Magic & : A Nightblade.

Ahh, the life of a Nightblade. That's how you could afford to live such an expensive life, of course. Buying the services of the most efficient, most elite, assassins... no, that's not quite accurate. Anyone could become an assassin with time. Only a select few could ever hope to become a Nightblade.

The reason is quite simple, of which your precious toy is a perfect example. So many enchantments woven into the magical horn, all by your precious teacher and Mistress. As you gaze over at your little ****-toy, you smirk. The poisons of your professions had many uses besides that of the... professional, environment. A dab of this powder, a trinkle of that, and a droplet of those, all heavily watered down could produce interesting effects. The girl, for example, had become hot, weak-willed, and delusional. She had practically begged you to break her.

Though, thinking of that didn't help soothe your allready moist sex. As you walk back to the bed for your ****, you pick up a glass of wine left over from last night to slake your thirst. With a casual flick of the wrist, the empty glass goes flying, shattering somewhere you don't care. The noise is enough to wake your little **** with a yelp, which soon turns into a squeal as she's pushed down onto the bed, and smothered by your sex.

Just as her delightful tongue -finally- begins to lap at your needy pussy, there's the sudden and sharp crack of your familiar entering the room. You don't even look at him, and just grind your sex against your ****. You'll need to name her at some point soon.

"Yes?"
"Mistress, I'm sorry to interupt, but... there's a client." Your familiar speaks, his voice light and smooth, fitting with his form of a cat's bastard child with a fox, able to walk on two legs like an Elf, and with tiny horns, and wings like a bat.
"And? I'm busy. And who told you to stop, slut?"
"Uhm... they -insist-, Mistress."