A sex demon kneels in front of me, contesting everything I thought I knew.
I never react before I analyze. That's the difference between me and most people. They flinch, speak too soon, fill the unknown with explanations that comfort them. I don't do that. I sit in it. I let the silence stretch until it organizes itself. When something doesn't make sense, I don't reach for meaning. I dissect. Sequence. Isolate. Categorize. My body stays still. My mind does not.
The woman kneeling in front of me hadn't moved since I told her to stop. She didn't fidget. She didn't breathe harder. She simply knelt, spine aligned, hands relaxed, completely silent.
When she'd licked me, that one slow drag from the base of my cock to the tip, my body had responded before my mind could. The effects of her touch, her presence, were visible. She had an aura to her. An influence, as named in the books.
An influence is an aura a succubus has, when just her presence drives a man to arousal or orgasm. Think mindless sexual desire.
Every ritual I'd ever read came back instantly. Not just the broad strokes or general theory, but line-by-line recall. I remembered the shape of each symbol, the Latin translations, the embedded warnings half-buried in dramatics. I saw the old diagrams from books that were more profit than prophecy. All of it came back, as if the pages were in front of me. Not imagination. Just recall. That's how my mind works. Every word I've ever read exists in sequence, perfectly filed. Eidetic, clinical, precise.
And what I remembered most was how certain I'd been that none of it mattered.
Now I was staring at something that shouldn't exist.
Nothing in modern science explains her. She isn't a hallucination. I haven't taken anything. I haven't missed sleep. I haven't lost my grip on reality. I know what's real because I've never needed belief to confirm it. But this woman, this creature, is not a metaphor or a manifestation. She's physically here. I can still feel the wet smear she left on my cock.
The last few days sat in perfect order inside my head—every word, every cut, every flicker of fire in that circle, every drop of blood, the moment Marcus dropped, the flare when my blood hit the salt. It hadn't been symbolic. It had reacted.
I remember dismissing the old books the first time I saw them. They read like theater. Candles, symbols, drops of blood, breathless warnings followed by a call to action. A familiar formula: give people something to fear, then sell them the illusion of control. That's all the writers were doing. Invent a demon, sell the ritual to tame it. It was profitable nonsense, and I knew it.
But no hallucination burns cold air into a room.
No delusion leaves your cock hard from a single taste.
No dream waits, kneeling, obeying.
She looked up, and her voice was perfectly still.
"You summoned me, Master."
Her voice alone almost made me give in. she was still staring at my cock like a dog denied a chew toy.
"You mean we," I said finally, my head tilting slightly. "We summoned you. That night. In the ritual."
She raised her eyes to look at me. "They helped form the circle. But only one of you opened the door."
I didn't answer immediately. I studied her face, then let my eyes trail lower. Not because I was admiring her, but because I was watching how still she stayed under scrutiny. No tension in the jaw. No shift in weight. Her breathing never sped up. She believed every word she was saying, and she wasn't afraid of being corrected.
"You're saying it was my blood, that when it touched the salt, that's what made the breach real."
"Yes," she replied. "The structure didn't hold until that moment. His pain started it. Your blood directed it."
I circled her slowly, taking in the details again. Demons in lore are loud. Seductive. Provocative. This one wasn't. She'd been here long enough to watch me fuck Linda unconscious, long enough to choose when to appear, and yet she hadn't touched me. Hadn't spoken until addressed. That wasn't restraint. That was the structure. Reinforced protocol. Which meant someone taught her obedience—and she'd learned it too well to fake.
"So Marcus nearly dying… that was what made the tear?"
"He bled past the limit of the ritual. That's what created the instability. The door doesn't open for pain. It opens for proximity to death."
"And yet he survived."
"That's what surprised us. He should have died. He was meant to. The gate needed that. But once your blood reached the center of the circle, the gate stabilized. It took your offering instead."
"And that offering was what?" I asked.
"Not your life," she said. "Your presence. It was enough."
She didn't speak again until I said something, which was good. Too many submissives mistake stillness for silence or silence for performance, but she stayed where I left her, present, poised, and quiet without instruction. I was beginning to believe she wasn't faking any of it.
"What's your name?"
"I don't have one," she said without hesitation. "I had one when I was created, but it was taken when I was marked."
