I, Succubus Pt. 01

Foolishness. Utter, prideful foolishness. I was doing exactly what he wanted.

I felt my climax fast upon me, felt the surge of pleasure and the hunger building up in my sex, and I let it flow through me, let it empower my magic and my body and my mind, and I flung my power at him, channeled it into an almighty bolt of desire that would force him to cum with me, force his pleasure upon him even as my climax overtook me.

He batted aside my spell as if it was nothing, and I had a single instant of utter shock before my pleasure roared through my mind and body, making another of his sigils flare to life, making another of his mindworms whisper to me, telling me to submit, that I was weak, that he was strong, that serving him would bring me pleasure beyond compare.

I was weak. He was strong. Serving him has brought me pleasure. But still I yearn to conquer him, still I yearn to overwhelm him, still I yearn to drain him dry down to the last delicious drop of his strength.

I struggled to dismount, to raise myself from him, my sex oversensitive from my pleasure and from my mad desire to feed, my need pulsing in every atom of my being. I was struggling to remove myself from him and my body rejected my commands, sensing his power and his presence and unwilling to respond. It was only with immense effort that I lifted my hips an inch, two, three, slowly withdrawing until just the head of his cock was inside me, until I'd nearly freed myself and given myself a moment to think, to breathe, to recover.

That was when his hands came to my hips and drove me down onto him again, impaling me anew on his throbbing manhood.

My sex clenched madly down around him, desperate for the pleasure I was struggling so hard against, and against my will I felt myself trying again to feed, my pussy fastening around his cock as if made for the purpose, and I felt myself suckling madly, desperately, frantically. I was a starving woman seeing a feast through glass, a woman dying of thirst held back from a lake by an unbreakable chain, and I knew it and my body didn't and that was my undoing.

I tried to lift myself up from him, my hands came to his wrists, trying to pull them free, but his grip was like iron and I couldn't budge him, not even if my body hadn't been fighting against me as I tried. I pulled, struggled, heaved, and with each exertion, each failure, each fizzled attempt to free myself that led only to my further enslavement I felt something, something deep and pure that I'd attempted to bury long ago.

Admiration. Admiration bordering on worship.

Strength is what I admire, what I desire, what I possess, what I wish to attain. I want to be the strongest, the fastest, the best, and I always was, save only for times where I had to submit and later proved myself stronger and freed myself at great cost to those who had bested me. The sorceror. Warbands who had challenged me. Warriors within my own band who sought to command in my stead. All tried, all failed, most immediately, some eventually.

But the few times I had been bested, the few times strength had temporarily overcome me, it brought with it my fervent desire and lust and worship and craving. Strength greater than my own is intensely erotic to me. Being held in place by his strength called out to my mind and soul and body and wrapped me up in chains of need more potent than any spell, and in that moment he owned me. In that moment he mastered me. In that moment I fell.

I ceased my struggle and relaxed back, arching my back, throwing out my breasts, knowing full well I was being put on display by him, knowing and not caring in the least. I howled in pleasure and submission and completion, screaming out my defeat to the world, and as a powerful climax exploded through me I met it head-on and surrendered to it and it carried me away.

It took longer to bind me, much longer, but the outcome was no longer in doubt, not to him, not to me, not to the audience. He bade me cease my motions for a time so that he could implant more of those sigils upon me, and I permitted it, raising my arms high above my head and holding still, his cock still deep inside my sex, his body prone beneath me, but for all that I was in a position of physical power I was his slave in every way and we both knew it.

He made me cum twice more before he permitted me to rise from him, two more sigils flaring to life, one on my bare pubis, one on the small of my back. I could feel their power as they dug into my mind, feel their strength as they overwhelmed my own, and I embraced them, welcomed them, reveled in them. I rose when he ordered me to rise, and then knelt before him simply because he desired it and for no greater reason, for there could be no greater reason.

"You will please me with your mouth," he said, "and you will feel my pleasure as your own."

And I did.

My lips were warm, wet, eager, I wanted to taste him, needed to taste him. I'd drained men with my mouth in the past, but it wasn't that hunger that drove me this time. I didn't want to drain him, I wanted to pleasure him. I wanted to obey him. I wanted to serve my new master.

"Hands behind your back," he said, and I obeyed without question, my arms crossing behind me, and I felt him chaining them there with his magic, binding my wrists in place. He didn't do it because he feared me, or worried that I'd get up to mischief. He bound me because I wanted to be bound, I wanted to feel his strength overcoming my own. He bound me as a sign of favor, and I took it as such.

Then his hands came to my head and all thoughts but pleasing him disappeared.

