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File 157263808088.png - (344.88KB, 800x800, __koakuma_touhou_drawn_by_yua_checkmate__cc387ef42.png) [iqdb]
39877No. 39877
Being that I am a succubus, the situation I find myself in isn't exactly a terribly uncommon one. My entirety, after all, is focused on sex; my existence is predicated upon it. Where should I be found but in the middle of carnal encounters, then? It's only natural that my thick hips lower slowly and my cunt tightens around each inch of cock that I fill myself with. It's barely less common that I run my hand along my stomach, feeling the bulge that travels upwards as I enjoy this wondrous specimen of turgid flesh. It's daily at least that I can be found with a hand upon one of my hanging breasts, plenty enough to hide an average endowment, twisting and flicking a nipple as I sigh in pleasure. None of this is strange. None of this is foreign. There is, however, something that is, here in this scene. And that would be my partner.

The strangest thing about her is not that she's a she, nor that, as a she, her crotch bears an appendage which can make a size-obsessed succubus salivate. The most confounding thing about her also isn't her apparel here in the early afternoon – she seems to favor these purple, ribbon-laden pajamas, no matter the time of day... I tend to guess it's because their flowing nature is meant to obfuscate her somewhat fatty figure. The floating books and implements that surround her, they are to be expected, for few with no magical aptitude ever have a run-in with any demon, even one of lust. No, the queer thing about my partner right now is that her eyes are locked onto those books, not onto me; that she's only undressed herself enough that I can get it in, rather than flinging her garb off with supernaturally induced passion; that her dick bears no honesty and awards me no hint of its pleasure, neither throbbing with the need for release nor forcing her hips to lunge at me with all she can muster. My most recent master, Patchouli Knowledge, is the strangest person I've ever met, as all signs say that she would like it more if only I were nothing but an automated grimoire delivery system.

Thus today, again, I'm trying to tease some greater reaction from her. To get any hint that she has a libido, somewhere, buried under this flat, bookish personality. Yet she refuses to make it easy for me. No matter where inside I clench, no matter how deep within I accept her, no matter what substance I make my nether lips secrete, she refuses to so much as acknowledge these efforts. To her, this is an obligation – the clause she accepted when she signed on the dotted line. I spear myself down several inches all at once, letting my cervix part as easily as can be, shuddering at the feeling of her head scraping against my womb with a spray of precum. Yet she holds in any sign of passion better than I, her eyes not so much as twitching as that entrance tries to close itself and massages her in doing so.

Laying it on thick, I let my eyes roll back to the point the amber irises all but vanish, leaving almost nothing but pitch-black sclera left to see. With less acting than usual, I offer an impassioned cry of, “Oh, Patchouli! I love it when you fill me like this! Fuck me deeper! Don't stop until every inch of you is buried in me!” My hands wrap around her and attempt to pull the two of us closer, pressing my naked body against her soft clothes, letting hellish heat radiate off of me and into her. I lean under the book she's trying to busy herself with, pressing my lips to hers and trying to slither my thin, forked tongue through to play with her own. She does not buck, acquiescing to this heartfelt desire to be fucked. She does not open her lips, letting herself be drawn into a kiss.

She doesn't do more than stare blankly at me like I've lost it before raising her book and pushing me back with magical force, so she can return to reading. The statement she offers as her eyes resume sliding across text is so cold it could put out the eternal fires back home. “I've told you before, whatever you do while exacting your price, you are not to interrupt my reading. You were at least doing well in observing this rule before, so please continue to refrain from being more bothersome than you need to be.”

The statement hurts, just a little – I may be hamming it up, but I am legitimately delighted to be able to appreciate her cock. I won't chance interrupting her reading again, but I've already chosen my path, and I'm not going to deviate from it. Since she won't do it for me, I slam myself down and force her to hilt inside. A library is ostensibly supposed to be quiet, but the slap of our thighs meeting echoes and ensures that's not remotely the case, especially given the moans I mix with it. Looking down to my stomach, I can see it being punched out, skin stretching delightfully far – to say nothing of what I feel within, my lower mouth morphing, twisting, and expanding, the better to allow me to accommodate everything I'm being offered. I pry back and crash again, and there's nothing peaceful about the library right now each time that I do.

Soon enough, I ensure my screams of pleasure are more than pure noises of ecstasy. “Patchouli, Patchouli, I love you!” I declare, every ounce of my voice carrying sincerity as I bounce myself. I earn a blink as a response, while she turns the page of her book. I follow up, “Hold me! Hold me close and never let me go! Show me you love me back!” I believe she's muttering about magical formulae after that, having masterfully tuned me out. I try just a little harder, delivering a line that breaks through to almost any heart, “I can't live without your dick! It's the-”

Surprisingly, she pipes up to interrupt me before I can describe the ambrosia it spits out, countering my words without a trace of emotion in her voice. “Hardly true. In fact, discounting fairies, there are no less than five other phalli you could use to sustain yourself on these grounds alone – eight, if you count Flandre's clones.”

While she isn't wrong, I can't help but think she's missing the point of my statements, and quite likely on purpose. I'm not going to let her kill my buzz, though. I slam into her all the harder, to the point the chair she's sitting in creaks and rocks, seeding magic into the shouts that follow. “It has to be you! No one else in the mansion could possibly satisfy me! These moments with you are all I need!”

But the words that should conjure hearts inside of eyes and leave someone a slave to pleasure simply fall upon deaf ears, earning a disinterested, “Oh, really? Once a week is enough to satiate a succubus? Fetch me Faust's Manual of Demonology when you're done, would you? I'd like to put some notes in the margins, in light of this.”

As an expert in creating a mood, I almost have to applaud her ability to be a diametrically opposed expert in killing one. It nearly makes me not want to bother, but I'll be damned – more so than a demon inherently is – if I'm letting her win that easily. While they might not pull us together, my hands behind her claw at the cloth keeping me from her back as I continue, “Only if it's you! No one else can make me feel the way you do! I wish I could always be with you!” Amid this shouting, amid every other creak and slap boldly declaring our little romp, comes the steady drip of fluids, pittering against the hardwood floor. Not from the pre that's gushing out of her head, which cannot so much as dribble out of my womb, but from the aphrodisiac flowing from my nethers as I work myself up. Yet what good is it, when it cannot spur her to any sexual desire? When she shrugs it off as easily as any other tool I might tempt her with?

But I can't let these thoughts intrude upon the one moment I get to try. Though the dirtiest of my tricks wash off of magical wards, I can't let that stop me. There has to be something mundane I can throw at her, something that doesn't rely on magic. My spade-tipped tail twitches beneath me, and slaps against the balls I've been working so hard to get something out of; there it feels the radiant heat, the smallest things she can't possibly hide – those pulsations that prove I've done my work well. Yet it doesn't even disturb the rise and fall of her chest, the measured and steady rhythm she forces it to hold. It's cheating. I may not have room to talk, possessing an impressive number of magical tricks to make my partner feel what I want, but none of those actually work on her. While it's stupid, and petulant, and childish, I can't help but find it unfair and infuriating. Something in the pit of my stomach is uncomfortable with this situation – and not just because it's become rather cramped in order to make more womb.

“I believe I'm about there. Please clamp up, so that we don't make a mess.” Without fanfare or any hint she's even enjoying it, she gives me that line, which coincides almost perfectly with what my tail feels as my thoughts are cut into: the rise and fall of twin hanging orbs while they pump, and pump and pump. It's visible going up my stomach, and it's easy to feel the waves of white traveling through her shaft. I have a second before it really gets going to at least make the attempt.

Finding reserves untapped, I hold the folds of her pajamas tightly and let loose, “Fill me up! Fill me with your seed! I want to look pregnant! I want to become pregnant! Mark me as yours, Patchouli!” I get about halfway into that before the first shots begin to do as I'm asking. She may not enjoy this one bit, but she certainly tends to cum as though she is. I'm struck inside with enough force to add another half-inch to the distension proudly on display, as I hold myself down on her and ensure there's zero chance I miss even a drop. Thick, sticky, and near molten, the seed that floods me hangs from the ceiling of my womb, dripping down in strands that could spend minutes trying to reach its base, were another rush of the stuff not there a second later to tear it down and replace it. The sensation is divine, and my act is another degree closer to reality, moans bearing enough enthusiasm for the both of us. My tongue lolls freely, allowed to do what it will, and my tail spikes straight up, at attention as a consequence of my own reciprocal orgasm.

Being so packed, violating myself with this much, is only one part of the reason why I've been gripped by these throes; several parts more are the cum itself, and its taste. For down there, no lie can be told; the womb of a succubus knows that which fills it. And while the permeating, almost overwhelming note of ash might be greeting me, assuring me that my master takes no pleasure in this, there is more that mixes with it. Sweeter than any sugary confection, as addicting as drugs of vice, the taste of pure magic to be found every time she empties herself inside me is intoxicating. Cradling it within myself is enough alone to reach the precipice of climax, and I'll be greedily holding onto it for such purposes. Not that I'll be rationing it to ensure I can. The outline of her girth is steadily being replaced by the swell of her load, well before she's finished. Gallons galore are leaving her and entering me, finding a new and hungry home to house them, which sags with passing time.

It feels like forever, but isn't likely more than a minute or two, before I stop getting fresh doses of it, and the member within me begins to shrink to a size that doesn't look like it should be able to grow so cunt-crushingly huge. Behind it, the cavern it's filled to the brim snaps shut, trapping every delectable morsel within. Internal distortions vanish, anatomy slowly builds itself back to a more human structure. And I'm cum-drunk for several more seconds – at least until the lack of anything rigid holding me in place means my swaying takes me tumbling backwards, crashing to the ground below. The pain might bother me more, if masochism wasn't a requirement to stay sane in the lower planes I hail from. Shoving myself back up, I fondle my gut, which certainly looks several months into a healthy pregnancy. I don't have long to muse on how full I am – in many senses of the word – before a curt cough demands my attention.

“I believe that's everything, yes?” Patchouli clearly believes that quite firmly, as she's already fixed her clothes so that she looks decent again, starry little nightcap levitating off her hair a moment before settling back down, no longer lopsided.

Fighting back all instincts to sigh, now that the initial rush of bliss has worn off, I nod first instead, little bat-wings on my head fluttering as I do. “Yes, thank you! I'm happy I got to taste your cum again!” I smile, and rise into an almost unnaturally cheery and cutesy voice with what remains of the afterglow.

Patchouli's tone, however, refuses to raise above business-like. “Good, then. Kindly clothe yourself, would you? Remi may be endorsing this kind of thing at the moment, but I don't need the fairies getting more ideas while they're in my library.”

With a snap, the order's obeyed; fire and brimstone spark at my feet, rising to envelop my body as it turns to fine fabric. A black skirt-vest combo appears, clinging to my curves and pushing up my chest. The long sleeves of a white undershirt escape from beneath, terminating at my wrists where they're primly cuffed. Conjured last to round it off is a vibrant red tie that fits snugly, while I toss the errant strands of long, similarly colored hair back into place after their mussing. When I'm sure everything's in order, my heels click against the wood below. I know that I look every bit the sexy secretary, and I know assuredly that the mage continuing to flip pages doesn't actually care.

“Is there anything else you need while I'm fetching that book?” I ask, folding my arms behind myself while I wait for an answer.

“Very funny,” she retorts, with no chance she means it. “I would appreciate it if you would clean up your attempt to drug me into submission with your secretions. After that, I don't believe I'll be needing anything from you for a while. If that changes, I'll be sure to let you know.”

Another snap summons the aphrodisiac that's threatening to stain the ground, which swirls its way up, twists into my skirt, and so returns whence it came. Waste not, and all that. I wink at her as I go, useless a gesture as it may be, and leave her to her studies, listening to the sounds of her chair scooting back into place. After passing a dozen of the absurdly massive bookshelves, I feel confident in stopping my retreat, pausing to lean against one. Now, finally, I can sigh. “Shit,” I spit, venomous after another failure. Two months of this, and not a single thing different in any encounter. Every failure to get her even gasping the half-assed 'name' I received upon being summoned stings more than the last, and not in the kind of way that makes me want a good whipping. It's an unfamiliar sensation I'm not wholly able to place, further compounding this boiling frustration.

The coughing fit which has started up in the distance, loud even after making it to me, serves to further slap me across the face. Half the time, she can't keep her body in line to function normally; doesn't that make it severely bullshit she can hold herself perfectly stoic for even a quick bout of sex? It makes absolutely no sense. But sitting here bitching to myself about it isn't going to solve the problem any more than it did last week. Leaving my master to cough her lungs out, I pick myself back up and think what I want to do with my free time.

[ ] The library is rather comfortable, actually. And if I spied on my master, I might learn something useful...
[ ] Nothing beats some fresh air after a filling meal. The gate guard's one of the nicest people here, too. Might be willing to listen, if I were inclined to vent.
[ ] Now, no one said that the catacombs underground were strictly off-limits – they only said it was an idea of variable quality to go down there. But I'm no chicken.
[ ] I don't really need to eat food, but the kitchen is an interesting place nonetheless. Sharp knives and burning heat are reminiscent of home.
[ ] The top floor of the mansion is the only place one can't find any guest rooms, mostly because they're all the personal rooms of Remilia Scarlet herself. I didn't have to live here long to learn that wandering around up there is one hell of a grab bag.
[ ] Boo, your options suck! Give me what -I- want! And I want... (Write-in)
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>>No. 39878
[x] Nothing beats some fresh air after a filling meal. The gate guard's one of the nicest people here, too. Might be willing to listen, if I were inclined to vent.

Futa's not my cup of tea, but I'll be watching this. Good luck in the Nanowrimo!
>>No. 39879
[x] Nothing beats some fresh air after a filling meal. The gate guard's one of the nicest people here, too. Might be willing to listen, if I were inclined to vent.

Meiling is go!
>>No. 39880
[X] I don't really need to eat food, but the kitchen is an interesting place nonetheless. Sharp knives and burning heat are reminiscent of home.

Fairies!
>>No. 39881
[x] The top floor of the mansion is the only place one can't find any guest rooms, mostly because they're all the personal rooms of Remilia Scarlet herself. I didn't have to live here long to learn that wandering around up there is one hell of a grab bag.
Good luck with the story, I'm not too fussed over whatever wins.
>>No. 39882
Not likely to get many more votes, I feel, and there's time constraints to consider. Calling it for going to see Meiling and writing.

Thank you for the wishes of luck, I'll surely need them.
>>No. 39884
File 157270130576.jpg - (169.08KB, 1219x1500, __hong_meiling_touhou_drawn_by_ao_banana__bb58625b.jpg) [iqdb]
39884
Well, I've heard it said that fresh air is often good for thinking – and now that I recall, the gate guard's rather nice, as well. Maybe consulting her over my woes and whatever this gnawing I'm feeling is could be helpful. It's better than sitting here listening to my master try to beat her record for largest number of sequential coughs. Three dozen's the best I've heard so far, and I'm impressed she had enough breath to get through that one.

Thankfully, I've been here just long enough that the sheer size of the library has stopped intimidating me... even more thankfully, magical flight comes cheap in this place. The wings on my head flutter and lift me up above bookshelves taller and wider than houses, letting me bypass the labyrinthine layout of this place. I occasionally glance below, and find that clothing myself was a little pointless; the fairies that're gathered here have already decided to have some fun. Admittedly, all of my hollering earlier can't have helped that situation any more – Patchouli might be immune to every one of my tricks, but these fairies are notoriously weak to... everything, really. They're just notoriously weak. I consider slinging some magic into the mix of a few, just to spice things up for them, but they probably wouldn't do much with the gifts anyway.

Somehow, the architect of this place avoided making the library's entrance as large as the thing itself. You'd almost believe normal humans live here, until you opened the double doors and realized you couldn't see the ceiling. Pushing them open, I arrive in the main foyer of the mansion. The actually important bits of it all link up here, which tends to be handy; very much saves time when you're trying to get from here to there. The helix staircase in its center runs through every floor, which seems like a much more preferable option than having to get to the end of a wing in order to change floors. But I'm not here to muse on architecture, or appreciate the suits of armor flanking the entrance like they're even necessary to guard the place; I'm here to head outside, so outside's where I head.

Now, no self-respecting demon would admit to their favorite color being green, but I won't say I mind the view whenever I head out here. The grass is always meticulously kept, which is a feat, because there is a lot of it; the courtyard they've fenced in with that brick wall is by no means small. It's cut through the center by a long trail of cobblestone, which is itself forced to part around a large marble statue. One of those water-spewing affairs, the kind that ensures there's always at least a slight sound of splashing. Not actually all that fond of it, not because of the noise, but mostly because cherubim are kind of assholes – never had a good run-in with one, don't think I ever will. The further I get down the cobble path, the more I can make out of the flower garden that runs the outer perimeter of the place. A chaotic kaleidoscope of colors, it looks like what was planted where wasn't given much thought, but I find that difficult to believe, as I've yet to spy a weed left to grow and its sheer vibrancy assures me it is exceedingly well cared for. And of course, omnipresent despite being free to roam wherever, there are squads of fairies flying around. Some are actually tending to the garden, some of them are engaging in adorable little lascivious public displays, but most are just playing games of tag and the like.

I stop for a second to take a sniff of the flowers, but find something much more entertaining hitting my nose. None of the little nature sprites going at it could possibly hit my senses like this, so I can hazard a guess as to what's going on across the border into the rest of this land. My head wings flutter, rather than shove open the spiked, iron-wrought gate, and so I'm greeted with the sight mansion security, Hong Meiling.

There are a number of features about her that are exceptionally easy to pick out, even at a glance. She's the tallest person living at this mansion without contest, beating the maid handily, and the maid isn't exactly short. While she doesn't look like some kind of herculean Adonis, she's nonetheless one of the only people I've seen since my arrival that has any kind of defined muscle at all, which would make her seem more imposing than most. Would, but her size and stature are offset by her eyes, a sparkling blue that always seem to say she's got time to sit and chat, if you do too. Her hair's about as long as mine, and a slightly brighter hue of ruby-red; I might have seen it shine once, when the light hit it just right, but I think that was just that 'chi' thing she talks about. I've never seen her in anything but a Chinese style dress, often one that's exceedingly high-cut; this jade colored affair with a gold dragon adorning its front isn't much different, and the region those slits reach would be scandalous, if this place had the concept of scandals. It really doesn't seem to, though, especially given the most obvious feature of her that's been saved for last.

In each of her arms at the moment is a fairy stripped of uniform, and judging by just how red their faces are, my estimate for how they're doing is roughly around, 'Keep me in coach, I can still do it.' That being mumbled by the half-conscious player who's getting dragged off the field. The reason for this is that the gate guard has not one, but two dicks growing out from where one might reasonably expect a girl has a hole, rather than a rod, one stacked atop the other. The fun doesn't stop there, though. Her nickname of 'The Dragon' seems to be quite literal, because they aren't actually humanoid. They're decidedly reptilian in nature, with a more pronounced tapering to a point, and a nearly pure white color. The barbs running along them might look painful, but given how I see them shifting, they're not actually solid enough to do any real damage, even to pint-sized toys like the fairies here. No, the problem the fairies are really having, and the reason they look like they can't breathe, is that Meiling is the biggest here in all respects; I was singing my master's praises ten minutes ago, but even one of these is thicker and longer by a margin I wouldn't discount. She isn't even ravaging them properly, it's mostly that even a shallow thrust stretches them a bit past what I'd estimate their limit is.

She's looks very intently focused on her work, but evidently not so focused she can't turn to look at me and offer a glittering smile. “Koa! Patchy not have you fetching an entire shelf's worth of books today?” Her voice is as light as her eyes would suggest it is, the polar opposite of how my master tends to regard me.

I lean against the gate with my hands behind my head, letting out a heavy breath. “Thankfully not, after yesterday. By the time I was done with the list she had for me when I woke up, I was already so tired I just went back to bed. Does she really read enough she needs it all in bulk?”

She chuckles as she delicately raises and lowers the fairies, who let out strained grunts and seem to be getting closer to tapping with every second. “You'd be surprised. She can get through those things impressively quick when she's really on a roll with her latest project.” One of the fairies starts clutching at her stomach, which I have to assume is pressed uncomfortably against three other organs at the moment, and Meiling pauses for a second to give her a look, receiving a very unconvincing little, 'Doing fine.' gesture.

“Are you entirely sure she can actually do anything quickly, even reading?” I counter, letting perhaps a bit more frustration tinge my question than I intended. “She looks like she has enough health conditions a stiff breeze could kill her by accident, and every single time that black-white witch has come, she's gotten her ass handed to her in the duel that followed.” I also enjoy that last remark just a little more than is strictly healthy in a master-servant relationship.

“If she couldn't, would you have half the work you do? I may not go into the library often, but I've seen how thick those tomes are. I'd need a month to get through one, and that's assuming all the magical jargon made any sense to me. And Marisa's... well, a bit of a special case, from what I've heard.” The other fairy, who isn't clutching her stomach, is kicking forward with extreme prejudice at this point. It looks more reflexive than anything. I have to wonder how much these girls are getting out of this, because they're forcing themselves really hard.

Processing sexual information is more autonomous than anything, so while that's running through my head, I'm going through the very short job of considering her words. Of course, I'm forced to sigh and concede the point. “Yeah. Carting them around probably wouldn't take half as long if each of them didn't weigh half a ton. What's so special about that other witch, then?”

Meiling gives pause when presented with this question, its answer evidently far from her lips. The fairies in her arms are both gritting their teeth rather violently by this point, despite the fact that the guard doesn't seem to have gone a centimeter deeper than prior, or sped up at all. I can practically feel them cracking under the strain. Might honestly need to help them, because it doesn't look like either side's gonna make it, at this rate. Before I can, though, the thoughtful humming I've been listening to is replaced by a somewhat sheepish answer, “I don't think I can really, properly explain it. There's a few different sides to it. You should just ask her yourself sometime; I think that'd be for the best.” She shuffles her grip on the fairies, careful not to let them slip and fall. Gravity would have a hard time fucking them any more thoroughly, but she doesn't risk it regardless. When she's got them situated, her hands are each atop a fairy's head, patting gently at their hair and assuring them they're doing a wonderful job. If it's helping, it's so subtly even I don't notice, and there's no appreciable difference between that and it doing nothing.

That's all running in the background while I slide down, letting my ass thud against the dirt road that leads to the rest of what civilization can be found here. My laugh is wry, almost closer to a bark than anything, and the bark is followed with a biting, “The way she acts most of the time, I don't think she'd be willing to explain it to me.”

I get a thoughtful nod, and it's not long after she suggests, “You've been sounding a little frustrated with her. Feel like letting it out?” Now, some might say that it would be rude to try and listen to someone's emotional baggage while you're in the middle of potentially saddling two midgets with their own by sticking your dicks in them – but I'd say it's far more rude to interrupt someone's good time. Even if the only hint these two are getting one is the near indiscernible scent of very feminine fluids dripping from them.

I hesitate a second, most of my temper showing of its own volition, but eventually figure I've yet to meet a better person to confide in since being summoned. “Yeah, actually, thanks. It's...” It's slightly more difficult to put this into words than I was expecting, now that I'm not just stewing. I've had aloof relationships with my masters before. I've had to deal with masters who practically starve me, even if they fuck me daily – yet I could probably survive off one round every two weeks with Patchouli. I'm basically free to do whatever I want as long as she's got her books, too. This is miles from the worst summoning I've ever had to deal with. What exactly -is- my problem?

The Chinese girl doesn't mind my trailing off at all, staying silent to let me collect my thoughts. Her fairy companions are slightly less so, and have started to foam at the mouth by now. It's reaching the point I'm more surprised Meiling is willing to keep going than that they are. Do they have some kind of safe word set up that they're not using? I have to assume as much, because there's few other explanations for what I'm watching that don't radically change what I know about this girl. Not that I'd term myself an expert on anyone here.

