Dormitory Demonic

"Ladies," he says. "I'd no idea you were interested in this kind of game."

"We're sorry for tricking you like this, Dorn," says Leni.

"It's a shame," adds Aerlet, nodding.

"A cock like that ought not be wasted," puts in Gresta.

"My darlings," says Dornathon. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

None of them speak, though Aerlet opens her mouth, coughs, and then closes it again. In the ensuing silence, a heavy, sick feeling settles into the pit of Dornathon's stomach.

"It's probably better if Sadelia explains," says Leni at last.

As if summoned by the naming of her, Sadelia flows up the stairs. The Angeheggish girl has long hair down to her arse, dyed a shade of dark green to it like a black forest. Her face and ears are dotted with piercings: eyebrow, lip, lobes. Her eyes are rich, earthy brown, highlighted by dark paint below them. A gown matching the other three hangs loose on her bony shoulders, swishing as she walks. Nestled in the crook of her arms is a basket containing books, candles, and several glass amphora.

"Ah, the fourth roommate," he says, mustering some of his typical bluff charm. "I was wondering when I'd meet you. Have you put them up to this jest?"

"Be silent, child of Fal'Angrael," says Sadelia. Her voice is deep and throaty."We are in control now, not you." To the other girls, she says: "It's time we began. Leni, you first."

Dornathon is quite confused, but his protests die on his lips when Leni bends over and takes his flaccid shaft into her warm mouth. He sighs in gratitude as the Sworzan girl suckles him. Sadelia, meanwhile, is positioning fat red candles throughout the attic and lighting them with a taper.

When Dornathon is hard - which, honestly, doesn't take long, given his shameless libido and Leni's capable mouth - the Sworzan pulls her robe over her head and poises her nubile body atop him. She takes him inside her slowly, gingerly, biting her lower lip as her tender folds part. Aerlet and Gresta, close by, kiss and stroke their friend's tan flesh, a fetching contrast to Dornathon's fuschia. Leni angles her head to each of them in turn, first meeting Aerlet's hungry lips, then submitting to Gresta's possessive kiss. She grinds on him gently, her soft cunt fluttering around him. Gresta rubs at her jewel while Aerlet suckles a tender pink nipple. Leni shudders and comes astride him. He attempts to thrust upward, closer to her core, but he's quite restrained, and can only lie helplessly beneath his lover.

Leni rolls off, flushed and spent, and Aerlet is next. She mounts him swiftly, not even bothering to remove her gown until he's already buried to the hilt inside her. The dusky Saltean rides him hard and fast, bent over to brace herself with hands on his chest. Dornathon's getting close now, and feels that familiar tingling in his balls as Aerlet smashes their hips together time after time. Little droplets of sweat swing from the tips of her erect nipples.

"Hold," says Sadelia, a throaty command. Aerlet pauses her movements, moaning out a pitiable protest. "He's close," says the Anheggish girl. "Too close. We can't have him finishing yet."

A warm hand engulfs his purse, and Sadelia speaks a few words of power in the Old Tongue. The spicy scent of magic fills his nostrils. A buzzing heat passes into his balls and stays there, tingling like tiny insects inside of him.

"What the fuck!" he cries in protest, shocked that these nubile little Academy students are performing magic on him. He is becoming convinced that there's something going on here, something he should have noticed earlier, but now Aerlet is riding him again and his thoughts trail off.

The Saltean beauty kisses him hungrily. Then she sits up straight to make room on his face for Gresta va Latria, who swings a long, muscular leg across his vision. Her puffy sex descends, rich, musky scent melding with the spicy odor of magic. With his hands bound, he's at her mercy. He laps away for dear life, burying his tongue inside the Maruban girl and inhaling through his nose whenever he gets the chance. Aerlet, meanwhile, is slamming her sex onto his cock, a steady thock, thock, thock as their flesh collides. He hears the wet smooching of the two women kissing above him, though he can't see anything but the dark folds of Gresta's quivering cunt.

They're a trio of instruments, plucked and resonant, and they crescendo into a burst of pleasure that feeds off one another, growing stronger with each second. Aerlet comes first, taking him all the way inside her, till his cock brushes her womb's mouth. Gresta's just a breath behind, flooding his mouth with nectar as her thighs threaten to crush his head. The two women are holding each other, kissing desperately as they take their pleasure from him, a quivering mass of sweaty flesh, pale and olive and fuschia. Dornathon's right there on the edge too, thrusting up as well as he can, and then, and then...

