupted from the floor, wrapping around my wrists and binding them outstretched, and as I realized what happened and struggled to free myself he was atop me, responding to my invitation, his fingers covering my sex, stroking and rubbing and teasing and moving, and as I squirmed and moaned and tried not to respond he sent a pulse of magic through them, through me, a pulse of warm, rippling pleasure that sent my whole body to shaking and gasping, performing a little horizontal dance on the arena floor.
It didn’t make me cum. That wasn’t the point. The point was to keep me off-balance while he drew the first of his sigils upon me, stroking it out in soft, swift motions until it glowed on my right hip, glowed waiting for me to empower it, and I was close to the climax that would do it, so close. I struggled against it, mewling sounds escaping my throat, and then he brought his hand up to my hair, wrapped up a handful of it and hauled back, forcing me to make eye contact with him as his other hand toyed with my sex.
“Strength,” he said, “isn’t found in the blade. Strength is in the warrior. And so is weakness.”
I struggled to make sense of his words, to anchor myself against his attack, the attack I’d invited, the attack I’d welcomed, and then two fingers thrust deep into my sex and I clenched down madly around them and came.
I couldn’t help it. I was so close, so close, and he knew it. He drew me right up to the edge and then pushed me over and I fell helplessly into that orgasm and if I had any hope of victory left that ended it there and then.
I fought back, defiant, gasping, spread my legs and invited him in, whispered to him, taunted him, told him he was a coward, called him all manner of vile insults, hoping to enrage him, but he remained cool as ice. He released my hair, drew his second sigil, this one on my left hip, and I growled up at him, told him I’d never let him power it, used all my strength to build up shields inside my mind, but those shields rely on confidence and my confidence was in tatters.
He felt me trying to shield myself, and he smiled. He brought that hand up from my hip, placed his palm on my forehead, and shattered my shields with as little effort as it would have taken him to brush aside a flea. My defenses were gone in an instant and in their place was nothing but pure howling lust, insatiable and desperate, making me ache to be fucked, taken, used, owned. I let out a scream of need, of desire, of despair, and then he was atop me, thrusting into me, and my despair turned to joy.
I clenched down hard around him, thinking he’d made his fatal error, and I struggled to draw forth his climax, realizing only too late that that joy I felt was a weapon being used against me, driving me towards my climax far faster than he was towards his. I tried to hold it back but it was like trying to hold back the tide, and I was inundated and overwhelmed and carried away as the second sigil flared to life.
I was shaking, moaning, gasping. I was beaten, but I refused to admit it. I was ready to be conquered, to be taken, to be enslaved.
I wasn’t ready for him to free me from the chains. But he did.
With a snap of his fingers I was free and he withdrew from my dripping, aching sex and retreated, standing back, his eyes amused, his smile cruel, taunting, mocking.
“Your sword is gone,” he said. “But you have the weapons a succubus is given. Think you’re strong enough to use them? Or are you nothing but a weakling ripe for conquest?”
Rage flooded through me, and he knew it, playing my emotions and using them against me, fear and anger, humiliation and lust, and above all that pure, primal need we’re created with, the need to feed and fuck and prey upon the weak. Those emotions rose up in my mind and overwhelmed me and I rose up from the sands and launched myself at him screaming a battlecry.
I caught him around the waist, knocking him back, landing astride him, and without a thought wrapped my tail around his cock and impaled myself upon him, riding him hard, setting a ferocious pace, determined to draw out the first sips of his essence and life, the first on the road to claiming his soul. I was hot, wet, impossibly aroused, caught up in lust and the moment. The crowd called and roared, but I barely noticed them. My world, my universe had shrunk until it was just me and him and nothing outside that mattered in the slightest. My hands rested on his chest and I thought I was holding him down, thought he was resisting me, thought I was conquering him.
Foolishness. Utter, prideful foolishness. I was doing exactly what he wanted.
I felt my climax fast upon me, felt the surge of pleasure and the hunger building up in my sex, and I let it flow through me, let it empower my magic and my body and my mind, and I flung my power at him, channeled it into an almighty bolt of desire that would force him to cum with me, force his pleasure upon him even as my climax overtook me.
He batted aside my spell as if it was nothing, and I had a single instant of utter shock before my pleasure roared through my mind and body, making another of his sigils flare to life, making another of his mindworms whisper to me, telling me to submit, that I was weak, that he was strong, that serving him would bring me pleasure beyond compare.