More pressingly, I'm doing a very poor job of piecing together the exact 'why' that makes this case so damnably infuriating. I'm as uncertain as I sound when I open my mouth again to speak. “She just... she doesn't seem like she even wants a succubus around. She's completely uninterested in me. It feels like she summoned me just because succubi are easy to keep a leash on; can't even be bothered to try in the once a week she's obligated to let me at her. Sort of...” I blink, and realize that Meiling isn't really showing any outward signs of arousal either. Face isn't flush, no sweat running down her body, breathing isn't heavy... if her cocks weren't hard enough to point skyward, I'd doubt she was in the mood at all. I've come to expect my master's brand of nonsense in the short while since coming here, it hadn't even registered as strange and wrong. “... Sort of like you right now, actually.” I finish up, when the revelatory moment passes.

Clearly, I either look or sound like I take great offense to this newly unearthed fact – which isn't terribly surprising, given I do – because if her hands weren't full, she'd probably be raising them in surrender as a gesture of peace. “Look at 'em,” she offers in defense of herself, presenting the duo as much as she can without pulling them off. I have been looking at them, this entire time, and they look like the bravest little troopers. I have to commend their can-do attitude; they might even do alright back home, if they weren't being mollycoddled to manage this much. “I just can't bring myself to really hurt 'em, y'know? Even this much kind of feels bad... I can't really get into it with the fairies.”

Now the moment's passed, I can feel my features softening from whatever accusatory grimace they'd settled into. “Sorry,” I say, hanging my head and shaking it. “Just still a little on edge from the last time with her a minute ago. No matter what I do, she barely looks at me, she barely reacts to me... I'd be okay with how infrequent it all is if she'd just... notice me, I guess? As it is, I might as well be using a highly realistic dildo, and it's just kinda... it hurts? And I don't like it, and that makes it worse, 'cause I've been saying we're getting a bit too soft back home for centuries now...” I don't quite mean to, but I end up gripping myself in the middle of this explanation, right about the part where it tends to hurt. Where that twisting, gnawing sensation bores into me relentlessly under the dispassionate lack of gaze from my master...

It's far more telling to Meiling than it is to me, apparently, because she looks to have her own moment of revelation while I'm explaining this. She cautiously ventures a question in the consequent silence of waiting to see if she'd like to share with the class. “So, I don't know a lot about succubi, but... that's about where your heart is, right?” She must be extremely focused on the conversation now, actually, as she's stopped even the bare hint of movement she had going on before, idling inside the fairies.

It strikes me as extremely strange, as that all registers. I'm not completely sure how we got from my problems to succubus anatomy, but I figure I'll humor her, since she's listening to me. “Usually. It's a little chaotic, in there. But when nothing's wrong, that's about where it's located. Why?” I lean forward a bit as I inquire this, admittedly curious as to where she's going with this.

She's much more confident, following up quickly after me, like she's sure she's on a roll. “And succubi don't normally feel this way about their masters, right? Have you ever felt like this before? It doesn't really sound like you have.” I think she should have paused when she wasn't inserted quite as much – as it stands, they basically have to idle at the apex, enduring splitting apart as I'm questioned on the habits of my species. I can see the veins in their necks bulging quite prominently at the moment, and I have to wonder if the strain of it all isn't going to give them some kind of aneurysm or stroke.

Now, the questions have to have some kind of point, I'm figuring, so I keep answering frankly enough. “Well, no. That's the worst part of it, I think. I've lost count of how many raw deals I've gotten when I was summoned, but none of them made me feel like this and plenty of them were worse. I've wanted to burn my masters alive, or flay their skin; I've managed to drag half a dozen souls back home because the contracts weren't airtight – not pretty, let me tell you – and yet... I don't want to do any of that here. Even though I hate it, it doesn't make me want to scour every clause and find... something, anything to abuse.” The questions are certainly helping me focus my thoughts. I'm starting to get a little closer to the root of it, I feel. I'm beginning to understand that 'why' that was eluding me just now. Or, at least, I thought I was. I don't actually like that grin that she's wearing.

I don't like those stifled giggles, either. It's not even at the fate of those unfortunate summoners, and she's doing an excellent job of making me think she's just jerking me around. Before I can call her out on it, she finally says, all but radiant with mirth, “Wow, I really did learn something about succubi today. I thought you guys were all lust and no love, but it sounds like you're in love with her.” I'm not sure if the fairies' gasps are those of pain or those of surprise, but they're croaked out with great effort, whichever the case may be.

I do not gasp, though. I don't make a sound, or do more than stare at her blankly. She's strung together words, and they even go in an order I recognize and can interpret, yet I still hear gobbledegook. My mouth opens, then it closes, and I spend several more seconds trying to make sense of what she's just said before I ask, utterly baffled, “What? I think I didn't hear you, could you repeat that?”

She about doubles over in laughter at my response, which I'd be mad about if I weren't overwhelmed by confusion. I think it's for the best that doing so means she accidentally drops the fairies; if she hadn't, I estimate she'd get them to about their esophagi, and she might feel bad about that one. Even if they want to protest their new position in the dirt, they don't seem to be able to get up to manage it, so it looks like they're going to be spared. Also probably for the best: I haven't personally observed Meiling's orgasms, but I take it those beauties are not for show. Wiping a tear from her eye, she hastily stands back up, offering a quick and sincere, “Sorry, sorry.” Exhaling, she looks me in the eyes, and says, plainly and slowly, “You're in love with Patchouli, Koa – unless I've gotten really bad at this in the last few years.”

The retelling of this doesn't actually make more sense than the original. I try repeating it myself, instead, in the hopes it will be in a language I've learned at some point in my life. “I'm... in love with Patchouli?” Huh, no, that really is just nonsense, isn't it? Utter bullshit, means nothing. Maybe if I restructure it a bit, add a few extra words to bridge the gaps? “I... am in love with Patchouli's cock. It's large, and it cums buckets, and I just wish she'd want to give me it.” Yeah, there we go. Now there's a statement that I can claim is wholly truthful and which settles nicely on the brain. It seems my conversational partner disagrees, though.

“Close. Very close.” She's definitely having fun with this, at this point. She takes a second to sling the barely conscious fairies over her shoulders while she congratulates me in a tone I don't exactly appreciate. “But no. You love Patchouli herself. The girl. Not her dick. Not her spunk. Her. You might even be head over heels. Don't know how that works where you come from, but it looks utterly cute, where I come from.” She has to be laughing at me, I find it impossible to believe she's not.

And yet, the more time I've had to tumble it over in my head, the more it does sink in. The stories I've heard when called somewhere more mortal... The sarcastically told tales I've heard from my kin back home... The things I've tasted in so many of the loads I took in the past... Was that... is this... love? I'm given more time to stare at Meiling, dumbstruck, while the gears turn up above. “I'm in love with Patchouli?” That sounds like an actual sentence, now, so I say it again. “I'm in love with Patchouli.” More confidence builds inside my voice as I stand, resolute. “I'm in love with Patchouli!” I declare, punching my fist at the sky, emboldened by this development. I have pinned down this elusive, thrice-damned feeling! I understand it! I know it! I know what to- I... fuck me I have no idea what to do with this knowledge.

My Chinese wisdom dispenser looked so happy for me, too, but she doesn't seem to like whatever face I'm making now that reality's slapped me back down again. She comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder, bearing a serious expression that's rather rare, to my knowledge. She insists, very strongly, “It's alright. Don't worry. You know, now. That's a huge step forward for you, trust me. It might not seem easy, and you might hurt a lot more before you can make it feel better, but... you can do something about it, now.” The smile she offers when she's done speaking is a source of light all its own, and I have to admit – she definitely hasn't gotten bad at this. She's actually really, really good at it.

I smile back after letting out a few deep breaths. This is... new territory. New territory's gotten very rare, as time has gone on. I wasn't sure there was any left, but it seems like I've blundered into a massive chunk of it. “Thanks, Meiling. I definitely owe you one.”

“Don't mention it. Just glad I could help. So, now that you know: what're you gonna do?” Well, it's a good question she's got there. There's a world of possibilities for what to do with this, or just to take my mind off it and calm down. I think...

[ ] “I think I really do owe you. Watching you with those fairies was agonizing. Please, for your sake and mine, let me help you out instead; you can get as into it as you want with me, promise.”
[ ] “I think I really do owe you. Those fairies really weren't helping, it looked like. I am a succubus, in love or not; let me do something about that.”
[ ] “I think this is a lot to think on. I might need to go introspect for the first time in... shit, has it really been two centuries?”
[ ] “I think that if I'm being honest with myself, I don't know the first thing about love. 'I love you.' doesn't even mean anything to me at this point, I've heard it so many times. There's gotta be something on love in the library I could look for, right?”
[ ] “I think I'm gonna go tell her how I feel, right now. That's something you do at times like this, right? Maybe if I explain it, she'll come around.”
[ ] “I think THP is way better at coming up with voting options than the author is, so I'm gonna ask them for a second opinion.” (Write-in)
>>No. 39885
[x] “I think that if I'm being honest with myself, I don't know the first thing about love. 'I love you.' doesn't even mean anything to me at this point, I've heard it so many times. There's gotta be something on love in the library I could look for, right?”
Something important like that requires research.
>>No. 39887
[x] “I think I really do owe you. Those fairies really weren't helping, it looked like. I am a succubus, in love or not; let me do something about that.”

Understand, understand.
>>No. 39890
[x] “I think that if I'm being honest with myself, I don't know the first thing about love. 'I love you.' doesn't even mean anything to me at this point, I've heard it so many times. There's gotta be something on love in the library I could look for, right?”

Dick-themed study montage!
>>No. 39896
[x] “I think that if I'm being honest with myself, I don't know the first thing about love. 'I love you.' doesn't even mean anything to me at this point, I've heard it so many times. There's gotta be something on love in the library I could look for, right?”
>>No. 39898
The winner's pretty clear, so voting's called to begin writing. It's time for a study session, because lust is easy and love is hard, especially when you're a succubus.
>>No. 39899
File 157283426530.jpg - (133.45KB, 1000x1500, __koakuma_touhou_drawn_by_ao_banana__8731223d5b9f7.jpg) [iqdb]
39899
While I mull, I'm treated to a very intent stare, which I take to mean my answer will be scrutinized heavily. I can't exactly blame Meiling, as I'm sure there are plenty of ways to go about this that'd be wrong. That itself, though, inspires what I settle on as I laugh just a little ruefully and admit, “I think that if I'm being honest with myself, I don't know the first thing about love. 'I love you.' doesn't even mean anything to me at this point, I've heard it so many times. But there's gotta be something on love in the library I could look for, right?”

That earns me a solid clap on the back, and a proud, beaming grin. I can't help but notice there's just a tinge of relief to her voice when she says, “It's good you can realize that and admit it. It'll help a lot, if you seriously pursue her. And since you're gonna check the library, I might just have a suggestion. Patchy makes us keep it all the way in the back, but, if you head there then you'll find plenty of manga you can read. Don't treat it as sacred, but it's probably better than the instructions for brewing a love potion, or whatever else you'll find on most of the other shelves.” She shrugs the fairies off her shoulders as she advises me, catching them in her arms again. My assumption is she's going to get back to it, because she has two throbbing erections just sitting there with frustratingly little being done about them, but she lays the pair on the ground instead and looks to be making sure they're okay. Strange priorities, I feel, but I refrain from commenting.

Largely, I do so because I'm laughing at the notion of bothering – or even needing – to try and make a love potion. “No kidding. If it was that easy, we'd never have had this talk, and she'd probably be more interested in me than her studies by now. I'll be sure to give them a shot. Thanks again.”

“Good luck!” she calls, waving as I start floating over the wall to head back inside, but the fact that I pause and second guess my poor manners seems to confuse her. “Hm? Think of something else you need?”

I shake my head and twirl a hand, pointer finger extended, gradually forming a luminescent ball of pink energy – not that the little thing can illuminate much with the sun so boldly out. “Nah. I just can't stand leaving you all so poor off.” With a flick, the magical orb races under her, bursting in a nova that discolors the fairies for a second before fading. I've never been terribly fond of that particular variant, but I assume scorching them with corrupt fire might leave Meiling questioning things more than she already is. “You shouldn't have to worry about hurting them for a few hours. Trust me, just have some fun.”

She looks a little more skeptical than she should be – seriously, I am just trying to do her a solid here – but does gingerly pick one back up and slowly begin inserting herself. It doesn't take long to reach what, before, was as deep as she could go, without any of the obvious strain. With another few inches, producing a drunken sort of giggle from her little friend, she seems much more confident. It's as she experimentally shoves to about halfway in and groans in obvious pleasure, looking at the distension she's producing on a fairy that loves it, that I'm finally happy to actually leave. I can feel the difference from before even more plainly than I can hear it, and I can hear them all the way until the mansion doors close behind me. Much better; really should've done that earlier.

With a good deed done for the day, I hurry back to start my search for anything that might help me understand the concept of love just a little more. Or at least something that might act as an instruction manual. My haste isn't really born of a lack of time – it's more that if I'm lazy about it, even a straight shot to the back of the library takes almost ten minutes, and that's in mid-air. I like a good spatial distortion as much as the next girl, but it does feel like they go overboard here, sometimes. At least the library has the excuse that it needs all that space, because there's just that many distinct books, but my attempts to navigate the rest of the place have convinced me they could house half the population of this land, minimum.

Distracting thoughts like that help ensure my journey feels shorter than it actually is, letting me arrive in one of the many 'clearings' that dot this place. Wide spaces where the rows upon rows upon rows of wood give way to all sorts of chairs, couches, and tables, offering somewhere to relax and enjoy the pages of whatever leisurely material you can find. There's less than one might think, from what I've seen; it's surely enough to stock a mundane archive to the brim, irrespective of that. I don't know if reading's fallen out of favor, or if anyone else that'd be after this stuff is five minutes over in a different spot, but I've got this space to myself either way. Assuming I'm even still here specifically when I find what I'm after; being the end of the line, the piles of pages stretch on without need for gap or break, an overwhelming number of spines obfuscating whatever among them might help. Good organizational structure only does so much to alleviate the sheer volume, so I start the laborious process of inspecting titles, prying them loose for cursory readings, and then shelving what I've chosen because I appear to have started in the action section.

I'm lucky that a number of these things seem to have almost comically long and descriptive titles – it makes gauging where in my search I am a lot easier once I figure that out. With the aid of those landmark titles, I make much quicker progress navigating from action to mystery, from mystery to horror, from horror to comedy, and then, finally to the first cover I've seen that's absolutely laden with hearts. The stylized kind, that is – the horror titles seemed to relish in gore and there were quite a few realistic ones on the path here. The only problem that I have left is that comics, or at least these sorts, were rising to prominence long after magic was starting to vanish from Earth. I don't know a lot about them to judge what's poor and what isn't, much less at a glance. My best guess is that if the art is pleasing to the eye, the story's got a chance to be good. With this simple system in place, I start collecting what I can, appreciating that they're considerably more compact than the giant, ornate things my job obligates me to lug around.

After a few trips and some experimenting with centers of gravity to get my tail in on the job, I've assembled more manga than I'm likely to get through today. I properly crack open the first, settle into an armchair, and start flipping through at a rather slow pace, trying to really absorb it. It's equal parts awful and great, quite often both at the same time. On the one hand, the idea it's trying to present that love is a thing akin to war, a brutal fight to attempt to get any affection whatsoever out of someone, is absolutely something I strongly resonate with, eerily reminiscent of my situation. On the other hand, the comedic nature of most of the delivery and the amount I find myself laughing suggests this may not be entirely true to life. It's hard to say, with no real frame of reference. Even if it everything it espouses is true, I can't possibly follow the examples it's setting and expect to get anywhere – it certainly doesn't look like either of the main characters is any closer to their goal after a few volumes than when I first picked it up.

I set that aside, and grab something else. I need to know more. I need to put any of that into context. The next features a girl who doesn't seem to understand love herself, unable to be swept up in it. Distant from whatever special feelings it's supposed to conjure, she lets someone else love her, while assuring herself that she's going to be able to reciprocate this one day. Actions so mundane they barely register to me are similarly underwhelming to her, yet she cannot escape the idea that, evidently, they should bring something so much more. In truth, I can understand it, somewhat – those that I've lain with, those that I seduce, they surely seem to delude themselves into thinking that something special is happening, all because of how good they feel. But is there actually something more behind it?All this tells me is that I might really be missing some core component that one needs for love... perhaps my master is, too? She's no normal human; did she give these things up in pursuit of her magical studies? They may well have been mutually exclusive, and this venture may well be pointless. But if it is, then what am I to do?

I don't think this is helping me figure out how to express love any better. It's certainly not helping me think I even can. I swap to another story, not quite having the inclination to see this one out to the end. It promises to be sugary sweet, yet what I find within is anything but. The girl in this professes to have a much stronger grasp of what love even is, but it's far from what I've gotten out of the last two. The feelings I imagine it's meant to evoke are sinister, and I'm not convinced this person is considered sane by human standards. The overtones of control create a strange dissonance with the almost saccharine nature of the relationship that's being shown at moments. Is this what love looks like? Is owning a person love? It can't be, can it? If it were that easy, I'd be an expert on love, and I wouldn't have the problem I do. I have a gut feeling this isn't really one I want to consult, but I had some variant of that gut feeling about the last two, as well. Love seems like an extremely complex thing...

And so I consult another manga. And then another. I keep going, trying to find any common threads, any rules that govern this thing that yet makes no sense. I read more that I can empathize with, and I read plenty that can't hope to draw me in, but I read it all regardless, until I'm tired of reading and I'm tired period. I'm slumped over in my chair by this point, partially in defeat and partially from the late hour. I still haven't even gotten through a quarter of my research material, but what I have will need to suffice for now. There's just the snag of how little it's done, or seems to have. There's a not inconsiderable number of different ideas floating around my head right now, several of which are incompatible with each other. If I've learned one thing, it's that Meiling was right: this doesn't seem easy.

What I have gotten out of this study is discouraging, too. Misunderstandings and clearing them up seemed to crop up constantly, whether for humor or drama, but always as a roadblock towards love going anywhere. I can imagine any attempts to declare my love for her being severely misunderstood, just with what I read today. The concept of a date might make sense in theory, but what do I do with it in practice? I can understand the appeal of gifts, but what would I give her? How do I show that it's for love, and not just an attempt to curry favor so she'll fuck me more frequently? Is there even a difference between expressing love and ingratiating yourself? It's more questions than I started with. Like I now know more clearly that I know nothing. It seems a lot simpler to just inspire this all in someone else and not have to deal with it; I need to make sure I don't fall in love again.

Alas, though, that reminder for the future doesn't solve the now, as I'm already in this mess. Maybe I'll think on it more while I'm sleeping. There must be ways to use what I've learned that aren't immediately apparent. I stare at my reading material for a few seconds, debating the merits of putting it back, before deciding that I can compromise and just replace what I've already read – even if it's not an all day binge, coming back to this when I have some free time might be useful, and I can't say I hated the stories. I get what I've gone through back where it came from – the fact that it wasn't terribly much of it works in my favor here, as I don't have to make more than one trip – and then I make my way to my room. I can't quite be bothered to hurry there right now, so I lazily and sluggishly glide through the air, arriving when I arrive and not a second sooner. That means a while later, given that my room is back at the front end of the library.

Before I actually head in, I take a look at the door next to mine, and find its handle is glowing faintly purple. Seems my master opted to actually sleep in a bed tonight, as opposed to working at her desk until she passed out. If she did that more, it might clear up at least one of her health problems. I always find the magical lock a little overkill; it's not like she's keeping me from doing anything my contract doesn't forbid seven times over, and this is an exceedingly peaceful land she lives in. Whatever helps her sleep at night, though.

My own room is perfectly unlocked, and I'm happy to see it by this point. The bed that I get to enjoy has a soft blue quilt, and it's quite comfortable to splay out on its center; there's room enough around me still for the rest of a small orgy. I'm sad to say I haven't roped enough residents in for that yet, fairy or not. Settling down ensures I'm facing my wardrobe, which has plenty of room for clothes I don't own, like the ones that disappear from my body in a puff of smoke – it really is just so much more pleasant to not be constrained. At the foot of the bed is a trunk, half-opened and full near to bursting with demonic sex toys and torture implements from home. They're the essentials for any summoning, really. There's no guarantee your summoner is properly equipped to have a good time, nor that you'll be getting fed enough to use magic freely. A ticking clock, hanging off a wall that could pass for slightly less luminous magma at first glance, informs me that I apparently read for so long it's now midnight. That does explain the exhaustion. On second thought, I'll put off actually thinking more on how to solve my problem; today was payday, and I could use a more solid break from the effort.

I wave one hand, and the ethereal, radiant pinpoint which is flooding this room with far too much light for me to sleep dims, then winks out. Very handy way of lighting your home, those; also impossible to interface with if you have literally no magical aptitude. Now that everything's more peaceful, my fingers snap and life improves considerably. Because, despite my complaints, I am fed plenty enough to casually throw around magic here; magic like summoning spectral dicks attached to nothing, invisible even if the lights were on, and ramming me in all my holes. Well, okay, in the three holes most people would associate with sex, but I'm going to need a bit more than once a week with my master if I want real luxury. The cum which I left trapped inside of me roils, sinking inside my flesh and giving me another taste of it. A shudder runs from toe to head as I sigh around the nothingness spearing my throat. Sensual spots within me are stroked automatically, my eyes close, and as the first orgasm rocks my body, I fall into a peaceful slumber.

The whole of the night I get to enjoy that. And I don't just mean that my body does: I do, me, the consciousness having all of these thoughts. Every thrust is like I'm still awake. Every touch is as potent as if my body weren't unconscious. This might sound strange, to someone who experiences 'sleep' as a sort of blink between night and day, with a chance that some esoteric thoughts may surface in the form of a dream, but I suffer no such consequences. Sleep doesn't even exist, where I come from – it's one of those things you just have to put up with, when you take a trip elsewhere. It's a problem of varying severity, and I've never quite come to like it, but at least being able to feel myself writhing in pleasure all night helps to pass the time, all the while getting drip-fed this glorious seed. Sometimes I count the climaxes; I'm up to three so far tonight. Sometimes I try and focus hard enough to get more senses than touch; when I'm on point, I manage to get back sound, and can hear the magical sex aids ravaging my body, the gentle lull of flesh slapping into flesh at a frenzied pace. Sometimes, I just have way too much time to think; I don't much like those times. Mercifully, this isn't one of them, and there's plenty to keep me occupied while my body rests up, considerably slashing the time I think passes before I'm awake.

[ ] And what wakes me is a tug at my soul, the universal summoner's sign for, “I have a job that needs doing, but you're not here, so fix that.”
[ ] My soul may not get all the sensations my body does, but I'm asleep, not dead; that sharp rap at the door would wake anyone.
[ ] In a very rare instance, instincts tell me that I'm in danger – this is more than strange enough to wake me, as danger should arouse me, not scare me.
[ ] I've slept just long enough that almost anything would get me up, even the light knock that's only checking if I'm already awake.
[ ] There's the distinct impression that someone wants my attention, despite the fact that I am not actually awake to offer my attention. The feeling's compelling enough to change that fact.
[ ] The readers, disappointed with these vague options, crash cymbals next to my ears, waking me with whatever agenda they please. (Write-in)
>>No. 39900
[ ] There's the distinct impression that someone wants my attention, despite the fact that I am not actually awake to offer my attention. The feeling's compelling enough to change that fact.

Every option is tempting, so I'm just going to pick randomly.
>>No. 39901
[X] There's the distinct impression that someone wants my attention, despite the fact that I am not actually awake to offer my attention. The feeling's compelling enough to change that fact.
>>No. 39902
[x] In a very rare instance, instincts tell me that I'm in danger – this is more than strange enough to wake me, as danger should arouse me, not scare me.
Going with the outlier.
>>No. 39904
[x] My soul may not get all the sensations my body does, but I'm asleep, not dead; that sharp rap at the door would wake anyone.
>>No. 39909
Four more votes, one more vote called for writing. Let's have some fun being avant-garde, shall we?
>>No. 39910
[x] There's the distinct impression that someone wants my attention, despite the fact that I am not actually awake to offer my attention. The feeling's compelling enough to change that fact.

