Dormitory Demonic

Leni's recovered herself enough now, and demonstrates for him what he hoped earlier her wide mouth could do. She inhales his cock, cupping his balls ever so gently. Her tongue laves the head, tickling the slit, stroking the underside. Her other hand works the shaft, now slick with her spittle. Fucking gods, thinks Dornathon, she's not half as innocent as she appears.

He can't take it anymore. He has to have her. With a gentle shove, he pushes her onto her back. Leni's trousers come off the rest of the way, and now they're both nude, her skin tan and glistening, his flushed purple and red. She coos encouragement in his ear as he takes his place above her, positioning his cock at her entrance. Her legs are spread wide, knees crooked, pliant, receptive, needful.

Dornathon thrusts home. Leni screams in ecstasy and throws her head back, letting moon and starlight fall against her lovely face. He isn't sure if she's come a second time or not, but he relishes the way her cunt ripples around him.

"You're fabulous," he whispers in her ear, nibbling on the lobe. "Stupendous. Your sex is divine, Leni. You are a goddess."

"Fuck me, Dorn," she urges. "You can do it hard. You can fuck me silly."

So he does, pressing their flesh close together, as if trying to merge into one being. He wraps her head and shoulders tightly, kissing her neck and cheek. He finds her lips, and realizes it's the first time they've kissed. Generally he kisses a woman before he's buried to the balls in her sex, but here we are. She likes it when he thrusts his tongue in her mouth. He can tell by the way she moans.

If she hadn't come a second time before, she does now, submitting her body to him as he drives into her sex with deep, sensual thrusts, his hips rubbing her clit. She quivers violently, wrapping her arms around his firm torso, locking her legs behind his thighs. Dornathon's awareness drifts inside their coupled bodies. Her vessel is so open, so receptive, and he can feel her Soul throbbing in her core. His own pulsates in response. His balls rise up and tense. He slams home one last time. Dornathon curses in the Old Tongue and shoots deep inside her, feeling their Souls mingle in mutual release. Their bodies are thrumming together, two strings on a lute plucked at once. They are spinning through the night sky, skirting the edge of the Other Place, cosmic bodies orbiting the Well of Soul.

And then, somewhat pathetically, they are just two sweaty creatures of flesh and blood, who have just comed their brains out, lying panting and messy on a pile of soaked cushions.

"Holy shit," mutters Leni. Then, the same again: "Holy shit."

She's drifting off, dazed with pleasure, and Dornathon curls against her, stroking her flushed body. He lets his fingers wander to her well-fucked sex, where the spendings of their mingled Soul are dripping. Humans never seemed to understand the power of their Soul. But Dornathon understands.

It takes some effort to stay awake. He's still recovering, after all. Normally he'd be ready to go again immediately, and he'd be waking Leni up to let her have it a second time. But tonight he's content to let her drift off in his arms while he bites his lip to stay awake. When he's sure she's asleep by the even rhythm of her breath, he goes to work.

He finds the little bronze cube at his bedside, buried under a cushion, inert. On one side is a tiny funnel, a collector of sorts, and Dornathon knows exactly what kind of fuel this device collects. Leni, soundly unconscious in post-coital bliss, doesn't stir when he scoops their combined essence from between her legs. He presses it to the collector, which slurps it up hungrily with a whoosh. The cogs in the little box jump ever so slightly, and then are still.

It's a start, he thinks. Now if only her friends are so easy.

~

The following evening, Leni and Aerlet dress up Dornathon in a heavy crimson robe, with a voluminous hood that hangs over his brow and shadows his face. There's a yellow scarf to match, to wrap his mouth and nose, so that only his purple eyes bead through the disguise. Long silken ladies' gloves fit snugly over his hands. He's covered head to toe, all traces of fuschia skin obscured, though he looks ridiculous. They tell him to claim he's from far-off Nolmek, where the nomads dress thusly to shade themselves from the burning desert sun.

He accompanies the girls to a public house around the corner from the manor. It has been many years since Dornathon visited this plane, but little has changed. Humans are as loud, arrogant, and comical as ever. At a small table in the corner of the common room, they take up their places and set to demolishing a bottle of wine. That doesn't take long at all, so in short order they move on to a second.

