I, Succubus Pt. 03

I was reforged. Remade. Reborn. Beneath his guidance I became stronger, mightier, deadlier by an order of magnitude. There were lessons I'd learned as a human, lessons I'd forgotten or cast aside when I was changed, and those lessons were brought back to me and I learned them anew.

I learned patience, and flexibility, and control. These things had been my constant companions as a human, as I'd been a soldier and then a leader, a warrior and then a warlord, but becoming a succubus and escaping from the sorceror who turned me had made me brazen and foolish and I'd cast them aside, thinking raw power all I needed.

Foolishness. Power undirected is not strength but weakness waiting to be unmasked.

The Incubus, my master, my prey who conquered me, taught me these lessons afresh, sometimes with pain and sometimes with pleasure and often with both, and I was an eager pupil. I had been beaten. I had been conquered. Worse, I had been weak.

In the days after he claimed me he tested me. Punished me. Pleasured me. All in the service of teaching me, and I was an apt student. From him I learned what I could have been, should have been, might yet become. I strove to embrace these lessons, to claim the strength from them, to grow in his service and my power.

Weeks passed, and then months, months in which my limits were tested and then stretched and then broken, my mind sharpened as if it was a sword on a whetstone, until I became a weapon so perfect that I cried out for use.

Then he used me.

I remember the day he revealed his plans to me, revealed the least part of his grand design, for it was a day of glorious pleasure and profound frustration. I knew he had been preparing me for something, for men always have their grand plans and deep designs and his mind was full of ambition, and strategy, and lust.

He summoned me to his chambers, which was unprecedented, and I went, went wearing nothing but my slave's raiment. It billowed and flowed around me and I attracted no few stares from his other servants, stares I accepted as my due without acknowledging them. What care had I for their attentions when I had his?

He was waiting for me when I entered. I strode inside and stood at attention, my gaze fixed upon him, and my mind and body hungered. I could feel his soul calling out to me, feel my craving for it, and his control over me, and the bonds he had placed upon my mind. His strength and my subservience, my hunger and his soul, his command and my obedience, it was a heady mixture and I was drunk upon it.

The chamber was large and well-appointed, hewn from stone with a sturdy bed and furniture, but I spared it but a glance. My gaze fastened on him, and his upon me, and the air fairly crackled with what passed between us. Incubi and succubi are an explosive combination, and the feeling of imminent devastation never entirely receded.

He wore nothing, his muscular blue physique on full display, his broad chest and round shoulders and strong arms that looked capable of tearing the stone he stood on asunder. Physical strength is not the only sort of strength, and not the only sort he had, but he had it in abundance and had no objection to demonstrating it, and such demonstrations sharpened the hunger within me and made it cry out, yearning to be fed.

"Stand bound," he said, and I did, my body stiffening as if held in place by invisible bonds, and I was, for his command was my law and my obedience his right. He could have ordered me to stand before an oncoming lava flow and I would have been helpless to disobey.

Feeling that strength, that power, feeling myself overcome by it spoke to deeper needs within me as well, making my mind and body shiver with delight even as I yearned for freedom and victory. My mind struggled with itself, struggled to no resolution, and as always he saw within me.

"You hunger," he said, standing, striding over to me. He let one finger slide up beneath my chin, tilting my head up to meet his gaze, and from close range the air fairly crackled between us.

"Yes," I said, for I did. I hadn't fed from another since my capture, and though I can survive for much longer without doing so, the longer I go between such meals the more my hunger grows. And to be denied for so long with such a delicious meal so close at all times... well. Hungry isn't sufficient. Ravenous. Consumed by lust. Eager to the point of desperation, desperate to the point of raw, aching need.

But he hadn't meant generally. He had meant it very specifically.

"For me," he said, and he spoke true.

"Yes," I repeated, and I did not attempt to remove the lust that infused the word.

"Good," he chuckled, and I had not expected that. "That need will drive you. That desire will fuel you. Your hunger would be lost if I tamed you completely, and your worth diminished."

