The Summoning

The summoning circle still smoked, its chalk lines glowing faintly in the candlelit laboratory. Elara stood trembling in her black silk robe, pink hair spilling over pale shoulders like rosewater on snow. The demon had already crossed the veil—towering, horned, eyes like molten gold—and the binding words were spoken. It could not harm her unless she allowed it; one whispered revocation and it would vanish. That knowledge was her only anchor as the creature’s clawed hand closed around her waist. It kissed her first, rough and sudden, fangs grazing her lips until she tasted iron. Fear flared bright in her chest, but she did not speak the banishment. Instead she parted her lips, letting its tongue—thick, ridged, inhuman—invade her mouth. A low growl vibrated against her throat. Then the tongue shifted. Muscle and sinew rippled; the appendage thickened, lengthened, became a slick, veined shaft that pushed past her teeth and down her throat in one merciless thrust. Elara gagged, eyes watering, small hands braced against its chest. The demon held her head steady, hips rolling slow and deliberate. When it withdrew, the tongue-penis glistened with her saliva; a heartbeat later its true cock—grotesque, enormous, ridged like obsidian—replaced it. She took it deeper than she thought possible, throat fluttering around the intrusion, until the creature snarled and spent itself across her face in thick, scalding ropes. The fear was a live thing inside her, but beneath it coiled a darker heat. She licked a stray drop from her lip and shivered. Claws shredded her robe. Cool air kissed her small breasts, her flat stomach, the pale curve of her hips. The demon’s fingers—too many now, joints bending wrong—traced her slit, parting slick folds. One claw scraped lightly; she flinched, remembering the cock that had barely fit her mouth. Too big, she thought, it will split me. Yet her thighs parted wider. It laid her on the workbench amid scattered grimoires and glass vials. The first thrust stole her breath—missionary, brutal, the table creaking beneath them. Her slender body arched; pain and pleasure braided so tightly she couldn’t tell them apart. The demon’s cock swelled inside her, stretching her to the edge of breaking. When it flipped her onto hands and knees, the new angle drove deeper. It came with a roar, flooding her, then paused only long enough to slide three fingers—now slick with its own spend—back into her cunt. The claws had retracted to dull nubs; the touch was precise, merciless, curling against the spot that made starbursts bloom behind her eyes. The first orgasm crashed over her without warning. She buried her face in her arms to muffle the cry, cheeks burning with shame and ecstasy. The second followed before she caught her breath. Then the third. The demon’s fingers never slowed; its cock, already hardening again, nudged her lips. She opened eagerly, tasting herself on the shaft as it fucked her mouth in counterpoint to the fingers pistoning inside her. Time blurred. It lifted her—effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing—and impaled her mid-air. Her legs wrapped its waist; her arms clung to shoulders that sprouted extra limbs to hold her steady. She came again, and again, a broken litany of pleas and praise spilling from swollen lips. When it lowered her to her knees, she swallowed its release like wine, throat working greedily. Hours slipped into days. Candles guttered and were replaced by unseen hands—its hands, shifting to tend the flames while another set kept her filled. She knelt among scattered parchment, pink hair matted with dried seed, lips wrapped around whatever shape its cock took that hour. Sometimes ridged and knotted; sometimes smooth and impossibly long; always spilling endlessly. She drank, and drank, until hunger was a forgotten tongue and pleasure the only language left.