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A shiver. A shudder. A sigh.
You’ve felt it every single night of this tenday—the familiar scrape of claws down your back, along your thighs, and against your scalp. Raphael.
You were no stranger to experiencing the echoes of Haarlep’s pleasure; for months now you had felt the reverberation of every touch, every rough thrust doled out to the incubus’ body, even if the circumstances of Raphael’s sensual ministrations and the intensity of Haarlep’s pleasure occurred at times that most would consider… less than convenient.
At least twice now you had gone to meet with your old adventuring friends for a pint at the Blushing Mermaid, eager to hear tales of their latest escapades that were, in the end, drowned out by the roar of your own desirous pulse throbbing through your ears as you did your best to ignore the subtle sweat beading down your back, the heat rising beneath your skin. If any one of your friends had noticed the visible flush in your cheeks and the way you held your body all too still in an attempt to stifle any sign of your secret cresting pleasures, then they had been kind enough not to mention it.
After one particularly wild night in the distant hells had left you clutching your flagon of ale for dear life while your toes curled desperately in your boots, you resolved to turn in early for the evening—returning to your flophouse bed to sweat and writhe in sweet anguish beneath the phantom scrape of claws and the phantasmal pleasure of pumping hips, dreaming of Raphael all the while.
This was your sordid secret to keep, though you would be lying if you said that you didn’t take a great deal of twisted pleasure in feeling every tremor and twitch of Haarlep’s body while Raphael took of him in your form. Since your last visit to the House of Hope boudoir, these encounters had grown in frequency. It seemed that almost every night Raphael found some new and naughty use for your glamour, and through your connection you had felt every wretchedly delicious moment of his exploration—his tongue, fingers, cock, and on more than one occasion, his tail.
Yes, nearly every night since your visit had been a new adventure along the planes of your body, save for this particular tenday when the sensations were familiar rather than fresh, the pleasures and tempos nearly identical to the night you’d shared with Raphael.
The first night that Raphael had bent Haarlep over something that felt suspiciously like the rolled arm of a velvet settee had served as a delicious reminder of your own encounter with the devil himself—his clawed fingers teasing Haarlep’s back and thighs, circling the sensitive skin between them… He was teasing the incubus exactly the same way he had teased you. Raphael was taking a stroll down memory lane, you figured, feeling half-jealous of Haarlep for getting to experience firsthand the pleasures of Raphael’s flesh—pleasures you had not stopped thinking about since you’d let him press you into the velvet and fuck you without relent.
When you felt Raphael bend Haarlep over for the second night in a row, lying in your flophouse bed as the echoes of Haarlep’s pleasure tremored through you, you began to wonder if the handsome devil wasn’t trying to send you a message after all—perhaps a filthy little reminder of the night you’d shared together, the memory as cherished by him as it was by you.
But by the third night in a row, Raphael’s reenactment making you drip through your nightclothes with arousal, you knew that this was not a reminder. This was an invitation.
A shiver ran down your spine as somewhere in Avernus the devil raked his claws down your glamour’s arched back.
Raphael was beckoning.
. . .
When a letter arrived the next morning, the paper smelling of cherries, musk, and the lightest whiff of sulfur, you knew that the evening had already been planned for you. The paper bore no address and no signature—just three words written in what you could only assume was Raphael’s own elegant script.
“Sharess’ Caress. Dusk.”
It was as much an invitation as a command, and though no contract bound you to bend to the orders that rumbled forth from Raphael’s cruel and smirking mouth, you knew better than to deny a devil.
But you also knew that this was a summons you wouldn’t miss for the world. Perhaps Raphael knew it too, because when you arrived in Wyrm’s Crossing, the knuckles of your fist raised to knock against the front door of a familiar room on the second floor of the Caress, the door swung open before you even landed the first rap.
“Little mouse... Come back to play, have you?” The sound of his voice alone—rich, sonorous, and deeply commanding—ignites a delicious heat within you. Oh how you had missed the way his tongue managed to turn every one of his syllables with biting grace, even the simplest of words carrying the sensuous weight of utter authority and control. Whatever he said, whatever he commanded, you would be helpless to resist—intoxicated by the resonance of his baritone and the way it sparked sweet spasms of desire in your core.
Even from across the threshold, his voice sends a carnal shiver rippling down your spine, the sensation settling in the lowest pit of your stomach where you throb with pooling desire. You swallow your nervousness and take a steeled step into the room, though when you lay eyes on the handsome devil, your confidence falters.
The details of the room seem to fall away as you take in the sight or Raphael at its center, his legs draped regally over the side of a chair so grand it could have been a throne. Tanned skin and dark hair, Raphael had apparently chosen to leave his fiendish form at home in Avernus, adopting a visage more appropriate for the mortal realm. It was a travesty, you thought to yourself, that he left his wings and horns behind, trading in his devil-red skin for something more mortal, something more mundane.
But what you lamented most was the loss of the sharp claws that had made you shiver in equal parts fear and delight during your last encounter with the devil. How you had dreamed of their dangerous graze against your skin, the delicious whimpers and tremors their feather-light scrapes had plied from you—the way they felt against the backs of your thighs, the delicate skin along the underside of your ass, and how he had run them over your sensitive, throbbing clit.
Perhaps the thought was written all over your face—in the flush on your cheeks or the nervous gnaw of your inner lip—because Raphael’s shrewd eyes flicker with knowing. A handsome and sinister grin spreads across his face as he beckons you forward—with a flick of the same hand, the door behind you swings shut with a loud clap. You startle at the sound, and Raphael runs his eyes over your tensed body, chuckling with quiet amusement, “Mmm. So responsive...”
You give him a coy smile, nervousness and excitement churning beneath as you step forward to approach him. He motions to his lap and with a single word commands you: “Sit.”
You never could resist Raphael’s commands, and as you take your seat in his lap like a consort on her king, he pulls your back against his chest and runs a gentle hand down your arm, goosebumps rising in his wake. On the second pass, you feel the familiar and exquisite graze of cambion claws along your sensitized skin, and when you let out a surprised breath and shudder against him, Raphael whispers into your ear, “My, my, have I missed you.”