Few words, but they taught me much. I was a danger to him if ever I broke free, but a more useful servant for being only half-bound. It was strength or it was arrogance to hold a danger close in order to empower himself. Which of the two it was we would find out in time, but in that moment it was both and it was neither.

He strode close, close enough to feel his body heat, close enough for his blue skin to nearly touch mine, close enough for the call of his essence and his soul to be piercing, making my lust roar in my mind, my hands quiver, my nipples harden, my sex moisten. I wanted him. I needed him. He knew it. I knew it.

His hands came to my shoulders, brushed aside my slave's raiment, letting it fall to the floor, leaving me naked before him, naked and eager. My presence was having more than a little effect on him, too, and his cock stood out proudly, his lust clearly in evidence.

"You can't conquer me," he said, drawing one finger beneath my chin, tilting it up to look at him. "Bound as you are, you cannot harm me. But if you wish to try..."

He let the sentence trail off, meeting my gaze, looking deep into my mind and I looked back, at first in defiance and then in recognition.

"Try," he said, and it was invitation, and it was challenge, and it was foreplay with a razor's edge, a thrust meant to be met headlong, and I met it.

I roared, feeling myself free to move, and I used that freedom. I leapt at him, overbalancing him, throwing him onto his back, and with a single motion I brought my hips down and drove his cock deep into my eager, quivering sex, letting my cunt clench down around him hard, a pleasurable assault on his mind and body.

He was startled by the ferocity of my attack and I rode him fiercely, driving my hips down onto him in frenzied descents, letting my lust loose upon him.

The pleasure I inflicted was not the point, though it was pleasure that would have destroyed a human's mind long before I preyed upon that human's fortunate soul. He wanted to test my strength, and so I rose to his challenge, but within that rise were hidden the seeds of my rebellion. I could have showed him subtlety, or magic, or patience. I could have built him up slowly, drawn out the foreplay, teased him, tormented him until he took me and punished me and pleasured himself with me.

Instead I gave him raw, savage lust. I rode him in a berserk, feral haze, driving him towards his climax with every thrust, my fangs bared, my nipples stiff and eager and glistening with venom. I sank down upon him and let my sweet sex suck hard at his cock, inflicting inhuman pleasure upon him, pleasure that would have drawn out a shattering orgasm from nearly anything I cared to try to fuck, to drain, to consume.

It made him chuckle.

He brought his hands up, meaning to settle them on my hips, and I snarled, catching his wrists and pinning them to the ground over his head. He could have brushed my insolence aside with a thought, could have ordered me to be still, or to submit, or to do anything he wanted, but he permitted me this indulgence, let me pin him beneath me, and I gave vent to all my pent-up frustration and let my lust run free.

My sex pulsed around him, clenching around his cock, massaging it, my aphrodisiac venom soaking into his manhood as I battered him with need. I could feel it having an effect, feel his body aching to climax, and I spurred it on as best I could, moaning and gasping, my hips rising and falling, my breasts bobbing, my hands clenching around his wrists.

I was meeting his challenge, and inflaming his lust, and satisfying my own, but I was doing more. I was testing his defenses, seeking out his weaknesses, showing him only the strength he'd demanded, and he knew it, and I knew that he knew it. Challenge met calculation. Strength met cunning. And above all, fiery lust met fiery lust and became an inferno.

My climax approached as fast as his and I did not hold back, did not even attempt to. I welcomed it. I embraced my pleasure and used it to inflict more upon him. My hips shook, body quivered, thighs tensed, and my sweet sex ached to drain, to consume, to suck his life and soul free, and I drove that pleasure into him as he drove it into me, telling his body to surrender to me, to give me his lust and his life and his essence, and he did and he did not.

I came hard, came roaring in pleasure, my cunt clenching down around him and flooding, pulse after pulse of aphrodisiac venom pumping into him, and his climax hit hard in turn and he came powerfully, spurting his seed into me, his seed but not his life, his climax but not his soul.