And nothing. His cock just won't do it. His balls are tense, ready to fire, but it simply doesn't happen. He's stopped up, or something, by the tingling magic Sadelia put inside him. He groans in frustration, his climax receding back inside him. It's a feeling he simply hates.

"What'd you do to me?" he shouts, or attempts to, but all that comes out is a few muffled syllables that are lost in Gresta's smothering crotch.

"Oh, fuck me," breathes Aerlet. She climbs off Dornathon, his cock popping free of her wetly. Gresta slides forward, dragging her sex along the Soulkin's fuschia chest and leaving a trail of wetness there. He has a clear view of her arse now, and, yes, he confirms to himself that the devious implement of smoky red glass is once more wedged between her pale cheeks.

The Maruban student - or professor, or warrior, or sex goddess, who the fuck knows anymore - mounts him in reverse, which would seem to be her preferred configuration. Her freckled back strains, corded muscle rippling beneath, shoulder blades flexing and sliding beneath the skin. She's clamping down on him vice-like, riding him desperately hard and fast.

Aerlet and Leni curl up on either side of Dornathon, snuggling in close like lovers, and begin stroking his dark hair, smoothing his purplish chest. They're kissing his lips and nibbling his earlobes, just generally driving him crazy. And to be honest, he's torn between simply enjoying being the love slave of these four outrageous students, and being furious at the way they're using him. He is, after all, a Soulkin of Fal'Angrael, and isn't it he who should be doing the using?

As if reading his thoughts, Leni coos into his ear: "I know, we're so very bad to do this to you. But, well, the Academy is so very competitive. It's not just grades, you know. We'll need honors and certificates and special commendations from the Arch Proctor. It's expected that we show our worth."

Of course, he's got no idea what the fuck she's talking about, but at that moment Gresta screws herself down onto him hard and begins shuddering with pleasure, her Soul Vessel opening wide to him. Every urge in his loins demands that he fill her with his seed, let her ripe body mingle their Souls and draw out the true power. But again, his balls simply refuse to do it. Instead he feels them bloating almost painfully with the excess, and his cock swells inside her as well.

"Ah!" cries Gresta. "He's getting bigger. I think he just tried to come again. This is simply evil, Sadelia."

He starts to lose track of time. Gresta dismounts and Leni takes her place again, this time simply lying flat on Dornathon's chest and rocking her hips sensually. Her cozy sex feels extremely tight now. After she comes, again, and he doesn't, again, it's Aerlet's turn. She takes him in reverse, copying Gresta, and informs her Maruban friend that she sees the appeal as she peaks violently. Then Gresta's back for a second round, this time looking into Dornathon's eyes as she works him into her rear passage. Aerlet and Leni watch this with fascination, commenting that they are sure it will never fit, until, of course, it does.

During these agonizing rotations, Sadelia simply watches. She's still wearing her gown, though her pink skin has become increasingly flushed. A book is open on the ground before her, and she's muttering words in the Old Tongue, making glyphs burn bright on the pages. Every so often she'll crawl over to where her roommates are furiously coupling with Dorn to squeeze his painfully swollen purse and put more of that infernal magic into him.

Gresta finally comes again, squeezing him so hard he thinks his cock will break. As she clambers off, it's evident to all that Dorn's manhood is in a state. The color has deepend to an angry red, and it throbs with pent up Soul. The fucking thing hurts. He's dying.

"Please," he moans, not thinking clearly, overcome by pain and sensitivity and pressure. "Have mercy."

Sadelia clicks her tongue and waves her hand. The other girls back off, forming a perimeter. Standing over him, the Angheggish student takes off her gown and lets it fall to the floor. More piercings are revealed, through both of her nipples and her belly button. On her stomach, a glyphic phrase has been painted, which Dorn reads easily, although it makes no fucking sense. It reads: I am the catalyst of transformation.

She straddles his pulsing manhood and rubs her slit against it, shivering at the sensation. Her spread fingers caress the runes on her tummy. Words of power flow off of her tongue. The glyphs begin to burn bright yellow. Sadelia sinks onto his cock, in one motion bringing him to the gate of her core. He feels supreme receptiveness from her vessel, and in fact can only think of one thing: the desperate need to fill her.

"Is it time?" asks Leni, her voice squeaky with excitement.

"Finally," says Aerlet.

"An end to this charade," remarks Gresta.

"Yes," says Sadelia, her voice shaking. "Let it end."

