A Prince's Pride

"Oh." She nearly stumbled, this time, but managed to maintain the rhythm. Her fingers danced and tickled along the small of her back. Gods, she was so lithe and flexible... never breaking pace, even though he could smell the effect he was having on the fey harlot from here. "Oh, Master, you're just... s-so powerful! I can't resist you! No one can!"

"No one," echoed Silver in a whine.

"Can't resist," whispered Rose, her tongue slurring her words as she lapped over his dripping cock head. His breath caught, and he had to ease them down to the base of his cock, where he was less sensitive, so he could recover a little. He couldn't actually make them stop, though. That would be to admit that he was close to losing control and coming, and he simply refused to do that!

To distract himself from the licking, he tried to focus on what he did control: the adorably desperate fey who was now right in front of him, her face bright red as her ass swayed an endless rhythm. It jiggled slightly with every shake. He wanted to reach out and grope it—hell, he could see the juices dripping down her inner thigh, and longed to pull her onto him and just fuck her molten—but no, no, he wasn't done yet.

Besides, if he tried to fuck her right now, he might... might...

"Never have I seen someone so effortlessly defeat a fey," Elle whispered. "Just... you just put me right in my place, my Prince. I-I can't... can't..." Back and forth. Side to side. "And so clever. So cruel and wicked."

He smiled slyly. His lust grew with every lick, with every sway, every word of praise. He bathed in it as she stared down at him, her smile wide, her eyes shining with admiration.

He sent another wave of lust out and watched her knees bend slightly—but not buckle.

"And," Elle gasped, barely maintaining her rhythm, "I... I can't... can't resist your cock, Master! I can't!"

"Mmno," slurred Silver.

"Never," mumbled Rose.

He was practically drooling as she danced for him. For him. She was right before him, offering herself to him for the taking, like the ripest, juiciest peach on the branch to be plucked. Worshiping his cock with her words.

"Of course you can't," he murmured, his breath coming in heavy. She smelled so good. "Can't... resist it."

"No, no, no," she whispered. "You're so... so..."

Slowly, the mothgirls started to rise back up toward the head of his cock, lavishing their love over it. His cock bobbed up and down.

And he smiled smugly as the nymph's eyes followed that motion.

Not that he was really looking at her eyes.

But he could hear her voice growing softer, weaker, more kittenish as her ass swayed in time with his cock's bobbing, in time with the mothgirls' licking, their moans and slurps and kisses and sweet sucking. He could hear that catch in her voice.

He let another little flow of lust energy—just a trickle—out into the room, making her stumble over her words.

"... s-so big," she finally finished, as her ass swung its sensual arc, back and forth. Closer and closer. "Oh, my Prince, how m-mighty you are. Your... and your..."

He grinned, knowing how desperately she was trying to think of praise and flattery that didn't involve his irresistible bullcock. This was what he savored. The nymph who claimed to be the best dancer in the world—and gods, but she was certainly good at holding a rhythm, holding his attention—was now practically drooling to take him inside her. Perhaps even to breed her, as only a demon could breed a High Fey like her. Nymphs were beyond fertility for the mortal races, but for their archenemies the fiends, there was no more perfect vessel.

And she was so close to submitting to that. Done in by her foolish pride. He sighed happily, bucking upwards towards her as her swinging, jiggling ass came nearer. Not that he would breed her—such crude indulgence was fit for a petty demonic strumpet, a succubus of Gluttony or some whimpering flitterfiends of Lust.

Marius knew that true power came from total self-control. To breed this luscious nymph, to fill her with his seed until she was little more than a brainlessly horny vessel for the Gates of Hell themselves, would be exquisite—but it would lessen his might, his mastery.

It was being on the edge, holding himself in perpetual lust and denying himself even a moment's loss of control, that made him the Prince of Delights. He beamed at her pathetic state, nodding encouragingly even as the mothgirls lavished their long, wet tongues over his engorged, sensitive, dripping cock.

And so no matter how sweetly she squealed and begged, he would have to deny her. And that would be all the sweeter.

"And s-so mighty," she was whimpering, and she was such a lovely thing when she was staring over her shoulder at his cock in such helpless need, "to have... have conquered me, my Prince... my... my Master..."

Her ass swayed with every few words, a wordless mating song. Back and forth. Around and round. Though she was faced away from him, her ass was pointed right at his cock as it jiggled and swung to and fro in almost playful arcs. It was even lovelier when it was bathed in flattering pretty pink light. Pretty purple light.

