Becoming a sexual demon god

My wrists burn. Cold iron bites into the tender skin where my pulse beats, and when I try to move, the chains rattle with a sound like distant, mocking laughter. The mattress beneath me is unfamiliar—too soft, too deep, sinking me down like quicksand. My eyes crack open.

The ceiling above is wrong. It's my bedroom ceiling, the same water stain shaped like Florida in the corner, but it's been... decorated. Black candles cluster on every surface, their flames dancing in colors that don't exist in nature—violet, emerald, a deep arterial red. Symbols I don't recognize have been drawn on the plaster in something dark and viscous. The air tastes like iron and something sweeter, something that makes my teeth ache.

Then I feel her.

A wet, deliberate heat encircles the base of my cock, and a tongue—her tongue, I know that tongue, I've traced it along every inch of her body—curls around the shaft with a slow, worshipful drag. My hips jerk involuntarily, a groan tearing from my throat before I can stop it. My eyes snap down.

Jenna.

My girlfriend. My beautiful, sweet, vanilla Jenna. Her blonde hair spills across my thighs like spun gold, and those blue eyes—the ones that always crinkle at the corners when she laughs—look up at me from between my legs with an expression I've never seen before. It's hunger, yes, but something darker. Something reverent and ravenous all at once. Her lips are stretched wide around me, glossy and slick, and when she sees me watching, she moans against my flesh. The vibration travels straight up my spine.

"Jenna—" My voice comes out rough, sleep-logged, confused. "What the fuck—"

She releases me with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lower lip to the head of my cock before it breaks. Her smile is radiant. Terrifying.

"Morning, baby," she breathes, and her voice has a new quality to it—a resonance, like two people speaking at once, one of them very far away. "I've been waiting for you to wake up."

"What is this?" I yank at the chains. They're attached to the bedframe—heavy iron links bolted into the wood, which I now realize has been reinforced with metal brackets. This wasn't a quick job. "Jenna, what the *fuck* is this? Untie me."

"I can't do that, love." She licks her lips slowly, deliberately, tasting me on her tongue. Her hand wraps around my shaft, squeezing with a possessive firmness that makes my breath catch. "And I won't. Not until it's done."

"Until *what's* done?"

She rises on her knees, and I see she's wearing something new. Not her usual sleep shirt and cotton shorts. A black silk robe, open at the front, revealing the pale curves of her breasts, her nipples hard and flushed. Around her throat hangs a pendant I've never seen—a twisted knot of silver that seems to writhe in the candlelight, casting shadows that move wrong.

"I've been preparing for two years, Jack." She says it casually, as if discussing a surprise party. Her hand begins to stroke me, slow and rhythmic, her grip slick with something that isn't just saliva. It's warm. Almost hot. And it seems to pulse. "Two years of research. Two years of gathering the right components. Two years of learning exactly how to open the door."

"What door? Jenna, you're scaring me—"

"Don't be scared." She leans down, pressing her lips to the head of my cock in a kiss that's almost tender. "Be excited. I'm giving you a gift. *We're* giving you a gift."

The *we* registers like a cold hand on the back of my neck.

"Who's we?"

Her eyes flash—that violet color from the candle flames—and when she smiles, I see that her canines are just slightly, impossibly, longer than they were yesterday.

"His name is Vassago," she whispers, and the name fills the room like smoke, curling into every corner. "He's been watching you through me for months. Through my dreams. Through my—" She shivers, a full-body tremor that makes her breasts sway. "Through my *hunger*."

The air in the room thickens. I can feel it pressing against my eardrums, and beneath the pressure, something else—a presence, vast and ancient and amused. It's like standing at the edge of a canyon and feeling the wind that blows up from the depths. It doesn't speak in words. It speaks in *want*. And it wants *me*.

"What did you do?" My voice is barely a whisper now.