She speaks one final phrase of power, and the lock on Dornathon's organ is released. He howls as the dam breaks, flooding his body and mind, a typhoon engulfing him. His back arches, struggling against his bonds. Soul erupts from him with tremendous force. Sadelia yelps at the geyser within, and begins to come as well, purely from the magic delivered into her core. She's reaping the fruits of her labor now, the combined spendings of all his denied peaks. And it simply won't stop. The glyph on her stomach burns brighter and brighter, and Dorn convulses with pained pleasure as the waves crash again and again. He realizes he's being drained, of his Soul, of his life, but there's nothing he can do about it.

The other girls, astounded at the raw magic on display, have gathered in close. Leni hugs Sadelia tenderly from behind, kisses her neck, fondles her tits. Aerlet snuggles up to Dornathon, comforts his pleasure-wracked body. Gresta inspects the place where the two of them are joined, a curious ear pressed against Sadelia's glyph-inscribed belly as if she might hear the Soul Transfer in progress.

When the ritual has drawn to a close, Dornathon collapses nearly insensate, spittle running from his mouth, eyes glassy, every cell in his body spent. Sadelia's stomach is ever so gently bulging, as if she's eaten a bit too much. The other girls help her climb off, though her limbs are wobbly, and set her down so she's reclining against one of the attic posts.

With the thick viscosity of molasses, a prodigious amount of extruded Soul begins to run from Sadelia's bruised netherlips. Aerlet, thinking quickly, grabs the Soul Engine and places it betwixt her Anheggish roomate's lewdly spread legs. The radiant silver substance falls into the Engine's collector. Sadelia shivers in pleasurable aftershocks during this process, the runes on her stomach still faintly glowing. Gradually her belly returns to its usual slim shape.

The Engine bristles and crackles with volatile power now, overcharged and shining with incandescence. Its gears turn madly, making the housing rattle. The spicy odor of magic is thick in the air, a purple miasma gathering about the Engine.

Dornathon now recalls with mounting horror the last time he used this device. It had been only half-charged then, and the rip he'd made in the dimensional veil had been unstable to say the least. He wants to ask what the girls plan to do with it, but fears to hear the answer. In any case, the four seem hypnotized by the rhythmic buzz emanating from the Engine.

"What shall we do with him?" asks Gresta eventually.

"We could keep him," says Leni, a hopeful note in her voice. "For recreation."

"No," says Aerlet. "That wouldn't work. I know you're attached to him, but one like that is bound to get out and cause mischief in the wider world."

"I agree," says Sadelia. "So he goes back where he came from?"

Leni, pouting, says, "Fine. I suppose you're right."

"No no no no no," protests Dornathon, his voice working again now. "Girls, please, you don't know what you're saying. I can't go back there. I'll be good. I'll do what you say, I'll fuck you anytime you want. Or I'll go away and never come back. Just don't send me back there, to her..."

But Sadelia is already chanting in the Old Tongue, activating the Engine's terrible capabilities. He realizes with horror that somehow she knows exactly how to use this infernal thing, better than he ever did. Silvery light fills the room, and the box starts to a shriek. Sadelia's intonation grows louder, booming above the din, and he understands with awful clarity that she is commanding the box to open the way to whence it came.

A terrific crack splits the air.

An aperture in the shape of an oval has appeared, and it hangs suspended, its edges ringed with blue fire. Beyond it Dornathon sees the twisting landscape of Fal'Angrael, the Plains of Alumar, the Lake of Nab, and in its center, the Citadel of Lu'Urna, its spires white and smooth as bone. Somehow the Engine remembers where it came from.

The girls cut his bonds and lift him up, sharing the weight amongst themselves. They've drained him dry, and he's got no strength left to resist them. He's blubbering out protests, but they get Dorn no sympathy from the girls, except for a lingering, regretful look from Leni. Ah, sweet Leni.

Then they've tumbled him through the breach.

A flaming aperture splits the sky of Fal'Angrael, and from that molten portal comes Dornathon, screaming like a shooting star, belched from the cloaca of the universe. The air warps around him, rippling his flesh, buffeting his brain, bulging his eyes from their sockets. He is a comet, a celestial body falling to earth.

An indigo sky of hangs above him, the azure waters of the Lake of Nab hanging below, and from the Citadel he hears an echoing voice, ringing and musical, which says:

"Ah, Dornathon! I told you I'd have you back."

Oh, fuck me.