The dopterines moaned and lapped at his dribbling, drooling shaft. His eyelids grew heavier as he lost himself to pleasure. More pleasure meant she would submit faster, overwhelmed by his rising lust. And he wanted her to be his. Not later, not soon, but now.

Enough games.

He patted his knee limply, still watching her dance. He tried to speak—to gently tease her, to invite her to be 'conquered' more fully—but the lights flashed around him in perfect, incessant throbbing rhythm. Words were too hard. Words weren't needed, anyway.

So instead, his tail snaked up and played along her thighs, tickling her, eliciting a startled squeak. His tail thrummed slightly, drawing her closer... closer...

She slid into his lap with a whimper, her back to him. He admired the beautiful lines of her back and shoulder, the way her pretty green pigtails bounced against her shoulderblades.

At first she seemed content to just rest upon his knee, but his tail kept pulling her, and she slowly sliding upwards—her juices dripping over his leg—until her curvy hips pinned his erect cock to his belly. "I... I..."

She kept wriggling, in time with her own rhythm, as the dopterines fell to kissing his sides, kissing his arms, licking every inch of available skin, drinking in his intoxicating pheromones.

"Good girl," he slurred, caressing her soft, smooth body, groping her ass possessively. "You'll be... my good girl, mm?"

"Mm." She gave a squeak as his fingers slipped between her legs, continuing to wriggle and bounce lightly. Gods, she was so... so warm, and soft, and gorgeous... "M-Master..."

"Do you like my cock?" He kissed her neck, teasingly, as his fingers delicately tickled her clit. Though she was facing away from him, he felt her shiver, hard her breath slipping out of parted lips. "Have you..." He thrust slightly with his fingers, eliciting a throaty gasp. "... ever needed one so desperately, sweet Elle?"

"N-No," she whimpered, starting to bounce slightly. He watched her ass cheeks caress his cock, and he longed for her to undress completely, to rise up and take him inside her. "No, Master! No. N-None so perfect. So big. So b-beautiful. P-perfect for a slutty wife like me."

He was breathing heavily. He couldn't fully control the lust waves anymore—it felt too good to just let them gush out of him, to not worry about it, to let her and his mothgirls (who were currently taking his hands away from her, kissing and suckling his fingers so sweetly, their fingers stroking his neck, his cheeks) just get hornier and hornier as they absorbed his rising tide of lust.

The hornier Elle got, the more she needed him. The more she needed him, the more she would praise him, beg for him, be the lust-stupid, slutty wife he needed her to be for him, so he could show her how wonderful it was to be his wife, show her how nice it was to be a trophy, show everyone how beautiful and perfect his wives were... the best, sexiest, most gorgeous dancer in the world, begging for his cock...

"Well, then..." he purred, kissing her neck even more tenderly, "my slutty wife must need a new name. How about... Clover." He wanted to caress her green hair, but Silver was sucking his thumb so sweetly as her fingers tickled like fine silk threads over his arm, and Rose was licking his hand so adorably as she seemed to hold his arm tighter...

"Oh." Clover whimpered. "Yes. Oh, yes. Clover." She twisted to face him with incredible flexibility, her eyes wide as her plump rear continued wriggling slightly against his shaft. "C-Call me Clover, Master, oh, please, yes! I'm just your hot, horny housewife, r-ready to be bred." She kissed him on the cheek.

He smiled slyly. "Of course you are," he cooed, as she whined and squirmed. He wouldn't actually fuck her, of course—at least, he couldn't breed her, he wasn't allowed. But to let her think he would... where was the harm in that? It would make her so happy, so grateful. "You'll be my lovely, lovely prize, won't you? And you need to be the..."

He was briefly cut off as Clover kissed him, moaning against him, her bright green eyes shining like a field of fresh grass. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, wrestling with his forked tongues. She tasted so good. So sweet. Like buttercups.

It was then, as he moaned into her plump, luscious lips, that he longed to grab her by the ass, to bring her up and impale her, to fuck her silly fey brains out until she was ready to give him everything, until he was ready to give her everything she ever needed... but he couldn't.

He couldn't come. He desperately tried to remind himself of that. The edge was what made him better than other, weaker demons, not to mention this hydrangea-haired harlot. His cum was precious, his pleasure endless, his cock a godly might, because he never, ever let himself come. No matter how badly he needed it. No matter how badly... she needed it.