I was weak. He was strong. Serving him has brought me pleasure. But still I yearn to conquer him, still I yearn to overwhelm him, still I yearn to drain him dry down to the last delicious drop of his strength.
I struggled to dismount, to raise myself from him, my sex oversensitive from my pleasure and from my mad desire to feed, my need pulsing in every atom of my being. I was struggling to remove myself from him and my body rejected my commands, sensing his power and his presence and unwilling to respond. It was only with immense effort that I lifted my hips an inch, two, three, slowly withdrawing until just the head of his cock was inside me, until I’d nearly freed myself and given myself a moment to think, to breathe, to recover.
That was when his hands came to my hips and drove me down onto him again, impaling me anew on his throbbing manhood.
My sex clenched madly down around him, desperate for the pleasure I was struggling so hard against, and against my will I felt myself trying again to feed, my pussy fastening around his cock as if made for the purpose, and I felt myself suckling madly, desperately, frantically. I was a starving woman seeing a feast through glass, a woman dying of thirst held back from a lake by an unbreakable chain, and I knew it and my body didn’t and that was my undoing.
I tried to lift myself up from him, my hands came to his wrists, trying to pull them free, but his grip was like iron and I couldn’t budge him, not even if my body hadn’t been fighting against me as I tried. I pulled, struggled, heaved, and with each exertion, each failure, each fizzled attempt to free myself that led only to my further enslavement I felt something, something deep and pure that I’d attempted to bury long ago.
Admiration. Admiration bordering on worship.
Strength is what I admire, what I desire, what I possess, what I wish to attain. I want to be the strongest, the fastest, the best, and I always was, save only for times where I had to submit and later proved myself stronger and freed myself at great cost to those who had bested me. The sorceror. Warbands who had challenged me. Warriors within my own band who sought to command in my stead. All tried, all failed, most immediately, some eventually.
But the few times I had been bested, the few times strength had temporarily overcome me, it brought with it my fervent desire and lust and worship and craving. Strength greater than my own is intensely erotic to me. Being held in place by his strength called out to my mind and soul and body and wrapped me up in chains of need more potent than any spell, and in that moment he owned me. In that moment he mastered me. In that moment I fell.
I ceased my struggle and relaxed back, arching my back, throwing out my breasts, knowing full well I was being put on display by him, knowing and not caring in the least. I howled in pleasure and submission and completion, screaming out my defeat to the world, and as a powerful climax exploded through me I met it head-on and surrendered to it and it carried me away.
It took longer to bind me, much longer, but the outcome was no longer in doubt, not to him, not to me, not to the audience. He bade me cease my motions for a time so that he could implant more of those sigils upon me, and I permitted it, raising my arms high above my head and holding still, his cock still deep inside my sex, his body prone beneath me, but for all that I was in a position of physical power I was his slave in every way and we both knew it.
He made me cum twice more before he permitted me to rise from him, two more sigils flaring to life, one on my bare pubis, one on the small of my back. I could feel their power as they dug into my mind, feel their strength as they overwhelmed my own, and I embraced them, welcomed them, reveled in them. I rose when he ordered me to rise, and then knelt before him simply because he desired it and for no greater reason, for there could be no greater reason.
“You will please me with your mouth,” he said, “and you will feel my pleasure as your own.”
And I did.
My lips were warm, wet, eager, I wanted to taste him, needed to taste him. I’d drained men with my mouth in the past, but it wasn’t that hunger that drove me this time. I didn’t want to drain him, I wanted to pleasure him. I wanted to obey him. I wanted to serve my new master.
“Hands behind your back,” he said, and I obeyed without question, my arms crossing behind me, and I felt him chaining them there with his magic, binding my wrists in place. He didn’t do it because he feared me, or worried that I’d get up to mischief. He bound me because I wanted to be bound, I wanted to feel his strength overcoming my own. He bound me as a sign of favor, and I took it as such.
Then his hands came to my head and all thoughts but pleasing him disappeared.
He guided me down onto his length smoothly, easily, my lips parting, my tongue wrapping around his length, enjoying the feel of his cock, the strength, the power. I relished in it, lashing him with pleasure as best I could, but where I drained my victims with their pleasure as a weakness I offered up pleasure to him as a tribute.
