Aaralon is collared and claimed.

Aaralon foggily looks up to Rahad, the satyr-demon, standing above him. The demon appears to have switched out his old crystal orb and instead holds a...collar? It's solid black, much like everything else in this throne room, save for the series of spikes lining the outer edge. It appears to be leather, but closer inspection reveals that it's actually covered in dark, nearly invisible purple runes, swirling and shifting with each passing moment.

"I'm surprised you even managed to find him in particular when you were looking for a target to summon." Rahad speaks with all the confidence of a monologuist villain, but Aaralon is too stunned to capitalize on the opportunity. For whatever reason, he's unable to tear his gaze away from the throbbing demonic erection pulsing before him, twitching every so often and dribbling specks of pre down onto the mage's shoulder and chest. "Most conjurers locate one from one of the many herds wandering the fields of oblivion. But you...you just had to intrude on a demon's rightful property." Rahad pauses for a moment, and Aaralon can see his tongue flicking over his fangs as he dampens his lips. "It's not a mistake any man can make twice."

Abruptly, Rahad's foot-hoof slams against Aaralon's belly. The young mage cries out and curls up slightly, jerking his head up in the air. Finally, perhaps as the Nightmare's influence has worn off, his own cock softens and returns to its flaccid state. The demon prince quickly grasps the wizard's hair, close to the scalp, and holds him still. Aaralon can barely raise his voice in protest before the collar is snapped around his neck. As soon as the leather is planted on his skin, it suddenly tightens around the mage's throat, tighter and tighter and tighter until he's afraid he won't ever inhale again. Then, it relaxes to its original size, and Aaralon gasps as air enters his lungs once again.

Rahad glares down at his newest servant, and smirks. He then utters just a single command: "Up."

Aaralon barely even processes the passage of time, or what he's doing. In minutes, he's riding on Rahad's lap. The demon's back in his throne, his hands resting behind his head and his elbows jutting to the sides with all the unearned confidence of a well-bred princeling. The young mage's feet rest on Rahad's furred knees as he rapidly bounces and grinds on the demon's hairy, monstrous cock. With each motion, Rahad drives his thick manhood deeper into his servant's formerly virginal asshole. Against his will, Aaralon's own smaller cock has already hardened once more, and bounces between his legs with each thrust. Each brush of the demon's shaft against his prostate causes the wizard's tip to visibly twitch and dribble pre more than before.

Aaralon needs no prompting when their coitus comes to an end. He intuitively knows which thrust will bring Rahad to his climax, and he makes it a big one. Aaralon buries the hellish cock entirely in his puckered entrance with a cry of pleasure, feeling his own soft balls brush against Rahad's own huge, furry pair. He arches his back and climaxes, spurting sticky cum onto his own thighs and chest. A few spurts graze his throat and chin, and several more paint the floor in front of the throne. Rahad lowers his hands to grip his servant's hip tightly as he orgasms as well, pumping countless thick ropes of demonic cum into Aaralon's abused rear entrance.

When the demon-prince's orgasm comes to an end, he abruptly sits up and shoves Aaralon off of his cock and, subsequently, his lap. The servant spills onto the ground and lands with a thud and a soft grunt, wincing as soreness overwhelms his rear.