Not sure which characters are for which options aside from the first so I'll just go with the tide, I guess.
>>No. 39911
>>39910
On the chance my statement was misunderstood, I'd just like to clarify: I was stating earlier that I was calling the vote, not calling for one more. Apologies if there was confusion. I'll properly designate the vote calling posts going forward regardless, to prevent that.
>>No. 39912
File 157292161184.jpg - (2.06MB, 1776x2690, __remilia_scarlet_touhou_drawn_by_magician_china__.jpg) [iqdb]
39912
Long into my rest, just about as my phallic familiars are about to run out of energy and cease to exist, I'm struck acutely by the notion that someone very much wants my attention. It's so intense a desire it shakes me awake. And, right as my eyes begin to open – begin to, mind, not once they have – I am chided by an enthralling voice, “You vile fiend, you.” My eyes finish opening, I start rising up, and they continue to scold me, “Look at how late you've slept in. Utterly shameful. Is this layabout nature a trait of all succubi, or are you uniquely unmotivated? I must say, I am not impressed, Koakuma; not impressed at all.” I look between the person who has an issue with my sleeping habits, and the clock. The nice thing about my condition, as far as sleep goes, is that not only do I not have to worry about grogginess, but since there's no real loss of thought, the night prior isn't ever difficult to recall, even right before I pass out. That clock says eight AM and five minutes of change. I know exactly what's going on here, and I know it because of who's actually berating me.

She's short. Very short: as tall as an eight year old at best, and probably one that'd be small among her peers. The blue-purple hair atop her head is only just long enough to reach her jaw, with jagged, fang-like bangs. Her eyes, disapproving and damning, are the red of blood, and also happen to shine in the darkness where she belongs, which only helps her draw in and hypnotize people. Actual fangs peek out of her mouth, which she has bared in quite the irate scowl. Her figure is thin and frail looking, while her skin is almost like that of a doll, and the beauty within it is far beyond what any natural means can produce. She's wearing a lacy pink dress, which has a number of red ribbons woven into it and is long enough to reach her feet. Of course, coming out of its back are two leathery, bat-like wings, the most immediate and obvious note of what exactly she is. She's a vampire. She's Remilia Scarlet. She's in charge of this mansion. And she's fucking with me.

I know that to be true beyond a shadow of a doubt. It's too precise. It's too perfect. I got almost exactly eight hours of sleep. What happened last night was that she watched me retire to bed, waited until I had fallen asleep to creep in, and then sat in my room, watching me get ravaged for eight hours, just so she could wake me up by eventually flaring her vampiric charisma to demand my attention. She did all of this just so that she could complain about the fact that I sleep at the hours of a regular person, not the hours of a vampire. What else I know? I can't prove it. I could interrogate her for the next twenty-four hours straight, and her story wouldn't change, her facade wouldn't falter, and her conviction wouldn't waver. I can't get annoyed; this is just a thing that happens, and I'm not sure she can control it. The thing is that every being which measures its life span in centuries or more inevitably is compelled by the desire to use their nigh infinite time to fuck with people in ever more obtuse ways, once they hit their fifth century. This is a constant which is true in more locations than such universal laws as gravity. At least it's helped me estimate her age without having to ask her. That'd be terribly rude, after all.

It's as my conjured companions vanish back into the ether, the eight hours of life I put into them running up, that I sigh and swing my legs off the bed, turning to face her properly. “I'm not held to the sleeping standards of a vampire,” I insist, resolutely standing my ground in this battle of wills, meeting her gaze with one of equal intensity.

“Absolute nonsense,” she counters, without a hint of a pause. “Under my mansion, all are held to my standards. I run a very tight ship here, and I am simply in despair over the fact that one of the most important members of its crew sleeps so long it's already time again to sleep.” Her arms cross against her (lack of) chest, and her fingers drum across them, long nails tapping practically porcelain flesh.

“Your maid runs you a very tight ship, while you luxuriate in wealth and decadence, submitting your servants to whatever whims come across your mind, concocting seemingly infinite methods of expressing degeneracy through them.” Every part of that statement is true, and I deliver it with all the furor it's due in an attempt to strike her down. Not that I actually take issue with it, but it's the principle of the matter.

As usual, my furor does nothing to actually stop her, stall her, or so much as inconvenience her. I can't say I've ever had better than a draw trying to engage in any sort of argument with her; I'm not sure if it's her body or her silver tongue that's the more dangerous weapon, and her nails could tear me to ribbons in a second. “It is in part my delegation of duties to Sakuya that ensures my mansion runs smoothly, yes. The job of a leader is not to take everything upon herself; this is why she leads. A nation of one is no nation at all. It is the effort of all under a ruler that afford her any ability to rule; and yet I say again, here before me sits a vital subordinate who shirks her responsibilities in favor of indolence. I can hardly believe that I tolerate your presence, let alone that my good friend who summoned you would.” She stands and stomps a foot, which would look petulant on anyone else with that body, but coming from her makes it seem I'll soon learn what color my insides are again.

I shall not be so easily bullied, though. I stand as well, sliding off the bed and crossing my own arms in turn, which also happens to shove my free breasts up. I take several steps forward, boring into her all the while, and I quite fervently explain, “Patchouli had nothing she needed doing yesterday, and released me to freedom. At no point did she attempt to summon me back, or express that she required my aid in any way. I have not shrugged off any of my obligations, because I had no obligations to shrug off.”

“Oh really?” she asks, a knowing undertone creeping into her delicate, forceful voice. It's then I recall another detail of last night. Fuck. Fuck, she's got me completely, and I can't fight what's about to come. “I don't believe this room is capable of adequately allowing me to express my displeasure. Follow me, if you would. We shall depart elsewhere.” And there it is. Her flawless trap. The reason she picked today to do this. And no matter what I do, I've lost already. If I stall her, Patchouli will wake up a few minutes later. If I don't, she's already awake.

I try not to let the fact that I know I'm done for show on my face, but I can see it in hers: she knows I know. She always knows I know. I have my pride, though, so I fire back, “I think this room is plenty sufficient; all you're after is my body, and there's more than enough space here for me to fuck your brains out in a hundred different ways.”

My declarations wash off of her without leaving so much as a drop of sweat, and she clicks her tongue in disgust. “Really, now?” she asks, sounding every bit offended, an act that would be flawless if I didn't know it for an act by its very nature. “I, of all people, you would so grievously malign? You truly believe I hold such base desires within myself? I am a lady of refinement and class, in case it has escaped your notice since coming here. I would never in my life stoop so low. I demand an apology right this instant.”

I offer her no apology, and instead make the attempt to turn this around on her, pointing out with supreme gusto, “And yet, you're here in my room, staring at me as I stand naked, and ogling my body with your lecherous eyes. What makes you think I'd believe that you're in any way innocent?”

At this she scoffs, redoubling the intensity of her stare. Which, to her credit, has been exactly where she claims it has as she verbally sweeps my legs from under me by stating, “My eyes have only been on your own, I will thank you to note. Does your slander know no end? I trusted Patchy when I allowed her to summon a succubus, thinking she could hold you in line – yet here you are, being not only slothful, but shameless in my little den of purity, all while foisting blame for all of it upon my noble personage. My faith is clearly misplaced, and I must go have a word with her at once.” She makes the decision of when the hammer is going to drop for me, throwing open my door in feigned rage and stomping out. I have no choice but to follow her.

The second I step outside and turn to look at Patchouli's door, the magical lock is dismissed, and it slowly creaks open. The magician rubs sleep from her tired purple eyes before noticing the both of us. “Ah, Remi, good morning,” she says to the vampire first. She might have meant to greet me too, but she's cut off very swiftly.

“Patchy, my friend, what a coincidence! A good morning indeed. I hope you've slept well for once? It's rare to see you actually make use of the room I had prepared.” Her personality does a complete one-eighty in the space of a blink, every trace of anger gone, and she settles into having a pleasant chat with my master like I'm not even here.

My master certainly doesn't seem to care that I'm here – the alternative is that she's playing along, and I discount off-hand the possibility she has such a sense of humor – because she carries on as though I'm not. “Yes, thankfully. I needed my strength for today; I'm about ready to start testing that project you were asking me to work on.”

That gets the vampire beaming and offering a jubilant, “So very glad to hear that. I do worry after your health quite severely, so don't push yourself on my account, please. And tell me, is there anything you might need? I can have Sakuya fetch it for you, I believe she still has some gaps in today's schedule.” I have a hunch I know where this is going, as I was present for the conversation that happened prior to this one, but there's no point in attempting to stop it, so I fall back into observation.

Patchouli considers what she might ask for, taking a moment or three to run through her stock, before nodding. “I could do with more of the Albus root extract that Eintei produces. And-” Her requests are cut off, arm raising to her mouth, while she goes through several heaving breaths. “Forgive me. I also need more of the herbs from the Forest of Magic. The kind that only grow under those large, spotted, and angry flowers. And maybe...” She hesitates on asking whatever this last one is, evidently thinking that it's some sort of severe imposition.

But what can truly be an imposition under a magnanimous leader such as Remilia Scarlet? She waves Patchouli forward, insisting, “Tell me, tell me, please. Don't hold back; you do work so very hard for our sake, after all, despite every ail that magic has saddled you with. I would hardly be your friend if I weren't willing to help you back in any way I can.”

“It may be a little too dangerous for Sakuya. It looks like I need some water from the Sanzu if I want to properly bind everything together on a spiritual level; I don't like the idea, so I'm trying to find a substitute. I'll focus more heavily on that – the binding process should be a late step, so it's no rush.” Discussing her magical work like this is one of the few cases where I actually see her with any energy and vibrancy, bothering to put vigor into her voice or managing to acquire a shine to her eyes.

“I see why you'd be concerned for her safety if she had to. I'll let her know, regardless; it would be best if she had time to prepare, should it prove necessary. But I am so thoroughly appreciative that you'll go above and beyond in an effort to ensure she needn't put her hands near that cursed stuff.” I feel it coming before it happens. Her cheery and pleasant voice holds through the last of that statement, and then, before she's finished whipping around to look at me, she's fallen right back into the indignant glare that marked her prior, voice full of wrath. “Unlike your succubus here! Truly, there is no cure for one as reprehensible as her! I am wholly beside myself just looking at her! You had all these tasks integral to your health and your work that needed doing, and she had the nerve to insist, to my very face, that you were absolutely fine and without care or want! The gall. Have you anything to say in defense of yourself now, exposed as you have been, hm?”

This is no less than the third time I've had a conversation of this sort with her, and once again, I consider it to be absolute and utter bullshit. The universe conspires to make her right, to prove her points, and to ensure that things fall into place. Even if vampires were not nearly the equal of succubi in charisma, it's as like as not reality itself would bend to ensure it all but impossible to assail her points. I make the attempt nonetheless, firing back with zeal, “And you would have me interpret these wishes without being informed of them? I am not prescient; I can only do what my master orders me to do, not anything more. If she had summoned me for these errands yesterday, they would have gotten done.”

I'd consider that a very solid argument, yet for it I am rewarded with a shake of the head that reeks of derision. Her words only stop short of the unbecoming act of spewing spit in her retort suffuse with venom, “This is your paltry excuse for your behavior? That you are incapable of doing what needs doing, when it needs doing? Let us go back to an earlier point, shall we? I only demand Sakuya do so much. A large chunk of her work is what she places upon herself, and what she intuits as needing to be done. Why can you not share the same laudable attribute? Would you burst into flames and find your soul scoured to naught, should you actually make an attempt?”

“I don't control time the way that Sakuya does,” I sling back, nagged at by dreadful inevitability as I do. “Not only is it hardly fair to compare me to her, but even she has to-” The point I'm trying to make is brutally slaughtered by the fact that that a cup of tea with several drops of blood in it has appeared, sitting upon a tray with an entire pot of it steaming and ready to pour more.

“Mistress, you have been up quite a long time; I thought you may need something to keep you going, if you don't intend to sleep yet.” The cool voice of the maid sounds from behind me. I don't like that she's shown up to prove me wrong, so I indulge in a slight bit of petulance and don't deign to turn around and look at her.

Unfortunately, that means I have to look at Remilia, who never lets the smug attitude which hides behind every word of this long argument show on her face as she gratefully picks up the cup and sips at it with grace. “Thank you very kindly, Sakuya. You do know me more thoroughly than I could possibly dream of. A shining example of servitude. I don't deserve you, and I'm eternally grateful for all the hard work you put in.” I don't doubt any of this is true, but I only ever see her put in this much flattery when its purpose is to put someone else down. Such as myself.

“Think nothing of it, Lady Remilia,” Sakuya says, and I can feel her head bowing even though I don't turn to look.

I can also tell that she's left even though I don't look back; the maid is exceedingly fastidious about how she spends real time, as opposed to the infinite, fiat stopped time she abuses with abandon. Still leaves me having a staring contest with Remilia that I'd like to believe I'm not losing. “And just imagine!” that same vampire starts up, setting her cup down with a violent clinking as she really gets on a roll. “Were we to visit the gate of my lovely manor, kept running by my best friend and my stellar maid, we'd find that it is also protected by one whose guard is never down, who sleeps with both eyes open, rain, sleet, or shine! Yet there is one bad apple among my most trusted, and here she stands before me, glaring as though 'tis I whose attitude is at fault! For shame, I say! For shame! I'll not let it stand a second longer!” On her heels again she spins, dipping back into the guise of a perfect friend, very politely asking, “Patchy, would you do me the courtesy of allowing me to steal her from you for a time? It is simply not within my capacity to express my displeasure in words; I'm afraid I absolutely must mete out an appropriate punishment. I do not relish it, but there is no possible alternative.”

“Kindly do not kill her,” is how my master chooses to answer this request. Not that she sounds concerned for my health. No, no, her concerns are revealed as she continues, plainly, “She'll be integral to my testing today; reconstituting her body to a significant degree may drain her of too much power, ruining the point of resting for today.”

Shock that shouldn't be there spreads across Remilia's face like fire as she states, aghast, “Capital punishment? I would never dream of it! I shall see that it's far more fair than harsh, how she's treated. Worry not, I'll have her back in time that everything you intend to do today will run smoothly.”

With this assurance, Patchouli nods. She doesn't care to comment on the absolute hypocrisy of what Remilia's spouting either; I gave up completely around the time the maid showed up, accepting that I was going to have to tick this one down as a loss. “Then by all means, take her for what you will. I'll begin my preparations; I don't know how long the work itself will take, so it would be preferable if you kept it to a few hours at most, as well.”

With a casual wave of Remilia's hand, she dismisses any concerns that could possibly be had over the time involved in whatever awaits me today. “If you say she needs to be back within a few hours at most, then that is how long I'll keep her, at the utmost. I'll not impose upon you any further; try to enjoy your work today, would you?”

The best smile the ailment-riddled magician can muster splits her face, and she gives Remilia a parting wave. “I'll be sure to. You put something very impressive in front of me; I think it will be my best work, when I'm through. Look forward to it.” With that, she departs to begin the setup for whatever her current project is, leaving just me and the vampire.

“With every fiber of my being!” that vampire assures my master, waving her off as well, before turning to me. “Now then, let's be going, shall we? You've wasted quite enough of everyone's time with your iniquity, so don't think I'll let you waste any more.” With that she leads me off and out the library, to wherever it is she's decided I'll be accompanying her today. She doesn't even bother bringing the tea. Rather pointless, that.
>>No. 39913
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39913
I hang my head in defeat and shame for the walk, at least until the library closes behind us. Then, the game is over, the facades can drop, and I can state, quite frankly, “It's still not fair that you have fate itself backing you up. If you were anyone else, Patchouli would have been asleep at her desk last night.”

She waves away this statement as casually as she waved away Patchouli's concerns, riposting with, “You've got that wrong. If I were anyone else, Patchouli would have slept in thanks to her weak body; attacking while she was in her room was entirely planned, and required no help from causality.”

She's got me there. I'm gonna have to call that a very solid loss, actually, and blame her powers just a little less. That being the case, I set aside all of that and let bygones be bygones, changing the topic as I ask with genuine interest, “Are you going to tell me what plans you have today that you needed to stage something to steal me from Patchouli, or is this one a surprise?”

The mirthful laugh I get as a response tells me all I need to know. But formality dictates she nonetheless ask, “Isn't it more fun when it is? It's not far; we'll be using one of my rooms closer to the stairs.”

“It is, you're not wrong,” I concede. “It's always a treat to see what kind of project you're cooking up that needs my help. Can I have a hint?” It's even odds whether the answer to this is yes or no I've found, in my limited experience.

In this case, it seems to be yes, possibly because of my choice of words. “'Cooking' is quite the apt descriptor of what I need you to aid me with today.” I think that cryptic statement is all I'll get out of her at first, and am just about to open my mouth, when she follows it with, “Hm... well, you were close, earlier. You had a very solid defense before we left your room; I think you might have taken it, if Patchouli had decided she was feeling drowsier than she ended up being. I'll also let you know that Sakuya's handling the cooking as usual; you and I are preparing the ingredients in ways I'm afraid she can't.”

I think on these statements as we walk, beginning to ascend the stairs by this point. It takes us past a large, red velvet curtain, the entrance to the mansion theatre that occasionally hosts shows of all sorts, whether they're charged with lust or utterly without. I suck in a breath as I try and cross off everything I've already helped Remilia do, everything I've heard of her doing, and combine this all to figure it out before we get there. It's harder than it should be, as she's so adept at finding strange ways to meld sexuality and impracticality that I sometimes consider her an honorary succubus. “Do you need me to lace something with aphrodisiac so that you can get enough juices out of someone to baste your entire meal in them?” I put forward first, not entirely confident in the idea. The problem is-

“Oh, come now, that wasn't even a real guess; you know as well as I do that we have so many fairies living here I could have Sakuya round them all up and get them going to produce plenty enough without your help. Please, do be serious, here.” This, unlike before, is a sincere berating that I can't fault her for; I really wasn't trying there. I know the count is somewhere in the hundreds, and she'd need to be throwing an entire banquet if that was going to be insufficient for what I put forward without my rescue.

So, I honestly apologize, “You're right, sorry. It just ran through my head and I needed to say something; we were already at the second floor.” Speaking of which, we're now on the third. There's a large number of the accused nature sprites frolicking through it, bursting in and out of doors, entwined in each others' arms, and generally having fun. Or, they were. The presence of both a succubus and a vampire tends to mean eyes are magnetically attracted, even before accounting for the ease of corralling these girls. Oh, yeah, I never did put on clothes; that's probably not helping. Eh, too late now – we're most of the way there, and the chance I don't need to take them back off when we arrive is less than zero. As a small gaggle of girls begins to trail after us in a near hypnotic-state, I make a much more concerted effort to suggest, “Alright, how about this, then? Not enough of the fairies naturally have a dick, so you need my magic to grow them, and then you can harvest them.” I feel good about that one. Right up until her mouth opens.

“Are you sure I wasn't correct earlier?” is what I'm asked, while she shakes her head. “I'd have applauded that suggestion two floors ago, but do you think I wouldn't have all of the fairies I want you to do that to ready where we're going if it was the case? You clearly just saw how many there were still in the main living quarters. I'll be sure to keep that idea in mind, though, thank you.”

This whole love affair really must have shaken me, because missing that detail is a rookie mistake I shouldn't be making. I can't just let my showing be this poor; we're already to the fourth floor, cut through with a crimson carpet and dotted by infrequent but highly detailed doors, featuring carvings of trees, of the moon, of animals, of anything that can be carved into a door, really. I breathe heavily enough to express my disgust with myself, quickly running the numbers one more time to eke out a last guess. “Alright, seriously, this time. You're attempting to set a new record for how long you can sustain an erection, so I'm here to help you marinate your meat in the strongest stuff I can manage.” Now that one I know she can't possibly take any issue with, and I let my pride flare just a little as we pass a massive portrait painting of her.

“While you are wrong, you are also inspired and I believe I'll be making use of that idea in the future; I might modify it some, though. A simple contest of stamina isn't terribly impressive when you're cheating by using a succubus' secretions, wouldn't you say?” She opens the door she's after – a lion's carved into this one – as she speaks, sounding nonetheless impressed despite the flaw in my suggestion.

We file in as I admit, “Yeah, you're right. It would absolutely ruin the achievement. Good on you for having the integrity.” The door is closed behind us, shutting out several dragonfly-winged half-pints, and so I get to see what's been arranged for this venture. There are five fairies in the center of this otherwise barren room, kneeling, naked, on the lush red carpet. They look concerned, and for good reason. I know what's going on, now that I see them, arranged in order from largest – which is still not very large, barely a few inches taller than Remilia, though heavier set – to smallest.

I failed to get it before we got here, though, so I stay silent and let her explain, “As you can see, I have gathered five of my finest fairies here. They're to be my meal, tonight. Unfortunately, there's an issue with that. I want to have fairy,” she gestures at the smallest on the end, “stuffed inside of fairy,” the next in line is pointed to, “stuffed inside... You see where I'm going.”

I nod, hand to my chin as I do, inspecting the problem with an expert's eye. “Right, of course. You need me to make them smaller so they fit inside each other?” It's an easy solution – I don't know why it needed all the pomp and circumstance. Probably because it helps stave off the boredom after century three.

“I imagine that will be part of the process, yes. But that's not quite good enough, I'm afraid.” My eyebrow scrunches up as she says this, while I try and pin down- wait, of course. I hit upon it before she explains, “I can't have my meal look so ghastly as to be a tangled mass of writhing arms sticking out, though. I need you to pack them together so tightly you can't even tell there's four more fairies hiding in the first.”

Yes, this is one that might actually require us to put our heads together. One extreme issue I'm sad to bring up is, “I can only go so far, you know? The smallest I can get any of them is about a foot tall. Small, sure, but then we have to fit her in the others, and they have to fit in others... If you'd come to me yesterday, I probably wouldn't have had enough juice for whatever we can come up with.”

She muffles a chuckle behind her palm, which is probably because, “I know. I'm quite lucky the mood struck me right when the opportunity was perfect, aren't I? And I know that there are limits; you did wonderful work on the snacks last month, regardless. I'm sure you can come up with something here, too.”

I furrow my brow and flick my tail, thinking hard on the job I've been given. I give a quick start of, “What if I made them-” and just as quickly silence myself, realizing the fatal flaw. “It'd use too much of my energy to do it four times over, and you'd only cook the outer one if I did.”

“The extradimensional stuff? Yes, not really adequate for this one, I'm afraid. Especially since you owe Patchy later, and you'll have to put up with a whole week before she'll feed you again; I'll have to insist you do this one on a budget. Didn't you have a rather dirty trick for squeezing someone down so they'll fit where they shouldn't?” As she casually shoots back her own suggestion, the fairies in the room all look to each other. Their fear is being replaced by their confusion; they're not quite keeping up with the rapid fire back and forth of how to manage it. It's rather cute, actually. I appreciate that about fairies, how simple they are.

Remilia's idea, though, I'm required to shoot down. “No good; only gets them down, doesn't actually make them fit nice and snug. That's something else entirely.” A shame, because I like that one. My foot begins to tap of its own accord, the many, varied and esoteric sexual magics I have at my disposal coming to mind one by one. “Do you think we could compromise? If they didn't have to be completely intact, I could cheat a bit and use something to make them tighter so that they constrict enough nothing shows.” Looking over at my partner in crime, I see she gives this some serious consideration, her own foot joining mine in tapping.

It's a sigh that comes first, though, heralding the steadfast, “No, sorry. If that would have worked, I'd already have Sakuya dicing them up for later and I could have just pulled you away for a minute. It simply doesn't hold any appeal like that, you understand?”

I do, as I let her know with a nod. Then my foot kicks the floor because I have the perfect idea that won't work in the slightest. “Damn it all,” I hiss as it does. “If only they were actually as young as they looked, I could just regress their ages and then work from there.”

The fact we can't enact this plan looks to physically pain her, head hung and a palm rubbing at her temples. “Must you float this idea when it's so far out of reach? Do you know what the average age of anyone we could try that on in Gensokyo is? Now it's just stuck up there, and I'll never have a chance to use it!” The frustration in her voice is something I sympathize with, as I'd surely be delighted by the sight. We'll have to cast aside these dreams and soldier on, though.