As if he knows exactly what you craved, Raphael runs his claws over you again, letting out a satisfied hum when you shiver beneath them. You lean further back into him and your legs part instinctively for his touch, the motion earning you another low rumble in your ear as says, “And you’ve missed me too, haven’t you, little mouse?”
You nod.
There’s no amount of honesty in all the realms to fully convey the craving you’ve had for him since your last visit to the House of Hope. In the weeks since, your glamour connection had further fueled your desire for Raphael’s touch, though it had done woefully little to sate you. Raphael’s hands on his incubus was not the same as his hands on you—and beyond a nod, beyond your ready appearance to his summon, the truth was simple. You’d do anything to go back.
You know it, and Raphael knows it, and with a single snap of his fingers he could make it happen. So he does.
In the blink of an eye and with a puff of cherry-musk smoke, the lavish scenery of the Caress falls away and you’re in Avernus once more, the warm breeze of the Hells billowing in through the open balconies of a familiar boudoir. Raphael places a devil-red hand on your thigh and stretches his wings as a slight smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You’re glad to be back.
From across the room, a familiar, sensuous voice rolls to you on the tails of the warm breeze. “And so a lost little mouse returns to our house...”
Haarlep.
You turn to look at where he’s lounging on the bed, his nearly naked body clad in a familiar strappy leather harness. You give him a slight wave and he returns your greeting with a wicked, hungry grin.
Raphael grazes a pointed claw along the underside of your jaw and you lean your head back into him, your body quivering lightly with the delicious tension of that dangerous scrape. Haarlep laughs quietly from the bed as Raphael trails it lower, down the front of your nervous throat, between the soft slopes of your breasts, and down the tensed plane of your stomach, stopping just short of the space between your parted legs, where you pulse with anticipation and need. You let out a soft whine at the tease, and Raphael whispers a quiet shush into your ear, “Shhh-shh-shhh, my dear...”
You tremble to hold still, to not lift your hips up to beg for his touch as his hands stroke the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his fingers a light and sensual tickle even through the too-thick fabric of your pants. Giving the fabric a rough tug with his fingers, Raphael smiles as it snaps back against your skin, plying a soft gasp from your mouth as he says precisely what you’re thinking: “You’re wearing too many clothes, little mouse.”
You nod in quiet agreement, and he raises a hand—with a single authoritative snap of his fingers, your clothes vanish in a puff of smoke, and you can feel Haarlep’s hungry eyes raking over your bared body as you sit naked in Raphael’s lap. The devil strokes your hair gently with one hand and runs the other along the delicate undersides of your breasts, a low murmur of his approval flooding your ears as you arch up into his touch. When he gives one of your nipples a sudden and rough tweak you find yourself gasping again, the fabric along the front of his thigh growing damp as you shamelessly press against it.
“What a naughty little guest we have,” Haarlep says, watching you from the bed. You want nothing more than to grind against the devil’s leg—and a glimmer of mischief in Haarlep’s eye seems to agree. But you know better than to act without Raphael’s permission—don’t you?
“She know to behave, Haarlep,” Raphael chuckles darkly, something sinister lurking beneath his words. He turns your face toward his, the intensity of his gaze burning into you in a way that makes your stomach tighten and your insides twitch. “But what kind of a visit would this be if we didn’t offer our guest some... hospitality?”
Something about the way he says the word makes your throat go a little dry, and you watch as he reaches for the table just beside his chair—set atop it is a bowl overflowing with the most sumptuous strawberries you’ve ever laid eyes upon. His fingers grasp one, plucking it from atop the succulent pile and lifting it to your mouth.
Up close, you can see that this strawberry shimmers with a light coating of something undeniably magical—as much a part of its allure as its danger. Succubus spittle. You recognize that this food is charmed—charmed to ignite desire, charmed to ply every last ounce of desperation from your body… and every last drop of arousal from between your legs.
You don’t need a devil’s aphrodisiac to spark the deep heat that’s already coiling at the base of your spine, the wetness between your naked legs already staining Raphael’s lap with the evidence of your dripping desire for him. You don’t need it, of course, but you do want it. You want everything the handsome devil offers you, in fact, and you don’t care if that makes you greedy. You want it all because you know that each morsel of pleasure and every sting of delicious pain he dispenses is his gift to you, just as your ready submission is yours to him.
And so you part your lips, wanting but not needing as you allow Raphael to gently press the sinful fruit into your mouth. Above the sweetness of its scarlet flesh, you taste the oddly delectable tang of succubus spittle as it mingles with your own saliva. You swallow it, your eyes fluttering shut as a wave of strange, unnatural ecstasy washes over you.
“Mmm, very good, little mouse…” Raphael croons, raking his claws through your hair gently—his touch suddenly more electric than usual as you feel the intoxication take hold.
A light shiver of delight drips down your spine as a quiet sigh skirts past your parted lips, a second strawberry pressed softly against them. You accept Raphael’s offering again, the coat of enchantment further fueling the rising tide of desire within you.
Your insides ache with a sudden and desperate need, and before you realize what you’re doing, you are running a hungry hand down the front of Raphael’s fine jacket. Your hand nearly reaches his waistband, but he catches it with one of his own and chuckles at the way your body has tightened with want, at the way you’re drooling with need.
“Now, my dear, I would gladly take you right here and make our darling Haarlep watch, but—“ with his other hand he grips your face tight enough to make you gasp, your eyes forced to meet his as his voice lowers into a sinister rasp, the points of his claws digging into your flushed face, “—Do not forget that you are in my house, little mouse. And in my House of Hope you do not sit on my lap and make demands of me.”
As he holds your face to his, his eyes ablaze with terrifying fury, a wash of fear—raw and undiluted—pours through you. Even through the haze of the succubus spittle, even as your insides clench in desperation for him, the gravity of your mistake sinks in. You had just disrespected the master in his own domain. Raphael’s eyes made it clear: he would not suffer another transgression.
You would nod if he allowed it, but his grip on your face is strong and unyielding. As you brave the ferocity of his gaze, not daring to blink even though your lids weigh heavy with enchanted desire, the only response you can muster for him is a quiet whimper. The noise is all at once an apology and a plea—a promise to obey and a wordless request for the opportunity to.
