Lust triumphs

The feeling of being doubly-penetrated by your dearest friend and your daemonic master reincarnated in the body of the child growing in your womb dashes all reason and hope from your mind. Whatever you were grasping onto falls from your limp fingers as you reach up to cup Ivona's massive mammaries. There's a clang of steel as the forgotten object bounces on the ground, which does remind you that it could have been important...

But then the moment is past, and you never give another thought to your mental projection of the holy sword of Saint Magdalena.

You're lost in the bliss now, beads of sweat rolling freely down your skin or flicking from your nipples with each bounce of your pert breasts. If Ivona's tongue isn't wrestling with yours, it's licking the front of your body, from your navel up to your neck and your offspring's mouth is clamped around yours in her place.

Their bodies move in a perfect rhythm so that one of your holes is always being filled, and you've learned to move your body to maximize yours and your partners' pleasure, wiggling your ass and swaying your hips in unison with every thrust. Staccato orgasms shoot through you, and your chest heaves from the constant pleasure assaulting your senses.

The pentagram symbol inscribed below your navel is searing your flesh now, new marks burning their way across your skin to expand the runes already there. It scrawls around your hips, up above your navel, and even begins to travel between your thighs and then down your legs. You can almost feel the magic crawling beneath your skin before the new runes appear - if it's any indication, you're sure you'll be covered head to toe before too long...

And you can't wait. You'd already compared the magic to a vessel being filled with lust. If that's true, then the more the magic expands, the greater your capacity for pleasure. The things that don't matter to your existence as a sex **** are being magically overwritten by the daemonic magic... your training, your education, memories of friends and family... and your body is changing to adapt to your new persona. A **** doesn't need taut battle-ready body. A **** needs soft, feminine curves, full breasts, long, luxurious hair...

The new you is little more than a sex kitten. A toy who's only purpose is as a fuck-toy. No, that's not quite right. You make daemon babies also. Mmm... fuck every day and carry your master's children. What could be a better existence than that?

This is the thought that lingers as your lovers finally fill your aching holes with pint after pint of scalding daemon cum. Your consciousness begins to fade the more they fill you, and you're sure that you're about to awake to a new world of depraved sex for the rest of your days...

In truth, that's the last thought you ever experience. Indra removes the dagger she had plunged into your heart with a look of disappointment. "I had high hopes for you, Sabine. Your soul is cursed, and for that I'm sorry, but I will make good use of your flesh." It's not an honorable ****, but at least your last moments were in pleasure rather than pain.

It took several days to properly treat the wounds the witch had inflicted on Sabine's corpse, not to mention removing and disposing of the daemon child from her womb. She awakens from her ritual and looks herself over. Her new, slender body is quite to her liking, what with her youthful skin and pert breasts... and she'd always wanted to be a redhead! It was a shame that her old body was no longer useful, but at least Sabine would get to live on, in a sense.