Meanwhile, Dorn observes the raucous Sworzan crowd pulsate with drunken energy. A fight breaks out, predictably, and Dornathon watches with rapt attention as two barrel-chested drunks belt the living shit out of each other, not so much out of anger but simply for the hell of it. He's so glued to the scene that it takes a tug on his arm to realize the girls are talking to him.

"I said," repeats Leni, glaring at him, "that you're a welcome distraction from our studies. You've no idea how awful the Academy can be."

"Oh, well," says Dornathon. "Surely it's not all bad, is it? You girls seem like apt pupils." Of course, he's never been to such a thing as a school, so what the fuck does he know, he's just shining them on.

"Oh we're apt all right," says Aerlet with a smirk. "But you need more than aptitude to succeed. The Academy's more about making the right connections than actually achieving high marks. Although the proctors will certainly fuck you in the ass if you don't score well."

"Ah, the old politics game," says Dorn, trying his damndest not think about fucking Aerlet in the ass. Now he's noticing that she's wearing a cerulean blouse with a very tight bodice whose laces strain to hold her bountiful cleavage in check.

"Ever been to Saltea?" asks Aerlet.

"Hmm?" says Dornathon, quite distracted from admiring her assets. He receives a kick from Leni beneath the table.

"Sal-te-a," repeats Aerlet, savoring each syllable. "Ever been there?"

"Oh, once," says Dornathon. "Feels like a lifetime ago. I seem to recall every second person introducing themselves as a pirate."

"It's much the same now," says Aerlet with a chuckle. She quaffs her ale, some terribly sour draught popular in her homeland. Dornathon prefers good red Sworzan wine. "Pirates - or privateers, as they prefer to be called - take prizes from whichever nation my uncle happens to be pissed off at. And, of course, the Sealord takes his cut of whatever booty they haul back to port. That's why Saltea rules the seas." She grins proudly and downs the rest of her mug in one gulp, and the olive skin of her throat flexes alluringly.

Dornathon gives a performative shudder, as if a chill has passed through him, making the folds of his robe jiggle and jostle.

"Sailing, bah," he says. "Won't catch me at sea. It's dangerous, for one. You humans know not the horrors that lurk beneath the waves. Take my word for it, and trifle not with the Deep. No, give me good solid earth, a strong drink, and a tavern festooned with beautiful wenches." He gives Leni a lecherous pinch on the hip, which causes her to squeal and kick him again, though she's laughing and blushing.

"I think you ought to give the high seas more of a chance," says Aerlet. She leans in close, her yellow-bronze eyes gleaming. "Dangerous? Certainly. But some things are worth the danger. Indeed, for some, the danger is what makes it fun. Imagine being at sea in a storm, gripping the pilot's wheel with all your might, turning not away from the wind but into it. You feel the churning waves, ride their swells, up and down, up and down, building and building..." She trails off, licks her lips.

Dornathon is entirely transfixed, and, he is not ashamed to admit, his cock has created a rather sizable tent in his robe.

"Aerlet," begins Leni, in a delicate tone. "Perhaps it might be efficacious to your medical studies if Dornathon provides a practical demonstration of certain functions of the Soulkin anatomy."

Dornathon looks at her, hardly believing these words, and raises an eyebrow, as if to say, are you fucking with me? In response, Leni squeezes his erection through his robes. In his mind, he permanently strikes the adjective innocent from describing Leni.

~

One wall of Aerlet's room is decorated with a peculiar display of bottle ships. Replicas of famous war galleys, or sailing ships that cut the waves like butter, have been reduced to miniature and imprisoned in glass, a cork plugging them in tight. Leni has at least a dozen of them, some in tiny medicine bottles, others in enormous jugs. They're so lifelike it almost seems the crew will spill to the deck any moment and start singing a sea shanty.

"How in the bloody hell do they make these fucking things?" asks Dornathon incredulously.

"Secret," says Aerlet, wrapping her arms around him from behind. Her hands find his belt of his robe and deftly untie it.

Dornathon, his attention now quite diverted, turns as the robe falls away. He discards the scarf, and the gloves, and a few other scant garments, until he's in his natural state. If he's honest, naked is how he feels the most comfortable. Is he proud of his handsome figure, his toned muscles, his splendid cock? Damn right he is.

Aerlet whistles in appreciation, her clinical gaze sweeping up and down his body. Leni is on her flatmate's bed, and she's shrugged her billowy blouse all the way off her shoulder to expose one ripe breast to the cool air flowing in the window. The Saltean girl is pressing her hands against the hard flesh of Dornathon's chest, tracing the lines of muscle down to his abdomen.