My tongue pulsed with my venom, feeding it into him, offering him the joy he had earned by besting me, my lips locked around the base of his cock as I took him in completely, the tip of his cock thrusting smoothly into my throat, and he held me there for a long five seconds. I couldn’t breathe, and I accepted this with a calmness that would have astonished me a day before, waiting for my master to release me with a placidity alien to my normal thoughts, and when he finally drew me back I sucked in a great gulp of air and, with his urging, dove back down onto him again and again and again, eager to bring forth his pleasure, eager to serve him.
His pleasure came slowly, not because he was not aroused but because he wanted to prolong my buildup, wanted me to feel his pleasure and work it into my mind, and I accepted this and embraced it, following his pace instead of setting my own. His hands guided me up and down his cock, his length thrusting in and out in long, smooth strokes interrupted by gentle, teasing moments where he’d hold me back, letting me work him over with my tongue, letting me pleasure him with all the art and grace I’d learned, and I used it all until, at long last, his pleasure crested and he came.
It was powerful for him, strong and potent and hard, his seed spurting into my mouth as my lips wrapped around him and swallowed it all, spurt by spurt by spurt.
For me it was shattering. Cleansing. It washed away what I had been and made me into what I am, and how much of that was his magic and how much was his will and how much was my own long-buried desire even I do not know.
Feel his pleasure as my own he’d commanded, and I did. His climax rocked me, but my own was much, much more intense, his pleasure added to my need, to his spells, to his sigils, added up to a towering climax that left me shaking before him, my hands still bound behind me, my forehead on the ground as I struggled to rise, gasping, moaning, my sex dripping, my tail hanging limply, my eyes glazed and my mind a ragged desert, a battlefield laid waste by lust and desire.
He gave me a moment to recover, but only a moment. A passing mercy, a gesture of respect between warriors, and the gesture was not lost on me even as I fought to regain my composure. I managed to pull together a few fragments of myself, managed to kneel upright, look up at him, waiting for his command.
“On your feet,” he said, and I complied, barely able to stand on shaky knees, and he reached out and put a finger under my chin and guided it up to let him stare into my eyes, his gaze taking in all parts of me, of my mind and body and soul.
“It’s time to collar you,” he said. “It’s time to bind you for once and for all.”
“Yes,” I said, and then added “master,” the first time I’d ever added that on my own without being forced to by magic or compulsion. The feel of the word escaping my lips voluntarily sent a tremble through me, a tremble accompanied by a gush of arousal from my sex, beads of venom forming at my nipples, at the ends of my fangs. My mind and body worked in perfect unison as he guided me over to a smooth stone altar at the center of the arena, and I stood before it without hesitation. The cool stone edge brushed against the backs of my thighs and I knew that soon I would be bound to it, enslaved upon it, my mind and spirit chained to him on it.
He raised his finger, and I tilted my head, baring my neck to him as he placed the runes of his collaring spell on me, beginning at my throat and working around my neck completely. The runes gleamed with their impending empowerment, and I could feel the spell waiting to erupt within my mind, and I welcomed it.
He turned me slowly to face the altar, guided me down, bending me over it, my breasts pressing into the cool stone. He freed my hands and moved them high above my head and then, with a whisper of magic, purple tendrils emerged from the ground and from the altar, wrapping themselves around my wrists and ankles, surging slowly upwards. I tried not to struggle at first and then I realized what he was doing. He didn’t need to bind me, I’d have willingly submitted, but he knew I was aroused by the struggle. He was giving me something to battle. He was giving me strength to batter myself against. And so I did, and the struggle whispered to me, spoke to me of the fulfillment only he could offer me, the fulfillment of of submission and slavery.
The crowd had gone silent, watching in mute fascination as I heaved against the tendrils with all my might, the tendons in my legs standing out, the muscles in my arms glistening with sweat, all to no avail. They were stronger than I was. He was stronger than I was. And that knowledge, more than his spells, more than his mindworms, more than his presence, had me dripping with desire.
He moved my tail to the side, pressed his cock against the tight pucker of my asshole, lubricated in preparation for my duel, but he didn’t thrust, not yet. Instead he let me exhaust myself against his tendrils, let me feel their inexorable progress up my legs, my arms, until two reached my sex and slowly stroked over it, teasing my nether lips. They were things of magic, their touch rippled and pulsed, vibrating with unnatural eagerness, and I let out a long, low moan. It was a sound of arousal and need, lust and submission, struggle and surrender, and all who heard it knew that the end of our contest was close at hand. One tendril tip found my clit and stroked it softly, the other moved down, letting its tip glide between my lips as it positioned itself to plunge inside.