He guided me down onto his length smoothly, easily, my lips parting, my tongue wrapping around his length, enjoying the feel of his cock, the strength, the power. I relished in it, lashing him with pleasure as best I could, but where I drained my victims with their pleasure as a weakness I offered up pleasure to him as a tribute.

My tongue pulsed with my venom, feeding it into him, offering him the joy he had earned by besting me, my lips locked around the base of his cock as I took him in completely, the tip of his cock thrusting smoothly into my throat, and he held me there for a long five seconds. I couldn't breathe, and I accepted this with a calmness that would have astonished me a day before, waiting for my master to release me with a placidity alien to my normal thoughts, and when he finally drew me back I sucked in a great gulp of air and, with his urging, dove back down onto him again and again and again, eager to bring forth his pleasure, eager to serve him.

His pleasure came slowly, not because he was not aroused but because he wanted to prolong my buildup, wanted me to feel his pleasure and work it into my mind, and I accepted this and embraced it, following his pace instead of setting my own. His hands guided me up and down his cock, his length thrusting in and out in long, smooth strokes interrupted by gentle, teasing moments where he'd hold me back, letting me work him over with my tongue, letting me pleasure him with all the art and grace I'd learned, and I used it all until, at long last, his pleasure crested and he came.

It was powerful for him, strong and potent and hard, his seed spurting into my mouth as my lips wrapped around him and swallowed it all, spurt by spurt by spurt.

For me it was shattering. Cleansing. It washed away what I had been and made me into what I am, and how much of that was his magic and how much was his will and how much was my own long-buried desire even I do not know.

Feel his pleasure as my own he'd commanded, and I did. His climax rocked me, but my own was much, much more intense, his pleasure added to my need, to his spells, to his sigils, added up to a towering climax that left me shaking before him, my hands still bound behind me, my forehead on the ground as I struggled to rise, gasping, moaning, my sex dripping, my tail hanging limply, my eyes glazed and my mind a ragged desert, a battlefield laid waste by lust and desire.

He gave me a moment to recover, but only a moment. A passing mercy, a gesture of respect between warriors, and the gesture was not lost on me even as I fought to regain my composure. I managed to pull together a few fragments of myself, managed to kneel upright, look up at him, waiting for his command.

"On your feet," he said, and I complied, barely able to stand on shaky knees, and he reached out and put a finger under my chin and guided it up to let him stare into my eyes, his gaze taking in all parts of me, of my mind and body and soul.

"It's time to collar you," he said. "It's time to bind you for once and for all."

"Yes," I said, and then added "master," the first time I'd ever added that on my own without being forced to by magic or compulsion. The feel of the word escaping my lips voluntarily sent a tremble through me, a tremble accompanied by a gush of arousal from my sex, beads of venom forming at my nipples, at the ends of my fangs. My mind and body worked in perfect unison as he guided me over to a smooth stone altar at the center of the arena, and I stood before it without hesitation. The cool stone edge brushed against the backs of my thighs and I knew that soon I would be bound to it, enslaved upon it, my mind and spirit chained to him on it.

He raised his finger, and I tilted my head, baring my neck to him as he placed the runes of his collaring spell on me, beginning at my throat and working around my neck completely. The runes gleamed with their impending empowerment, and I could feel the spell waiting to erupt within my mind, and I welcomed it.

He turned me slowly to face the altar, guided me down, bending me over it, my breasts pressing into the cool stone. He freed my hands and moved them high above my head and then, with a whisper of magic, purple tendrils emerged from the ground and from the altar, wrapping themselves around my wrists and ankles, surging slowly upwards. I tried not to struggle at first and then I realized what he was doing. He didn't need to bind me, I'd have willingly submitted, but he knew I was aroused by the struggle. He was giving me something to battle. He was giving me strength to batter myself against. And so I did, and the struggle whispered to me, spoke to me of the fulfillment only he could offer me, the fulfillment of of submission and slavery.

The crowd had gone silent, watching in mute fascination as I heaved against the tendrils with all my might, the tendons in my legs standing out, the muscles in my arms glistening with sweat, all to no avail. They were stronger than I was. He was stronger than I was. And that knowledge, more than his spells, more than his mindworms, more than his presence, had me dripping with desire.

He moved my tail to the side, pressed his cock against the tight pucker of my asshole, lubricated in preparation for my duel, but he didn't thrust, not yet. Instead he let me exhaust myself against his tendrils, let me feel their inexorable progress up my legs, my arms, until two reached my sex and slowly stroked over it, teasing my nether lips. They were things of magic, their touch rippled and pulsed, vibrating with unnatural eagerness, and I let out a long, low moan. It was a sound of arousal and need, lust and submission, struggle and surrender, and all who heard it knew that the end of our contest was close at hand. One tendril tip found my clit and stroked it softly, the other moved down, letting its tip glide between my lips as it positioned itself to plunge inside.

