contract

Morgana was once a terror of the covens. An ancient witch with skin like wrinkled parchment and eyes that held the secrets of the void. She was a proud lesbian who had spent decades cultivating power and rejecting the touch of men. When death approached, she refused to submit. She drew a circle of obsidian and called upon the Prince of Lies, demanding immortality to continue her reign.

The Devil accepted. But the Devil's contracts always contain the fine print.

Morgana wakes up in Hell, but she is not the withered crone she was. Her body has been forcibly reverted to its peak supple, youthful, and terrifyingly sensitive. But she is not alone. She is surrounded by the Legion of Lust: towering, horned demons whose bodies radiate infernal heat and whose cocks are monstrous, throbbing implements of torment.

The immortality she craved becomes her curse. Time has no meaning here. There is no sleep, no respite, no escape.

The assault begins immediately. A demon three times her size pins her to the fleshy ground, his claws digging into her young thighs. His cock is a nightmare black as coal, veins pulsing with molten lava, and larger than her own forearm. When he thrusts into her, the pain is exquisite and catastrophic, but it doesn't kill her. The immortality ensures she feels every nerve ending being stretched, every muscle being torn, and every drop of demonic cum flooding her womb.

Eons pass.

The first century is spent in screaming resistance. She tries to cast spells, but her magic has been replaced by a different kind of energy a raw, desperate need to survive the violation.

The second century is spent in silent despair. The lesbian identity she held so dear the hatred of men, the love of women begins to fracture. How can she maintain her preferences when her entire existence is defined by the overwhelming, physical reality of the demon's cock? The sheer scale of the stimulation begins to override her conscious mind.

By the fifth century, the shattering begins. The constant, relentless flooding of her body with demonic semen acts as a corrosive agent on her soul. Her memories of women, of her coven, of her own name, begin to blur and fade, replaced by a singular, throbbing obsession: the sensation of being filled.

Her body begins to change to accommodate the endless torment. Her hips widen unnaturally, her breasts swell to absurd proportions, and small, black horns begin to sprout from her temples. Her skin takes on a permanent flush of arousal.

Finally, the witch dies. What rises from the ashes of Morgana is something far worse.

She becomes a Succubus. The prideful witch is gone, replaced by a creature of pure, instinctual hunger. Her lesbianism hasn't just been broken; it has been inverted. She no longer seeks connection or companionship; she seeks only the next invasion. Her mind is a void of pleasure and pain, a hollow vessel that exists solely to be filled by the demonic seed that has become her only reality.

She kneels in the blood soaked dust of Pandemonium, her tongue lolling out, her eyes glowing with a hungry, demonic light. A demon approaches her, his massive cock already dripping with pre cum. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't curse him.

She crawls toward him, her hips swaying with a practiced, obscene grace.

"Please," she gurgles, her voice a husky, corrupted echo of her former self. "Fill me. Make me forget everything but the cock."