She needed to come so bad, too. He could smell it—could breathe it in, even, as she kissed him so hungrily, so passionately, that he wanted to put her in her place and give her everything she could ever think to ask for and more besides, his pathetic, needy, whimpering, beautiful, dominant, perfect wife. Her juices dripped over his imprisoned cock, making him tingle, making him need to come more than he had in years.

She pulled back from the kiss and giggled, wiggling her hips. "Oh, Master," she cooed, batting her eyelashes coquettishly, her eyes such a pretty green against the pink-and-violet flashes from all around him, "I need you! Need you... need you to own me." She kissed him on the cheek.

Marius smirked, even as he felt the dopterines closing in, kissing and licking his neck, their moans, whines and whispers—make her yours, make us yours, such a perfect, powerful, throbbing, needy cock—an almost unbearable siren song immersing him. "Why?" he purred, wishing he could stroke and tease her some more, just finger her until she was a stupid, gasping, squealing mess of a slave, if only his arms weren't so sluggish and heavy, held fast by, by, um... "Don't I own you already?"

A mischievous glint appeared in the fey's eyes.

She turned to face him, spinning in his lap with the skill of a trained dancer, and suddenly he found she was straddling him. She held herself above him with the limberness of a ballet dancer, her gaze smoldering. "Why, Marius," she purred, "what do you think?"

Marius was briefly speechless. Her hands held his cock just outside her cunt, brushing along the lips, letting him feel just how hot she was, how wet and slick and tight... and her fingers were stroking the head, milking it with tiny little teasing squeezes...

Pink lights flashed and fluttered unbearably around him as his lips parted, almost in a question. The chorus of dopterine whispers grew more insistent. She's teasing you. Silly slut. Need to put her. In her place. Teach the breeding slut a lesson.

He was barely even registering the whispers as he stared into the shimmering pink-and-violet lights, the green glow...

Need it. Need her. Needs you.

Marius realized he was drooling, and so was his cock, as her fingers slowly, steadily teased him. Stroked him. Milked him.

And she was so wet...

"I think," he mumbled, as his tail rose up to snake around her narrow waist, "you might need a lesson."

"Mm?" She blinked.

And he marshaled all his pent-up lust, released it in a wave of pure desire, and lifted her up by the waist.

Her eyes widened, and her lower lip trembled. The dopterines were moaning, their whispers giving way to animalistic whines and cries of need.

And with a smirk, he leaned in, kissed her on the lips, and brought her down onto his cock.

As he thrust upward into her, Marius was overwhelmed with pleasure—dangerous, delicious, intoxicating pleasure. He gasped, overcome by how tight she was, how slick her sheathe was, how ready she was—

Clover was crying out softly into the kiss as she wrapped her arms around him, repositioned slightly, and began to bounce in his lap, rising up and down on his cock with the silken grip only his sweet, perfect Clover could provide. She rolled her hips, milking him, as he moaned and pulled back, panting for breath.

He was immersed in flashing pink and purple lights, immersed in the delicious, intoxicating moans of his faithful mothgirls as they kissed and clutched at him. He stared into the nymph's clear green eyes as she beamed down at him.

"Master!" she cooed in mock wonder, wiggling playfully, "your cock is so, soooo... sensitive."

Sensitive, moaned the dopterines in his ears. Neeeeedy.

Oh. He gasped and shook, his face burning, sweaty and breathless—to the dopterine's delight, judging by their licks. Oh. It felt so—it was too much! He shook his head, struggling to find words. He couldn't. Couldn't.

"What's wrong, Master?" Clover said in a sugary-sweet tone, batting her eyelashes. "Are you... losing control?"

His eyes widened. No. No, never. He shook his head defiantly, forcing a smug smile. He had to show her he still had control. He could never lose control! He was Marius, Prince of... of... Pleasure? No, that wasn't right. He blinked rapidly.

So much pleasure. Nothing but pleasure. Pleasure. Pleasure for Master. Pleasure.

It was just so hard to think about anything but coming. And he could not let himself come.

He had to make her come first. He seized on that, and though whatever was binding his arms and legs to the chair held fast, the demon lord bucked eagerly desperately, determined. He would fuck her brains out! Fuck his hot little wife senseless, fuck her silly, breed her—no, not breed her—

She squealed in pleasure, and he grinned, feeling sparkles of pride placating his fears. So easy. "Oh, M-Master," she managed, clinging to him, "n-no one... no one can resist you!"