He held me there, poised, helpless, trapped, beaten, and aroused far beyond anything I'd ever experienced before, waiting for me to break, waiting for me to beg. He knew that I would. I knew that I would. All that remained was to see how long it would take.

It took three breaths.

With the first I focused on the altar, the cool stone beneath my skin, the memory of others I'd battled in that arena and some I'd taken right there on that same stone. It seemed fitting that I should be bound on the same stone where I had claimed victory so often before.

With the second I cast back to my first sight of him, the first time I drank in his presence just before our contest began. I castigated myself for carelessness and weakness and impatience, but that carried only so much force when compared with the ecstasy running through me. I replayed the battle and the result seemed right and pure and true.

With the third I tried to prepare myself for what would come, but that was cut short by my body and mind demanding that I stop, that I give in, that I face it without preparation, and so I did.

"Please," I whispered, my voice low, throaty, carrying clearly through the still air, audible throughout the arena. "Bind me. Enslave me. Own me. Make me yours."

An instant passed then, an instant that lasted a lifetime. And then he thrust home.

His cock drove smoothly into my tight little ass, and I clenched down around him hard, squeezing him with relief at being filled, at being taken, at being fucked. His tendril drove deep into my sopping cunt and I tightened mightily around it, my sex desperately grateful to be filled after being denied. And two more tendrils erupted from the stone surface and wrapped around my midsection, pulling me down to lie against the cool stone slab, bent over, entirely helpless before him as he ravaged me.

My body ached to feed, and I tried to hold back, tried until I felt his presence in my mind.

"Do it," he told me. "Let your body try to take what it wants. Try with all your might. Know when you fail that you were beaten fairly. Succumb to strength, as is right and true."

I was unleashed.

It seems a strange word when I was bound hand and foot and being fucked into submission, but in that moment I was truly free, my body able to try to take what it wanted, and I gave in to its desires and reached out for purchase on his mind and body, sought out the magic animating the tendril, and I pulled hard, flinging myself against unassailable walls, battering against an immovable bulwark. My sex enfolded the tendril and bathed it in venom, my ass fastened around his cock and pulled with every ounce of strength and control, mental and physical, that I ever possessed. Never had I exerted myself so much, not in love and not in war, and it wasn't enough.

I felt myself falling short, felt my climax fast approaching, the climax that would transform me from his challenger to his slave, and I embraced it joyously, not ceasing my struggles but redoubling them, knowing it would bring on my climax, knowing and celebrating it.

He brought his hands to the sides of my head, his palms holding me steady, his fingers interlacing atop it, and I could feel the final spell of binding being prepared, feel it poised, feel it ready to erupt at his word, but he held back. He waited for me to drive myself to climax, to throw my last roll of the dice, to give my all. He waited for me to bring his victory to him, and I brought it willingly, bearing it to him as if on a golden platter. As he thrust I moved back as best I could, welcoming his invasion with the tiny amount of movement the tendrils permitted, and I felt my climax erupt and as it did he whispered the words that triggered his spell.

It was bliss. It was rapture. It was pleasure beyond anything I'd ever known. It was far, far too much given far, far too fast, and it overwhelmed me and overloaded me and overcame me utterly. I felt pleasure arc from his hands on my head down to my sex and my ass and return, burning rivers of pleasure made channels through my body and mind and soul. My submission wasn't merely the cause of the pleasure, it was the path the pleasure took and the source it sprang from. I felt myself cleansed in the flame of passion, burned like the phoenix in fiery culmination, emerging unharmed but entirely changed, reborn anew.

The pleasure continued I know not how long, long enough for me to pass from screaming in bliss to twitching and moaning to lying limp as it ravaged me, as it transfixed me, as it transformed me, and when it finally ended I didn't know it for some time. I finally became aware that I was no longer bound, and I rolled over on the altar, slid down to kneel at his feet, and then prostrated myself before him.

"Master," I said. "I am yours."

"Rise, slave," he said, guiding me to my knees. "We have battles to win and worlds to conquer. Strength shall guide us."

"Strength..." I whispered, seeing strength in him, and feeling a tiny flicker of the hunger I'd felt when I first met him, the desire to claim his strength for my own, a tiny flicker quickly hidden but never quashed, not completely.

My name is Vanya and this is a part of my story, but it is not the end of my story.