"I found a text. In the special collections at the university library, behind glass that I had to—" She laughs, a sound like bells and breaking glass. "Well, let's just say I'm no longer welcome in their reading room. But it was worth it. A ritual of transference. Of *becoming*." Her hand tightens around me, and I feel that pulsing heat again, stronger now, traveling from her palm into my flesh, sinking deeper. "You're going to be so much more than you are, Jack. So much more than any *human* man."

I try to pull away, but my body betrays me. The heat is spreading—up from my cock, into my belly, curling around something fundamental inside me. It doesn't hurt. That's the worst part. It feels like stretching after being cramped in a small space for years, like every cell in my body is opening up and saying *yes*.

"I don't want this," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I feel them thinning, becoming less true.

"Liar." Jenna's tongue traces a slow circle around the head of my cock, and the sensation is electric—literally electric, little sparks dancing across my skin. "I can feel you responding. I've been connected to you since the first drop of blood hit the sigil." She glances at the bedframe, and I follow her gaze to see that the symbols on the ceiling have their counterparts carved into the wood, filled with something dark and flaking. Blood. Old blood. "Your blood, Jack. From a razor blade in your medicine cabinet. You never even noticed the cut."

The horror of it should be paralyzing. The violation. The madness. But the heat is doing something to the horror, alchemizing it, turning fear into something that burns in a different way. My cock is throbbing, harder than it's ever been, and when I look down, I see that the veins are more prominent, the shaft thicker, the head flushed a deep, angry red. My body is changing. I can feel it in the way my muscles seem to be swelling against the chains, in the way my vision is sharpening, picking out every detail of Jenna's face with predatory clarity.

"There he is," Jenna breathes, and her eyes are fully violet now, no blue remaining. "There's my god."

The presence in the room surges, and I feel it enter me—not through my skin, not through my mouth, but through the place where Jenna's hand grips my cock. It slides inside like a hot tongue, curling around the base of my spine, and a voice that isn't a voice rumbles through my bones:

*Finally.*

Jenna moans, her back arching, and I realize she can feel it too. She can feel what's happening inside me. Her free hand goes to her breast, squeezing, pinching her nipple hard enough to leave marks, and her hips grind against the mattress.

"It's working," she gasps. "Oh god, Jack, it's actually *working*. Can you feel him? Can you feel how much he wants you?"

I can. And worse—I can feel how much *I* want him. The resistance is still there, a small, screaming part of my mind that knows this is wrong, that knows I'm being violated and transformed against my will, but it's getting smaller, getting drowned out by the roar of something ancient and hungry waking up inside me.

"I hate you for this," I say, but my hips are bucking into her hand, and the chains are groaning under a strain they weren't built for.

"I know, baby." She leans down again, taking me into her mouth, and this time when she moans against my flesh, the vibration carries words—*yes, yes, give it to me, give me everything*—and I feel the last of my resistance crack like ice in spring.

The candles flare. The symbols burn. And somewhere deep inside me, something with claws and hunger and an eternity of patience opens its eyes.

*Yes,* it says, and this time I understand it perfectly. *Let me in. Let me make you what she wants. What we both want.*

Jenna pulls back, her lips red and swollen, her eyes blazing with unholy light. "Fight it if you want, Jack. It won't matter. The ritual is already inside you. Every pulse of your heart pushes him deeper." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and her smile is the most beautiful and terrible thing I've ever seen. "Soon you won't want to fight. Soon you'll thank me."

The heat surges again, and I feel something shift in my chest—not a physical thing, but a *presence*, settling in like it's been there all along, just waiting to be noticed. My cock twitches, and I feel it grow thicker, longer, the head flaring wider, and Jenna's eyes lock onto the change with ravenous attention.

"Oh, *yes*," she whispers. "Look at you. Look at what you're becoming."

I don't want to look. I don't want to feel the power coiling in my muscles, the hunger sharpening in my belly, the way Jenna's body looks to my changing eyes—not just beautiful but *edible*, a feast laid out for a creature that doesn't know how to be satisfied.

But I can't stop looking. I can't stop feeling.

And somewhere in the deepest part of me, the part that's still human, I realize with cold clarity that she's right.

I'm not going to want to stop.