He smirked, and let his wife bathe him in kisses, along with the whispering dopterines. Good Master. Strong Master. So much control. You have us. Make her yours. Yes. They were under control once again. His.

And it felt so good. He let her kiss him as the lights glittered and spun and bathed him in pink. He bucked upward, but all he really had to do, he realized, was let her fuck him. Let her bounce and wriggle. She would do what he wanted. She was a good wife. The perfect wife.

He barely noticed when she came, except that with her crying ecstasy came more praise, and she got slicker, hotter, tighter. "Good boy!" she moaned, and he moaned back. "M-My good... big, strong... bull."

He glowed with the praise. Yes. He was in control. He was in control of her. Her bull. Her Master. Her husband.

Her pussy contracted around him, and he barely held the orgasm at bay. He was in control. He smiled dreamily up at her as she giggled and cooed praise, praise that melted into wordless pleasure for him—just like the mothgirls' endless whispers. His wife would keep him happy.

She was so good at keeping him happy.

Because he was a good, good husband, wasn't he?

She held him close, riding him, and he beamed as she rode him to a second orgasm, and a third. Her praise and flattery melted him like butter. More. He always needed more.

And as she leaned in to whisper in his ear, he shivered with bliss.

"Come for me," she whispered, and gave a sharp wriggle that made him whimper. "Come for me. Please, please, Master, you must come."

"N-o..." he mumbled, but he was drowned out by moans and whispers, praise and licks...

"Yes, Master," she purred, and he blinked rapidly. "That's right. You—you want to come for me, don't you? You want to breed me." Her voice dropped to a husky sigh. "Breed me stupid."

Hadn't he already? Marius felt so confused. His cock pulsed needily inside her, encouraged higher and higher by the pink lights, the whispers, the praise, and her sweet, unbearable scent...

"Give me your cum," she cried, bouncing faster, faster, "Give me your cum! Make me yours! Breed me, husband! Breed me! Breed me like the almighty stud you are!"

His breath grew shallower, shallower, as his mind grew stupider, needier, his cock throbbed, his breath caught as she leaned in, and she and the mothgirls cooed in unison...

"Be a good Master."

And he shivered, whimpered, and came.

His arrival was the stickiest, most overwhelming tidal wave of bliss he'd ever felt. The demon lord squealed and screamed, thrashing like a leaf in a hurricane, bucking wildly—though his arms and legs remained pinned down. He had never felt such pleasure, such intoxicating bliss. Never. Never.

And they were pouring in more, praising him. Praising him for being a good stud, a good, horny husband, happy to let his slaves pour pleasure into him endlessly.

And she kept bouncing, gasping, moaning as she came a fourth time—milking every last drop of cum from him as she promised, her voice weak, that she would make him a good boy, the best boy, and hadn't he always wanted to be the best?

The best lust-stupid, obedient boytoy in the world.

He stared into her eyes helplessly as she rose, and the dopterines practically poured into his lap, lavishing him with kisses and cooing encouragement as Silver took him inside her and started to rock her hips, as Rose kissed him, silencing his cries, and he heard the nymph whispering in his ear...

"Good boy."

And with that, he started to come all over again, and pleasure swept the demon lord into a sea of pink bliss.

~ ~ ~ ~

Chanterelle gave a low, satisfied sigh, watching the foul succubus thrash and moan and squirm helplessly, his hands tied with dopterine silk to the chair, his eyes reflecting the swirling pink and purple lights as the mothgirls began to weave complex illusions around him.

She licked her lips and turned away as she heard the door open. A short, slightly stocky person entered, their skin a dusky gray. Two nubby red horns rose from their head, poking from a mass of curly dark hair. They were dressed in a simple monk's habit.

"Is it done?" South, the founder of the Cloistered Monastery to the north, asked.

Chanterelle smirked up at the abbess. "It will be. You were right, little cambion—that silly boy was positively begging for it."

"That is not the wordage I employed." South blinked.

Elle rolled her eyes with a smile. As one of the fey willing to really get involved in this whole Horny War disaster, she'd found South to be one of the most interesting mortals she'd met, a mock cambion who believed true arcane power lay in asceticism and self-denial. Elle couldn't deny the results, even if they seemed a lot less fun to her. She hoped this Cloistered Monastery thing wasn't going to catch on. "Point being, those mothgirls—"