When his hands release you, the echo of his touch amplified by your condition, you wonder through your mist of need if you have disappointed him, but then he’s raking another hand along your scalp and your eyes flutter shut at the softness of it all. Raphael has forgiven you... this time.
When you feel the side of Raphael’s thumb wipe gently at your mouth, your eyes flitter open once more. As he removes the last lingering traces of strawberry and succubus from your lips, you’re suddenly all too aware that the thumb brushing against your mouth was the same one he’d plunged into the warm depths of it on your last visit, the one you’d moaned around while you sucked on his command.
You suppress a quiet moan but your body betrays the effect of the memory as it wriggles needily in Raphael’s lap, and through your lust-laden senses you think you hear a distant chuckle of amusement rising from where Haarlep watches the two of you from the bed.
“You were right, Raphael. She’s so eager.” The incubus sounds amused—almost enthralled by the way your body has responded to the charmed food.
“You’re not yourself, dear. Perhaps you should go lie down,” Raphael says, waving toward the bed. You lament the idea of leaving his lap, of losing the privilege of his touch, but still you nod in agreement. His words are serious—a command couched in suggestion—but there’s also an unmistakable smile in his voice.
As you walk toward the bed, it occurs to you that Raphael derives some deep and depraved enjoyment out of how easily your needy and charmed body is undone by even the smallest of his touches. Just how much does he plan on tormenting you through your veil of enchantment? You do not for a moment doubt that he can—that he will. Such work was, after all, a devil’s finest entertainment.
The sheets on Raphael’s bed are thick and slippery, a deep flush of crimson silk upon which Haarlep lounges—the devil’s personal incubus is lying on his side, propped up on an elbow while his head rests idly on one of his strong, clawed hands. His other hand traces lazy circles on the Cormyrian silk, and through the intoxication of your heady arousal, your skin aches for the same treatment.
As you slide your body onto the bed, the slip of silk satin licking along your back, you might have thought Haarlep was deeply and utterly bored—the idleness in his body, the laze of his firm muscles as he lounges with disaffected grace. Yet even in his stillness, the incubus manages to ooze with sensual energy, and in this moment you want nothing more than to reach out and touch him. Made in Raphael’s own glorious image, Haarlep possesses the same strong frame as his master, and your eyes rake over every rippling muscle and vascular plane of his body—his skimpy leather harness making no meaningful attempt to conceal any of it.
“Haarlep, look after our little mouse, won’t you?” Raphael says, running a finger through the embarrassingly large stain of slick you’d left behind on the front of his pants. “It seems she’s made quite the mess.” You press your legs together as he frowns at the wet glisten on his finger, suddenly all too aware that you’re drooling the same vulgar slick onto the silk sheets below. Raphael frowns as though disappointed by the state you’ve left the garment in, but a glimmer of devilish delight in his eyes betrays the true emotion beneath. Satisfaction.
You fail to suppress a breathy moan at the realization, your intoxicated body divulging every secret to the boudoir air, and Haarlep lets out another chuckle from the bed beside you. Like Raphael, he seems to take great pleasure in your neediness.
As you turn your head to look at the incubus again, Raphael leans over you and gives your face one last caress, his breath hot in your ear as he whispers, “Remember the house rules, my dear: you wait for my command.”
You listen to his retreating footsteps, your eyes locked with Haarlep’s. The incubus grins lightly at the way your body ripples with need. His face, a younger Raphael’s, has a slightly softer and more playful quality about it, though as he looks you over with hunger in his eyes, you don’t doubt for a second that if he wanted to, Haarlep could command your body and mind with every last ounce of Raphael’s authority.
He hasn’t yet, though, and as you look at him through the haze of the charm, the incubus continues to trace lazy circles in the silk bedding beneath. And yes, you might have thought he was bored... if it wasn’t for the way his eyes raked over you, an undeniable flicker of excitement burning deep within them. You couldn’t be sure if it was the work of the strawberries, some other seductive trick, or just your own unadulterated desire, but the look alone makes you shiver with want.
He must know the effect he has upon you because Haarlep grins wider, though he makes no move to indulge your want or relieve you of the immense pressure coiled in the pit of your stomach. He simply continues to stroke the fabric gently as you lay beside him, watching you with cruel curiosity as you try not to writhe against the silk, your intoxicated cunt dripping with desire and aching for stimulation to a degree you never thought possible.
“I suppose I should thank you for the gift of your glamour,” he drawls, a dangerous glimmer in his eye. “As you know, I indulge in it often.”
The thought alone makes you want to touch yourself. You grab a handful of silk instead.
“Some nights—” his voice lowers and he leans in slightly, your breath catching in your throat at the desperate hope that he might touch you. He doesn’t. Instead, he continues with a whisper, “—when Raphael has left, I like to assume your form and lay on this bed as you are now. I lay here and I touch myself, feeling everything as you feel it, little mouse.”
Your insides throb and a soft whine escapes from your throat. You know he’s telling the truth. You know because you’ve felt it—fingers suspiciously like your own circling your clit, slipping in and out of your entrance in shallow, teasing thrusts until you are so sensitized that the lightest flick of your clit could make you come.
Your legs ease open of their own accord, pleading to be touched. You clench at the silk tighter, your knuckles going white as you try to resist the urge to thrust your own hands between your legs, to make yourself come over and over in the hopes that it will somehow satisfy. If only you hadn’t indulged in the strawberries, the need would be far easier to resist, but the enchantment from them was strong—overwhelming, even—and though it pains you to wait for Raphael’s command, you know it will pain you more to disobey him. But Haarlep... Perhaps Haarlep provide you with some relief.
Your next breath comes out as a desperate gasp and still, he makes no effort to aid you. Would Raphael punish you for asking? The words catch in your throat, tangled by unnatural tendrils of desire as Haarlep simply carries on, one hand lazily tracing over silk. Your eyes follow the graceful drag of his fingers and you imagine how it would feel to have them running over your flesh. You let out a ragged breath as you think about his sensual swipes through your folds, the press of his dexterous fingers against your dripping entrance, against your cli—
His fingers give the fabric a sharp and unexpected swipe and you gasp, your clit twitching as if his fingers had suddenly stroked over that sensitive little organ instead of the silk of Raphael’s bedspread. You bend your knees and press them together, your toes curling into the satin sheets as you try to resist the otherworldly need for stimulation.