We fall into silence for a while as these feelings stew, and ever more complex and costly solutions come to me. Either they don't solve the problem, or they don't solve it efficiently, or they don't solve it right. Efficiency is the real problem. I need to stop considering the flashy options. I just said before I went to bed last night that I wasn't completely in the lap of luxury. What's elementary? What's cheap? And then it hits me. I used it yesterday. It's the most elementary magic a succubus can wield, it's the cheapest thing to manage. I grin from ear to ear and shout, “I've got it!” so fervently I almost startle Remilia, who'd fallen very deep into thinking; I certainly startle the fairies, several of which topple and tumble over at the sudden noise cutting through their confusion. They're not important, though. The important one is the vampire next to me, who can appreciate what I start to spew with glee. “Body deformation magic! It works by making the body stretchy and flexible enough to handle almost anything unreasonable. Normally, of course, this is used for things like fitting something extra large inside you and still being fine – but we don't have to use it like that. With the way it works, we can use it to twist them up. I can't make them small enough to fit normally, but if we bend them so that they're eating their own feet and push the limits just a little, we can get them compact enough to swallow like a pill by forcing most of them into their cavities. Most importantly, with the shape they'll be in, you won't be able to tell that the top fairy is stuffed. Especially because...” I rush over in the middle of my ranting, and slap the poor thing's belly. She looks perplexed, terrified, and awed, all at once, like she's getting a fraction of everything that makes this idea so groundbreaking. Which is important, considering, “Her fat will hide most of the final product! It's perfect!” I whirl back to look at Remilia, finishing my declaration and high on my own ingenuity.

The moment of silence that follows as I'm stared at is tense. If I've just worked myself up over all of this only to find that my case of love has muddled my head so bad I fervently proclaimed an awful idea, then I am going to have to find some method of punishing myself that I can manage to not enjoy. The silence as fairies quiver and I slowly grow less sure of myself, eyes locked with the vampire's, is so heavy as to weigh on the shoulders. Or so it feels, but truly, it's only a few seconds before it's sliced apart by the potent clap of two hands meeting. It repeats, and then again it repeats, the sort of slow and steady applause that could almost be construed as sarcastic. The giddy, intermittent chuckling that's hiding behind each assures me it isn't, however. She shakes her head ruefully, which is puzzling until she says, “And here I thought we'd be at this one for two hours just going back and forth on how to manage it. What am I to tell my friend if I shuffle you back there fifteen minutes later without a scratch on you?”

“You could say that I've seen the error of ways and sincerely apologized for everything on the way here,” I suggest, having to suppress my own bout of laughter to make it sound at all serious.

“And ruin that finely crafted facade with such an unbelievable addition? Perish the thought.” As she swats the joke down, she suddenly looks thoughtful again, which she shouldn't really need to be. “Hold on a second. I think we're forgetting something.” My attempt to butt in, concerned for our plan at this ominous statement, is staved off by a finger that raises to quiet me. Rather than kill her train of thought, I wait until, finally, she pipes up, “Yes, of course, the cheese trick; don't worry, crisis averted. I've solved all the problems we just had. You don't have to go back to Patchy, because I'll need you here for a while yet; and we don't have to worry about them springing out of place, because I'll just coat them in seed that you'll make sticky enough to keep them intact.”

I let out the breath I was holding once she's through explaining the addition to the plan, satisfied that all's still well. “You scared me for a second there,” I state without a hint of shame. “If that idea fell through, I think two hours would be generous. That was a good one. And a good catch; I should've thought about the tension of curling them up like that.”

“Oh, I'm glad you hadn't, truly; I couldn't let you have all the credit for how to manage it. I'd be thoroughly shamed if I made no contributions at all, after all.” With that said, she rubs her hands together, anticipating what's to come. There's just one thing left, the thought running through both of our heads at the moment, “Now then, how should we go about draining me so that we have enough to work with?”

[ ] There's only one reasonable answer: I get my ass reamed, and then drizzle it all over them while it's drooling out of me.
[ ] My mouth is always open, until something plugs it, so obviously it'll be a blowjob. Pity I'll have to pull off at the last second so that she can spray the fairies instead.
[ ] Not everyone knows that a succubus' womb can fire jizz back out of it, if there's some accursed reason to do so. Not everyone can produce enough that it matters, but that's not a problem here.
[ ] It's entirely too easy to get someone off using any of my holes; the least I can do is limit it to a handjob and titfuck now that we've cut out all planning time.
[ ] I have been being far too celibate recently. I'm going to have her drill me in every hole she can find, and by the time she's done, we'll be able to coat the fairies by rolling them along the floor.
[ ] It'd be easiest and most direct to just have her fuck the fairies themselves; we can probably fit a bit extra into them for more stuffing that way, too.
[ ] I listen to the little voice on my shoulder that says there probably needs to be some sort of compromise that makes this approach fappable for the readers. (Write-In)
>>No. 39914
[X] I have been being far too celibate recently. I'm going to have her drill me in every hole she can find, and by the time she's done, we'll be able to coat the fairies by rolling them along the floor.

As much as the fairy vote tempts, poor Koa probably needs at least a little passion in her life.
>>No. 39915
[x] Not everyone knows that a succubus' womb can fire jizz back out of it, if there's some accursed reason to do so. Not everyone can produce enough that it matters, but that's not a problem here.
>>No. 39916
[X] I have been being far too celibate recently. I'm going to have her drill me in every hole she can find, and by the time she's done, we'll be able to coat the fairies by rolling them along the floor.

Succubus gotta do what succubus gotta do.
>>No. 39917
There's a winning option and no brakes on this train. It's time for some right proper succubus activity.
>>No. 39918
[x] It's entirely too easy to get someone off using any of my holes; the least I can do is limit it to a handjob and titfuck now that we've cut out all planning time.
I am registering my vote even though it has been called. For my own sake.
>>No. 39919
[X] I have been being far too celibate recently. I'm going to have her drill me in every hole she can find, and by the time she's done, we'll be able to coat the fairies by rolling them along the floor.

Remimi's fetishes are getting too weird.
>>No. 39920
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She's the one using apt words now. “Draining you sounds like a pretty good plan,” I answer, inching myself closer to her. “I just feel so empty all the time, the way my master ignores me so callously.” I sigh and walk around her with slow, predatory steps, lascivious gaze twisting to follow me. “Once a week isn't nearly enough, and screwing myself with my own magic only goes so far,” I close in and whisper into her ear in sultry tones, spying the beginnings of a prominent bulge running up her dress. “So, why don't we have some real fun? We have a long time before Patchouli wants me back.” My hand runs along that growing erection veiled by silk, adding precious inches to that which will soon be buried inside of me. “Rail me as much as you can. Fill me up again and again. Keep going until there's so much spilling out of me, all we'll have to do is roll the fairies across the floor.” I cup her chin in my hand, pulling her eyes to make sure they're staring right into mine, ending by asking, “Doesn't that sound wonderful?”

Were I not a succubus, the poker face I receive, a stare deliberately flat in a manner that reminds me a bit too much of my master, might convince me I'm not accomplishing much despite the stiffening proof otherwise. The statement I get after all that is in a tone pointed and straight forward. “Koakuma, I would appreciate it greatly if you would clothe yourself.” Would be off-putting, could I not sense what's boiling within her. I snap as asked, conjuring my usual secretary wear – a second later, Remilia's dress has been tossed into the air and the shreds of what I was asked to don are falling to the ground, dissipating in smoke and ash as I'm pinned with my back to a wall.

As it would for what's to come, it bears describing what I'm getting to see right now. The chest that's beginning to heave is smooth and flat, nary a bud of a breast to be found. Unlike with Meiling or my master, the slit this girl possesses is perfectly visible: tiny, hairless, and looking ill-equipped for any rigors she puts it through. There's a very good reason for this, and it's that her own endowment isn't perfectly human either. The end of its shaft is already encased between two large bumps growing out of her midsection, in lieu of a hanging sack that might hide her womanhood. That shaft itself is more of an oval, compared to the circular affair that would be commonly understood; it stands perfectly straight and rigid, with no curvature to interrupt its uniform and enticing girth. Its head has no real crown or prominent ridge, though it does slope to a flatter cap like might be expected. The whole thing, base to end, has a skin tone that's much darker than her own. Oh, and of course, it looks utterly massive on her – not just because it is, but also owing to the proportionally much smaller body it's attached to, protruding against her chin. Presently, it's situated right between my breasts, and is mostly what's holding me against the wall as Remilia floats well off the ground with her hands on either side of me.

I grin at the feral display I've been given, interrupting whatever thoughts she might be having on which hole to start at with a cheeky, “What, no foreplay? And here I thought you were a lady of-”

In turn, I'm shut up as she brings her lips to mine, mouth immediately parting in the polar opposite of yesterday's failed venture. Her small tongue flits into my mouth, where it finds itself coiled by my own in several loops. The tightness with which I grip it makes my tongue nearly a hole of its own, lovingly cradling its lashing lover as saliva begins to swap. All the while we make out, eager hips buck in front of me, our kisses interspersed with the dull thud of her anticipating member upon our lower jaws; it may not have far to travel, but nonetheless my hands squeeze against my mounds so it's all the better to glide through them. With closed eyes, this carries on for some time as a deluge of pre wets these impacts and our bodies, the source of no shortage of sheen. When we finally part, each of us panting what's nearly steam, Remilia smiles sharply in a belated counter to my prior expression. Her retort to my words is a deeply ashamed, “Apologies for my poor manners; I could have sworn you were the sort of harlot who'd rather I just pick somewhere and try my best to destroy it.”

“And you weren't wrong, so I hope you settled on something during that,” I cast back, eyeing every throb that happens greedily. The prize for honesty is that she drops momentarily to take me by the legs, twisting them upwards and displaying the inherent fluidity of a succubus as they run parallel to my body with ease. Despite her size, it's obviously effortless for her to hold me up like this while she lines up with my muff, spreading of its own accord and damp enough to water crops. My question of if she intends to tease me or get right to it is answered promptly before it's even asked, when she shoves about half of herself inside during the opening of an inopportune blink. That shoots my eyes wide open, and pries a moan out of me as a fair chunk of my stomach bulges around what's stirring me. Doesn't quite pry my womb open, though, even if it's forced further up my body – I'm going to make her fight for that, if she wants it. “I thought you were going to try and destroy me, not tenderly caress my insides,” I tease, despite the fact the thrust would ruin an average girl.

“There is going to be ten minutes at most during the next three hours that I am not inside of you; we've ample time to continue foreplay,” she strikes back, as she again strikes inside of me with enough force I'm knocked an inch off of her and up the wall. And with that said, her face buries itself in my bosom, teeth clenching around a tit as she violently suckles, fangs puncturing just enough for small crimson streams to start up. Slowly and steadily, she alternates between trying fuck me off of herself and testing how far back her head can pull the leaking nipple before what it's attached to begins to strain. The gaps between bites are filled with soft gasps, and glistening sweat joins what was already soaking us.

Clenching below and trying to milk her for all I'm worth, I'm nonetheless unable to cling tightly enough to hold myself in place against her assault. Thinking it only polite, my hands slide along my legs, so that I can do the job of holding them in place and free up Remilia's to run down my body, where she's inclined to manhandle my ass with enthusiasm, gripping it firmly enough the cheeks sink beneath her. No matter the sounds she might be getting out of me, and no matter how I might relish the sheer volume of what's falling to stain the carpet, I still find time to claim that, “If I can't feel it, though, I won't be able to get off. It'd be horrible of you to only consider your own pleasure.”

The dig may be fake, but it does its job and gets her to retract her mouth to reply, “Isn't it a tad early for that act? I'd say it's more appropriate to bust out two or three rounds in, once I've actually gotten off.” To my great lack of surprise, its other job – trying to rile her up – is further out of reach. She jabs no faster and delves no deeper. Not that she needs to; carnal shivers aplenty are running along the whole of me, following in the wake of these wondrous sensations. Likewise, I can feel the quiver in her grip each time she plunges.

“Absolutely not,” I counter swiftly – as swiftly as the delighted shriek her sudden gyrations inside me allow. “It's a problem that needs solving early. You don't want to be inconsiderate, do you?” Not that she's short of consideration. The way she's twisting inside me right now is getting almost every one of my favorite spots inside of me. The savagery in how she's treating my bust is absolutely divine. And, really, can it be called a good session of sex if your ass isn't basically dented at some point by roaming hands?

“I was considering that you're going to start screaming like a whore once I'm filling you regardless,” she answers between burning breaths. Now, she doesn't know that. ... Okay, that's a lie, she knows that full well. Still just a little rude to point it out. Maybe we both have slightly different ideas of the scenarios we're playing out; it's not always possible to perfectly sync up. The slight disagreement isn't near enough to stop the flush that's come to tinge our faces, so it's hardly the worst issue in the world.

“Fine, if that's how you want to play it, I'll just-” A rather potent piston gives me another inch and strains my attempts to deny her entry where she's been trying to get, spiking through my indignant tone with a quick cry of lust. Oh. Oh, I see what her game is. I grit my teeth and actively fight my body a minute, trying to get through what I wanted to say. “I'll just have to-” Two more inches, that time, lifting me three off of her and beginning the inevitable process of leaving my womb open. “-get you off already-” The distension climbing my stomach grows taller, and the opening being made inside me grows wider. “-so I can start-” Damnably, this is the part where she near completely lifts me up off of herself, dragging me to slap above her crotch with vampiric force. The resistance I was attempting to put up is ruined – both in terms of the long groan of bliss I give on having my innermost walls struck, and the fact that she's gotten in to strike them. For a moment, a good foot of snake-like tongue hangs out of my mouth alongside some drool, before I snap back to reality and give an aggravated, “Damnit.”

“What's the issue?” I'm asked, her own composure barely holding enough to get it out between increasingly high-pitched grunts now that she's more quickly and very deeply skewering me. “You wanted that.” She thinks that she's going to get to smugly play off that little victory, and she's wrong. “I just-” Her next statement finds itself in tandem with an unholy tightening of my walls, the sturdiness of her unliving flesh the thing that keeps her dick intact. She might've gotten me to cry out, but I got her to orgasm first, and that's gotten something much higher pitched and constant out of her. The tide comes in, and it comes in hard, an excess of the stuff clambering up her length to make its way into me. The taste of it speaks of the world of difference between this and extracting my master's weekly payments – its taste is vile and corrupt in the most malignant of ways, a consequence of the utter carnality of the moment and the black nature of a vampire's soul. It's delicious, it reminds me of home, and while it proves her right, it takes a second for it to kick in and I still get to call that one my win.

As the first shot finishes and begins to blast back out of me, I freely start screaming like a whore, letting the pleasure move my body as it will. Below, Remilia doesn't stop, continuing to violate me and changing just where every spurt of seed lands within. Some come at the apex, as I press against her and feel the hard working, stiffly full balls keeping the last stretches of her length from me, and these help expand the ballooning I'm slowly undergoing. Others come nearly as she pulls out, often angled such that more ends up out of me than inside of me, aiding the fecund pool that's forming on the floor. Plenty yet, of course, strike a balance in the middle, ensuring the whole way up is thoroughly gooey with the thick ropes that serve as the morning's first, often dragged out in droves by the downstrokes. It carries on for at least a solid minute of mixing voices before it begins to flag, and it's another minute still before I'm entirely sure it's over. The biggest hint is the fact that I'm sitting just above the floor, Remilia's sitting on the floor, and both of us are taking a second to breathe after that one. The other big difference between her and Patchouli is that she's not shrinking, but that's a given, considering our plans.

I'm the first to get enough air to my lungs – despite what's crowding around them to make room – and be able to sigh, “Point for me.”

Far from a sore loser, Remilia inclines her head first, freely admitting, “I thought I had you far enough off guard. I was wrong.” Standing and lifting me off of herself, gravity begins to make its slow attempt to deprive me of the cum I worked so hard to earn. It'll have a time of it, though, especially given what I have in mind as an answer to the question of, “Where next, then?”

That being, naturally, “My mouth; I need to get you clean.” The sheer amount still clinging to her just as an afterthought could eclipse the totality of what some people can produce. “I'll handle this one,” I say, floating out of her grip and flipping myself upside down. The one issue with her dick is it really is a bit too good at pointing up; complicates things like this slightly.

“Well, if you insist.” Acquiescing so, she stands and stretches her arms, relaxing after the hard work of forced entry. She looks behind herself, and before getting to work, I follow her gaze. Confusion and fear both have left all of the fairies who got to watch that show; they appear to have devolved into their own little sexual pile at some point. Must've missed it while I was focusing on Remilia.

Speaking of which, I really should be. So, giving gravity the middle finger, I tug the cock I get to play with out as far as seems reasonable, enough to comfortably enjoy it. Ping ponging back to the other side of the foreplay vs. instant gratification argument, I start off slowly by letting the other foot of tongue that didn't loll earlier push out, exposing all I can and wrapping it around the head. Dragging upwards leads to jizz clinging, soon in my mouth when the forked organ collecting it snaps back. It tastes above as it did below. As I go to lovingly strip another strip of the vampire, though, she gives me something of a pointed look.

She sounds quite sorrowful as she says, “I believe this may be a little too leisurely; much as I enjoy the sensual cleaning, we do have quite a lot of ground to cover to reach that goal.” Twisting my neck, I look at the mess we've made. That is still pretty far away from the aimless pile of sprites in the middle of the room.

“When we aren't on the clock, then,” I agree, hastening things just a little and unhinging my jaw to open nice and wide. A quivering, freshly cleaned portion of Remilia vanishes within, pressing flat what before was servicing it. Given I'm doing this upside down, it's somewhere between difficult and impossible to keep my tits out of the mix without actively doing so. I'm far from that selfish, though, just to get a little bit extra of what I'm going to be given plenty of. Semen is smeared along them, complicating the matter of properly cleaning her off as they smear it back when dragged along.

“That remains impressive to watch,” Remilia remarks, probably not actually referring to my work. It's about now the earlier ravaging is being undone, all the extra canal that created itself to house her gradually shrinking back to where it normally rests. Consequently, it's got less room to hold the contents of an orgasm; it's not an issue when it's snug in the womb, but given that it isn't, there's a steady stream of spunk bubbling up and out of me despite my orientation. It creeps down my body in streaks, beginning the process of painting me entirely white. All in due time.

My response is lost, owing to my descent reaching the throat, coaxed easily to part. As readily as it opens, this is still just a bit past what I can manage to talk around. While my neck grows thicker from the sheer size of what's being pushed down it, I make the attempt to take in a breath through my nose. I get the delightful stench of cum, the intoxicating odor of musk, and the air never actually reaches my lungs. Weird, could have sworn I could still breathe around her at least. Guess I'll just have to be a bit quicker about it; it would be unseemly both to pull off for a breath and to end up asphyxiating myself into unconsciousness. I could just solve the issue with a snap of my fingers, but it's more fun this way; adds a bit of challenge.

“You seem to have started going quite far in the opposite direction,” the one doing the asphyxiating by accident observes as my steady descent starts to be more of a leaps and bounds kind of thing. I try shrugging casually without disturbing my breasts' part in this, because I'm almost certainly doomed if she happens to realize what the problem is. The gesture is pointless because, as she admits, punctuated by sighs, “I might have cheated, just a little; I used the blood tea earlier to grow a bit.” It's a dirty, awful, underhanded tactic, and I can't help but respect it.

On the clock and ill prepared for having to engage in a speed round, I take it upon myself to prove I can still win this legitimately – I am a succubus, after all. In record time, I go from halfway down her to nuzzling her crotch, face planted right against the twin bulges that I'll be emptying. The slap is loud and echoes off the walls, while I swiftly pull myself back up to repeat the process. Holding my bust all the more firmly, I don't let them flop around, even as quickly as I get myself going; I need them running her length up and down. Facefucking myself with the sort of frenzy that would gag even the most veteran of whores, I scrutinize every small detail to gauge my progress. How her fingers twitch, how her eyes widen, how her muff drools; I feel the blood which engorges her, and just how swiftly it pumps through it. No hint is lost to me. What I glean from this doesn't speak well for my chances.

Wordless groans aplenty mark the sloppy, spit-flinging blowjob. I can't say a word around her erection, and she can't get one out past her arousal. While it might seem like that would be good news, I can feel the response it earns from her – that constriction of her cock, the active battle against her own release. Even as her arms fling back reflexively, she holds it in. Her eyes are practically all iris at this point, a pure scarlet that plainly admit what she's fighting off. That childish slit has so much running out of it that I could fit my fist in there with ease; I could probably do that normally anyway, knowing this girl, but that's not the thing to take away. The thing to take away is that my supply of oxygen is running out faster than I can feel her resistance fading. I'm fighting a losing battle here, and my head's already starting to get fuzzy. I have one final out, though.

While I start to see black spots and my toes curl in delight, I get my tongue moving. Or, I try to. It's pinned very thoroughly at the moment, but I force it to move, centimeter by agonizingly slow centimeter. It's not going to make the slightest bit of difference to how I pleasure her shaft, but that's not my goal. I need to get it out of my mouth while I'm actually in control of my body enough to maneuver it with any finesse. My eyelids start to feel heavier, and I force out progress. My body starts to feel heavier, and I force out progress. My face turns completely blue, and I force out progress. My eyes roll back to nothing but their blackness, and out bursts several inches of tongue, teasing at her clit and sliding inside her folds. The climax that starts within radiates through her, and ruins any chance she can hold back in her less womanly appendage; I'm only vaguely aware of the cry she gives while I snap my fingers and scorch my lungs, exempting them from air for a few minutes. The deleterious effects of its absence vanish at once, allowing me to enjoy the natural response to being nearly suffocated: my own throes of ecstasy.
>>No. 39921
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39921
By the time I come to my senses, I'm notably fatter and laying on top of Remilia, who naturally took me down with her whenever she happened to be floored by pleasure. I shove myself off of her, bit by bit, until I'm laying on the floor instead. I may not need oxygen to live at the moment, but I still need it to talk, so I'm a good while from any sort of speech. That affords Remilia the initiative amid her labored huffs. “I am... quite impressed. Another victory to you. It appears I'm still not quite a succubus.” It's always good to know her fate manipulation abilities can't quite overcome that edge; I can see the case where the down to the wire nature means I catch on my teeth or something else embarrassing.

That sits a while as I recover and she waits for any kind of reply I might have; I'm looking to the future though, so as soon as I can reasonably expect my body to listen, I instead inquire, “New scene?”

It doesn't take even a second for her bemused response of, “Changing it up already?” Nor does it take long after for her to shrug and state, “If that's what you'd like; I'm on the back foot anyway. Rape?” Figuring I'll need the breath for what's to come, I answer with a nod. “You or I, then?” Jerking a thumb at myself handles that one. “I trust you're ready to start screaming?”

I test that theory by delivering a piercing wail. “Yeah, looks good. One second while I put the clothes back on.” We both stand up, and by fire I clad my body in cloth – for good measure, I also scald away the overflown jizz. I'm hardly even finished before I crash into the wall for the second time today, Remilia's hand around my throat. Her other hand is groping me through my top with unrestrained glee. “N-no, stop, please,” I stammer out through her grip in a quavering voice. “I don't-” The slap I receive from the hand that was groping me carries enough strength my head spins ninety degrees straight to the side.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” she spits in disgust, voice rougher than it should be possible for a girl with her looks to manage. “You're mine, and you'll do what I say.” I struggle haplessly against her grip, inadvertently shaking my ass as I do. The attempt, useless as it is, is infuriating to her, according to the pressure on my neck and the hiss of, “No fighting, now. Be a good girl and strip for me; you don't wanna get hurt, do you?”

“N-n-no...” I gurgle past the hold, my body frozen in fear while I choke. The pressure lightens, bringing about hacking and coughing; my hands move now, though, shaking as they undo buttons. It takes longer than it should to even get the vest portion shrugged off. My rapist is not so patient.