"So far, Soulkin anatomy seems similar enough to that of a human. But I wonder..."

Her hands find his cock and balls. He's gone soft since their flirting in the pub, but that won't last long. Aerlet kneels down for a closer examination. She lifts his stem to get a close look at his purse, shorn of all but a light dusting of black hair. Olive fingers trace the ridges and seams, more red than purple here. Satisfied, she turns her attention to the underside of his shaft, a soft palm engulfing the curve she finds there. With great interest, she pulls back his lighter foreskin to reveal the swollen head, a rich red as it swells with blood.

"Fascinating," says the Saltean girl. "We must conduct a demonstration."

She drops the medical pretense and simply starts sucking his cock, earning a satisfied groan from Dornathon. He grabs fistfuls of her dark hair as she clutches his taut backside and they both go to work, him thrusting, her licking. Leni's doffed her blouse entirely now. The clasp of her trousers is open, and she's got a hand thrust down the front, biting her lower lip as she locks eyes with Dornathon.

Presently, he and Aerlet shuffle over to the bed, where he and Leni relieve her of her blouse and skirt. She's got a lacy undergarment covering her sex, and they take their time sliding it down her shapely olive legs. Dornathon is surprised to see Leni give her flatmate a tender kiss as this is accomplished, which he follows with one of his own.

"You have to fuck me," says Aerlet in a husky voice. She rolls on all fours and presents her pliant ass and sopping cunt to him. "For my research. It's the only way to know for ahhhhh!"

She's stopped talking and cried out because Dornathon has taken this opportunity to penetrate her folds with his achingly hard erection. She arches her back in ecstasy as he sinks deeper. His hands find her black hair and tug on it gently, flexing her like a bowstring. Now he's buried in her to the balls, and she flutters around him. Her smooth back ripples like the surface of the sea, shoulder blades undulating like creatures of the deep beneath her skin. He rides the storm, the churning, the roiling waves of their passion. Taking firmer hold of her hair, Dornathon bends her up and back, like a bowsprit, proud, dark nipples jutting forward. Leni crawls forward and suckles one of those hard points of flesh.

"Incredible," barks Aerlet as Dornathon probes the gates of her core. She's writhing in his grasp, and he feels her vessel opening to him, igniting the pure Soul within. The storm rages. Aerlet grabs at his firm, purplish hipflesh with one hand, at Leni's pale shoulder with another. She begins to shudder and buck, and Dornathon turns into the storm, not away. He grabs her firmly by the hip and drives himself into her with short, sharp thrusts, the best he can manage in their twisting pose.

"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck," chants Aerlet, her pleasure building, cresting. She comes with a shriek, her body going taut, the corded muscle in her neck standing out, her face turning red as a silent scream catches in her throat. She hangs suspended for a glorious instant, a frozen idol of bliss. Then the pressure breaks and she cries out wantonly. Her flesh goes limp. Leni catches her roommate as she pitches forward, and holds her tenderly.

Dornathon can sense her Soul vessel as open and receptive as it's ever like to be, throbbing and beckoning his seed. He tenses himself as well, gives a dozen more desperate thrusts and grunts as his own potent Soul spurts forcefully within the dusky Saltean girl. His release provokes a small aftershock from her. He gropes her breasts from behind and kisses her sweaty neck until he's complete.

They lay for some time in a crumpled pile of flesh - his fuschia mixed with their darker hues - on Aerlet's bed, which is really too small for three people. Leni, who has not come yet, shoots Dorn a husky look, and he knows he's obliged to fuck her as well. They deposit her dozing roommate on the bed and move to the floor, where Leni takes up the all-fours position, evidently inspired by Aerlet's wantonness. They had a phrase for it in the Old Tongue which translates to "in the manner of wild animals." Dorn's beginning to like this new, wilder Leni, although he does, in the back of his mind, wonder how she fooled him so well.