“Little mouse...” Haarlep tsks lightly at you, and through his poorly-feigned disapproval you see his ravenous delight at your desperation. The hand stroking at the silk stops, and he slides across the slippery bedding to the spot just beside you—so close that you can feel the heat emanating from his body. “You seem so wound up, dear.”
You look into his face, knowing that your eyes brim with desperate, undeniable craving. He looks down at you, a touch of play glimmering in his hellfire eyes. “Go on,” he croons, his voice mesmerizingly gentle, “Touch yourself for me...”
You wonder if you should or if it is perhaps a trap on the incubus’s part, but with the overwhelming need rippling through your body you’re also weak against the command—his voice so like Raphael’s that your brain could be convinced the order may have fallen from the devil’s lips after all. With a single, trembling hand, you oblige him.
The feeling of your fingers should have been nothing new, but beneath the cloak of enchantment their touch feels utterly divine, the haze of succubus charm amplifying the pleasures of your flesh a hundred times over. Haarlep watches as your legs fall open and your hand slips between them, and—Gods, you’re soaking. As you begin to stroke your own aching clit, your head lolls back into the silk sheets at the utter bliss of it all. You grind up into your own touch, a low moan pouring from your mouth as your eyes close. It’s ecstasy.
“Yes, that’s it...” Haarlep hums, his voice washing smoothly over your brain and body. He watches you for a moment, enraptured by the swell of your pleasure as your fingers continue to play with your clit, contented sighs escaping from your mouth. When he hums in your ear again, your hips roll at the sensuous lilt of his words. “Be a little naughty for me. Show me how you finger yourself, my dear.”
His voice is so like Raphael’s, and you never could resist the devil’s commands.
You slip a finger inside. You're so wet that there’s no resistance. You slide in a second one, grinding your clit into your own palm as you work your fingers into a steady pace.
Haarlep’s breath tickles your ear as he whispers, “Little mouse, do you know much of my kind?” You shake your head, too lost in the relief of pleasure to give a real answer. He smiles, his eyes trailing down your body to where your hand is keeping rhythm between your trembling legs. “I am an incubus, my dear. We love pleasure, we feast on it. And your pleasure is—” Haarlep closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as if savoring your overwhelming arousal, “—Delicious.”
You don’t know if it’s the word or if it’s the way he says it, but you can’t help but moan deeply at Haarlep’s oration, the walls of your own body tightening around your fingers as the wild heat inside of you threatens to spill over its edges.
“My, such beautiful moans... but if you’re going to be naughty, little mouse, then you’d better be quiet. We wouldn’t want the cat to find out, would we?” Haarlep runs a teasing hand down the silk just beside your arm, and it occurs to your sex-muddled brain that Raphael must have instructed him not to touch you, not to do anything without his say-so. The devil certainly loved his commands, and through the haze you vaguely recall him issuing one to you—not that you could remember it over the euphoric rush of the orgasm that was already building in your body, your fingers slick and your pace desperate.
“Yes, that’s it, my dear,” Haarlep whispers gently into your ear, his voice mingling with your jagged breathing and the wet slip of your own fingers as they plunge in and out of your tightening entrance. “You’re so close... I can taste your pleasure. Your rapture... Let me taste the bliss of your orgasm, little mouse. The forbidden ones always taste the sweetest.”
His words alone could have made you come, and they very nearly do until the familiar sound of Raphael’s footsteps on the stone floor of the boudoir jolt your blurry mind into remembrance.
Remember the house rules, my dear: you wait for my command.
The haze of your intoxication and Haarlep’s honeyed words had convinced you to forget—had nearly convinced you to cross Raphael in more ways than one.
You remove your fingers from your own weeping entrance, your body whining in protest as you press them to your stomach in an attempt to calm your tensed muscles and your hips, which continue to twitch on the precipice of your forbidden orgasm. Slicker than you’ve ever been, wound so tight with desire that a single swipe would have sent you spasming into an incredible, crashing release, you couldn’t help but wonder if Raphael would know what you’d done.
Head heavy, you turn to look at Haarlep through drooping lids. Surely he wouldn’t tell on you? But when the incubus simply smirks at you, his eyes flickering with devious delight, you realize that the indecency of your arousal is all part of the fun for him. Raphael’s footsteps draw closer and your body writhes with anticipation—it trembles with fear.
“My dear Haarlep, were you good?” Raphael asks. He has abandoned his earlier finery—the set that bears the unabashed evidence of your desire—in favor of a luxurious silk robe, the deep plum- and gold-colored fabric slipping across his skin in a way that makes you envious of it.
Haarlep looks you over—noting the tightness in your body, the pleading look in your eyes. “I didn’t touch her.”
A clawed hand closes around your wrist and Raphael lifts it to examine your hand, the wetness on it naked and plain. You look up at him, your breath catching as you see his eyes narrow on the fingers that plunged into your desperate cunt just moments earlier. By the light of the open boudoir balcony, they glisten.
“Naughty thing...” Raphael tsks, lowering your slick fingers toward your face. You can smell yourself on them—your dripping desire, your desperation for release. Raphael looks down at you, his eyes burning dangerously, the corners of his mouth twisted into a frown. He wouldn’t let you get away with breaking the house rule—not without punishing you first.
Your insides throb at the thought, and from the bed beside you Haarlep drawls, “Naughty indeed... She was trying to come.”
Raphael’s frown twitches upwards into a sinister smile at Haarlep’s tattle. A nervous shiver slithers down your spine as he speaks, his voice quiet and firm. “Before we’ve even started? Greedy little mouse.”
His face hardens as he presses your own wet fingers to your mouth. His voice is low, simmering with light fury as he commands you: “Lick it.”
You part your lips and dart your tongue out, tasting the sweet tang of the arousal that coats your misbehaving fingers. The look in Raphael’s eyes quickly tells you that a single lick will not be enough, and as his fingers grip your wrist so tightly it almost hurts, you obey his silent command, laving your tongue over the offending digits. You lap up every last trace of your transgression while Raphael watches.
