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Mafelor settled herself on the soft tan suede of the smaller sitting furniture and pondered the living room with a combination of amusement and awe. While demons treasured their private space, there was no such notion as “art for art’s sake” in Hades. All art in that shadowy, fiery realm was intended to reinforce the idea of hopelessness and absence from the light. While Mafelor appreciated the function of the statues, tableaux, and triptychs, they did pall after a time.
Her host seemed to believe Hades and Hell were one and the same, but this was not so. Hades was reserved for those souls who, having died, were sent to await their next cycle in the world above. Hell was for those who had covered their souls with such filth and spiritual squalor that they could never be made clean. Heaven, of course, was utterly beyond Mafelor’s reach, as with all her kind, but she could state with absolute certainty there was such a place.
She tapped a manicured nail against her teeth idly as she pondered her human host. Nervous, but aroused. She would need to minimize the former in order to accentuate the latter. Otherwise it was entirely likely Mafelor would be forced to go hungry, or seek sustenance outside the home. Since the terms of the exchange forbid her from leaving the house without Joanne, that was not an option, and she could imagine Joanne being equally intrigued or horrified by watching her feed.
Succubi rarely did lasting harm to those they fed from. This was a myth perpetuated by dogma and pop culture extending back over millennia. Oh, there were certainly those succubi and incubi who fed too greedily and spiraled their prey’s senses into such a frenzy of ecstasy that their hearts stopped, but of all the ways Mafelor could think of for a human to perish, surely departing the physical world in a clenching spasm of pleasure/pain marking the ultimate climax was far from the worst.
A faint trickle of energy filtered through the bathroom wall to tease at the demon’s senses, causing her mouth to water as surely as a dinner bell. She closed her eyes and focused on the source, which showed up as an irregular wash of indigo energy bordered by pulsing scarlet shot with white at the edges against the faint orange pressure of the low-angled sunbeams through the window on the side of her face and the otherwise total darkness inside her eyelids. Joanne, of course, trying to master her fear and the desire she was totally unaccustomed to feeling toward one of her own sex.
The repressed force of her need glowed as brightly as a beacon of amethyst light to Mafelor’s demonic senses. From the pure color and the intensity, Mafelor estimated it must have been months since Joanne was with another person and at least a week since she had even pleasured herself, making her a vibrant font of latent desire…and food. She wondered why this should be the case, because she found Joanne more than worthy of lying down with. The half-starved starlets mortal culture prized so highly, Mafelor had learned, were frequently arrogant, uncertain, and unimaginative lovers. Joanne and women like her, on the other hand, tended to be the exact opposite. Mafelor was quite sure that with a little creative coaxing, Joanne could prove to be an ardent partner who was perfectly willing to experiment.
No gender of sexual demon was limited by desire for or the ability to feed from the opposite, same, or other sexes. Each had universally omnivorous appetites, although much like the way she understood humans, each also had their favored prey or proclivities. While incubi and succubi could feed off one another, the energy transfer made such feeding a zero-sum game, more useful for pleasure and keeping one’s seductive edges sharp than for proper nourishment.
In Mafelor’s case, she much preferred the softness of women to the hard, aggressive posturing of men. On the other hand, there was something to be said for a fast, urgent rutting session, she mused. Once in a while she craved the stiffness of a man’s body as he pumped and grunted his way up the peak against her, only to tumble off the far face of the cliff as his balls tightened against his body and then released the rapturous explosion of his desire into a rich buffet for a succubus as certainly as his turgid cock spurted his life fluid between her thighs. Or her buttocks. Or her lips.
Mafelor was nothing if not malleable to her dinner’s cravings.
In her mind, the amethyst dimmed a little. Wavering, spiky tendrils of greenish gray now appeared interwoven with the softer, flowing red and white. She is sad. Why? Mafelor’s lower lip quivered and her eyes burned under the onslaught of Joanne’s keenly felt emotions. Empathy was the succubus’s stock in trade for granting pleasure, but it often resulted in pain first.
No. This could not be. If it meant consigning her own soul to the Pit, Mafelor would at least give her host some happiness tonight, even if Joanne would never know its source.
She hummed slightly, seeking the perfect combination of tone, pitch, and vibration to resonate in sympathy with the flaring energy signature pressing against her closed eyes. While skin to skin contact would be preferable, perhaps she could help Joanne attend to her long-denied needs and slake some of her hunger at the same time. It would be a poor feeding by her standards, a few nibbles of a sweet tart rather than a full meal, but to try to force a more complete rendezvous at this time might scare the other woman off.
And a few nibbles were surely better than nothing…
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