No time for thinking, though. His stamina's coming back to him, and he's ready to go a second time, more than ready. He slides her trousers down around her ankles and takes a good look at her pert arse and the puffy wetness between her legs. Leni squeals when he takes her. He doesn't hold back, now that she's revealed this unrestrained side of herself. They rut like beasts, hard and hot, grunting half-intelligible curses at one another. When she peaks, her whole body clenches up for a few seconds and then explodes in violent shudders. Leni crumples onto her stomach and he follows her down, thrusting against her supple flesh until he finds his own desperate release inside her. Her core welcomes his spending, and he feels their Souls mingle once more.

Now he's tired, although has he been at his full strength, he tells himself, he could have easily gone another round. Still, he's rather pleased with himself. As Leni drifts off, he untangles himself from her grasping limbs and admires his handiwork. Two gorgeous young Academy students, fucked into a satisfied stupor. Pure, liquid Soul dribbles from two bruised and puffy sexes, essence of Soulkin fortified in human vessels. Gods, I'm good.

In the folds of his discarded robe, he finds his token: the small cube of not-bronze, its tightly-packed gears still inert. Taking care not to wake the girls, he collects the puissant mixture from betwixt their legs and offers it to the Soul Engine's collector, which suctions it all up hungrily. In the darkness it begins to glow faintly, and the cogs turn with a soft whir.

Yes, he thinks. Yes, you bastard. Soon you'll be fully charged. And then? Well, there's no stopping me then.

Feeling inordinately proud of himself, Dorn stows the cube away once more and flops down behind Leni, snuggling up to his sweet art student and falling into blissful slumber.

~

Sadelia sits naked on the wooden floor, within a pentagram of ash, inscribed inside a circle of amber powder. A heavy grimoire lies open on the ground before her, illuminated by a fat brace of red candles, dripping molten wax. She mutters ancient words of power in the Old Tongue, and the images on the page seem to flex and bend.

In Angheg, it is expected that one knows something of the way of Glyphs and magic, the better to control one's surroundings. Sadelia happens to be better at it than most.

Above, she hears her roommates coupling with the Soulkin. He spends himself inside two nubile vessels. She senses the raw power thrumming in the manor. It alarms her. It arouses her.

She tweaks the silver piercings in her dark nipples, shuddering at the sharp sensation. Biting her lower lip, she allows a hand to find the jewel between her legs and stroke it gently. The incantation nears completion, a scrying which will give her, finally, the knowledge she seeks. As Sadelia finds release, the final word of power rumbles from her throat, and the candles flare brightly, wax popping. Then they gutter out.

~

The following morning, Dornathon attends class at the Academy. The weekend has ended, so Aerlet and Leni are obliged to rise early and carry a satchel of books each across the street to the Academy's walled campus. In his Nolmekian disguise, Dornathon accompanies them. The girls concoct a plan to say he's a visiting scholar with a religious fervor that prevents him from removing his robes. They give assurances that their professor will buy this absurd ruse. When they impose upon him to carry their books, Dornathon, ever the chivalrous type, agrees.

He can't keep track of the Academy's twisting avenues and endless red-roofed edifices. The girls lead him through an astounding throng of students from across the continent: pompous Cairenese, cocksure Salteans, belligerent Marubans, furtive Angheggish, and even a few backwater Medezan. He even spies one or two alvar amongst the bunch, which surprises him. Last time he visited this plane, the enmity between human and alvar was such that one could not see another without them trying to kill each other.

At last they arrive at a high-roofed lecture hall, and take their places at the back, the demesne of poor students the world over. Their professor, he is shocked to see, is none other than Gresta va Latria, their downstairs roommate. Her unruly, flaming hair is done up in a complicated bun that sits precariously atop her head, a network of pins and clips fastening it. She wears a dress in the Maruban fashion, a crimson number that wraps tightly around the front with a belt holding it closed. He can't help but admire how it hugs the woman's athletic figure.

"I thought she was a student?" he whispers to Leni.

"She is," Leni hisses back. "But she's more advanced than us, and she teaches a class as part of her senior curriculum."

"Ah. An achiever, then, a mentor. Surely being associated with her is good for your fortunes?

"It would be better if we had the ear of Arch Proctor Mozza," whispers Aerlet. "Now shut up or she'll call us out."

Sure enough, Gresta fixes the group with a withering stare, hard cold eyes boring into Dornathon especially. A sneer twists her mouth, no doubt unimpressed by his disguise. He manages a half-hearted shrug. Gresta picks up a pointer stick and slaps it against the blackboard, silencing idle chatter. In a severe voice that reverberates through the hall, she commences the lesson.