And when he presses your fingers into your mouth, deep enough to elicit a moan and a light cant of your hips, your eyes flutter shut in the ecstasy of submission. With his other hand he gives your hair a rough tug, snapping at you, “Eyes open, dear. If you’re going to disobey me, then at least have the guts to look me in the eyes while you receive your punishment.”
You feel the weight on the bed beside you shift as your eyes flutter back open, looking up at Raphael as Haarlep settles in between your legs, the incubus running a finger through the puddle of arousal pooling on the silk below you. Raphael drops your wrist and you let your fingers slide from your mouth as he runs his claws up your sides, a deep shudder rocking you as they scrape dangerously along the sides of your breasts.
His hands come to rest just beneath your underarms, and suddenly Raphael is hooking his hands in them, pulling you toward him while your body slides helplessly against the slip of silk. You are Raphael’s to position as he pleases, and with a rough touch he guides you to hang your head off the side of the bed, your legs pulled open for Haarlep, who rests between them, skimming the delicate skin on your inner thighs with his fingers. Your legs tremble with every tickle of his claws, and even through the utterly overwhelming blanket of enchanted arousal, you’re all too aware of how you’re spread out before both of them, every part of your needy body utterly vulnerable to their whims.
Raphael tweaks one of your nipples and your back arches, Haarlep chuckling at your reaction as his caresses move dangerously close to your the apex of your thighs, his fingers grazing over the sensitive skin flanking your dripping lips. You moan, your hips angling for more stimulation.
“Careful, little mouse...” Raphael warns, settling to the floor by the edge of the bed. At this height, he can look directly into your eyes with his own fiery gaze, and though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and descend into the ecstasy that Haarlep’s teasing fingers seem to promise, you suspect it won’t be allowed. Raphael doesn’t just want to watch the incubus punish you with pleasure—he wants to see every last bit of it reflected in your eyes.
You gasp as Haarlep swipes a soft finger across your entrance, tracing circles around the sensitive opening as your muscles spasm lightly for more. When he dips a cautious fingertip into your begging cunt, coating his finger in your plentiful slick, an eye-fluttering moan tumbles from your mouth. Almost in warning, Raphael cups the crown of your head as it dangles off the bed, holding you steady with a single clawed hand as he reads the look on your face. Desperation. Need. Desire.
“Very good,” he croons, calling out to the incubus between your legs, “A little more tension, Haarlep. I want her to need it so bad I see tears in her eyes.”
Haarlep obliges immediately, his finger plunging deeper while his tongue swipes at your clit. You cry out, your hips quaking as Haarlep does it again, the slow and slick drag of his finger enough to give your desperate entrance something to clench around but not enough to provide it with any meaningful release. He pumps it in and out of you a few more times, an amused hum vibrating through your clit as he swipes his tongue over it again, and you get the distinct feeling that incubi must enjoy frustration as much as they do pleasure.
It is sweet agony, but even as your entrance tightens around Haarlep’s finger and the pleasure jolts through you with every swipe of his tongue, you know that the tease is one you can tolerate without coming undone too quickly. Raphael must have known too, because when he snaps his fingers, Haarlep responds as if by some unspoken command, plunging a second finger into you and giving your clit a light suckle.
You groan at the sensation, straining to keep your eyes from fluttering shut as Raphael watches you struggle, a pleased grin spreading across his handsome features as the tips of his claws clasp at your scalp. You can feel the heat in your cheeks, your mouth agape as needy gasps tumble into the air between you. All the while, Raphael holds your gaze, daring you to break it as Haarlep teases you without relent, your hips rolling up into him as the desire coils tightly in your stomach.
Cool and collected, Raphael takes in every tremble of your lip, the ever-increasing frequency of your blinks as you struggle to keep your eyes from wrenching shut and descending into the depths of pleasure being doled out to you by Haarlep’s ministrations. When the incubus curls his fingers inside of you, the motion otherworldly in its intensity as your body attempts to make sense of it through the enchantment blanketing your nerves, your hips buck and a loud, unexpected moan tears from your throat. Your eyes flutter shut for just a moment and you force them back open, keeping them fixed on Raphael through the wave of pleasure. He smiles, pleased by your compliance, and gives your scalp a gentle caress as he croons, “Yes, that’s it, little mouse. I do like it when you moan for me.”
When Haarlep repeats the move, you can’t help but moan again, your body trembling with the tension of near-orgasm as Raphael’s gaze bores into you. Forced to hold his stare while the incubus between your legs sucks and pumps away, a few things occur to you.
You’ve never felt more naked. You’ve never submitted to anyone like this before. And you’ve never been wetter.
It was torture, plain and simple, to lay there and take such overwhelming pleasure without being permitted to come. Every touch magnified—every suckle and lick an intoxication in itself, each delicious pump of Haarlep’s fingers and every exquisite graze of Raphael’s claws was a feast for your nerves, a wash of all-encompassing bliss. It was beautiful, it was glorious, it was—it was... too much.
Wet and needy, your cunt tightens rhythmically around Haarlep’s fingers, each pulse tighter than the last as the heat in your core threatens to spill over. Haarlep raises his face from between your legs and even though you lament the loss of his mouth, you can imagine the way it must look dripping with the depraved shine of your wetness. You tighten and moan at the thought, and Haarlep says, “Our little mouse is just begging to come.”
Raphael gives you a fiendish smile and looks up at Haarlep, giving a single, firm command: “Ruin it.”
You whimper at Raphael’s cruelty. You whimper at the feeling of Haarlep’s fingers sliding out of you. And you positively gasp as they swipe over your clit, the motion igniting an orgasm that seizes your aching, empty cunt before the swell of would-be pleasure wracks disappointment through every single nerve in your body.
Holding you tightly, Raphael watches as you gasp for air through the waves of your own ruined orgasm, every spasm an anguish as your body begs for stimulation. You try to raise your head to look at Haarlep, to plead with your eyes for another delicious swipe of his fingers or his tongue, but Raphael’s grip is firm and he tsks in disapproval at the attempt.
“No, don’t look at him, my dear,” Raphael purrs, running the back of his hand against one of your quivering cheeks in sordid caress. “He might be able to get you into trouble, but he can’t get out it.”
