Ron's response was a choked gasp, not words. I felt him swell inside me, a hot pulse of raw pleasure against my walls. His hands left my hips, one tangling in my wet white hair, the other gripping the back of my neck with almost painful force. He pulled me down for another brutal kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation.
"It was..." he finally managed, breaking the kiss with a shudder. "It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
My smile was sharp and predatory as I rolled my hips, taking him deeper. His confession, stripped raw by the drug's aftermath, was exactly what I wanted. This wasn't just about sex; it was about cementing his new reality, twisting his morality into a shape that suited me.
"Beautiful?" I purred, sinking my nails into his shoulders. "I was a monster, Ron. A predator covered in blood and carnage. And you loved every second of it."
"I did," he breathed, bucking up into me, matching my rhythm now. There was no hesitation left in him, only a desperate, burning need. "The way you moved... the power... I wanted..."
"Tell me," I demanded, my voice a low growl. I tightened my succubus tail around him, a possessive squeeze that made him whimper.
"I wanted to be the one you were killing for," he confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I wanted to be the one you fed with. I wanted to be yours. Completely."
"Good boy," I whispered, rewarding him by speeding up my pace. The water sloshed violently around us, a miniature storm in the stone tub.
"Because you are. You're mine to train, mine to command, mine to use. This body," I ground down hard, making him cry out, "is mine. This cock," I squeezed with my tail, "is mine. Your life is mine."
"Yes," he sobbed, his face buried against my slick breasts. "Yours. All yours."
The words sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through me, my inner walls fluttering greedily around his throbbing cock. I could feel every vein, every desperate twitch as he fought not to spill too soon.
His lips found my nipple without any invitation, latching on with a desperate, suckling heat that drew a genuine moan from my throat. Not a performance. Not a calculated tool. A real, raw sound that echoed off the steamy stone walls.
I rolled my hips in a slow, torturous grind, letting the thick head of his cock drag against that sensitive spot deep inside me. My succubus tail tightened further around the base of his shaft and balls, pulsing with rhythmic squeezes that milked him without mercy.
"You wanted to be the one I killed for," I murmured, threading my fingers into his wet hair and wrenching his head back. His mouth left my breast with a slick pop, and I stared down at him—flushed, half-delirious, throat exposed. Beautiful in the way a sharpened blade is beautiful. "Then earn it."
Something ignited behind his eyes.
His hands dropped to my hips and slammed me down.
"HAA!" I gasped. An actual gasp, the kind that catches before it escapes. The stretch was sudden and complete, the kind that blurs the edges of thought. He did it again and again, setting a brutal, relentless rhythm that I hadn't been leading—he was.
My white hair stuck in wet ribbons across my cheeks, my breasts swinging with each impact, water erupting in sheets around us. I was not riding him; we were fucking, and he was now at the helm.
"Ahhh—" The sound that came out of me was low and throaty, nothing like my usual controlled purring. "There it is."
"You said I'm yours," Ron rasped, jaw tight, eyes locked on mine with a focus he hadn't shown all night. Not the glassy, drug-soaked worship from before. Something harder. More dangerous. "So take what's yours."
I laughed.
A real, breathless laugh that made my pussy clamp around him.
He faltered for half a second.
"Don't stop," I gasped out. "Don't you dare stop."
And he didn't.
Ron moved like he was finally remembering all the training.
Every brutal, meticulous session I'd put him through, the footwork drills, the breath control, the exercises designed to build endurance that would outlast any opponent. He'd hated me for half of them. Cursed me under his breath on the third hour of a squat hold, jaw locked, thighs burning. I'd watched him from across the room and smiled.
Now I was reaping what I'd sown.
PAT! PAT! PAT!
His thrusts came in controlled, devastating intervals, each one timed with a precision that shouldn't have been possible for a man running on an adrenaline crash and pure lust. He found the angle almost immediately, a slight tilt of his hips that dragged his cock across that deep, aching spot with every stroke, and he stayed there, relentless and methodical, like breaking me was just another objective on tonight's mission.
"Ngh—" The sound tore out of me before I could catch it. My nails found his shoulders and dug in hard.
"There," he said quietly. Not a question. A statement. He'd cataloged my reaction, filed it, and was now exploiting it without mercy.
'I made him too well.'
My tail lashed in the water, losing its deliberate grip for the first time all night, coiling and uncoiling against his thighs with no particular strategy behind it—just sensation, just reaction. I tried to regain control, to squeeze him again, to slow him down, to remind him exactly who was in charge here.
He anticipated me.
Before I could apply pressure, Ron hooked an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him with a wet smack of skin, and flipped me over.