“Useless cunt!” she shouts, tearing away my skirt, the actually important thing to remove; not that I'd know that, being a pure, innocent girl who's having her virginity stolen. Of course, the particular fact that I have no underwear on might dispel that – I should be a bit less complacent in reusing spells – but it's rolled with easily, a lecherous chuckle preceding a statement all the more so. “Look at that. Walking around without anything on down there? You really are a slut, aren't you?” I try to shake my head, but that appears to be the wrong answer, as that gets another squeeze of the throat and a sinister,“Say it. Admit it.”

Tears stream down my face and my voice catches. The words die before reaching my lips several times, sobs alone coming out. With all the effort I can muster, I manage to croak out a defeated, whispered, “I... I'm... a slut...” Yet crying now shows how little I understand of what's to come; I soon do, though, as I feel something stiff pressing against my back. Is that..? It can't be, right? There's no way they can be that big...

As if to answer my thoughts, the figure behind me chuckles, mirthless and dark. “That's it,” they rasp, leaning in to lick me from nape to jaw, the hand that was holding me there forcing my legs to split as it lifts one into the air. “Just like that, and you don't have to get hurt... worse than you already will.” Instinct tells me what's coming before it does, the pressure on my back vanishing. That leaves me instead with an intense pressure in my gut, asshole spread wider than it possibly should in an instant. It knocks the wind out of me so hard I can't even scream in pain; nor can I even double over, either, there's so much stuffed into me. It's grinding my bowels against the wall I'm being held against, crushing me from two different ends as my eyes shrink to pinpoints. Then they actually begin to move, and I finally recover enough to even try.

My ass burns like an entire forest's been set on fire in there. The start of horrified, ghastly screams rise up, but each movement inside of me is so oppressive on my body that they come out half-formed and stillborn. I stare down in terror at the sight of how much I'm stretching. People can't stretch that much, right? No. No, that's not possible. The mangled cries meld with words while I strain to speak, “You'll ki-” As if to spite me, they angle further upwards, distending me less but shoving aside my organs more. I try again with a desperate, “I'll di-” They slam into me harder, and it takes me a while to realize that I hadn't felt the body behind this dick hit me yet – that they had even more they could bury into me. I try one more time, sobbing my way through, “It hur-”They yank my leg back, so that I'm forced to meet them halfway when they spear me again. Convulsing in pain, I find again that I can't even attempt to speak.

“Were you trying to say something?” they ask, mocking with laughter. “Something about how I'll kill you, maybe? How you'll die?” It's hard to register their hot breath against my ear as they lean in close to whisper the last word that seals my doom, piercing through the haze of agony. “Good.” They reel back in sadistic cackling, reveling in the fate this ravaging consigns me to. The spreading hell mounts, my consciousness drifts in and out, and my grip on the wall begins to slacken; the last thing I can recall is the way my body is overwhelmed by pleasure, the scenario I'm telling myself in my head getting a bit too good for me to hold on any longer while Remilia's railing me this thoroughly. My going off naturally means she ends up going off several seconds later, the scalding torrent so released twisting around in my guts, spiraling deeper. Some of it, anyway. Large globs backtrack to the open air, the splatter adding to what we'll be using a long while into the future. And, of course, there's what comes to rest in the first lengths of my guts, due to drizzle out with time and effort.

Like the last two, this explosion of seed lasts only so long before it's done weighing me down further; while that is a long time by most measures, it's still not infinite. Only infinitely strung together, or as close to it as we can manage. I shake my head, a little disappointed with myself, commenting, “That went way too quick. I need a less vivid imagination.”

“You may be right; that was a poor showing by your standards. Care to try for a do-over?” It comes with the light tone of a jest, which is good, because that's a horrible suggestion.

“Please, no,” I wave the idea down, hurrying along to, “Your point, so you pick.” I'm answered with a hum of thought, and soon enough she has an idea. Then I've another. Back and forth for hours more, the lumps that once housed such prodigious reserves shrinking the whole while, until they're hardly the imposingly firm things they were. Yet despite all odds, the girl is still hard right now, and would happily continue, regardless of what diminishing her finales have suffered after so much repetition. The both of us are caked in layers of semen, and we're not the only things. The walls are, the ceiling is, and the floor – yes, the floor is now pure off-white, no trace of the carpet we were once rolling upon left any more. The fairies, too; they haven't escaped from it. We haven't even gotten around to preparing them, and they're half-splotched already. I'm more of a sphere with limbs at this point than someone person shaped, going well beyond looking pregnant or any mundane deformity. The fact that I'm splayed out with Remilia laying on my swollen chest is making it hard to speak right now, which is largely owing to the fact that it all comes out as gurgles around what's being compressed back up my gullet.

That leaves the vampire the initiative, and as she clambers off of me, long strands of ejaculate still connecting us, she insistently declares, “I shall have the record reflect that time was called, and I did not concede.” She may try and mitigate it by claiming this, but she's just going to have to accept that the score for today was twenty-one to nineteen in my favor.

I lift my head up some, to help get the sticky mess flowing back down where it belongs. It takes this and multiple rounds of swallowing to get myself to a state where I can retort, “A victory by timeout's still a victory.” That was the only limit we even had in the first place; she can't change the rules on me now. The ground is hard to pull away from, mostly because I weigh twice what I used to and it's now like a much better smelling spider's web that also happens to be capable of impregnating women. I can get an arm up, at least, which means I can get a hand up to ask for Remilia's. “Bit of help? I wanna get to enjoy being this full for a while longer.” The clap of hands meeting is absent, which is only because the squelch of splashing seed comes instead while she drags me up; well, that and the tearing of everything I'm pulling away from. I can't actually raise my legs to walk – there's far too much sagging in front of them for that to be possible – but with less of me glued to the ground, I can cheat by flying. That solves my mobility issues, leaving me free to enjoy the steady and copious drainage out of my holes below. I offer an appreciative, “Thanks.”

It's waved down with a courteous, “Not at all.” Now that we're both up and functional, we can turn our attention to the five girls in the center of the room. They're all unconscious by this point – it was about an hour into our fun that they tuckered themselves out to reach this state. “Don't they just look precious like this?” Remilia coos, positively beaming at the slumbering quintet she's approaching, severing our bonds.

“They are very cute,” I agree, floating along with her. We share a moment of silence after our extensive, exhaustive romp, appreciating the simple beauty of five little girls covered in enough semen to produce at least five hundred more. When due reverence is paid, the only natural place to go from there is, “I'll handle the spells, you roll them up?”

Without even a moment's consideration, she strikes the deal with,“Fair enough distribution.” She picks up the smallest of the lot, a tiny thing with pigtailed aqua hair and wings like leaves, presenting her to me to do my magic. It's time to get to work. We're going to have a minute to chat here while we do.

[ ] Given my dilemma, maybe I should ask her if she knows anything about love. I'm going to get no end of shit if I do, but there could be something useful in all of it.
[ ] I could try and come to understand love, which thus far seems baffling and annoying; or, I could ask Remilia about what Patchouli's into. If anyone knows every fetish my master might be tempted by, it's her.
[ ] Whatever project I'll be helping my master with after this, it's hardly the first. In fact, it'd probably be interesting to ask about what Remilia's put her up to in the past. There must be some interesting stories to tell, knowing her.
[ ] There's only one person in the mansion I haven't met so far – I'm discounting fairies, they all sort of blend together – and that's Remilia's sister. How have I never run into her, even by accident, over two months?
[ ] Casually stuffing fairies into fairies using vile magics kind of calls to mind helping Meiling yesterday. I never have asked where this decidedly European style manor picked up a distinctly Chinese guard for their gate.
[ ] The readers of this story have their own burning questions of all the deep mystery and intrigue that can be found in this nonsensical porn, the only sensible method of getting them answered to puppet my mouth. (Write-in)
>>No. 39922
[X] Given my dilemma, maybe I should ask her if she knows anything about love. I'm going to get no end of shit if I do, but there could be something useful in all of it.

Eyes on the prize.
>>No. 39923
[x] "So how did you people come across with your 'extra appendages' in the first place?" (Write-in)

Probably better worded than that, I dunno.
>>No. 39924
>>39922

[x] "So how did you people come across with your 'extra appendages' in the first place?" (Write-in)

I like this, so changing vote.
>>No. 39925
[x] Whatever project I'll be helping my master with after this, it's hardly the first. In fact, it'd probably be interesting to ask about what Remilia's put her up to in the past. There must be some interesting stories to tell, knowing her.
Peer into the past.
>>No. 39926
It seems people want to know where the dicks came from. Writing about just that.
>>No. 39927
[X] Given my dilemma, maybe I should ask her if she knows anything about love. I'm going to get no end of shit if I do, but there could be something useful in all of it
>>No. 39928
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39928
First thing's first, though: I stick a hand in my mouth, as the both of them are so deliciously filthy that I can't snap my fingers. My tongue trails along every crease and crevice, until what I pull back out is almost sparkling clean. Much cleaner than the black and red flames that run along the proffered fey's form, beginning the malign work of shrinking her down. Already slender arms become little better than twigs. Legs that didn't exactly have birthing hips slim down even further while shortening. Her head's not even the size one of Remilia's internal testicles used to be. The whole of her, now snug enough to be easily held in one hand, can't even claim to be as tall or as thick as that monstrous, batty erection. It's really rather rare to be able to manage that without some other kind of magic involved. Wait a second... It's that eureka moment that inspires my sudden question of, “Are all the dicks here natural, or was there another succubus before me?”

Remilia looks up from dipping the fairy's hair in seed, obscuring all color under its particular brand of white. She looks and sounds very pleased to deliver three answers to my two questions, “Only the fairies' are, there most certainly was, and there's absolutely no relation between those two things.” That's enough to give me pause as she smears the girl's face across the floor, until making out her expression would be difficult, were she conscious to make expressions – I would have sworn those two were going to be related.

That leaves me with two new questions, one of which seems like it might have a long answer. I don't have time for a long answer, as I'm pretty sure I'll be sent to go help my master out as soon as the fairies are prepared, so I settle on the thing I'm likely to be able to discuss. Or, I would, but the answer hits me before I can ask anything stupid like, 'Where did they come from, then?' Instead, keeping from slapping myself as the last layers of ejaculate are applied to the fairy, I confidently state, “It's one of Patchouli's old projects. Something you put her up to one day when you were bored.”

Curling up the fairy so that legs begin to vanish into mouth occupies the next few seconds while she focuses on getting the angling just right – there'd be a lot more retching and gagging, if she were conscious, as the sprites aren't generally known for their mastery of gag reflexes. Once that's making progress, she can turn her attention back to me; the tone she takes bears only a hint of strain. “Well, whether or not it's 'old' would depend upon who it is you ask. I find myself fond of the opinion that it's gone unfinished.”

Ah. So that's how it is. The fairy's face meets with her own crotch, which means it's time that I call down some more infernal fire – the semen covering her everything turns extra gooey and more clingy, ensuring she won't unfurl inside the next fairy in line. “What exactly's the rub?” I ask, a little perplexed still. The cocks are huge, their ejaculations are measured in gallons, and most of them are even animal based. I fail to see terribly many faults in her work, and that's high praise, coming from a succubus. “Was she supposed to do the fairies too – got tired of it before she did?”

“Oh, hardly,” she shoots that down, picking up the next fairy in line. A white and long haired thing with the intricate and colorful wings of a butterfly; she's got minuscule buds upon her chest, which, while nothing, still puts her exactly one weight class above Remilia. I set her momentarily alight as the vampire explains, “I'd hardly expect her to repeat the process hundreds of times over for every single fairy in my mansion. I don't believe most of them could even lift themselves if I had, either. No, I take a different issue with what she did. Surely you, of all people, would see?”

The first burst of fire was just to make the next fairy more malleable – as it turns out, a nature spirit's jaw is not designed to unhinge and accept another whole fairy inside it, even after reduction. Once the distension's dropped down her gullet and fattened her stomach, I channel a little malevolence, leaving her just shy of as tall as the vampire's prick, alongside horribly bloated. Now, thinking on it, any reasonable person that isn't a demon of sex would call what everyone was given excessive – but then again, the vampire's excess itself. I'm not sure about it, but I nonetheless venture, “Did she give up before she could make them even larger?” I kind of regret it after I do, because, really, when you think about it-

“If most of us were any larger, no one could do anything with the fairies; we're already banking on the fact that they can't actually die, or Reimu would have burned the place to the ground by now.” I get several tongue clicks and a tone that expresses the shame I feel, as Remilia pries open this one's twat with two fingers, scooping some seed in for extra cream filling. That inspires a wild idea that would be insane to suggest about anyone else, but which makes perfect sense when I consider who I'm suggesting it to.

With impressive sincerity, I inquire, “Was she supposed to make semen have specific flavors, but she couldn't be bothered to?” That gets her to pause dragging her morsel across the ground – insofar as she's touching the ground, and not a lake of ejaculate – and put her hand to her chin. This might mean I'm wrong, but it also means that she hadn't thought of that one yet.

“Where would I be without you, truly?” she asks rhetorically, voice light as air amid her chuckling. “It's the perfect excuse for me to go get her working on it again; I'll even complicate it further, making it harder on her by demanding she make everyone have multiple, daily rotating flavors, all building and mixing. Oh, she won't be able to turn me down this time. Your assistance is invaluable, as always.” That does much to improve her mood – and mine, after that first botched guess – while she bends this fairy backwards rather than curl her, testing how far in the legs can get while her stomach's already full. The answer seems to be just far enough for, if I'm judging right, her face to be planted right in front of her own ass.

“Oh, the ideas come easy; it's narrowing infinity down that's hard.” I laugh and snap twice, scouring the newly finished fairy in fire that seals her, while the next in line is made pliable in order to eat her. That next in line has short brown hair in a pony tail, tanned skin, and stony stalagmites hovering behind her – the only ones that Remilia deliberately snatches and tosses away. Of the fairies assembled, she happens to be the only one that possesses a penis, flaccid and adorable little thing that it is. “Want her hard, or no?”

“I might know the difference by the time she's been shrunken down; I doubt it can hurt things much.” Her wish is my command, and once the girl looks – appropriately enough – pregnant with twins, her length grows while the rest of her is made smaller and smaller. It's a net loss, in the end, and I could barely pinch what she's got between my fingers safely; at least she has the distinction of being the first of the fey to be taller than the measuring stick that is a vampire's dick, however much that counts when she's to be cooked later. “Perhaps you are right, though; my tastes are eclectic enough there must be a hundred more suggestions you could make. A hint, then, as you've certainly earned it: I had her give Sakuya a canine cock for a very specific reason.”

Well, I know the answer to that one easy, a rapid, “As a cruel joke, so that screwing someone means she has to knot them for an hour she'll never get back?” That wasn't the solution, but it did have the desired effect of making her drop the fairy with a splash, raising her hand to her mouth to stifle a delighted giggle.

“That was only a very fortunate side effect, I'll have you know; there was an entirely separate reason.” She's still giggling as she says this and picks the fairy back up. She was most of the way done, but most of the way isn't good enough in this case. While she hits the last blind spots, grinding the sprite against the gunk, she nods at me. “A serious guess, if you please.”

I did actually know the answer to that one easy. It couldn't be more plain and obvious if she tried. I breeze through, “Well, that's because she's exactly like a dog, really. She's at your side more than twenty-four hours a day, I'm pretty sure; she's orders of magnitude beyond loyal enough to die for you; she fetches everything you ask her to, everything you don't ask her to, and also everything not covered there. Oh, and because decorum's the only thing keeping her from humping your leg every waking moment of the day; you do know how much she wants to fuck you, right?” Not quite as rapid onset as the giggling, her laughter is more of a knowing sort as she gives a few good shoves to try and force another inch of leg to fit so that this one'll be snug too.

“I'm naturally aware, but she simply will not say anything about it. No matter how sexually liberated I make this place, and no matter what I prove I'm okay with, she staunchly refuses to tell me she wants to rut me until I break. Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do with her, sometimes; she's far too serious for her own good. Of course, you're correct about why I gave her it, as well. That cuts away enough esoterica, yes?” Remilia eventually has to accept that she isn't going to be able to get the rest of those legs in there, letting me glaze this one over and seal the deal. The fourth, in which she is placed, has fiery red hair and the thin wings of a wasp. Her hands and feet have curiously long and sharp nails by the standards of a fairy, painted red where they're not stained white. She looks full to bursting when the three prior finally reach her stomach with a lot of shoving, and when I perform the last, least potent of the size decreases, she looks about like she's ready to explode, veins visible upon her straining skin.

I sigh before offering my final answer, as I can see the scene in my head, however long ago it happened. Understanding, I sound weary as I rattle off, “Of course. Patchouli refused to give herself an animal's, didn't she? You had the perfect one picked out, she'd already gotten through the rest of them, and then she wouldn't do it, leaving her the odd one out and ruining whatever plan you had. You argued for hours, then days, then weeks and months and years, yet she was too pig-headed to lose even to you. Now, however long later, you still can't get her to so much as budge – it seems like she never will, which is infuriating, isn't it?” I very nearly feel a little personal vitriol damn near leaking into my words several times throughout that, probably because of this whole love thing; I'm not sure whether or not Remilia notices, as intuiting facial expressions gets much more difficult when they're buried under a mask of cum, and my voice at least holds. If she did, she opts against commenting on it or stopping in her work, slathering semen all over the the fey's body. She's giving this one little mounds on her chest, likely just as an exercise in seeing if she can make them look like actual tits. Despite having material that many would argue has negative artistic merit, she does a pretty good job. I'd fondle them, if that wouldn't make them fall apart.

The vampire gives a restrained sigh of her own. “That's the right of it. It's hardly worth being glum over, but a thorn in my side nonetheless. Once I drag her back onto it with your suggestion, I'll have much firmer ground from which to insist that her mundane, human appendage is simply abominable, an affront against all good.” That's long enough for her to make the fairy's thighs cooperate and file into her mouth. It's very, very forced, and she has to keep jamming them in there while I burn them into place, which also means she has to cut some off the top with her own sharp nails; that, consequently, means she needs sharp nails, so now it's her turn to lap at a hand until it's free of cum, letting out a satisfied breath thereafter and chopping her other free. “Now, the final and most important question: what animal's would you give her?”

The answer comes out of my lips automatically, “A pig's. She's kind of fat, she doesn't have to move to actually fuck me with it, and most importantly, once you scaled it up, she'd also be stuck cumming in me for at least an hour; she'd have a hard time keeping that indifferent look on her face for that long.” With that said – perhaps a bit more insistently than I meant to – and one final snap on my part, Remilia has successfully forced the fourth fairy into the last and fattest. Who is now very noticeably fatter. I might have overestimated how well her own portliness would help to hide the fact that there's something in there. At least it is a properly rounded gut; it's easy enough to play off as a very meaty specimen.

Evidently, the mistress of the mansion agrees, as her fingers come together for her own snap, and like that, the fairy's gone – as is a considerable extra chunk of the spunk that was all over the floor. Must've taken it for glaze. The task done, Remilia turns to me, giving a thoughtful, “Pig, hmm? I can't say that I agree.” Shaking her head, she leads me on out to the door; it proves that I have to suck in my gut to get through. Which is to say, take in and absorb every drop of seed, abruptly becoming a flat entity for a second before I'm back to normal and still buck naked. Really wish my contract didn't specifically prevent me actually getting nutrition for anyone but my master... the things I could do with all that extra magical energy. The small crowd that followed earlier was apparently not convinced to leave by the door that slammed in their faces, nor far enough away from the action to avoid their own sexual coma. As we step over the bodies, Remilia puts forth her own, earnest suggestion, “A dolphin's what suits her best. It's attached to a nice, smart animal; it's prehensile enough to help her snack while she's reading; and, I'm fairly certain she could get her loads so high pressure they shot all the way out the library, saving her the effort of cleaning up.”

They're not reasons I can fault. That doesn't mean it doesn't rub me the wrong way, though. I shiver just imagining that slimy thing inside me... sitting there, doing absolutely nothing. Just the thought of her finding new ways to be lazy mid-coitus when she could be slapping my insides around with its flexibility is stomach-churning. “As fair warning, you and I will have to fight if you manage to get her to agree to an animal penis,” I state quite emphatically.

The translation of the laughter I get in response is, 'Do you actually think you could win in a fight against me?' What she actually says to me, cheerily, is, “Do go see her, now. We haven't even built that bridge, let alone come to crossing it, and I'm sure Patchy's about ready for you. You've been an indescribable help, as ever.” Offering me a smile behind all that caked on seed, she waves me off; I wave back, and it's on to my master's library.

I fly in to find her channeling nondescript purple energy, fiddling with various large, octahedral crystals floating in circle, rather varied in color; eight of them in total, arranged light blue, dark blue, purple, pink, orange, yellow, light green, and then capping back at light blue. The closest I have yet come to meeting the elusive younger sister. I don't have long to muse on this, as Patchouli turns around almost as soon as I show up. Her normally pallid complexion has a bit more color, and her often dull eyes have a little more shine. That's just the experiment, though; you could maybe tack on the good night's sleep as helping slightly. She ushers me over with fervent motions, calling, “Koakuma, excellent. Just on time. Everything is finally calibrated and attuned. Into the circle, quickly now.”

Strictly speaking, that is an order, which means strictly speaking, it's more trouble than it's worth to ignore it, even if I wanted to. Magical contracts do not fuck around, unless you are so far above the weight class of whoever's enforcing it – that's your summoner, usually – that it's not even funny. Succubi aren't exactly high-tier, but enough raw energy's enough raw energy; that's probably why my contract is strict on who's a valid feeding target. I float my way into the circle, asking, “So what do I-”

I am stopped dead in my tracks before reaching there, by the frantic waving of my master's arms in the ground's direction. I'm surprised she can even throw them around that hard; how are they not snapping off? I take her meaning, though, and drop to the ground, carefully stepping in as she nearly shouts, “Flight cannot be allowed, at all! It introduces too many complex variables and exponentially increases the throughput required!” She stresses this with more energy than I've almost ever seen her put into a declaration, enough I nod several times reflexively to show that I absolutely understand and will not forget. The very act of it leaves her needing a good few seconds to recover, and this is on a good day, too. When she's only at a mild huff, she calmly instructs me, “Clothe yourself, first.” Always with the propriety and modesty. I summon up the usual, hoping she's happy that- “Now, if you would render yourself naked.” Is she... fucking with me? No, that stare is all business, and I established earlier she has no sense of humor. A puff dismisses them. Does that mean I can- “Good. For the rest of this, I'd appreciate it if you'd clothe yourself once more.”

I hang my head, holding it in both of my palms as they run down my face. Stemming a tide of swear words, the first salvo of which were in an infernal language I don't think would translate well, I huff for an entirely different reason. When I have my composure in hand, rather than my face, I ask, just a little tersely, “Would you explain what we're doing here?” And also put on my clothes. Magical contracts still don't fuck around.

That perks her right up back up after my near slip earlier. It's her excuse to being rambling, after all. “Well, if you're interested. The idea I've hit upon is to use a matrix consisting of a set of Flandre's crystals to absorb and store power for the purposes of creating an enclosed space which-” This is going to go on for a very long time if I let it.

[ ] It's not like I'm an idiot, though. And it is a project Remilia has her working on. Even the technical specs might be interesting. This is going to be veeeeeery long-winded.
[ ] It is a project Remilia put her up to. I imagine it'll be pretty interesting. … I don't think I have the patience to listen to her try and explain every excruciating detail, however.
[ ] I should have known better than to ask that question. I'm going to get her to give me the short version so we can get on with it.
[ ] There needs to be more granularity in how to respond to this sudden torrent of words, thus decrees the readership. (Write-in)

Also pick one of:

[ ] I don't think that she'll tell me, but that doesn't mean I can't ask about Marisa.
[ ] Is it bad form to straight up ask someone what they'd want for a gift, or what places they'd want to go on a date? Do I have a better idea?
[ ] She said that she needed me to have a lot of my magical energy left. If I'm going to be expending a lot of it, don't I have a right to try and get a bonus? I use that stuff to live, not just to masturbate all night long or help bake fairies.
[ ] There was a succubus before me. If I know my master well enough, we're going to be at this for a very long time – this is the opportunity for something that might be a long story.
[ ] If I'm honest, the whole love thing somehow makes me -like- her less: I have these weird pains, I'm thinking about her when fucking other people, it kind of sounds like a dirty word... I could try not to talk more than necessary to get away from her quicker.
[ ] The exact dialogue option necessary to properly court or reject Patchouli is not on this list, so speaks the readership. (Write-in)
>>No. 39929
[x] It is a project Remilia put her up to. I imagine it'll be pretty interesting. … I don't think I have the patience to listen to her try and explain every excruciating detail, however.