Haarlep laps at your entrance unexpectedly and you cry out, bucking up into him, trying desperately to grind your clit against him for release. Perhaps this had all been a part of Raphael’s plans for your evening, or perhaps the incubus was playing his own game—wielding your wanting body as a pawn in his own orchestration of the night. You wondered if it wasn’t a way for him to dine deeply on your pleasure just as he dines deeply on you, his tongue swiping and lapping at your tensed entrance while your clit begs for the relief of a few firm swipes.
You grip at the silk sheets with desperate hands and Raphael chuckles at your anguish as Haarlep digs his hands into the backs of your thighs, hiking you up and open as he plunges his tongue into your entrance, the tip of his nose grazing your clit as you whimper helplessly into Raphael’s smirking face. It’s as if every nerve inside of you is ignited, and you can feel yourself spasming around the warm slip of his tongue as it circles within you. Haarlep plunges deeper, grinding his nose into your clit as you cry out, another orgasm already begging its way out. You wriggle against his grip but he holds you tightly, burying his face between your legs until you’re gasping and clenching around nothing again, the near-painful disappointment of another ruined orgasm so intense that it brings tears to your eyes.
They sting and you try to blink them away, closing your eyes as they continue to leak from the corners. Raphael snaps his fingers and the hand clasping your head tightens.
“Eyes open.”
You let out something between a low moan and a sob, opening your eyes to look at him through the blur of tears. His face is serious and commanding, the bridge of his nose crinkled in stern command as his eyes narrow on you. With the thumb of his free hand, he wipes at one of the tears dripping down your temple and examines it before bringing it to his mouth slowly, savoring the salt of your frustration with a gentle lave of his tongue. You watch with anticipation as a smile spreads across his face, wondering if it will be a smile of satisfaction—of pleasure at how well you’ve done, at how well you’ve endured.
But as the corners of his mouth continue to spread and his brows tighten together, you know that you were a fool to hope for any mercy from Raphael. Face drawn into the most handsome portrait of cruelty you’ve ever seen, he utters only one word—and it makes every charm-bound muscle in your body tighten once more.
“Again.”
You might have begged Raphael—promised him that you would be good, that you would follow every last one of his rules from now to eternity, you might have promised him your very soul in exchange for an ounce of mercy—if only you could form the words. When you open your mouth to try, all that comes out is a strangled sob, tears of pleasure and anguish stinging your eyes as Raphael looks into them, Haarlep plying yet another deep and painfully unsatisfying set of wild convulsions from your pleading cunt as your back arches and your knuckles go white around fistfuls of silken sheets.
And when Raphael commands Haarlep to do it yet again, the tears stream freely down from your eyes, trailing down your temples to dampen your hair as it dangles over the edge of the bed. Your body had never begged for release like this before, quivering and tensing with humiliating desperation as both devil and incubus hold you in place, your body teetering on the edge of orgasm for so long that you had nearly forgotten your own name—though you had certainly not forgotten the rule of the house. No, that was burned into your brain, though everything else felt lost to the haze of succubus-enchantment, the grip of Raphael’s gaze, and the all-devouring rapture of Haarlep’s cruel and skillful ministrations.
It occurred to you that Raphael could hold you here for an eternity if he pleased, feeding you strawberry after strawberry as he and Haarlep take turns between your legs, the pair of them tormenting you with pleasure so delicious it hurts as your body continues to chase the ever-elusive release of orgasm that they dangle before you. Another sob of sweet anguish wracks your body as your tears drip to the stone floor—and then with a snap, it’s over.
Haarlep withdraws his tormenting touch and Raphael releases his grip on your head, wiping your face gently with the same hand that had held you in place through every unbearable wave of wretched pleasure. When his voice washes over your ears, you can hear an obvious tone of pleasure carried beneath the rumble of his baritone. It’s like music to your ears.
“Have you learned your lesson, little mouse?”
You nod weakly, the last of your tears falling quietly to the stone below.
His eyes narrow on yours, the fury that was in them earlier softened into something kinder, something hungrier.
“Will you disobey me again?”
You loll your head left and then right—the closest thing to a shake you can muster as you try to quiet the overwhelming burn of desire that has pooled in your core.
“Good,” Raphael croons, giving the side of your face another soft caress. Haarlep echoes the motion along the inside of your thighs, the muscles in your legs loose and tired despite the tension still wound tightly between them. When Raphael withdraws his hand, your eyes follow as it moves to gracefully unfasten his robe, luscious silk puddling on the stone floor below as you find yourself face to face with his thick and throbbing cock.
“Now, answer me this—“ he drawls, stepping forward to run a clawed finger across the underside of your chin. You quiver in response. “—Do you want me to fuck you, my dear?”
You nod, eyes hungrily tracing every raised vein, every devil-red, velvet-skinned inch of him. After weeks of desirous dreams about your last encounter, amplified then by the echoes of his touch through Haarlep’s glamor and today by the deep and delicious haze of enchantment, you want for nothing more than Raphael to fuck you into oblivion.
He trails a finger lightly along your trembling jaw. “And how… rough shall I be?”
Haarlep sweeps a finger up your slick center and suddenly you can’t find the words, a deep and depraved moan falling from your mouth in place of a proper response.
Raphael chuckles and murmurs, “Let’s start gentle, shall we?” He strokes the underside of your chin again, Haarlep giving you a stroke to match between your legs. Your eyes flutter shut and your mouth falls open into another moan, the noise faltering with surprise when the head of Raphael’s cock presses into your pleasure-slackened mouth.
When your voice meets the hard length of his cock in a small whimper of surprise, Raphael says with a smile, “What is it, my dear? Surely you didn’t expect me to fuck you between your legs?” He presses his cock further into the wet heat of your mouth and you whimper again, this time at the sensation of him sliding along the back of your tongue.
“Let this be a reminder that when a devil offers you something—“ Raphael caresses the back of your head and pushes his cock deeper, eliciting a soft moan from you.“—You should always mind the fine print.”
