Bliss Ch. 08

Through the eye of Mischief's memory, Penitent saw the wizard's study, then the wizard. Wychar. He had let his name slip. He was obviously an amateur. His summoning circle was textbook. Textbook perfect, and textbook basic. He had successfully bound her- Mischief -to his will, but there were none of the personal variations of a practiced summoner. This had obviously been part of a general course of study for him, and probably only the first time he'd done it on his own.

In all likelihood, it would be his last summoning circle as well. The blindfold was there, just as predicted by their conversation. This detail showed how truly uninformed this particular spell-slinger was. Penitent felt fingers, her own fingers, burying themselves in the fleshy lips of her swollen vulva, but realized that she was feeling Mischief's memory of the action. It was hard to distinguish her own self from Mischief's memory of herself, but it didn't matter, she realized, for nothing the other succubus had done would clash very much from what she would have done in her place. So she felt as if she were masturbating herself in front of the blinded mage, and while most of her mind simply enjoyed the experience, part of it was cognizant of the fact that it was not her experience, but someone else's.

Self-stimulation was a tool that succubi did not often employ; Mischief's use seemed to be one of the few cases in which it made sense. A succubus couldn't reach climax through her own hand, just as a person cannot tickle themselves. It could arouse them, though that was almost never necessary, and that was it. Using it as a means to spread her musk through the air, however, was a clever trick, though Penitent felt she would have reached the same conclusion. She could see the twitch of the mage's cheek as he caught the compelling scent wafted in his direction. His arousal had started shortly after he had began to give out orders to the succubus; it was the arousal brought by feelings of power, a form of eroticism with which Mischief was particularly familiar. Then came the physical response of being exposed to her supernaturally alluring fragrance. His twitching cheek was the moment of doubt in which an idea was seeded, one that was deliciously, gut-wrenchingly sweet, a notion to play the dangerous game of sporting with the succubus once her primary mission was finished. Penitent could read all of this even with half his face covered. If it had been her, with her hunger, she likely would have licked her lips and purred with lust, but Mischief wasn't quite so desperate as that.

"Yes, Master," she said, pouring all of her sultry Mischief into her voice. Those two simple words solidified the idea, and the wizard was as good as dead. She had barely listened to the orders; magical binding would carry her through the mission regardless of whether she paid any attention. In her stolen body, she started down the hall. Penitent was treated to the sights, sounds, and smells of the wizard's keep, not that she or any succubus would ever care. The sight of the wizard, his weakness of flesh and his simple lust, had filled her with want, and though she knew another waited in a room not too far away, the knowledge of a man who was almost certainly hers to take, but who would require waiting, made her hungry groin weep its frustration. The feeling was so strong that Penitent realized it was because they both felt exactly the same at that moment, a doubling of emotion and sexual greed. A small part of her mind noted that she really was getting aroused.

Her stolen body was becoming an annoying prison, a shape that could help her catch a man, but not get her what she really wanted. This was the frustration known to all succubi. Some called it a Rule, others simply a Limit, but all hated the need for wearing other bodies. All demons were cursed creatures, and a restless groin and endless hunger were the fate of Penitent, Mischief, and all their sisters.

She came to the room of the wizard's brother, Mychal. He was a man. To a succubus, that was all that mattered. It was, beyond the perfect shapes they usually took, one of their most appealing attributes. He had two arms and two legs, a face, all the usual bits, and she could see in his sleeping tunic that he had the only part she truly cared about, and in a moment, she saw that it was in working order. That hardly mattered; a man of ninety years might be coaxed to performance by the Infernal experts of sex. Mischief/Penitent stepped up and embraced him, a sweet kiss planted on his lips.

"You're early," he murmured, breaking the kiss and nipping at her ear.

"No, you're dreaming," Mischief replied in her own voice, a voice of pure sex.

"You went with the 'You're dreaming' line?"

Back in reality, Mischief giggled, breaking the vision for just a moment.

"I stick to the classics."

Penitent missed the man's reply; it hardly mattered, as it revealed little that anyone needed to know. His reaction had broken the geas to stay in the form of the wizard's wife.

"Is it me you want, lover? In your dream, I could be anyone..."

"Even were you not a vision of loveliness, I would still prefer to cuckold my pompous ass of a brother," Mychal chuckled.

Mischief puffed out her breasts, making them match the size of her normal form.

"Are you sure?" she inquired with all the innocent sweetness of a girl of ten summers, even while flexing her bosom in the most salacious manner possible. Mychal swallowed, lust making his throat scratch.

"My golden locks look far too innocent, I think."

Mischief darkened her hair as she spoke, and the man indeed seemed to find it a positive change.

"I think in your dreams, you can forget your brother and his irritating ways... you deserve the wanton slut you truly desire..."

Lush curves replaced the graceful, slender body of Wychar's spouse, and her face lost its regal hauteur, naked lust replacing it with ease. Except for the obvious demonic parts, Mischief was in her true form.

Finally, nearly completing her transformation, her clothes simply fell off without needing so much as a touch.

Mychal encircled her once more with his arms. He still was not being as aggressive as Mischief wanted, so she writhed against him, bumping her naked crotch into his clothed manhood. He lifted her bodily, and she wrapped her legs around him, the animal sounds of lust that she had repressed since Wychar's study finally given voice. She found herself on the bed, and she released the man long enough for him to doff the offending tunic. He thrust into her immediately, recognizing that there was no need for tact or pretense. Her pussy flexed and bucked against his rod of flesh, a velvety soft massage with Hellish urgency. He spurted within her in seconds, paused a moment, then began thrusting again. This time he lasted a minute, then flooded her hungry innards again. Mychal then came a third time, and Mischief then decided to begin drawing out his soul. To Mychal, a feeling of draining was the only negative in what was the most erotic experience of his life. It felt like orgasm, but the pulses of spurting fluid didn't stop.

When he was too weak to resist, Mischief's wings, horns, and tail sprouted from her body, revealing her true form. She disengaged from him, though she was not yet satisfied. She had a more intricate plan.

"Now you know what I am. I'm leaving you here to go and consume your brother's soul."

Mychal looked visibly drained. His body seemed to have lost substance, and he was too weak to make any response.

"You might be thinking of escape right now, but you won't be able to."

Mischief took a moment to lick a little life back into Mychal's member. It might only take a few more moments of stimulation to bring him to the point of no return, causing him to jet his soul and semen into her until he was no more than a limp rag.

"I will give you back just enough energy so that when that trollop you stole form your brother shows up, you will be able to return her embrace. While you dribble out your pathetic little load into her dirty snatch, try not to weep with the memory of how it felt with me. I want all your fluids. You will let me suck you dry when I return, because after fucking her, you'll realize no mortal woman will ever match me."

Mischief smiled, then continued.

"You're going to Hell, mortal, and you're going to let me take you there, because my cunt is the most pleasurable way to go."

She cradled the drained man's head to her chest.

"Here's that little bit of energy I promised."

For a few brief moments, Mychal was suckled just as Penitent would be later.

"Taste good? You should like it. It's a little bit of you, after all."

Mischief turned and left the room, ostensibly to report her mission's success to her Wychar, but she and Mychal knew it would be his death.