She lowered herself.

Both nipples, pressing toward his mouth.

He opened his mouth.

Her nipple found his lips.

He ’sucked.’

The milk came in a full, hot, immediate flood — not a trickle, not a bead, a ’mouthful,’ warm and rich and dense, flooding his mouth in one long pull as his lips sealed and his tongue pressed flat and his throat worked to swallow it all.

Rihana’s back arched completely.

Her hands flew to his hair.

"AAAHH~— MASTER—!! IT’S— TOO STRONG—!! HNGH~!!"

The suction was relentless. He drank like he’d decided to empty her and was prepared to spend however long that took.

Her milk ran from the corner of his mouth, down his jaw, onto the mat.

He pulled to the other nipple.

She couldn’t speak.

Her body shook above him — every pull on her nipple traveling directly to her pussy, the milk-draw pulling sensation from her core, her thighs on either side of his head clenching, her tears running — not from pain, from the ’specific, overwhelming intimacy of being drunk from while he was looking at her.’

Below and around him — Gwen and Lira rode the scissors.

Both of them crying. Both of them moaning. Their combined voice filling the hut like the inside of a bell.

PAH! PAH! PAH!

"OUNGH~!! HIIEEK~!! AAANGHH~!!"

PAH! PAH!

"MASTERRR~!! IT’S INSIDE~!! HNGH~!! AAAHH~!!"

Lira’s milk had begun falling forward with every bounce — her nipples spraying thin arcs onto Gwen’s back, onto the mat, onto Viktor’s stomach — and Gwen’s milk was running continuously down her own chest and dripping from her nipples onto his thighs as she rode.

Three women leaking.

Three women crying.

Three women’s voices stacked in the small hut in continuous, overlapping, perfectly non-synchronized sound.

Viktor drank.

Rihana’s milk ran down his throat warm and sweet, and below him two pussies worked his cock in alternating greed, and his tail vibrated between them both, and the purple aura breathed slow and permanent around all four of them.

He pulled back from Rihana’s nipple just far enough to speak.

The milk still ran from his lip.

"This is heaven."

He said it simply.

The way a man says a fact.

Rihana looked down at him.

Her tears were still running. Her nipples were still streaming. Her thick body was shaking above him with the continuous, helpless response of a woman being drunk from by the thing she’d chosen.

Her Siren voice wrapped around the word and made it land everywhere.

"Indeed it is, master."

PAH! PAH! PAH!

"AAANGHH~!! HIIEEK~!! OUNGH~!!"

PAH! PAH!

"MASTERRR~!! I’M—!! AGAIN~!! AAAHH~!! HNGH~!!"

PAAAH!

"AAAAAHHHHH~!!!"

"HN~— AHN~— AHN~—"

"OUNGHH~!! F-FULL~!! TOO FULL~!! MASTERRR~!!"

"AHN~— MASTER~— PLEASE~— DON’T STOP~—"

PAH! PAH! PAH!

The hut breathed.

Milk and moaning and the slow, purple light of a man who had stopped pretending to be human — all of it soaking into the walls, rising through the roof in invisible threads of demonic energy that climbed the night air like smoke.

For miles in every direction, the forest slept.

Except one eye was open.

THE CAPITAL — QUEEN’S PALACE

High Tower of the Archmage

The crystal was six inches across and perfectly spherical and it sat on a stand of black iron in the center of a room that smelled of sulfur and old paper.

Inside it — moving, breathing, ’obscenely alive’ — three women.

Three women, milk-soaked, seed-soaked, screaming and begging and riding a man whose purple eyes burned through the crystal’s surface like lit coals.

Archmage Drevian watched.

His jaw was so tight the tendons in his neck were visible.

His hand was between his thighs.

Had been between his thighs for the past twenty minutes.

Nothing was happening.

His teeth met. A slow, grinding pressure.

"It’s him."

The words came out flat and cold and covered something much hotter underneath.

He sat forward. His knuckle went white on the crystal’s stand.

"Belial."

The name cracked across the room like a thrown stone.

The demon materialized from the shadow beside the bookshelf.

Not dramatically — Belial did nothing dramatically. He simply arrived, the way old, practiced things arrive, as if he’d always been standing there and the room had simply chosen to reveal him.

He was broad and dark and carried the specific aesthetic of something that had been dangerous for so long it had gotten bored of performing it. A single curved horn on the left side of his head. Eyes the color of old blood. A scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw in a line too clean to be accidental.

He looked at the crystal.

At the three women inside it.

At the man between them.

His expression: ’interested.’

Drevian’s expression: ’murderous.’

"Kill that man," Drevian said. "Now."

Belial looked at him.

Then looked at his hand between his own thighs.

"He had that succubus." Drevian’s voice rose slightly. "How does a nobody in a mountain hut have a succubus? How does he have THREE women?"

Belial rubbed his forehead with two fingers. The gesture of a very old demon managing a very familiar conversation.

"Strange." He looked at the crystal again. More carefully this time. His dark eyes narrowed. "He’s leaking demonic energy."

"What?"

Belial moved toward the crystal. Stood over it. The purple light from inside the sphere caught the underside of his face.

"That man." He tilted his head. "He’s leaking demonic energy. Not succubus energy.’ His ’own."

Drevian stood.

He crossed to the crystal in four strides and looked into it with the focus of a man trying to find a specific detail in a crowded scene — past the woman riding the cock, past the milk falling, past the two slim bodies grinding in the scissors — and found the man’s face.

The horns.

The purple eyes.

The aura that breathed around his skin like something permanent.

Drevian’s expression changed.

Not to fear. To something colder than fear.

"Sex demon," Belial said, before he could ask. "Incubus lineage. Looks like he’s in the middle of an evolution cycle." A pause. The sounds coming from the crystal — the moaning, the slapping, the continuous, overlapping cries of three women — filled the silence. "A young one. Probably only recently manifested."

Drevian looked at the crystal for a long moment.

At the three women. Their bodies. The way they moved toward the man even when he wasn’t directing them.

At his own hand.

Which still felt nothing.

The specific, silent, castrating fact of it — sitting in his lower belly like a cold stone — made the muscles in his jaw flex once.

"Send assassins," he said. "To the hut. Mages with them."

"That would work," Belial said, with the tone of someone confirming a reasonable course of action. "He’s mid-evolution, mid-session. Stamina will be split. It’s the optimal window."

"Then do it."

Neither of them moved immediately.

Because the crystal was still producing sound.

"MASTERRR~!! AHN~!! PLEASE~!! DON’T STOP~!!"

A woman’s voice — broken and desperate and absolutely, unmistakably ’wanting’ — floated out of the sphere and sat in the room.

Drevian looked at the portrait on the far wall.

He’d hung it himself. Three years ago. Quietly, without explanation, during a brief period when the queen had briefly been present at a state function and he’d been close enough to see the specific way her formal gown pulled across the front.

The portrait was a reproduction — official, painted for records — but he’d requested it through a ministry clerk with enough misdirection that no one had noted the request.

The queen.

Tall. Dark-haired. Full in the way that court portraits tried to minimize and failed. The artist had tried to reduce the weight of her chest, the curve of her hips, and had only succeeded in making both more obvious by the effort.

Drevian breathed.

His hand moved.

Still nothing.

His teeth met again.

"Belial."

"Mhm."