I felt myself pummeled by pleasure but not what I truly lusted for, felt my lust used as a club against me, and I took that frustration and I used it to fuel my need. I pulled myself free of him before my climax had fully receded, revealing his cock soaked in my venom and his climax and mine, and drew my face down to it and took it deep into my throat in one smooth descent.

He was still erect, incubi do not soften after a climax unless they wish to, and I used that to my advantage, sucking and swallowing and inflicting on him all the pleasures raw strength would permit. I raised my head only when I needed to breathe, then descended anew, turning my oral attentions into an endurance test, not letting up, not slowing down, not giving him a moment to regroup.

He was in control, utterly safe. I could not drain him, could not harm him, his life and soul would not be mine that day, but I cast that knowledge aside and sucked and swallowed and let my lust guide me as if I truly could conquer him, truly could drain him, truly could redeem my failure and rewrite my conquest. My lips locked around the base of his manhood and I let my venom flow into him as his cock throbbed in my mouth, aching to erupt anew.

His hips shook, legs tensed, and I brought my hands down, one forearm going across the base of his muscled midsection, the other to cup his balls, kneading them, squeezing them, inflicting my will upon him. If he'd been a mortal, or if I'd been unbound, he'd be sliding down a slippery slope into my clutches, already beyond the point of no return, about to yield up to his lusts and be mine. Instead he had mastered me and was enjoying my attentions as his due.

I lashed him with pleasure, showing him how much I had learned beneath his tutelage, showing him how much better I had become. Pleasure is my weapon and lust my battlefield. Before he conquered me I was wild and unfocused, strong but undisciplined. His lash and his lust had much to teach me and I had been an apt pupil, becoming stronger, becoming deadlier, becoming what I was meant to be.

Whether I was strong enough to give him a true contest remained an open question, but this was no true contest. I was bound to him. I was leashed by him. I was his, and if he made me deadlier he did not loosen his grip on my mind and soul to do so.

I locked my lips around his base and called out to his climax, flooding his body with lust and trying to draw forth his pleasure and his life and his essence, and his pleasure came willingly and his life and his essence refused me as I had known they would. His powerful hips bucked as he came, and I moved with him, swallowing and sucking and keeping him cumming until his climax was spent, driving his pleasure and his passion on and on.

His pleasure eased and I pulled my head back, releasing his cock with a long, teasing, spiraling lick, letting my tongue wrap around it and uncoil slowly with a wet ripple that would massage pleasure into his mind. I moved up slowly, letting my breasts drag over him as I moved to straddle him, sighing in anticipation and desire.

"You could release me," I whispered, my voice low, breathy, seductive. "You could surrender. Give up your life and your passion and let me swallow your soul. It would be a worthy end, and I'd show you pleasures beyond any you've ever known..."

I let my voice trail off as my tail wrapped around his cock, teasing it over my sex, manipulating his lust and mine. I knew full well it was futile, but he was my master and if it pleased him to have me pull hard against my leash, well, it pleased me too, to pull hard and test its strength and find myself mastered. I was bound and chained and trapped but rebellion burned in my soul, rebellion and raw, red hunger to drain him dry and claim his power for myself.

His hands came to my waist, holding me poised atop him, and I let my tail guide his cock to my sex, holding it poised to bury itself in me in one hard thrust. It was an invitation and it was a challenge and it was delicious. My thighs tensed as I waited for his response, and I leaned forwards, my hands on his chest, my breasts pressed out, my body thrumming with lust.

"My soul is not yours to claim," he said. "But your soul is bound to me."

Then, holding me poised, holding me ready, he reached into my mind and drove me into an orgasm, hard and fast and unexpected. It was intended as a demonstration of his power and control, and it worked. I gasped, feeling my pleasure overwhelm me, shaking hard, his cock still poised at my entrance, his body at ease beneath me as I writhed and struggled in his grasp. His hands held me fast, pinning me in place as I howled and shook and cried out in climax, my body screaming out in exultation.