That made sense. It explained the hollowness in her tone, not emotional emptiness, but structural removal. Her speech carried no ownership because she wasn't speaking for herself anymore, only for the function she had been trained into.
"You were trained without a name."
"Yes. We're given numbers. A name is earned. A master gives it."
That kind of system doesn't produce intimacy. It produces hierarchy. If she was telling the truth, and I already suspected she was, then this wasn't about control through desire or fear. It was conditioning designed before the subject was ever allowed to think for herself.
"I'm expected to name you."
"Yes, Master. When I've earned it."
There was no hint of self-pity or manipulation. She wasn't angling for approval.
I watched her eyes, still downcast, focused on the floor without drifting. Her posture was too practiced to be fearful, and too calm to be performative. She wasn't waiting for attention or affection. She was simply waiting for instruction, and that distinction mattered.
"Are you here because you want to be, or because something's binding you to me?"
"I'm bound," she said. "I didn't choose the path. I followed the tear."
I gave her the space to elaborate, and she took it.
"But I've never been excited to be," she continued. "I've served others before. I've been used, ordered, corrected, but I've never felt this."
That was the first answer that didn't sound rehearsed. Her tone didn't carry doubt, but it carried a friction she hadn't resolved. She was working through it the same way I was, watching it instead of feeling it.
"What is it you're feeling?"
"Overwhelmed," she said. "Not afraid. Just pulled toward you. It's not the bond. It isn't magical. I've served incubi, and even their pressure didn't feel like this. Something in you folds over everything else. You don't push. You settle. And I can't move away from it, even when I try."
I watched her for any trace of exaggeration. None. She wasn't trying to please me. She was trying to explain something she hadn't encountered before. That much I understood. Her discomfort wasn't fear. It was confusion inside discipline, and that's harder to fake.
"You're saying this isn't obedience."
"No. It's not obedience. It's alignment," she said. "It's like following your voice is correct. Not because it pleases me. Not because I was taught to. It feels predetermined."
There was no reverence in the way she said it. It wasn't worship. It was an observation. She was simply reporting what her body and mind were already doing in response to my presence.
"You've served incubi," I said, watching her reaction. "None of them made you feel this."
"No. They could force. They could take it. They could threaten. But none of them changed what I wanted."
"And I have."
"Yes," she said. "Not because you told me to. Because something in you replaces what I was thinking before. When you speak, I don't wonder if I should obey. I wonder what took so long to hear you."
I moved over to the bed, and her eyes followed me like she were a pet. Everything about her was fascinating. Her blue skin tone, the tail flicking from her back. How amazing she looked naked. I craved to feel that tongue on my cock again, perhaps test her gag reflex and see how well she takes a cock down her throat.
But I didn't. Sex was not a priority.
"Stand.'' I ordered her, and she obeyed instantly. Her quickness left me chuckling.
"Do you always obey this easy?''
"Yes Master. But with you, there's a nudge. A feeling that settles at my shoulders and makes this feel less like obligation and more like purpose. I'm excited to serve you.''
Excited to serve me. That alone made me impossibly harder.
"I have one basic rule you must follow: you don't leave this room unless with my permission. You do not meet others, don't get seen by others. Only me.''
"Yes Master.''
"Do you understand why?''
"Because I'm yours and you want to keep me all to yourself. Because human men go raging mad over my influence. Because I don't belong in your world, but you're kind enough to keep me. Own me.''
Fucking christ!
I moved to the corner of the room where I kept a small stack of towels, picked one up, then tossed it onto the chair. She watched me, still standing, still patient.
"How long are you bound to me?" I asked absentmindedly.
"Until your death, or when you're bored with me."
"What do you eat?"
"I can eat human food. Chew it. Swallow it. It doesn't taste like anything, and it doesn't do anything for me." She answers. "My true food is you, master. Your pleasure, your high, your orgasm.''
After a moment of thinking and silence, I finally settled on the one thing I was most curious about.
"Show me," I said in a small commanding voice.
"Show you what, Master?"
"Show me this influence you have. This power that drives men mad." She hesitated, gasped.
"Master, if I do that, if I let you feel even a fraction of what I am-you won't be able to think clearly. You'll only want one thing."
"And what's that?"
"To fuck me until neither of us can move."