Another quiet moan wraps around his cock as it slides deeper still, your fingers clasping for purchase against the slip of silk sheets as Raphael throbs lewdly in your mouth. Though he maintains careful control, you can tell by every twitch and pulse of his length that he is thoroughly enjoying the warmth of your mouth. The arousal leaks freely between your legs, slick and depraved as you try to give his length a sweep with your tongue—the overwhelming desire to please him flooding through every last crevice of your charmed mind.
“Yes, that’s it, my dear…” He says with a deep groan that makes your clit twitch, easing your jaw wider to accept him fully. Raphael runs a soft hand down the length of your throat, whispering, “Relax…”
You do your best to follow his command, Haarlep massaging encouraging circles into the soft flesh of your thighs as you focus on your breathing. Along the length of your tongue—all the way to the back of your throat where the pulsing head of Raphael’s cock rests—you can taste the salty musk of his skin, the cherry in his perfume mingling with the scent of sex that hangs decadently in the boudoir air.
Raphael slides his cock from your mouth and, bracing one hand against the back of your dangling head, he re-sheaths himself in you with another spasm-inducing groan—repeating the motion as Haarlep continues to massage your legs, each stroke of his hands moving ever closer toward your drooling and unsatisfied cunt. When Raphael thrusts again, the low plane of his stomach kisses your quivering chin and your saliva pools around him as he settles into a steady pace, fucking your face as you whimper and gag lightly around him—the taste of his cock and the sounds of him sliding in and out of you with abandon inspiring spasms of want within you.
Each one calls out loudly for stimulation and Haarlep answers them, a single, teasing finger sinking into your entrance while he traces lazy circles around your clit with his thumb—his tease just enough to keep you desperate and drooling, but never enough to make you come. It’s sweet torture, you think, as the incubus rakes his other hand gently over your stomach, your muscles quivering and tensing with every sharp brush of a claw, tightening with every thrust Raphael makes into your mouth.
Your hips buck against Haarlep’s tease as Raphael’s pace quickens—every thrust harder, faster, rougher than the last. Your jaw aches, your eyes sting with tears again, and every thrust sends a mess of slick saliva dribbling down your face as Raphael grips you tightly, his fingers wound in your hair. When the incubus sinks a second finger into you and curls them lightly, you moan loudly, your throat tightening deliciously around Raphael as his cock sinks deeply into you.
“Yes, moan for me, little mouse,” Raphael says roughly, one hand stroking the exposed length of your neck while his cock strokes the inside of it. Your throat tightens around him again as another moan rises, Haarlep curling his fingers from his place between your legs, nearly beckoning your body to come though you try to stave it off by pulling your shaking knees together. Haarlep doesn’t allow it, plying another depraved moan from deep inside of you as the pads of his fingers press the same spot again, making you writhe. When the incubus does it once more, giving your clit a firm swipe at the same time, you yelp around Raphael’s cock and make the devil groan with satisfied pleasure, narrowly avoiding toppling over the edge of your begging orgasm at the sound.
Against the firm tease of Haarlep’s fingers you squirm, doing everything in your power not to come until Raphael allows it. The incubus laughs gently, as though thoroughly aware of your predicament and amused by the prospect of tempting your body into transgression again. He strokes your clit with the tip of his tongue and gives the sensitive spot inside of you another maddeningly delicious press—feeling you drip and clench around him as your body begs for release. You know that the next swipe or curl of his fingers—even a gentle and shallow thrust aimed just right—could be your undoing.
And so you do the only thing left to do.
Pushing yourself deeper into Raphael’s brutal thrusts and gagging around him, you desperately press Haarlep away—a foot on his muscled shoulder as you struggle not to come around his fingers, around their continued press and tease inside of you. Something of a mercy but far from a reward, Raphael’s thrusts slow, his cock stilling halfway out of your aching mouth as he growls, “Haarlep. That’s enough.”
The incubus obeys, pulling his fingers out with a cruel upward swipe that makes your back arch and your entrance pucker. Close, so maddeningly close that you could cry from the anguish of yet another denied orgasm—yet even through the blur of the charm and the overwhelm of a tautness that would topple into spasms of rapture with the subtlest of stimuli, you know you’ve done well and obeyed Raphael’s command. The space between your legs empty, Raphael gives your throat and chin a gentle caress, delivering a few more shallow thrusts into your mouth as he croons, “You did very, very good, little mouse.”
The satisfaction of his approval washes over your desperate and taut body as he pulls out from your face, his caress doing little to ease your suffering as you whimper hoarsely, your body nearly broken from the tension of denied orgasm. Throat sore, jaw tired, face streaked with drool and tears of pleasured anguish, your fingers and toes curl in the silk, your knees knocking together as you writhe with need and desire. When you feel the heat of Raphael’s breath in your ear and the soft scrape of claws raking up and down your arms, your eyes flutter open to look into his. He is kneeling beside you, a proud and satisfied smile sweeping his face.
“My dear little mouse,” he murmurs, his voice a gentle and sensuous caress even as his next words make you shiver. “Don’t relax too much—we’re not done with you yet.”
You could have wept for want of release, you thought, your vision hazy with lust and magic as Raphael grips each of your wrists tightly. So wound up, so desperate along the edge of an orgasm ruined and refused without relent, you barely even register as a second pair of hands grasps your ankles, Raphael and Haarlep lifting your helpless body on to the center of the bed, your legs splayed open as the handsome devil settles between them. As if by Raphael’s silent command, Haarlep settles just above you at the head of the bed, gently pressing the backs of your hands to the silk and running his clawed fingers lightly across your open palms and sensitive forearms.
“Oh, little mouse...” Raphael croons, his hands finding the backs of your thighs to bend your knees as Haarlep’s caresses slow and then halt completely, the incubus abandoning them to pin your arms to the bed instead.
“Look at how you drool for me...” Raphael continues, running his fingers up the length of your slick and desperate cunt, a chuckle rising from both him and the incubus as they listen to you gasp, your back arching and your hands straining against Haarlep’s firm grip as your hips rise in a futile and unbidden attempt to chase release.
