Give in to the hunger

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 1:18 AM on Thursday October 31st, 2024

I drop.

My knees hit the tile and the impact sends a shockwave of pleasure through my latex-sheathed body — every nerve ending screaming, every cell alive with the succubus hunger that's become my entire world. My wings fold behind me, my tail lashes, and I look up at Pan with crimson eyes that burn with need. Her cock is right there — thick, veined, the head swollen and leaking a bead of precum that catches the dim light like liquid gold.

I take her in my mouth and the world explodes.

The taste of her is impossible — salt and sulfur and something sweet beneath, like overripe fruit. My lips stretch around her girth, my jaw aching beautifully as I force her deeper. I can feel the energy radiating from her shaft — not just heat but power, ancient and bottomless, pouring into me through every point of contact. My feeding channel opens wide and I suck, drawing that golden energy down my throat and into the void in my chest.

It fills me. It fills me and it's not enough. It's never enough.

I bob my head, taking her deeper with each stroke, my tongue working the underside of her cock with an expertise I've never possessed. The succubus body knows exactly what to do — how to angle, how to hollow my cheeks, how to relax my throat until her tip pushes past my gag reflex and into the tight channel of my esophagus. Tears stream from my crimson eyes but they feel good, the strain feeding back into my hunger.

"Mmm, there we go," Pan groans above me, her fingers threading through my hair — my hair that's grown longer, darker, silkier in the transformation. She grips the back of my skull and holds me steady as she thrusts shallowly into my throat. "Such a good little feeder. Drinking me down like you'll die without it."

I won't die. But I might go mad.

Every pulse of energy I draw makes the void bigger. Every swallow of her cock makes me need more. I'm moaning around her shaft — wet, desperate sounds that vibrate through her flesh — and my pussy is gushing so hard I can feel it running down my thighs, pooling beneath my knees.

Then Pan pulls out.

I gasp, strings of saliva and precum connecting my swollen lips to her glistening tip, and I whimper. Actually whimper, like a starving thing denied its meal. My hands reach for her cock involuntarily but she catches my wrists in one hand and holds them.

"Not yet, kitten," she says, and her voice has changed. Deeper. More resonant. The walls of the fitting room seem to pulse around us. "I think you've earned a truth."

She crouches before me, her cock bobbing between us, and tilts my chin up. Those amber eyes blaze with something ancient — something that makes the hunger inside me falter for just a moment.

"Pan is a nickname," she says softly. "A convenience. A name humans can pronounce without their tongues catching fire." Her lips curve into a smile that shows teeth just slightly too sharp. "I am Pandora. The Pandora. This shop — this box — contains every debauchery, every depravity, every dark desire that has ever existed or will ever exist. Every sin humanity has dreamed and some they haven't invented yet. All of it, right here behind these shelves."

She releases my wrists and cups my face in both hands.

"And you, my beautiful creature, are never leaving it. You are mine. Which means you need a proper name. Trevor is dead — buried under three costumes and a soul-bond that cannot be broken." Her thumb traces my lower lip, smearing the mixture of spit and precum across my swollen mouth. "From now on, you call me Mistress. And I think..." She pauses, considering, her head tilting with theatrical deliberation. "Trixie. Yes. Trixie suits you perfectly. Pretty, silly, fuckable. A name for a pet who exists to be used."

She stands, her cock level with my face.

"Say it, Trixie. Tell me who you belong to."