A "Magic Theory for Dummies" explanation would suit us just fine, I think.

[x] There was a succubus before me. If I know my master well enough, we're going to be at this for a very long time – this is the opportunity for something that might be a long story.

Now previous paramours, though, that's a juicier topic for a succubus such as us.
>>No. 39930
[X] It's not like I'm an idiot, though. And it is a project Remilia has her working on. Even the technical specs might be interesting. This is going to be veeeeeery long-winded.

[x] There was a succubus before me. If I know my master well enough, we're going to be at this for a very long time – this is the opportunity for something that might be a long story.

Exposition dump AND a peek at how magic works in my porn? I'll take it!
>>No. 39933
[x] There was a succubus before me. If I know my master well enough, we're going to be at this for a very long time – this is the opportunity for something that might be a long story.
>>No. 39934
[X] It's not like I'm an idiot, though. And it is a project Remilia has her working on. Even the technical specs might be interesting. This is going to be veeeeeery long-winded.

[x] There was a succubus before me. If I know my master well enough, we're going to be at this for a very long time – this is the opportunity for something that might be a long story.
>>No. 39935
The votes are in. Everyone agrees the succubus of Patchouli's past is an interesting topic, and a majority wants to hear some technobabble. Most of my day was eaten by a long-form obligation; update hopefully tomorrow, but calling it now on the severely off chance an explanation tie might develop again.
>>No. 39950
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39950
While I might not be a formally trained magician, I am nonetheless entwined with magic, having had plenty of time to pick up tips and tricks from previous summonings as well. I figure I can let her explain it in detail; it's an idea of Remilia's, which should be interesting enough, and maybe it'll help make her more inclined to answer questions later. So I keep silent for now as she carries on, “-functions in a manner not entirely dissimilar to Gensokyo itself, being a reality with its own laws and specific functions. Gensokyo, in turn, bears many similarities to the Earth we came from, as basing a demiplane's topography and physical laws upon the familiar is an excellent means of reducing the calculations required for its creation, and the cost in sustaining its existence – the more of your own rules you add, the more natural rules you remove, the more energy you must devote to sustaining your creation, all further compounded by how large you make it. This, in turn, displays the genius and the sheer power that has gone into Gensokyo's crafting. Consider the spellcard system, and tell me: what do you know of it, truly?” It's one part to make sure I'm paying attention, two parts giving her an opportunity to breathe for a second.

Well, if she's going to quiz me, I should at least make the attempt sincere. I think a second on what few battles of danmaku I've seen, the brilliant explosions of color and light that result whenever combat breaks out. In fact, even Meiling is bound by the spellcard rules, kicks, punches, and chops dulled from their lethal potency with magic, turned to rainbow hails and orbs of energy. I wouldn't think a kick that cracks like thunder could avoid splintering someone's ribcage when it hits their chest. Unless... “It looks to me like it's automatic,” I guess with fair confidence, hand on my chin and head automatically nodding in understanding. “It almost has to be. Just having any spiritual reserves doesn't instinctively give you the ability to turn them into harmless energy orbs for friendly dueling. Harnessing them at all usually requires some study or natural predilection, but everyone here seems to be able to manage it, regardless of who they are.”

In a manner very much pleased by my answer, my master grins, slamming her hands on the tome-laden desk she's sitting at. My willing participation gets her worked up and, with extreme gusto, she shouts, “Exactly! That's exactly it! The spellcard rules are far more than just edicts which are kept enforced by one shrine maiden – they are as much a law of Gensokyo as gravity itself! The very air around you is charged with magic to intuit intent, to discern magical capabilities, to dull strikes that would crush the physical and make them instead drain the spiritual – you could no more fight this by normal means than the average human could fight gravity by flapping their arms! Now, flight! Why do you think I was so insistent that it couldn't exist?” To her credit, despite working herself up, she isn't slumped over her desk and atop her arms by this point, which I'd honestly have called inevitable if she displayed anything resembling this level of enthusiasm for any period at all.

But why was she so insistent that flight couldn't exist? She said earlier that it's easier to work off the base of whatever you have as a point of reference, and her point of reference is currently Gensokyo, where flying is easy, cheap, and... that's... not normal. It practically is the magical equivalent of fighting gravity by waving your arms; my little head-wings certainly don't have the strength to lift even one of my voluminous tits, let alone all of me. I just thought that seemed natural, in a place as jam-packed with magic as this is, but now that I've had it posed to me, I fire back, “Hold on, that's part of this place too, isn't it? Either because of the ambient magic powering the spellcard system or as its own, entirely new property. Which means that you must have deliberately stripped it out of whatever you're making, because the strain of continuously paying for the ability of anyone, anywhere to fly as they please must be... ridiculous, surely.”

“It is!” she cries back as soon as I've made the suggestion, sounding both in awe and angry at the same time. “The numbers I ran for even the small space I intend to create were baffling – impossible! It would kill the greatest magicians of the ancient ages in a week to keep it going, and it's barely a fraction of Gensokyo's size! Flandre's constant and unstable flux, multiplied manifold by her nature as a vampire, could run it for maybe a month – and that's assuming its processes gradually broke down, easing the burden! It's absurd! Adding either of these properties to Gensokyo should be an exercise in suicide, yet here you and I stand discussing them in a world clearly functioning without interruption while bearing them both! I've needed an entire month just to wrap my head around the principles rooting the spellcard system and flight to reality, and even now I'm not completely sure I've gotten rid of them all; at best, I'm almost certain I've gutted them thoroughly enough that I won't have to abort the process mid-way through to avoid killing myself!” This time she does fall back onto the desk to help support herself, laughing just a little bitterly. The difference in scale between this little project of hers and the land she calls home seems to be giving her just a slight case of envy, as much as she's clearly enjoying getting to explain these findings to someone.

She definitely needs to calm down a smidge, however, and think about her health; I can see the rise and fall of her breasts growing more labored by the second, and she's just shy of gasping for breath between laughs. I try and scale the conversation back a bit, inquiring, “If you've already stripped the rules out, then how would I be adding flight back if I flew into these crystals? You said they're absorbing and storing power – does that mean more than just the raw energy required to keep it going? If it does, then...” Understanding lights up my face immediately. My spells for summoning clothes and dismissing them are extremely simple and don't have too many moving parts, especially considered academically. So if she wanted to double check that a system for storing magical effects was working...

“It's a step better than you're thinking,” she assures me, sounding quite proud of this fact as she cuts into my thoughts. “They're not just remembering the spells cast inside them; they're remembering their root components, the building blocks that went into making them. You didn't just give me a spell in that reality to summon some secretary's uniform – you gave me the very act of magically clothing someone in any kind of garb, able to be tweaked as I see fit. Which means that...” She barely has to pause to offer me a chance to continue proving I'm following along; hands-on learning with magic is just as useful as poring over tomes for figuring out how finicky it can be if you're willing to get turned into clothes a few dozen times before you actually get them on your body.

With absolute certainty, I finish her statement with the assertion, “... if I'd flown into the crystals, it would have had a pattern for magical flight inside of it again, as I'd be using a spell for it, even if the costs to me were being paid by this reality, or the formula itself were derived from this reality. It might do nothing, with most of the rules scrubbed out, or it might be the thing that causes the project to eat you alive the second you turn it on.” I can see why she'd be so insistent I don't fly in, now that we've gotten here. In fact I'm surprised she didn't yell louder and quicker, instead letting her arms do the work of stopping me from making a very costly mistake. One thing does bug me, though, given what I've been told so far, so I ask, “But wait a second, why would that be such a big deal? Surely if you can work with my clothing spell, you can work with the flight, too?”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Patchouli concedes, but of course her tone assures me this particular case is extraordinary. “The problem I face is the lengths I've had to go to in order to get the crystals to function the way they do. Their essence is effectively little more than crystallized and constrained energy, useless on its own except to create an explosion of disconcerting proportions – forcing them to remember anything, at all, has required the heavy-handed solution of permanently affixing any spell's essence to them, and they are heavily chaotic. Right now, if we were to destroy one of them, they would do one of three things, depending on our luck: clothe everything possessing vaguely humanoid proportions within a radius of several miles; destroy every article of clothing in that same area; or pull all within the blast into a collapsing, half-formed reality while I learn whether or not I can sustain it long enough for us to get out before it crumbles, taking us with it.” There should probably be slightly more drama to her voice when she explains that last option, as that sounds like it would be an impressively bad mishap. She's rather clinical about the possibility, which is really something, because if anyone was going to get left behind inside a crumbling, malformed demiplane, it'd probably be her. These thoughts afford a long enough silence that she can append, “Of course, there's the possibility that my work in splitting up what it learns for my use would mean its possible results could be far more numerous; but at that point, it's worthless to speculate on what would happen, as the interactions inherent in every physical law that makes reality tick would afford more fates than I've the inclination to rattle off.” That also sounds like a large list of things that could go wrong that would be extremely lethal to a number of people, made slightly less impressive by my master's delivery.

I make a note not to disturb the crystals in any way that could destroy them, having a number of good reasons to to so, and spitball another consideration to get closer to the heart of the matter. “Even if that's the case, it's figuring out the spell and how to formulate it that's the hard part; once you have it, you can replicate it pretty easily. So even if I'd flown in, what stops you from just setting it up again? These eight were only one wing's, weren't they? You wouldn't even be out of crystals, even if you can't undo the process of modifying them for your purposes and start from scratch. I can't imagine that's more than a day's setback.” There must be something I'm missing, as it doesn't quite add up again.

Patchouli does seem to agree with my assessment, constantly egging me forward with small nods that confirm everything I'm saying. When I'm through, she does look impressed and congratulate me, “Were you not so recently summoned, I believe you'd understand my issues. I can't fault your reasoning, given what you've been told of Flandre.” Naturally, it's what I haven't been told about her that's important, and so she continues in a scholarly drone, “Allow me to elucidate. These crystals are not, in actuality, a part of her body – they're growths that form along her wings, a sort of counterbalance to the fact that she produces more power than she can safely hold. The issues I face in having to use them are twofold: not only would adding flight to them be permanent, like you posit, but these are some of the largest growths Flandre ever produced, hailing from a time before we could safely and routinely remove them. Every calculation I have run so far has been predicated upon the amount of energy I will have available inside of them, for all processes such as recalling spells, helping me sustain the world I intend to create, and giving life to the creatures that will live within. While there is another set of them at this size, they are presently in use; Sakuya holds onto them in order to keep the mansion sizable enough for Remi's liking, consequently and happily ensuring I have enough room for all the knowledge I have acquired. Logistics alone make it unfeasible to ever take them back from her, as letting spatial laws have any stronger a hold on this place would be nightmarish. As such, and especially considering the disparity between these eight and the next largest set, it is far from exaggeration to state I would be put back months, at best, if my work could even be continued at all.” Now that actually works up to being gravely delivered, the idea that ruining these things could also ruin the project itself. I wonder if I'd have just been dismissed on the spot if I'd accidentally flown in; I can't discount the possibility.

Rather than dwell on that idea, I decide to backtrack a ways, as there's one thing I never did quite establish, getting sucked into discussing the mechanics of making it happen as I did: to what end is this demiplane being made? I could certainly suss it out with another hint or two, but I think she'd rather run it down herself, as opposed to drip feeding me pieces and seeing how long it takes me to arrive at the conclusion, the way the vampire herself prefers. So, voice ripe with curiosity, I ask, “And what does she want you to do that requires making an entire plane of existence that, itself, depends upon these seemingly one of a kind crystals that you will never be able to use for anything else? What's the end goal of it all?”

“I wouldn't say the goal of it is nearly as interesting as the method of achieving it,” she states, dryly, rending asunder my prediction. She still explains, with only intermittent pauses for breath, “But what she wishes that I do is put a fairy – 'the least fairy-like,' as she said – through a trial. A trial of slaying a whole slew of sexual beasts and beings, in order to win freedom. There are a few challenging particulars that actually make this a very worthy project. She insists the creatures absolutely must be considerably stronger than the fairy herself – not the toughest of tasks by any reckoning, but more of a concern when they must also be so feral and single-minded that sex and violence are all that's on their minds. We are allowed great leniency, but we could not freely unleash this upon Gensokyo itself without fear of retribution; this is one reason for the plane's necessity, to afford us more control over what we're designing. The designing itself is another issue: while we do possess a stable of magical beasts, iterating on them to produce what we're after would take too long in real-time.” That in particular sticks out to me as odd, as my understanding is everyone living at this place is ageless and free of time's rigors, but she's on a roll so I don't actually interrupt her, instead continuing to listen intently. “To speed up this process, I'm making use of the artificial nature of what's being created – since it exists under the parameters I set, I can use trial and error to modify them with magic, with no risk to our actual stables. Again, the plane shows its usefulness. The real hurdle, which has vexed me while I have worked to remove Gensokyo's most integral features, is the fact that she wants it all to be conquered in one attempt. If the fairy dies, everything is to come back, resetting her progress to zero. I couldn't possibly make this work here, as you look to understand.”

I certainly understand, blinking several times at how utterly ludicrous this is, even by Remilia's standards. Perfect regenerative immortality is not exactly easy to just give to something, much less perfect regenerative immortality tied to a trigger as specific and arbitrary as, 'a fairy died.' I don't so much want to know as have to when I ask, incredulously, “And how, by all that's unholy, did you fix that problem? Because unless you're secretly some kind of deity and can snap your fingers to do whatever you want, that sounds just about impossible.” She isn't, and I can tell that because she's still reeling a little from all this talking, giving herself a few more seconds to let the lungs catch up before saying anything. What's not surprising, when she's ready to make her dramatic declaration, is how she crosses her arms against her chest, absolutely smug with pride. What is surprising are the first two words I hear, in a tone that certainly thinks she's some kind of divine entity.

“I cheated!” I look at her like she's absolutely mad, because this doesn't explain anything to me – it does quite the opposite – yet she continues right along without caring. “Make something that comes back to life when a fairy dies?! What kind of absurdity is that?! The only entity that comes back to life when a fairy dies is the fairy! But that's just it, isn't it? That very problem is the solution!” She's officially lost me, despite the wonderful job I was doing in following along with the magical theory of it all. My lack of comprehension seems to only quicken her ranting on this breakthrough. “A fairy's soul can't be claimed for any afterlife, so they're free to die as much and as long as they like! Suffering no adverse effects, they'll simply reappear wherever their consciousness associates with 'home', often the natural object they're tethered to!” Okay, yes, that's a crash course in how fairy resurrection works, but how does that actually- “Yet what if we overwrite that association by tethering them to the demiplane itself? What if we make her soul and the location one and the same? What if every living thing there is part fairy – part of that fairy? What if it all blends together so seamlessly, the soul can't tell the difference? What then?” Even if she wanted to continue, she can't, having by this point expelled the last of her air until she's blue in the face. She tries and fails to fix me with a gaze that demands an answer to this barrage of questions, suffering from the slight rub of her head being a little too heavy to lift off her desk after it landed there.

I stare at her for several long seconds in silence, an arm raised from a failed attempt to make a point in counter during that rant, fingers uncertain about how they wish to orient themselves. “I-” comes the first false start, while the idea runs through my head another time. “But if-” I try again, still uncertain enough to stop myself. “Okay, I'm pretty-” While that is true, given that I am a demon of sex, it is nonetheless not the opening to the statement I want to make. Eventually, I have to give up on trying to be quite on the same level as her in terms of understanding this and simply admit, “I don't entirely know if that solves the problem, but whatever it does, it sounds like it could remake the entire place every time she dies, which cannot possibly be efficient, especially given how easy it is to kill a fairy.”

By now, she's managed to shove herself a few inches back up, the better to level a stare at me. In the most indignant huff it's possible for someone to manage while short of breath, she asserts, “Only if my implementation is off.”

It's such a simple and brash statement I really can't refute it, especially since I'm guessing at best as to what this sort of entanglement will even do. I spend a long time emptying my own lungs in one sustained breath, finishing with the singular word I've any air left for at the end of it, “How?”

At that, she forces herself fully up, barely ready for the indescribable exertion of straightening her spine. “The water from the Sanzu,” she tells me between inhalations. “Or whatever I can rig together as an alternative. Something instantly lethal which I can submerge her in, so that her body remains dead for the whole duration while I freely manipulate her soul. As long as the body doesn't undergo damage, it should confuse the soul enough to stop it making a new one, letting me anchor her to the crystals and finish the process.”

There's no denying that it sounds like she's thought it out. She's had plenty enough excitement for now, so rather than press her on any other details that might get her going again, like what she intends to do to the things that will inhabit this place, I instead suggest, “Maybe it's about time we actually started working on it.”

“We have spent enough time discussing it, I believe,” she agrees as she tests her ability to sit up without the aid of two hands and her desk. The ability is minimal, but present. Her difficulties in staying up do nothing to hinder her offering me a smile, sending a jolt through my heart I am entirely unprepared for. She even sounds a little happy to say, “I am pleasantly surprised, though, both that you were interested and able to keep up.” The moment is as fleeting as it is surprising, and it's soon the smile's vanished, replaced by the usual serious working expression, perhaps just slightly softer than usual. “Then, let's begin collecting data. I'd like you to grow yourself a phallus.”
>>No. 39951
File 15735561191.jpg - (279.90KB, 1600x2202, __patchouli_knowledge_touhou_drawn_by_hifumi_kei__.jpg) [iqdb]
39951
The fact that the fire conjures something standing erect and tenting my skirt is notable, considering the pounding in my chest right now. Of course, my master doesn't seem to actually care, likely filing it under 'a succubus thing' if it even registers as she eyes the rainbow around me. Rather than sit here in silence casting magic while she examines results, I settle on a topic of conversation more likely to get me going than her. “I heard from Remilia that you had another succubus before; was working with her much different?” That may sound like a dumb question, but succubi come in many shapes and sizes. Some wish they were incubi, and prefer whatever dominance they can get away with. Some absolutely loathe summoning, becoming the absolute worst people when under a master, despite being perfectly personable as long as they're back home. Some actually treat their summoning stints as vacations from the wanton cruelty and bloodshed of home – weird folks, those. That's just to name a few differences that crop up.

Now, I expect the disinterested glance I get in response to the question. I'm likewise ready for the lazy and uncaring tone my answer comes in. What I failed to prepare for was the question I'm asked in return, “Did she really say there'd only been one?” That strikes down the flutter of my heart, as not only was that an assumption I made, but I can already tell what I'm in for just from that. “That looks sufficient. Grow it larger, now,” she comments as she waits for my answer.

The snap to enlarge my drooping member is automatic while I go through the – much more difficult than it should be – task of donning a poker face and keeping these strange, foreign emotions from invading my voice. “I, uh, suppose she didn't, explicitly,” I confess with more pauses than I'm used to inserting, doing a sorry job that Patchouli doesn't seem to see through. “How was working with, er, them, then?”

The following hum of thought transitions into, “Yes, that should work. Smaller next, please.” Of course, thinking on the data she's getting, instead. Naturally. There's a second before I can bring myself to do as she asks, finally receiving a dismissive answer of, “Not terribly different, case to case. They've all been remarkably similar.”

Uneasily chuckling, I press forward despite every alarm bell ringing in my head that says I've already solved the conversation that's coming and don't like the answers my questions will get. “They, uh, they can't all have, like, been totally the same, er, right?” I am disgusted, having to listen to myself sounding like this.

“It would be a lie to say they were carbon copies. But they've all shared the same general trends.” She pauses her thought, swiping a purple lit finger through the air, causing the crystals to twirl around me. She seems satisfied then, picking up where she left off, “Next I'll need you to remove it.”

Ash rains from within my skirt, and for some reason I find it slightly more difficult to breathe. Rather strange, as I haven't convinced Patchouli to wrap her hands around my neck. I take several unsteady breaths and then quickly cry, “Looks! They must have, eh, looked different, at least, mostly, right?” A simple question like what they looked like really shouldn't be able to fill me with this much dread.

“The first one did,” Patchouli concedes, giving me at least a moment of hope before dully smashing it with, “I had yet to properly develop anti-succubus wards back then, so she was able to figure out how to shape herself to appeal to me. Speaking of, actually, could you make yourself larger?” Wait wait wait did she just admit that she likes larger girls? I'm perhaps a bit too hasty in sizing myself up by about a foot and filling my body in more, letting the fabric of my conjured clothes strain. “Perfect.” Yes, she said my body's perfect, I'm- “Next I'll need you to make yourself smaller.”

Oh. Oh, of course. Why did I even get excited? How did that even go through my head? She specifically sets up wards to prevent that, why would she give it away so easily? What the fuck is wrong with me right now; does stupidity come standard with love? Sizing down to a child barely larger than Remilia, my skirt falls to the ground, the modesty my master desires kept only by how large my shirt is on me, sleeves hanging past my hands. More desperately than I'm comfortable with, I insist, “The rest of them, they, I mean, they couldn't all have been the same, uh, right?”

“They all chose to be quite buxom.” Well, yes, most people do prefer there be plenty of chest there, but- “They all chose to give themselves an hourglass figure.” Okay, you can't fault someone for that if you won't give them anything to- “They've all favored long hair.” Look, long hair makes for something good to grab onto, can you really- “Of course, they kept certain demonic markers to appear exotic.” Are you seriously trying to tell me you don't like the black sclera, for fuck's- “And so on, and so forth. You can go back to normal now, fix your clothes up, and... make yourself look a little more demonic.”

It's the best I can do to not sputter in protest after all of that. My legs crack and splinter, turning digitigrade and hairy, cloven hooves sprouting in place of feet. Holes are torn in my vest and undershirt as smoldering wings unfurl to their full and massive length, ripping open my back. Speckled and infernally red, my skin is run through with far more notable veins, transporting an ichorous tar all throughout. The twisted and jagged horns growing out of my head act as the ultimate example of the spiky protrusions running along the whole of me. Deeply rumbling, my new voice helps obfuscate the pitiful manner in which I ask, “But, like, personalities? They can't have been, just, entirely the same, can they?”

“Sex obsessed-” You summoned succubi! That's a free bingo square! “-fast friends with Remi-” She has interesting ideas, who wouldn't be?! “-trying to tempt me whenever we-” Of course they were! How could anyone not want to, you're so aloof when we fuck! “-like a zombie.” It's only... wait, what? “Koakuma, I'd like you to try and rot yourself, like a zombie.” I have finally gotten so bad that she has to focus on me, rather than her experiment, repeating herself so that she can be heard over my own internal thoughts. I think this might be the first time I've ever considered that I wanted to die for a reason besides finding some new way to get off.

“Right, uh, right,” I hastily agree, trying to move things along before she can catch on any more than she seems to be starting to. Red flesh turns green, black, and purple, form losing all demonic traits to instead turn rotten and bruised. Holes come to pockmark me, scraps of flesh doing as poor a job of knitting wounds closed as I am of holding my composure. My eyes glass over, as dull and lifeless as I'm starting to feel inside; I have to hold one in place, as it's trying to fall out while I groan out a wheezy, ill-advised, “Well, er, uh... what'd you name the rest of them?”

It's my turn to be stared at like I'm crazy, a perplexed look coming across her face. A similar tone permeates her voice as she asks, “Why would I need to name them anything other than Koakuma? It's a perfectly descriptive name for a familiar that's a low level demon.” I'm still reeling mentally from the knowledge of exactly how replaceable I am when she returns to a calm, focused tone to ask, “Could you try and mold yourself out of slime?”

Rather than do so, I ask the one one word going through my head right now, “Why?” The croak it comes out as is slightly more difficult to pass off as a consequence of my lungs being barely functional and half ripped open inside.