Raphael lowers himself over you, the head of his cock notched to your entrance. Teased and toyed with for far too long, you can’t help but grind against it, a hoarse and needy whine escaping from your abused throat. Somehow in the throes of your own abject need, you have surrendered control over your mind and body to the thrall of desire itself. Through some vulgar and cruel combination of need, denial, and a succubus’ charm, you have relinquished all thought and allowed it to be replaced by a raw and uncontrollable hunger for your own carnal release. It was the kind of hunger incapable of subsiding on its own, and unless Raphael allowed it, you worry that the need to come would burrow so deep and grow so ravenous that it might consume you completely. Through the heady haze, only one thing occurs to your lust-broken mind: that in all of your life, you have never needed to come so badly.
Raphael smiles, savoring the way you writhe and gasp as he slowly sinks his length into you—careful not to send you toppling over the edge as the slick slide of his cock torments you further. You whine as he leans forward, the weight of his body pressing flush against your aching and pleading clit as Raphael’s mouth finds your ear, whispering into it as you tighten and twitch around him, “My dear, I just love how... responsive you are.”
You could have come from that alone. As Raphael grinds his hips slowly, you groan, every muscle in your body wound so taut with need that you worry they might snap. When his hips pull back—the motion agonizingly slow, as if he intends to keep you on the precipice of orgasm forever—you bite your lip, your back arching again as your body screams for release. Another slow and torturous thrust has you writhing, gasping as you struggle against the incubus restraining you. In your ear Raphael speaks again, his voice rough and deep as he says, “Your starting transgressions aside, you have been very good tonight, my dear.”
When his cock withdraws from you once more, you know that your body can stand it no longer. You will come and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.
Almost as if Raphael knows this, he looks down at you with a wicked smile, his cock stilled at the very entrance of your needy, spasming cunt as your whole body tightens in uncontrollable anticipation. Finally, he utters the words you’ve yearned to hear all night: “Come for me, little mouse.”
The first flicker of your orgasm hits even before he plunges his cock into you, the pump of his hips forceful and rough as you cry out for him, your entire body shuddering with the sundering force of your pent up release. You’ve never come so hard in your life, every contraction of your entrance around his cock as powerful and pleasurable as the sum of every orgasm you’ve ever experienced. Haarlep’s grip tightens around your wrists as you buck and shake, wave after wave of unimaginable ecstasy washing over you as the crashing euphoria of enchantment and lust and your deep, sated desire to please Raphael all mingle together into the headiest of cocktails, the profoundest of blisses.
Even as the pleasure wanes, it does not stop, and as Raphael’s cock continues to thrust into you with rough and total abandon, the weight of his body presses your legs so far open that they ache. A delighted moan from Haarlep tells you that the scene is nothing short of a feast for the incubus, his eyes gleaming wickedly as they drink in the depraved pleasure of your spasming and arching body while Raphael fucks you into the sheets below with so much force that you worry you might shatter.
And when he instructs you to “Keep going, little mouse,” shatter you do—another wave of otherworldly release rising from deep within you as you cry out and convulse around every delicious and brutal thrust of Raphael’s cock. It is so easy to lose yourself in his every pump, every slick drag with which he plies yet another hoarse moan from you, another breathless cry.
Your senses flood with cherries and musk, and you’re so lost in the rhythm of his hips, in the depraved sound of moans you barely recognize as your own sex-roughened voice, that you hardly notice when Raphael shifts his weight. Bracketing one arm and then the other behind your sweat-slicked knees, he pushes you open and plunges deeper into your desperate, wet heat. The motion pries another penetrating release from the very center of your body, your voice nearly giving out entirely as the euphoria of succubus charm and submissive pleasure overtakes you once more.
Between his own grunts of pleasure and every forceful pump of his cock, a satisfied gleam shines in Raphael’s eye at the way your body responds to him—your entrance grasping and convulsing around him in exquisite answer to every drag of his cock as wave after wave of your withheld rapture continues to flow over you, one orgasm bleeding into the next until you are sure you have melted entirely into a puddle of pleasured nerves and rushing endorphins.
Through every cresting swell, as your body gives all it possibly can in its shaking, shuddering release, Haarlep holds you tightly, the tip of his tail snaking around to give your sweat-soaked face and sore throat gentle caresses, to swipe softly over your collarbones and to give your sensitized nipples the occasional back-arching flick. Your mind hazy and body aching with the sweet overwhelm of it all, it occurs to you that even with his hands committed to the task of holding you down for Raphael, the incubus is intent on wringing every last drop of pleasure possible from your body, even if he must use his tail to do it.
When your body finally gives its last, aching shudder before falling slack beneath the delicious punishment of Raphael’s cock, you can feel the incubus’ satisfaction—you can hear it on his tongue as he murmurs, “Oh, little mouse, your pleasure tonight has tasted divine."
His words, strangely sweet and deeply stirring, manage to elicit one last wave of spasms within you—every muscle in your cunt and core aching with exhaustion as they tighten around Raphael one final time, his cock throbbing in answering as you feel the warmth of his spend flooding through you.
As Raphael withdraws, your eyes flutter open weakly to see Haarlep looking down at you, a mischievous smile on his lips and a devious glint in his eye. You wonder if his words and encouragement had been for your benefit, all evening your pleasure punctuated and heightened with his well-timed motions and sensuous whispers. Then again, perhaps the lion’s share of it was done for his master, Raphael’s, benefit, the devil giving your spent body a soft caress as you sag into the silk below before he murmurs his satisfaction in your ear and departs. Yes, perhaps Haarlep had done it for him—every moan and spasm a delectable augmentation to the devil’s own pleasure, some secret remittance paid to him with your body as currency.
Yet, as Haarlep releases your arms from where he gripped them tightly above your head, the incubus circling your heaving, exhausted body to settle into the vacancy left between your legs, you wonder if Haarlep’s motivations aren’t, at times, purely selfish in the way that only an incubus’ motivations could be. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake, you think as he laps gentle and soothing licks between your legs, doling pleasures out to you freely so that he might feast on the way your body echoes them back—his master be damned.
And when Haarlep raises his face to look up at you, mouth and chin glistening with a glorious shimmer of slick and spend, you receive your answer.
“I do hope you will return to this boudoir, little mouse. And maybe next time—” He laves his tongue over you again and you sigh, your body flooding with a blissful contentment that feels almost like a force of magic, some new and unfamiliar haze of pleasure flowing into you through his wicked and smiling mouth, “—Don’t let the devil know.”