The world spun, and suddenly my chest was pressed into the cool, smooth stone of the bath's edge, my ass held high above the waterline, slick and exposed.
"Ron—" I started.
"Stay," he commanded.
The word was quiet, but it held the weight of all the hours he'd spent learning to obey. Now he was turning it back on me.
I stayed.
Not because he could make me. Not because the command carried any real authority over a creature that had broken demon warlords and fed on the nightmares of men who made Ron look like a candle flame beside a bonfire.
I stayed because I was curious.
And because, if I was being completely honest with myself, my succubus or lust Nephalem nature was demanding I let this happen.
His hands ran up the backs of my thighs slowly, deliberately, like he was mapping territory he intended to keep. The cool air of the bathhouse raised goosebumps across my exposed skin despite the heat still rolling off the water. My cheek pressed against the stone edge, my white hair fanned out in soaked ribbons, and I watched him from the corner of my eye.
Ron was looking at me the way I usually looked at things I was about to consume.
"You've been running this entire night," he said. His palms settled on my hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of my spine with a firmness that sent a thin, electric line straight up my back. "Running the mission. Running me. Running the drug."
"And?" I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. This was... new. The dynamic had inverted, and I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about it. My tail flicked and coiled around my leg, a nervous tic I hadn't indulged in for centuries.
"I don't want to run anymore," he said simply.
Then he entered me again.
"Ahhh~..."
The angle was different. Deeper. With my hips angled up and my chest pinned against the stone, every thrust landed with a precision that made the previous position feel like a warm-up.
My fingernails found a crack in the stone and dug in. I was not just experiencing pleasure; I was cataloging it. Measuring the width of him, the friction, the way my inner walls had to stretch to accommodate him when he drove in with that much force.
I was using Precision Incision.... Hehehe... even on myself.
"Look at you, Sister Azariel," he murmured. His hands left my hips, sliding up my spine, tracing the line of my shoulder blades. "So perfect. Even when you're about to break."
The word "break" was the key.
I was not going to break.
But the sheer stubborn audacity of him saying it—of him thinking it—made my muscles clench hard around him.
He felt it.
"Ah," he breathed. "There. Right there."
He knew he'd found a weakness. Not in my body, but in my pride. The idea that he could make me lose control, that he could be the one to shatter my composure, was a thought that excited him more than anything else.
His pace quickened.
PAT! PAT! PAT!
The sound of our bodies meeting was wet, obscene. The stone was growing warm beneath my cheek. My breath was coming in short, sharp bursts, and I could feel my control slipping.
Ron was close. I could feel it in the way his thrusts became more erratic, the way his breathing hitched. He was holding back, trying to prolong the moment, to draw out the pleasure, to make this last as long as possible.
But I had other plans.
I wanted him to break.
I wanted him to lose control completely.
I wanted him to empty himself inside me and know, without a doubt, that he was mine.
With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and let out a guttural roar.
"SISTER AZARIEL!"
His release was hot and copious, a flood of warmth that filled me completely. My body convulsed, a wave of pleasure crashing over me so intense it almost hurt. My vision went white for a moment, my mind going blissfully blank.
My fingers had cracked the stone edge of the bath.
I looked down at the fracture lines spreading from my knuckles like a small, private ruin and felt something that might have been embarrassment, if I still did that.
Ron collapsed forward, his chest against my back, both of us draped half-in, half-out of the cooling water. His breath came in ragged, wrecked intervals against the back of my neck. His heartbeat hammered against my spine—fast, unsteady, human. The aftermath of the drug and the exertion, no doubt.
Neither of us spoke for a long moment. The only sounds were the water lapping against the sides of the tub and the distant hum of the city outside the window, a world away from the small, steam-slicked space we had just torn apart.
"You cracked my bath," I said finally.
"You cracked my ribs last Thursday," Ron replied, without moving.
"Hehehe..." I chuckled. "Fair enough."
I could feel him softening inside me, but he didn't pull out. He just lay there, a heavy, warm weight against my back. My succubus tail, which had gone lax during the peak of it, now slowly, deliberately coiled around one of his thighs. A possessive, lazy gesture.
"Now, since you had your fun," I murmured, pushing myself up slightly, forcing him to slip out of me. The feeling of emptiness was surprisingly sharp.
"It's my turn."
...
[Greetings everyone, I hope you're all doing fine.
I would like to announce that I'll be taking a week off to have a vacation with my family and, at the same time, see a doctor about a back injury.
It will start on Saturday, August 22nd, and end on the 29th.
Thank you all for the amazing support, and have a nice day!]