I struggled to regain control, knowing full well that control was only mine if he permitted it. It was like swimming to the surface from a deep, deep dive in an ocean of sexual fulfillment, and I slowly, so slowly approached daylight, swimming up hard, trying desperately to assert control over my body, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. My breath was coming in hard gasps, my body tense, muscles straining in the grip of passion, my back arched, mouth open, fangs fully extended.

I was wrapped up in lust, in need, in pure feminine sexual pleasure and he'd inflicted it on me as a display of strength and power. I writhed, helpless in his grip, and stared down at him, my body crying out to corrupt, to overwhelm, to conquer even as I was corrupted, even as I was overwhelmed, even as I was conquered.

Still I struggled, helpless though I was. Still I fought, tugging mightily at the end of his leash, relishing the strength that bound me as I flailed ineffectually against it. My eyes were locked on his, and he saw through them into me, saw my struggles, saw my resistance clothed in submission, saw my rebellion masquerading as lust.

That was when his hands flexed on my hips and he drove me down hard onto his throbbing cock, impaling me upon it fully.

The noise that emerged from my throat was an unearthly howl, a cracked and tattered sound of shock, of despair and elation meeting in battle, of crushing pleasure and overwhelming strength. It was an irresistible force and yet I fought it, fought it knowing full well I fought in vain. My sex clenched madly around his cock, my venom gushing from me in a flood around his manhood, and his back arched and muscles tensed as he struggled to control his own arousal, to demonstrate his strength.

For just a moment he faltered, and in that moment the tiny seed of my rebellion knew its first moment of hope.

I felt his cock twitch within me, felt his climax almost emerge despite his efforts, and I redoubled my own as best I could, strove to use the tiny fragments of control I possessed to bring forth his pleasure. My sex responded to my pleas, suckling hard upon his cock, inflicting what sexual damage I could to his control.

For a moment it hung in the balance. He was in no danger at all, I could not harm him, but to give in at this moment would be a loss of control, and he knew it and I knew it and our gazes locked as our bodies and minds went to war.

He fought, and fought hard, flooding my mind with memories of past triumphs, the exquisite pleasures I took from my victories, from overwhelming and obliterating those who dared to challenge me, and that was a mistake. It added pleasure to a mind already overwhelmed with it, but it gave me strength and control in exchange, the strength and control of a huntress at work, the strength and control he'd bested and stripped from me in our combat, and I roared in triumph. I leaned in and sunk my fangs deep into his neck, flooding his body with my venom, injecting it directly into him, and his eyes opened wide as he realized his mistake.

He threw my triumphs at me, and I returned them to him, giving him a glimpse of the pleasures that I could inflict as I conquered, pleasures far too potent to survive. I let him watch me at prey, let him feel my skill, the sublime joy my body could impart, and while he'd had the pleasure of me dozens of times since he'd bested me he'd always been in control and now, for just a moment, he felt a fragment of what it would be like to let that control go.

His cock twitched within me, twitched and spurted, and I let my body do what it does best and pull his climax free, sucking sweetly, pulsing around him, draining his climax and driving spikes of pleasure into his mind with each instant, each suck, each swallow.

It did no harm to him. It could not, his binding was too strong, I couldn't drain the smallest fragment of his life nor the most insignificant speck of his soul, but it was the first climax I'd taken from him rather than given him, and the sweetness of that tiny triumph was more powerful than a hundred orgasms thrown together. I sucked and clenched, my hips rocking forwards and backwards atop him to bring my strength to bear, to keep him off-balance, to drive him further into his pleasure, to delay for the tiniest fraction of an instant the moment when he would regain control.

I gloried in that moment, that tiny space of time where I was triumphant and free.

And then it ended.

It ended as he regained control with a roar, a roar that echoed in my mind and thrilled my soul. It ended as he clawed back control and reasserted his dominion. It ended as his binding on me drew taut and he hauled me bodily off him and threw me across the room to land sprawling beside the bed.