Rather than be concerned by that fact, though, she answers my question, without answering my question. “Gelatinous enemies are a common threat with sexual applications that-”

I turn myself to green, acidic slime, too out of it to even bother holding a humanoid form, just so that she'll shut up and examine magical data instead. Oozing across the floor, voice partially garbled and distorted like I'm underwater, I clarify, “No. Why summon multiple succubi? If we're so interchangeable, what's the point? Why swap between them? Why bother? Why?”

“Oh, that. That would be the fault of Remi's bad habits.” That certainly gets me to extend up and take on a human shape again. If I'd felt like bothering to go through a million possibilities in my head, that wouldn't have been within a mile of any of my guesses. “She alternates between making this the most depraved mansion she can manage, and making it the most puritanical. Would you set yourself on fire?”

The sinking, depressive feeling that's been growing during this conversation is being very quickly replaced by incredulity as my slimy body is set more permanently ablaze than just as a demonic declaration of magic. “Come again?” I gurgle beneath the gentle roar of the inferno, skeptical at best of this claim.

“It is rather absurd, isn't it?” Patchouli agrees, a jet of water spraying out of her hand to douse the floor beneath me before the very flammable library can suffer adverse effects from my present heat. “One day, she's assembling every fairy to urinate at once, to make a pool she'll use for that day only; the next, so much as kissing without her first presiding over a wedding ceremony – every prior marriage having been annulled – is grounds for being impaled outside like she's actually Vlad Tepes. You don't still need to be on fire, you know.”

I can't be faulted for not thinking to extinguish my flames when she's trying to convince me of something this insane. I just helped Remilia put five fairies into each other for a sexual, cannibalistic meal she's as likely to fuck as eat. But apparently, she just turns this trait off at random? Doing away with the flames, I also go back to being largely human for good measure. Then, much more pressingly, I blitz through, “How does that even work?”

“Poorly,” she answers at first, jotting down notes on parchment next to her. “Make your body more rubbery and stretchy, now,” she follows up after as I try to hold onto my patience, letting the same magic I used on the fairies earlier wash over me. My reward is her continuation, “The fairies can't keep it straight, so half of them are inevitably strung up over the first week. She refuses to let me remove everyone's grotesque sexual organs, so they get in the way even more than they usually do. And, of course, I'm forced to summon a new familiar, which is always an ordeal when I still bear a succubus' taint.”

It's the mention of 'new familiar' which catalyzes the sudden realization I have that whenever this transition occurs, I'm going to be sent away without a second thought. It sounds as vitally important as I feel it is to ask, “How often does she do this?”

“Every few decades,” she states off-hand, leaning over an open tome and flipping through its pages. I'm about to sigh in relief, because that is plenty of time to resolve the emotional mess I've gotten myself into, I'm fairly certain. The problem comes when she adds, “Or every few years.” That's significantly shorter and highly variable. I don't have time to state that aloud, as she stops and scrolls over the page she's selected. That's when she says, “Six months is the shortest turnaround we've seen, I believe. She prefers to keep it unpredictable.” I consider it a good thing she's rather absorbed in that book right now, as I need a second to massage my temples at this newest complication. Six months? I could already be missing a third of my possible time to figure out this whole love thing? What am I even going to do about this nonsensical timer? Figure it out later, evidently, because my master turns back to me with another request, “I need you to take your vaginal walls and give them teeth.”

By this point, I can't actually bring myself to continue the questioning any further. It feels like anything else I ask will only somehow complicate the situation even worse. Instead I do my best to focus on the work Patchouli has for me. The number of things she can conjure for me to do that will add some useful portion of a spell for later is staggering – it's also draining. Both in the short term, constantly burning up magic, and in the long term, probably taking away at least half of what I absorbed yesterday. I want nothing more than to sleep by the time she finally lets me go, drifting back to my room well before she's done experimenting with everything I gave her. The only problem left is that I've spent the entire day engaged in magic, and really, really don't feel like doing any more to call up a distraction, especially if I might later learn there's more of this ahead. No, tonight's going to be one of those nights where all I have to keep me company through the long hours of black are my own thoughts. Thoughts on how disposable a servant I am. Thoughts on what I can do about the axe Remilia might drop at any time, and whether asking her about it will make it drop sooner or later. So many thoughts on this situation, and all doing so little to make this void pass quicker...

[ ] What stirs me from these doldrums I cannot escape is the heated murmuring of a group of voices.
[ ] I'm roused from this existential nightmare thanks to a solid thunk that strikes my door, followed by a twanging.
[ ] It's a given the feeling of wanting to die from earlier resurfaces, with how long I have to dwell – feeling like I might, slightly less given, startling me awake.
[ ] Eventually, I pry myself free of the clawing cage of thought, escaping to the waking world. When I do, I find someone's slipped a piece of paper under my door.
[ ] As has been established, I don't dream – that makes the fact that my thoughts are interrupted by a swaying pendulum cutting through the darkness to descend for me shocking enough I'm suddenly awake.
[ ] Whispers fill my ears, mutterings echo inside their canals. Someone I know but don't speaks directly to me, intent upon what the day holds in store. (Write-in)
>>No. 39953
[x] Eventually, I pry myself free of the clawing cage of thought, escaping to the waking world. When I do, I find someone's slipped a piece of paper under my door.
>>No. 39960
[X] Eventually, I pry myself free of the clawing cage of thought, escaping to the waking world. When I do, I find someone's slipped a piece of paper under my door.
>>No. 39963
[X] Eventually, I pry myself free of the clawing cage of thought, escaping to the waking world. When I do, I find someone's slipped a piece of paper under my door.
>>No. 39965
[x] What stirs me from these doldrums I cannot escape is the heated murmuring of a group of voices.
Is it flanflan x4?
>>No. 39967
>>39960

Oh, this guy has a point!

[x] What stirs me from these doldrums I cannot escape is the heated murmuring of a group of voices.
>>No. 39968
>>39960

Ignore this vote, i changed it to >>39967
>>No. 39969
>>39965

Marisa captured that spellcard at one point. It could also be surprise witch harem.

[x] What stirs me from these doldrums I cannot escape is the heated murmuring of a group of voices.
>>No. 39981
Voices early in the morning, but whose? Has Flandre finally come to visit? Did Marisa nick Four of a Kind? Answers to these burning questions as soon as writing is complete.
>>No. 39983
File 157391731288.jpg - (364.78KB, 1122x1600, Unrelated Fairies.jpg) [iqdb]
39983
I don't know when I laid down, not having bothered to check the clock or even disrobe last night; I do know that it feels like much longer than eight hours before I finally have more than my own thoughts to keep me company. The silence, filled only by my own heavy musings, is eventually pierced as my eyes pop open. The why of it is made immediately apparent as someone does a poor job hushing their voice, giving me the tail end of something. “-aren't they evil? What if she eats us?”

Another voice, technically lowered as well, answers this most pertinent of questions with, “No, that was Remilia. She isn't gonna eat us for waking her.”

A third pipes up, “But, she helped Remilia! I heard! So she might!” The other two get credit for trying, but that squeak is hardly being kept down at all. It's a wonder it wasn't her that woke me.

Slowly and carefully, I shove myself up a little, so that my eyes can scan where the noise is coming from. I find a group of five fairies huddled with arms on shoulders in the corner of my room, having just barely turned on the magical lighting. They don't seem to be very good at keeping themselves from being eaten, as they don't notice this, caught up in their back and forth as they are. I slump back down. Listening to fairies have an inane conversation for a minute might be calming – or at least distracting – so I stay silent to pay attention.

The fourth voice I hear, seeming to be the only one that actually understands whispering, sternly counters the squeaky pessimism with, “She's the only one that can help -us-. We gotta wake her up to ask.”

Number five seems to disagree, with a hissed response of, “I still say we should just ask Patchouli. She knows magic too.”

Three takes issue with this as well, squealing, “She helps Remilia too! I heard she's doing something!” in protest.

The second fairy shoots back an agitated, “Everyone here helps Remilia! You help Remilia!” I have to stifle a laugh at the gasp of shock this gets, like it's a world-shattering revelation.

I can hear the weariness in the fourth fairy's groan, and appreciate the effort it must be taking to keep hushed, imagining her teeth grinding as she says, “Girls. Seriously. I told you, she's nice. She helped me the other day.” I do recall helping two fairies as many days ago with a Meiling problem. Is that what this is all about?

“You also said she took forever to,” the first one retorts, not sounding convinced that I'm not evil. Which isn't unreasonable, but I did mean to get around to that sooner. “I'm pretty sure she liked watching it.” Now that's just patently untrue. I didn't enjoy seeing the gate guard being so half-hearted at all.

Three, having recovered swiftly from having her mind blown, joins in on vilifying me, with a victorious little squeak of, “Oh, yeah? If she's so nice, why haven't you woken her up yet!” I have to imagine a smug crossing of the arms, since I'm presently staring at my ceiling.

In a tone that implies this is the third time she's had to say this, number four reminds number three, “I tried to. You dragged me into the corner with everyone so we could talk about this again.” I thought it was a tad strange they were having this little strategy meeting in my room, as opposed to, well, literally anywhere else.

Five eventually speaks up once more, putting all the finality she can into a whisper of, “And it isn't getting us anywhere. Again. So someone go wake her up and ask her, or I'm going to Patchouli.”

At this point, the day's start has perked me up enough after the dreary session of sleep I had that I feel like cutting in, especially if that might actually end the show. My finger flicks, suddenly bathing the room in light, and I sit up to butt in, “Wake me up to ask me what?” The surprising thing isn't the collection of shrieks that answer this, or the fact that the huddle is now pressed much deeper into the corner – it's that one of them doesn't jump out of her skin and scream her head off. That happens to be the one I recognize, now that I'm able to get a proper look.

The leader, or so she's been nominated as the only person not presently cowering, is one of the fairies that Meiling was with when she revealed my problem. Her short hair is the green of a flower's stem, and the wings on her back look like the petals of a rose, sized up to scale. She's tall, by a fairy's measure, which isn't tall at all, more like a child that's just begun an early growth spurt. The trend holds on her torso, the bumps there just large enough to be visible on the red maid uniform she's wearing. She turns to the group behind her, giving them what I can only assume is a scornful glare, before actually looking me in the eyes, hers watery-blue with little black specks inside. “I'm sorry, Miss Koakuma,” she apologizes quite politely. There's just one problem with it.

“Just call me Koa, like Meiling does,” I request of her, keeping away the demanding tone that means to creep into my voice. It's not her fault I share my name with an unknown number of other succubi. Or that it's barely a name. At least a nickname is something, even if I'm still not likely the first to receive it. I force these thoughts back to yesterday – sleep proper really is better sometimes, I understand it makes it easier to naturally segregate days – and much more sincerely ask, “Now, what did you need help with?” Not that I haven't put two and two together, but it's important to go slow with fairies. Even the ones that look like they have their wits about them.

This one does sincerely seem to have herself in order, though. It only takes her one exhalation and a little cough to explain, very clearly, “Well, Miss Koa, we all like Miss Meiling a lot, but she's just too big for any of us. We keep trying and trying, but... we can't really help her. But we all wanna! Really bad! Even though we're no good with our hands or... or... anything, really. The other day, though, she had so much fun, when she didn't have to hold back! So, I got all the fairies that want to help her that can do magic-magic, so you can teach us that trick! Please?” Her plea is heartfelt and, luckily for her, being delivered to me. I've always found orgasm denial just one bridge too far. I guess the other succubi that were summoned didn't share this opinion, or the problem wouldn't still exist. She, at least, appears collected enough she'd have kept the lesson with her, able to disseminate it no matter how scrambled the others' brains got.

Despite two other fey having recovered from the shock of my waking, they're nonetheless still deferring to this girl, a step behind her rather than at her side. Probably because their uniforms are blue. I think I was told it's the ones with the red uniforms that're in charge, insofar as any fairy is in charge of anything around here. To her left, the embodiment of plain. She's topped by matted brown locks, neither effeminately long nor boyishly short. Eyes of nearly exactly the same color glance at me from behind thick-rimmed glasses. She'd be indistinguishable from a normal human child if it weren't for the fact that she has leafless branches in the air behind her. On the right, autumn's herald. Maybe the standard bearer for autumn's herald; I hear they have actual gods for that here. She runs through its most prominent colors, with bright red strands capping her head, overlong bangs halfway obscuring orange orbs. Wilting yellow leaves mark her back, ready at any moment to fall off if so much as fluttered, should their looks be anything to go by.

Since neither of them speaks up, I keep my gaze on the definitive girl in charge. Little convinced I'll get a productive answer, I nonetheless ask her a blunt, “Do any of you actually have names?” It's rare that they do. But given my own circumstances, I can't just call them nothing, especially if I'm going to be teaching them for a while.

That question is one she fails to expect, since it doesn't entirely follow from her request. Nearly too hasty, I'm about to start doling them out before she catches up. “Rosie!” she says, hands thumping against her own stomach. “My name's Rosie. I'm, uh, the only one of us with a name.” Still a better percentage than I expected.

“Alright, Rosie,” I nod, looking to the other two. “Your friends here are now Jane-” That would be the plainest girl in existence, staring down a pointing finger. “-and Mabel.” She doesn't stare the finger down, instead leaning a little closer like she's considering suckling on it. She has other things to suck on, though, and they'll be much more filling than a finger. That leaves the other two sitting in the corner, who I inspect more thoroughly.

While I do, Rosie looks a little worried. She looks between the four of them, and admits, “Er, I'm not entirely sure they'll remember those, Miss Koa. Even the spells might be kind of hard for them...” She's still a fairy, at the end of the day, fingers twiddling amidst one another with the nervous admission.

“I have to call you something,” I inform her, and she doesn't have anything else to throw my way in refutation as I do the work of settling on some quick and dirty names for the other two. A third has recovered by this point, having not yet been eaten in any abominable capacity. She's grey from head to toe, flowing hair near to the floor and shifting like mist. In fact, the case is the same for the color in her eyes and even the ethereal, avian shape vaguely hovering near her back. That inspires the quick moniker of, “Misty,” which she receives with the informal dubbing of a finger. That leaves the last, who seems to think I'm being very quiet and mild-mannered about eating all her friends while saving her for last. Though, it's easy to see why she'd be so skittish. Where their leader is near as tall as a fairy gets, this one's about as short as the mansion accepts. She'd make the young mistress look tall by comparison, and I have the most severe doubts that Meiling has even let her try taking a ride. I dub her, “Bow,” as her hair and eyes are scintillating rainbows; drooping off of her are two dewy droplets, wings that would break light apart when struck just right.

Satisfied that I am better at naming people than my master, as even these low effort titles are better than having four girls named Yosei running around, I go over to the chest at the foot of my bed, glad that I brought its contents along. Rosie speaks up again as I do. “The, the names do mean that you'll help us, right?” She doesn't sound wholly sure that's a fact. I thought it was heavily enough implied, but I suppose I didn't quite make it official.

“Yes,” I state, crystal clear as I start rummaging through. “I'm going to help all of you. So wait right there while I get some things out.” The problem with spatially distorted storage is it's always a hassle to get what you want from it. The first coal colored, bulbous dildo I pry free is adequately sized for testing them, but has the slight issue of glowing, as its artificial balls are heavy with actual magma. Melting holes in them, and the floor, is not going to be productive, so I stuff that back in. Another dive leaves me with a glistening metallic spike, its end drizzling a thin stream of dark green all the way to its thick base. A very fun toy, but I I'm only looking to drill them metaphorically, and I think the poison acts slightly too quickly for the average fairy's constitution. Back in it goes, the next withdrawn a writhing void of tentacles, laden with eyes. They open wide upon seeing the five girls behind me, tendrils extending sharply, right before it thuds against the chest's lid and falls back into the unsorted pile. “Not now!” I call to it as it vanishes. I'm only trying to teach them one basic spell, not learn if I can char a fairy's soul until not even nature can save it.
>>No. 39984
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39984
Rosie – to say nothing of her compatriots – looks a little concerned, by the time my search is through and the fey are in a row. I have acquired each of them something to play with, most of which aren't regarded as toys anywhere I visit, except by the adventurous. If they want to prove they're doing it right, though, they're going to have to accept some danger. On the ground in front of her is a tongue that would look at home on a creature a story or two tall, covered in warts and other ribbing protrusions. It's flopping around like a fish out of water, and needs a good kick from her every few seconds to reverse its progress towards diving inside of her. “Miss Koa?” Her waning resolve shows in her voice, as she tries to wipe the slime of her latest kick off on the ground before needing to do so again. “Do we actually need all of these?”

“Of course you do,” I answer plainly, eyeing the rest of my choices. Bow is presently recoiling from a pile of amorphous meat on the ground. Every second or so, it surges upwards in the shape of an impressive humanoid cock, quickly enough it could run the gauntlet from her ass to her mouth in a blink, as swiftly returning to being formless. Mabel refuses to let her eyes leave the glinting green snake that's large enough to swallow her whole, and I can't understand why. I have that toy very well configured, and the only part of it she's going to have to deal with are the ridged endowments sprouting from its cloaca, a pair of purplish-red things that, admittedly, do not taper nicely to a point, constantly yet erratically thick. Misty is sitting in front of a one-off tentacle affixed to the ground; sure, the fluid it leaks might sizzle on meeting the floor, but that's just how you know it's a good aphrodisiac. It's not even dripping that much, since it's perfectly possible to make out how the lime green surface routinely pulsates outwards while wriggling – she'd probably still be conscious after. That leaves Jane, who's been gifted with a personal favorite, being one I made myself quite a long time ago when I was a child. The vibrantly red surface glistens with endlessly oozing precum and sweat, and while she may not be the longest in this lineup, she's still as big around at her widest as Jane'd be if she curled up into a ball trying to avoid her. I even flattened the spines on her so that she isn't sharp right now; it's a little miffing that Jane's's looking at her like it'd be lethal to try and use her. It would, ordinarily, even when blunted, but that's what I'm here to fix.

“First of all,” I start off indignantly, rounding my words on Jane specifically, “you're being extremely rude to Carcie, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop treating her like an enemy when she's here to help you.” I can't pin down which part of that statement earns me the incredulity in her look. Rather, while I am aware that it's every part, I'm torn between whether it's the name or the fact that the obscene dildo is a girl which baffles her more. Just because I come from nightmarish lower planes doesn't mean I can't have a favorite childhood toy. “Second of all,” I continue, over the wet impact of foot beating away tongue, “if you're going to be with Meiling, then you're going to want to make sure you have this right, which means no holding back on what you use to test it.” No one fights me on the matter, which is only partially because each of them is still dubious of the toy in front of them. It's a wonder these girls can willingly clamber onto those Chinese cocks, honestly. Nothing here is really any scarier than them to an excessive degree.

“Okay. But, er, uh...” Rosie has to pause that thought as the tongue continues to gain. “I don't think I can learn a spell while keeping this thing back?” she half states, half asks with more panic than I'd say she needs to put in her voice. But she does have a point.

“Let me show you its weakness, then.” Calmly, I take a few steps closer to her, instead of standing back where I can address the collective. When it rears back to make another attempt at a strike, I bring my foot down in a stomp, rather than a kick. It quivers beneath me, but accepts its place under my heel. “See? Easy. Go ahead and try.” As calmly as before, I lift my foot back up.

It remains dazed and subservient for several seconds, before recalling what it meant to do. That's just long enough for Rosie to process the idea, mimicking my stomp with fervor aplenty. The tamed tongue drools on the floor, and the fairy's face eases up considerably. “Okay, maybe it's not that bad,” she admits, looking at how she has it groveling, as much as a tongue can. I'd expect the whiffs I get from a fairy in the Sakuya fan club, not the Meiling camp.

Rather than dwell on the idea that fairies could possibly display even the remotest sexual complexity, I look at all the other girls who've come to learn magic. To their credit, they don't shrink back despite the intensity of my gaze, but that might be their presently distracting practice partners. “Does anyone else have a problem with their toy, before we start?” I demand of them, so we can get this show on the road. The remaining fairies all turn to me, except Mabel, who raises her hand. On a very educated guess, before anyone can voice their issues, I append, “Are these problems that aren't just, 'How is this a toy?'” No one is looking at me after that, but Mabel's hand hasn't lowered, so I incline my head in assent of her speaking.

“This is, uh... It's... Kinda... Y'know...” She gestures wildly with both hands at its dripping, open maw, which has yet to snap forward and snap her up, stammering through the start of protests. She eventually settles on a frank, “I think it's going to eat me? It looks a lot like it wants to eat me.”

“It hasn't eaten you yet,” I inform her, to little change in demeanor. Sighing, I clarify, “And it's not going to unless you ask it to. It only does anything when commanded to.” I'm pretty sure she's the one that didn't believe I was going to eat them earlier, too, so this behavior out of her is just plain silly. “Look at me,” I order, flatly, putting vestiges of magic behind the statement. I now have five fairies looking at me, but the collateral doesn't hurt. Several seconds later, they all snap out of it, and Mabel is staring at the snake that didn't eat her when she glanced away. “Happy now?” The question should require less thinking than it gets, but she nods. Satisfied everyone is satisfied, I can now get down to business. I start off with the most pressing of inquiries, “How much do the five of you actually know about magic?” One part of me thinks this would win me major brownie points with Patchouli; every other part of me knows one of these fairies would accidentally fly into her crystal matrix and ruin her project, deciding to keep the lesson here in my room.

It would likely be Bow, who is all too happy to bounce up and down, bursting at the seams to answer this question with an enthused, “Magic is like, 'Wham! Bam! Boom!' and then lots of pretty colors and explosions happen!” I look at Rosie, who gathered this lot, silently asking if she's entirely sure this one understands spellcraft. I like the certainty of her affirming gesture less than I'd like.

Further questioning is put off by Jane, who adjusts her glasses and adopts the most scholarly tone she can to assert, “Magic is putting pieces together inside yourself to create an effect in reality.” That is actually a very succinct way of describing the process and why is she here trying to get my help with fucking Meiling when she sounds like she wants to slobber all over Patchouli's cock instead? Does her fan club just take all comers?

A question for later. Instead, before another of them can seize the initiative, I change the question of the moment to, “Who doesn't at least think that what Jane just said makes sense, even if you're not sure why it does?” To my overwhelmingly immense surprise, no one actually pipes up, not even Bow, who I am staring directly at as though doing so will help crack some facade she is managing to put up that can fool me. She does look uncomfortable after a few moments, but I think that's because I'm singling her out, leaving her assuming that means I'll consume her as a sacrifice for the forthcoming lesson. Under the sound logic that the worst that'll happen if she really can't manage it is she'll die for a few hours, I give the attempt up to address everyone again. “What I'm going to teach you should be very simple. All the spell really does is make your body rubbery. Like this.” Snapping my fingers, a burst of flame runs up my body, and then I pinch my right hand's index finger. They look shocked by the first few inches I stretch it. They're awed by the time it's a foot long. I'm really pushing the limits of what the spell can manage by the time I get a single digit to two feet, so I let it go and it flies back into place.

It's really not as impressive as their noises of amazement or their clapping would lead someone to believe. It's the sort of thing I'd have learned in kindergarten, if school was much of a thing back home. Bow looks particularly pleased, interjecting before I can start explaining the very simple idea behind it with an enthusiastic, “Like this? Like this?” She snaps her fingers – which is just my preferred focus for moving the effect from spirit to reality – and then the flames run across her body, which... is... actually a marker of most demonic magic. What. I should not be staring, uncomprehending, at a fairy. I don't have to, when she tries pulling on a finger and finds it accomplishes nothing. She just knows a spell for conjuring temporary flames. She is not actually part demon underneath all the rainbows.