He held me there, poised, helpless, trapped, beaten, and aroused far beyond anything I’d ever experienced before, waiting for me to break, waiting for me to beg. He knew that I would. I knew that I would. All that remained was to see how long it would take.
It took three breaths.
With the first I focused on the altar, the cool stone beneath my skin, the memory of others I’d battled in that arena and some I’d taken right there on that same stone. It seemed fitting that I should be bound on the same stone where I had claimed victory so often before.
With the second I cast back to my first sight of him, the first time I drank in his presence just before our contest began. I castigated myself for carelessness and weakness and impatience, but that carried only so much force when compared with the ecstasy running through me. I replayed the battle and the result seemed right and pure and true.
With the third I tried to prepare myself for what would come, but that was cut short by my body and mind demanding that I stop, that I give in, that I face it without preparation, and so I did.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice low, throaty, carrying clearly through the still air, audible throughout the arena. “Bind me. Enslave me. Own me. Make me yours.”
An instant passed then, an instant that lasted a lifetime. And then he thrust home.
His cock drove smoothly into my tight little ass, and I clenched down around him hard, squeezing him with relief at being filled, at being taken, at being fucked. His tendril drove deep into my sopping cunt and I tightened mightily around it, my sex desperately grateful to be filled after being denied. And two more tendrils erupted from the stone surface and wrapped around my midsection, pulling me down to lie against the cool stone slab, bent over, entirely helpless before him as he ravaged me.
My body ached to feed, and I tried to hold back, tried until I felt his presence in my mind.
“Do it,” he told me. “Let your body try to take what it wants. Try with all your might. Know when you fail that you were beaten fairly. Succumb to strength, as is right and true.”
I was unleashed.
It seems a strange word when I was bound hand and foot and being fucked into submission, but in that moment I was truly free, my body able to try to take what it wanted, and I gave in to its desires and reached out for purchase on his mind and body, sought out the magic animating the tendril, and I pulled hard, flinging myself against unassailable walls, battering against an immovable bulwark. My sex enfolded the tendril and bathed it in venom, my ass fastened around his cock and pulled with every ounce of strength and control, mental and physical, that I ever possessed. Never had I exerted myself so much, not in love and not in war, and it wasn’t enough.
I felt myself falling short, felt my climax fast approaching, the climax that would transform me from his challenger to his slave, and I embraced it joyously, not ceasing my struggles but redoubling them, knowing it would bring on my climax, knowing and celebrating it.
He brought his hands to the sides of my head, his palms holding me steady, his fingers interlacing atop it, and I could feel the final spell of binding being prepared, feel it poised, feel it ready to erupt at his word, but he held back. He waited for me to drive myself to climax, to throw my last roll of the dice, to give my all. He waited for me to bring his victory to him, and I brought it willingly, bearing it to him as if on a golden platter. As he thrust I moved back as best I could, welcoming his invasion with the tiny amount of movement the tendrils permitted, and I felt my climax erupt and as it did he whispered the words that triggered his spell.
It was bliss. It was rapture. It was pleasure beyond anything I’d ever known. It was far, far too much given far, far too fast, and it overwhelmed me and overloaded me and overcame me utterly. I felt pleasure arc from his hands on my head down to my sex and my ass and return, burning rivers of pleasure made channels through my body and mind and soul. My submission wasn’t merely the cause of the pleasure, it was the path the pleasure took and the source it sprang from. I felt myself cleansed in the flame of passion, burned like the phoenix in fiery culmination, emerging unharmed but entirely changed, reborn anew.
The pleasure continued I know not how long, long enough for me to pass from screaming in bliss to twitching and moaning to lying limp as it ravaged me, as it transfixed me, as it transformed me, and when it finally ended I didn’t know it for some time. I finally became aware that I was no longer bound, and I rolled over on the altar, slid down to kneel at his feet, and then prostrated myself before him.
“Master,” I said. “I am yours.”
“Rise, slave,” he said, guiding me to my knees. “We have battles to win and worlds to conquer. Strength shall guide us.”
“Strength…” I whispered, seeing strength in him, and feeling a tiny flicker of the hunger I’d felt when I first met him, the desire to claim his strength for my own, a tiny flicker quickly hidden but never quashed, not completely.
My name is Vanya and this is a part of my story, but it is not the end of my story.
THE END OF CHAPTER ONE