I recovered instantly but rose slowly, luxuriantly, stretching my arms high over my head, arching my back, putting myself on full, glorious display. I glistened, my body covered in a thin sheen of sweat, my skin almost glowing, bloodred and smooth, my thighs tense, my heart pounding, my midnight-black nipples stiff and proud, my ebon-lipped sex dripping wet. I was sexually charged, my body hungry, eager to fuck, eager to feed.

And now rebellion burned in my eyes, and he knew it. He'd lost control, lost it for just a moment but that moment was enough. It stood as a warning sign, a portent that his slave was more dangerous than he'd realized, more dangerous and perhaps more useful.

"Something wrong, master?" I asked, my voice low and sultry, seductive and predatory at once. "Weren't you enjoying yourself?"

He stood, strode over to me, his muscles rippling, his jaw clenching, his azure skin flushed, his cock gloriously erect and his eyes flashing with cold fire. He knew he'd faltered, knew he'd given rebellion room to breathe in my mind, and he needed to smother it and knew that he couldn't.

"I could end you now," he growled, one massive blue hand wrapping around my throat, holding it tight, tight enough that it was a struggle to draw breath. I felt him tightening his mental bonds around my mind, and this time my mind bucked, treating the bonds as something to be resisted rather than worshiped.

"Do it," I smiled, helpless in his grasp but defiant, flushed with lust and with newfound resistance. "Deny yourself your tool. Keep yourself safe at the cost of power. Destroy me and name yourself coward."

My fate hung in the balance for a moment, a desperate gamble with my own life as the stakes. If he decided I was too much of a threat he could destroy me at will, but if he was so weak as that he'd never have conquered me in the first place.

His hand tightened around my throat, and I took it as the test that it was. He wanted to see if I would break, if I would beg, if I would struggle, and I did not. I held his eyes with my own as he lifted me bodily into the air, the full force of his will and mind focused upon me as he considered me, as he examined me, as he tested me.

"Is it cowardice," he asked, clearly weighing his words and mine, "to destroy a threat before it becomes a danger?"

"Is it courage," I replied, my voice barely able to manage a whisper as his hand tightened around my throat, "to beg safety at the price of victory?"

A moment passed then, a moment that lasted a dozen lifetimes, a moment in which my fate was decided. My fate, and so much more.

He released me abruptly, let me drop to the floor, and I could have easily knelt before him, turned his decision into a demonstration of subservience, but to do so would have been a lie, a lie to him and, more importantly, to myself.

Instead I landed on my feet and stood there, legs spread, arms at my sides. I was a weapon drawn but not yet sheathed, a naked blade not yet blooded for my new master.

He reached out and grasped my hair in one of his massive blue hands, clenching his fingers to hold my head nearly immobile, and I remained as still as I could, not flinching, not recoiling, moving only as necessary to maintain eye contact.

"I have a task for you," he said, "if you would prove yourself useful."

The word was a rebuke, and intended as such. Allies, foes, these can be worthy, or strong, or respectable. Tools are useful. With the word he reminded me of my place, telling me this far, and no farther, and I accepted the insult as if I had not noticed it.

"Name it," I said, letting my hunger and lust seep into my tone, infuse my words.

And he did.

He spoke of a kingdom claimed by a demon-prince he wished to see destroyed, and what he wished put in place in his stead. He spoke generally, making it clear to me that it was incumbent upon me to find my own means to realize his ends, and this, too, was part of his test. Choose the wrong means, or fail to achieve the ends, and my service and my life would be forfeit.

And the whole while he spoke his presence called to me, his essence begged to be drained, his soul cried out to be mine, mine to claim and conquer and obliterate. He knew my hunger, my desire, my need, and he inflamed it deliberately, relying upon it to motivate me even more than my life's weight did.

"Tomorrow," he growled, "you will be summoned by the court wizard. I have arranged it. A noble has offended the court and been sentenced to public execution. You will be the means. This will be your opportunity to be noticed, and to gain entry by whatever means you prefer. Please me and you will be rewarded. Fail... and be discarded."

And so it was to be, and so it was. Perhaps I'll tell you of that summoning soon. Perhaps I'll speak of something else. Perhaps.