I want this to end; I never want to be forced into this position again. I want it to last forever; I want to come again and again andagain.
As if reading my thoughts or having learnt me through the little sounds I make, the incubus plunges into me harder, faster—one hand moving up to grip my neck. Its fingers are long enough to wrap all the way around, encompassing the entirety of my throat.
Then itsqueezes, just enough to stop my breathing.
And I come.
No sound leaves me—I spasm and clench and sob silently as I shoot ropes of arousal all over my stomach and chest, hearing the demon groan at the sight, the release, the expelling of my energy.
Cool, thick fluid is filling my insides, so much so that I feel ready to burst as it prolongs my own orgasm. A wide palm is laid on my stomach, pressing down on the sensitive skin there, and I scream.
I can feel iteverywhere. Every little ridge of its cock, its release as it pushes from between my hole and where its length is still shoved so deeply inside of me.
I think I might start climaxing again, any second now. The sheer pleasure of its size, its wide head rubbing over my prostate, and the way it’s still gripping possessively at my hip is so overwhelming that my dick twitches.
Can I come without being hard? Is that… is that a thing?
I feel something press against my entrance, and soon, a long finger is being shoved into me, alongside the pulsing shaft still buried inside, and my entire body tenses, seizes, and I’m coming again.
I feel no physical release; my dick does not become hard. But the pleasure rolling over me, desperate wave after wave, tells me I’m experiencing another orgasm whether my body wants to admit it or not.
“Etiam, mi angelus.”
The voice is so low, so distorted and broken that I can barely make out singular words. It’s a language I do not understand, but it sounds almost aligned with Latin dialect.
As if glass is breaking and nails are scratching along chalkboards—that is what the sound of this voice resembles.
This is the very first time the incubus has spoken in almost three years.
Possessive, greedy hands rake over my sides and my stomach, and as I feel all of my energy slowly begin to slip from my body, I swear I can hear the sound of humming—low and affectionate.
Then, everything is black.
When I open my eyes sometime later, it’s to a voice Icanunderstand and to a room that is still shrouded in darkness.
My eyes blink hazily, taking in the ceiling above me, feeling the drag of calloused yet warm fingertips as they run over my collarbones.
The voice speaks again, but I don’t fully register the words, only the warmth in them—the affection.
“Mm,” I hum, attempting to roll onto my side and slip back into a deep sleep. I amexhausted.
A sturdy hand lands on my shoulder, keeping me in position on my back as the fingers flutter from my collarbones down to my hip, where they continue to drag out lazy patterns.
“Atlas, wake up now,” he whispers.
“Nice,” I mumble. “Feels good.”
And it does; his hands feelreallygood. Comforting and protective and calming. Like he knows I was pushed harder than normal tonight, and he’s here to soothe my aching body with his soft caresses.
“Does that feel good, sweet boy?” he asks, his tone gentle and quiet.
“Mm,” I repeat.
“It’s time to wake up now. I’ve come to check on you.” Julian’s words are so straightforward and still just as kind and low, but they seem to shake something at my core.
Check on me?Oh, lord. He’s in my room—after dark—and witnessing once again what the aftermath of the demon looks like.
Did he see the whole thing? How did he get past the locked door? Why is it just now hitting me that his being here iswrong?