It's with more relief than I'm happy to admit that I stiffen my face to stare at her in disapproval and chide her with, “No. No, not like that at all. The fire doesn't actually do anything. It's just usually a part of my doing magic. The snapping isn't that important, either. It's just a catalyst. You can do almost anything for that part. Clap, shout, swipe your hand; anything that you feel says, 'This spell is ready for use.'” This newfound knowledge clearly requires testing. She closes her palm, fire spreading over her body. She stomps her foot, setting herself alight. Her hand flings upwards, and her hair properly catches this time, her luck running out. The collective barely has time to start panicking and trying to run in circles before I have it extinguished. Fairies. “Right, so!” I loudly start back up, focusing their attention. “It may not be as easy or natural for a fairy, but that's it. The only 'piece' to the spell is making your body able to stretch. Since you want to hit all of you, without worrying about precision, it's even simpler. As long as you can see it in your soul, you can bring it out. There's very few ways to screw this one up.” I don't need Remilia around to know I'm tempting fate by claiming that, but surely fate's busy around here with her casually abusing it, right?

The rubbery sound of straining is the first thing to prove me wrong. That's coming from Mabel, who has figured out how to screw it up by, specifically, causing her stomach to stretch, rather than making it able to. As she tries and fails to shove it back down, I see that Misty is growing towards the ceiling while her body flattens and lengthens, being stretched. She has no idea what to do about this problem, but at least she realizes she has one. Bow is cheerily shouting, “I did it, I did it!” upon seeing each finger of hers grow increasingly long and thin, reaching the one effect I displayed without using the underlying cause. I really would have thought fairies were better at this. They're basically souls crammed into bodies, as opposed to bodies that happen to have souls. This shouldn't be that hard. Even Jane has closed her eyes, seemingly needing to work up the courage to even try, despite being able to explain the principle behind magic earlier.

Rosie has neither mucked everything up nor sat herself upon the precipice psyching up, in contrast. I'd daresay that with how her fingers are pulling out those cheeks, I could probably climb in there without much issue. There's only one way to be sure. She cares about trying to keep her clothes intact much more than I do, seeing as they're real, and begins stripping now that she feels ready. She gets the apron about halfway up, just enough to obscure her vision, before she's bumped by Mabel's continually expanding stomach. Now, it's not a hard knock. But it kind of keeps pressing and shoving while she's trying to figure out what's even going on, having been absorbed in her own attempt. It doesn't take much blundering before she's flat on her ass, meaning her foot's no longer keeping the tongue in check. Eh, I'm sure its saliva won't stain her very fancy, important uniform. “You're doing great, you'll be just fine!” I call to the flailing leader on the ground, while picking up the rotund Mabel and transporting her to the other side of my room. She's just going to have to sit here until the energy she put into this failed venture expires. I really hope she only expended enough for a few minute trial run. My room's large, but she could fill the whole thing with enough time.

As I'm setting her down, I hear something that's not quite a shriek and not quite a moan. That's one part surprise, one part pleasure, and no parts pain. Turning back around to look at how the scene's developed, I'm pleased to see the tongue has buried itself halfway into Rosie. It's flipped the skirt of her uniform up so that's blinding her too, and she's a bit too busy squirming in pleasure to fix that. Irregularly spaced lumps run up her stomach, an easily visible representation of how deep it's made it – well past where her womb would terminate, without any of the agony that should be bringing. They don't hand out those red uniforms for nothing, it seems. Muffled, she keeps trying to scream something, but can't quite get more than a few words in. “It's so- I feel- I love- I'm gon-” It's during that last one, as it gets closer to three quarters of the way and would likely be slobbering all over her heart if she'd screwed up, that she starts twisting and flopping, shoved against the wall by its forceful intrusion. That looks and smells like one successful fairy orgasm from something that should be splitting her apart. Good on her, first try.

I think Misty has stopped stretching out now, which is an excellent sign. Or has she just run out of fairy to stretch? I'll have to solve that quandary in a second, because Bow is looking at Rosie's state as she shoves herself back up and deciding she, too, can be enjoying herself that much. The twisted coils of her fingers prove otherwise. “Bow, no-” is as far as I get before she proudly stands herself over the meat she's been offered to test with. I can hear the crunch as it punches upwards. I believe that was her pelvis; it might have simultaneously been the spine. Red begins leaking from beneath her outfit, discoloring its blue as she doubles over in pain and screams. That means the next 'thrust' catches her square in the gut, smashing her against the ceiling. She limply falls against the meaty puddle when gravity kicks in, interrupting its next motion. Now its autonomy takes over, and it starts flooding in and out of her with varying length and girth. It doesn't take long before all the cracking and squishing vanishes beneath its depths, the only part of her left visible the misshapen fingers she made, being sucked up like spaghetti.

It's about this point that I reconsider my previous thought that Patchouli would have liked to see this teaching exercise. This is actually becoming a farce very quickly. Jane is doing a thorough job of ignoring it all, though, continuing to meditate or hesitate or whatever is going through her head. Right up until she throws her eyes open and forcefully shouts, “Now!” Apparently it was meditation, because she's definitely not hesitating in prying off her clothes, bundling them to toss aside so quickly she knocks her glasses to the floor. She actually has the forethought to move Carcie back a bit, leaning against the wall for support while she lowers onto the old girl. The test isn't when she parts to let the head begin its descent – it's when the magic Carcie's laced with kicks in on doing so, beginning the automatic jackhammering. Common logic dictates it's not safe to abruptly distend so grotesquely, but common logic doesn't account for magic, and despite how quickly the bulge comes and goes, she's suffering no ill effects. I can hear the thunk of every movement as what's inside her meets with the wall before retracting in a spray of fluids. She doesn't quite get as far as Rosie does with the attempt at speaking, but the squealing is a positive sign.

These considerations come alongside the sound of ripping fabric, which I take as a sign that Mabel did not think to limit how much she put into her attempt. Looking back to check on her, I find my face almost pressed into her bloated gut, which is now reaching halfway to the ceiling. Given the way it's clearly trying to continue growing but not quite managing, I think my estimate may have been off. I don't have to worry about her filling the room; she's just going to explode. Ticking off her as a second lost cause, I turn back to Misty, who is definitely coming apart at the seams, limit reached and passed such holes rip at her. Three lost causes. But hey, Meiling only has two dicks anyway. She doesn't need more than this to start. Mabel's viscera is not likely to be a turn-on for her, though, so vacating the room is a prudent good idea.

“Into the chest! Go!” I wave to the snake, which slithers there without protest. I bundle up the tentacle, stuffing it under one arm, and scoop up the mass of meat. It tries to cover my body and fill me, but I hurl it into storage before it can start, carefully setting the tentacle behind it. I have to jam both arms into a flush, rapidly breathing Rosie and really tug to start dislodging the tongue, which has done an excellent job of jumbling itself up inside of her; once I have that started, I can stomp on it and drag my foot so that it'll worm out of its own accord. A solid fling of the leg lets it fall into the confusing mass of objects until it's who knows how deep. That just leaves Carcie, who stops when I pluck Jane up while she's pulling out, magic dying down. I give her tip a salty smooch as Jane basks in the afterglow without a care in the world or, probably, a thought in her head. “We'll have some fun later, okay?” I assure her, as she was far too deep into that chest for my liking. Once everyone's been stowed away, I heave the two remaining fairies over my shoulders, dragging them out and slamming the door shut before the inevitable.

Rosie is the first to get herself in any kind of order, head swaying dazedly from side to side as she leans up. “Did we... did we do it?” she mutters, not wholly there. She's jolted into being much more there when she hears the sudden sloshing and splattering. “What was that?” she asks, before turning and seeing the crimson which is flowing out from under the door's crack.

While she might be able to guess with that, I take it upon myself to inform her, rather frankly, “That was Mabel, who did not pass the lesson. But lucky for you and Jane, you both did!” I clap for them following this cheery congratulation, as the ludicrous mistakes that characterized the last few minutes have proven to me that two out of five is honestly stellar.

And, speaking of Jane, she throws herself upright, eyes twisting in their sockets. She sounds less here than Rosie was as she slurs out, “I think I like Carcie...” Smiling, I go over and pat her head, glad to see she's come around.

Rosie's mental faculties finally return fully, following the numb fuzziness that hits post-bliss, and what I said is now sinking in. “Oh.” That's the only comment she seems to be able to make of that. I didn't even expect that messy of a mistake, so it's natural she didn't. She's a brave trooper, though, and presses on despite the losses. “Thank you for the help, Miss Koa,” she says with a bow. “I'm gonna go show Miss Meiling now!” She helps Jane to her feet, and the two of them float off in a mostly straight line.

“Don't forget to help the rest of them figure it out!” I call over with a wave, watching them go. That was certainly a wild start to the day. I look at the mess that's presently vacating my room, considering that Sakuya will notice and handle that before long. Rather than obsess over it, I should think on what I'll be doing.

[ ] I could follow them and go pay Meiling a visit. I'd get a show, and could ask her to help clarify love, as my library trip certainly didn't feel productive.
[ ] There's no guarantee that Remilia's awake, given that I forgot to check the clock, but I could go wander around the fourth floor. I'd be lying if I said I could completely shove my possible time limit to the back of my mind.
[ ] Something about meeting a portion of Flandre's wings before the girl herself seems off. I'm mostly confident I can find the rest of her. Just need to navigate that labyrinth beneath the mansion; I've been assured that safety measure's largely superfluous at this point.
[ ] Rather than tie myself up, I think I'm going to continue unwinding. See if reading manga for a while teaches me anything new. At least until Patchouli interrupts me rather rudely.
[ ] I haven't internalized or figured out a lot of what I learned, but I saw a big deal made out of hand-made snacks like chocolate. I'm a bit late for Valentine's, but I could visit the kitchen to try and do something like that. Sakuya may even be willing to help a little. If I apologize for the mess.
[ ] A voice in the back of my mind cries loudly for some mercy following that absurdity, seeking to more stringently define my aims. (Write-in)
>>No. 39985
[x] I haven't internalized or figured out a lot of what I learned, but I saw a big deal made out of hand-made snacks like chocolate. I'm a bit late for Valentine's, but I could visit the kitchen to try and do something like that. Sakuya may even be willing to help a little. If I apologize for the mess.
>>No. 39991
[x] Something about meeting a portion of Flandre's wings before the girl herself seems off. I'm mostly confident I can find the rest of her. Just need to navigate that labyrinth beneath the mansion; I've been assured that safety measure's largely superfluous at this point.
curioser and curioser
>>No. 39992
[x] I haven't internalized or figured out a lot of what I learned, but I saw a big deal made out of hand-made snacks like chocolate. I'm a bit late for Valentine's, but I could visit the kitchen to try and do something like that. Sakuya may even be willing to help a little. If I apologize for the mess.

And there's going to be a lot of pies made of cream involved.
>>No. 39993
[X] I haven't internalized or figured out a lot of what I learned, but I saw a big deal made out of hand-made snacks like chocolate. I'm a bit late for Valentine's, but I could visit the kitchen to try and do something like that. Sakuya may even be willing to help a little. If I apologize for the mess.
>>No. 39996
[X] Something about meeting a portion of Flandre's wings before the girl herself seems off. I'm mostly confident I can find the rest of her. Just need to navigate that labyrinth beneath the mansion; I've been assured that safety measure's largely superfluous at this point.
>>No. 40018
Time to properly meet Sakuya, as well as learn a few things. Things like if succubi have any home making skills, or how this will inevitably end up lewd.
>>No. 40021
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40021
It doesn't actually take that long to decide. Thinking of the maid naturally calls to mind the kitchen, and the kitchen calls to mind snacks. Snacks call to mind every scene I read where the act of creating hand-made chocolate was considered to be such a big deal. I'm hardly a baker, but I'm not unfamiliar with a kitchen's implements. They have a wonderful range of applications, after all. Today, though, they'll be used for their intended purposes. I set off for my destination, with not terribly long to travel before I reach it. It's one of the centralized rooms off the main foyer, after all, with twin flaps that push open and have little windows in place of a door. The windows offer me a little peek inside before I've stepped through.

Like just about everywhere, there's fairies in there, sort of helping to fill the excess of empty space. Unlike just about everywhere, they're not making out, locked in tribadism, or at all goofing off. There's only half a dozen of them, and every single one is wearing red. Shuffling about various pots and pans, they're handling largely menial prep work for whatever the maid's obliged to cook next. Pushing my way in, I'm not even regarded by them. If they didn't all have wings after a fashion and a feeling of nature about them, I'd honestly find it hard to believe they could be the same bumbling creatures I just tried to teach, they're so organized. I would call this room, like the library, as massive as it needs to be: there's enough ovens, utensils, and stations to prepare an entire feast all at once, but it's not a mile long like it's surely possible to manage. A rectangular workspace cuts through the middle, with the occasional break to change sides, leaving two lanes and three counters to work with, all white marble.

Letting the fey do their jobs, I start right by the entrance, rifling through clattering drawers full of silverware and cabinets that couldn't squeak if I tried. It only really takes a glance to figure out what stores what, as whatever I find, I find a lot of it. One drawer holds enough forks for a quarter of the massive main table, which has not seen use for a banquet since my summoning. A cupboard holds nothing in it but plate upon plate upon plate – the small kind one would set a teacup or tiny hand-held snack upon. I keep that one in mind, might be useful when I have a snack to plate. Another cabinet opens to display nothing but saucepans galore, in every imaginable size. Aren't those useful in baking confections? I drag one out and start sizing it up, which is when I get an absolutely wonderful sensation. Without Remilia here to mitigate it, I'm greeted by the full force of the maid's uncaring glare, tangible even without looking at her. But where my master doesn't care because she's disinterested, Sakuya's eyes always say that the only thing keeping her from butchering someone like a pig are the spellcard rules and the fact that she'd have to clean up the mess. It's like a sadistic little slice of home, right here in the mansion.

“Did you want that room fixed?” I'm asked, quickly and coldly. I guess she might have thought I wanted my room like that. It's not exactly bad interior decor. It's only a little pointless to turn around while I answer her, so I do.

“Yes, I would.” I've spun around by the time I finish the response. One's never quite talking 'to' Sakuya Izayoi; if she's even offering the time, it's usually closer to talking 'with' her. What I mean by that is that turning around shows how she instantly shuffles several inches to the left, not quite coming back in the exact spot she was in. It makes looking her in the eyes, frozen blue things that they are, somewhat of a challenge; once a second is the minimum for how often she shifts places. She keeps her silvery grey hair in a number of small braids, none quite thick or long enough to act as good handlebars. Not that I can imagine her on the receptive side without a million contrivances and Remilia's orders. She is well tall enough to be looking down at me, and not quite short enough she'd be looking up at Meiling. It leaves me just above eye level with her bust, and what the lacy blue maid uniform presently hides is modest but shapely. Her frame and figure aren't so thin as to look frail, nor so thick as to begin losing femininity or grace; lithe would be a good word. She has her arms folded against her stomach, and the tiled floor clicks each time she taps against it. I do so love the feelings it stirs.

“Next question: what are you doing in my kitchen, rummaging through my supplies?” Even as perfunctory as she manages to get that, she moves no less than five times in the space of that query. How she keeps track of what syllable she was on, much less where she was going, I'll probably never know. I engage in the small game of trying to predict where she's going to move to, and sometimes I convince myself she deliberately avoids where I look.

As a bit of an explanation, I wave the one pan I've collected. Since that could mean anything from wanting to cook something to needing a bludgeon, I add, “I thought I might try making something for Patchouli.”

I don't hear a scoff, but I feel one, in my gut and in my soul. “Really?” she wonders aloud, not entirely sounding convinced. “Did you mean to say you were going to try to seduce her with some secretion of yours, under the guise of food?”

I can't deny the idea's up there in my brain. But I think I recall something on that in my contract, so it'd likely backfire spectacularly on me. Instead I shake my head and state, “No, actually. I just wanted to make her a snack. Chocolate, or some other sweet.” I do my best to look and sound sincere, which may be at odds with actual sincerity, but there is a kernel of that hiding away.

The idea she finds this laughable still nags at me, but if she's having a laugh at my expense, she's doing it three floors and a few miles away while dusting some unused room. “Is that so? Can you even cook? Baking isn't exactly entry level.” Now I'm not unaware of this fact, but I'm definitely older than her, and am mostly sure that holds true after adding in stopped time as a bonus to her age. It's more than a little snide to imply I'm going in completely blind.

That said, the honest confession is, “I've taken part in plenty of spitroasts and barbecues back home, but I never have made a cake or anything.” I actually get a guess right in the middle of this, finding my eyes drilled by icicles for the all of half a second she holds in place.

“I see.” With that, she's gone for a much more extended period. On a hunch, I check one of the clocks hanging above everything, finding I only slept in until about one in the afternoon, however long that means I slept. She probably isn't dealing with waking up Remilia right now. Supposition proven to be incorrect, it's nonetheless time I can use to start my search again. I throw open a pantry and find it's where the vegetables are kept, glossy peels and skins advertising themselves. I'm not after a full course meal, though, so that's slammed shut. A drawer full of ladles opens... I could do with something to stir, couldn't I? I'm fairly certain that's part of the process, so I pull one out and set it in the pan. At this point, Sakuya returns, diving back into things like she was never even gone. “And so you're intent upon raiding our stores in the hopes you'll make something edible when it's not roast demon flesh.” Hey, now. She hasn't had my cum-battered imp ribs. If I made those, I'm pretty sure I could earn at least another month on whatever timer's ticking above my head okay no let's not dwell on that.

“Your stores are infinite and you could buy every business you purchase from alongside the village they reside in,” I counter her implication over my shoulder, not stopping my search any more than the intrusive thought does. Speaking of ribs, I have to imagine those brushes are for glazing meat with sauce, primarily. Not terribly helpful for this specific cooking project.

“It still sounds like you'd be wasting time and supplies.” Well now that's just outright putting me down. It might not be wrong when all's said and done, but that doesn't make it any less derisive. Not that I'm averse to venom, having a bit of a thing for callousness, but it's a little difficult to separate her caustic coating from any ire I've earned for the cleaning job I foisted onto her.

Rather than let it sit, if that's the cause of her being so direct, I twist my head to make sure she's not vanished again so I can confirm, “You're not mad about the exploded fairy, are you?” I don't have to feel like she's laughing at me this time; she gives a bark right to my face.

“Hardly. A few more hours to the day is nothing. No, this is my segue into recruiting you. Remilia has demanded a full course meal laced with every performance enhancer I can find. Apparently she's giving herself twenty-four hours to flood a sealed room and drown herself in seed.” Huh. Good spin on that idea I gave her. Keeps the spirit of it while making the goal impressive even with some cheating; she might be four feet at most, but getting that high in just a day would be an accomplishment, even with help. To say nothing of if she means to reach the ceiling.

I set what I've gathered thus far on a nearby counter. While it'd be possible to offer an unhelpful retort implying that I have a choice, much like arguing with Remilia, it's a losing battle. Less because she could outwit me and claim victory with repartee alone, and more because if I stall her or waste her time, she'll just drag me off to wherever to get started. So instead I'd like an outright answer to, “And then you'll help me bake Patchouli some snacks?”

If she'd just answer yes, there'd be no issues with what's to come. Of course, if she just answered yes, she might have the hint of an obligation to stick to her word. No, her answer is frank and entirely truthful. “If you save me enough time I don't have to visit Eintei again today. Fifth door on the right aisle.” After that little addition, she's vanished once more, likely handling some other task that requires she let the clocks tick at least a little.

Having been doing my work on the left, I find a gap to cross along to the right, weaving through fairies that dodge me with practiced ease. Seriously, are these really the same as the girls that woke me up? They float around like some kind of actual, professional staff, managing to avoid smacking each other with heavy, water filled pots and somehow having the good sense to not just wildly spin around with deadly sharp knives. It never quite feels real to watch, and I never get the slip ups that I expect. I don't know if they started this competent and that's why they were selected, or if they represent everyone that had the will necessary to withstand the presumably cruel measures Sakuya used to discipline anyone who messed up in her kitchen, forging an actual unit out of fey. But they could also be genetically engineered super fairies Patchouli made, couldn't they? Something to distract her when this place isn't run entirely on sex. Or maybe they're not actually fairies at all, and they're puppets made by the puppeteer I saw once...

I'm honestly leaning super fairy around about the time I push open the kitchen door that Sakuya indicated. She isn't here yet, but that's not a surprise; it's her schedule that's tight, not mine. Now, as I take in the room, it's important to note that everything I've inferred about her was, in fact, inferred, and not simply revealed to me by wandering into this room at a point prior. That said, this room isn't really part of the kitchen. It connects to it, sure. It even holds things in it that would be useful to a kitchen, like those meat hooks hanging off the ceiling. But this is Sakuya's own personal playroom, plain and simple. It's nicely and neatly segregated in how it's arranged, with each of the four walls around me holding different groupings of objects. Directly ahead, she keeps all the sharpest stuff. Butcher's cleavers, paring knives, a small collection of guillotines, with more than enough beside to spill every drop of blood in a body. The guillotines are a little strange, but considering what I've recently gleaned of how this place works, I can see their purpose. On the right wall, she holds all her slightly less sharp toys for when it's fun time. Whips and cats o' nine tails, coiled around hooks and ready to crack. Pears of anguish in dozens of sizes, ready and able to spread any hole well beyond its limits. Enough rope to lash together an entire raft, with spare left to tie people down atop it. That's plenty to suss out the gist, so my gaze turns to the left. Here wardrobes stand open with outfits aplenty. The leather of a dominatrix's suit is available in every reasonable color inside of one. Restrictive gimp suits covered in enough straps and buckles to bind without rope's aid fill another. At least half a dozen are dedicated to fetish outfits of every stripe, though the one that's entirely maid uniforms may just hold her work clothes. Of course, it wouldn't do to not take a look behind me, where I find that, apparently, the cock that my master gave her isn't quite enough. I don't think a single one of those dildos is small enough to be comfortably accommodated by a fairy. A number of them, and plenty of non-phallic objects besides, are connected to pumps, whether to make them squeeze out a liquid or inflate them to be that much larger. Some of them must be from a time before the appendage addition project, as I don't think she needs those double sided ones – unless they're so she can watch two fairies instead. I could see its appeal for her.

For a while, even I have to wonder what it's all for. I mean, I know what it's all for. It's just hard to imagine she has enough free time in the day to make use of it, the way she always carries on; what good's such a well-stocked sex dungeon that you don't use? I might need to ask her that at some point, but when she appears before me while I ponder which toys to inspect more thoroughly, she gets right down to business. Despite still being clothed herself, she offers the prompt order of, “Strip.” Not having great attachment to my clothes, I snap them away. I doubt she was after a show. I'm right, and when I'm naked, her next command is, “Tell me, how am I going to get the most juices out of you?”

My surprise isn't entirely feigned as I gasp, “The sadist is letting me choose how we do this? That sounds wildly out of character.” Conscientious of her to offer me the choice, all things considered, so I'd probably better not push it any more. Though if I did...

“This is a matter of work, not my pleasure. Now, choose quickly or I'll choose for you.” As expected, even that much was luck testing. If I weren't a succubus, being put on the spot like this might be difficult, with so many potential options for how to have fun surrounding me. I am a succubus, though, so my decision is made in a split second.

[ ] I want to learn exactly how harshly she can brutalize me, and I want to learn it at the pace she'd like to teach me. I know that it's extremely harshly and that the pace will be violently quick. Mostly I just want to get the first-hand experience.
[ ] I have the funniest idea. I think I should make this about her pleasure. I'm going to use my magic to look like Remilia, so that she can vent some of that pent up desire. Even odds she finds the imitation offensive, but I'm a fan of hatefucking.
[ ] Maybe I shouldn't offer her carte blanche when I just exhausted half my essence yesterday. I should take advantage of her sadism, however. Have her break out the whips and prods to see just how well she melds pain with pleasure.
[ ] Does she know that a succubus' mouth is an erogenous zone? Well, it is... as is every other portion of our bodies. The point is I want her to facefuck me, and if I can still breathe, she's probably not doing it roughly enough.
[ ] There is technically always the option of getting a fairy involved and watching what goes down. Masturbation does make the collection easier, as I don't have to worry about throwing her into maximum overlust. I'm gonna be leaking some potent stuff.
[ ] In a moment of clarity I have the true path revealed to me, all other thoughts paling before this one. My libido is guided by the ever present whispers of the readership. (Write-in)
>>No. 40022
[x] Does she know that a succubus' mouth is an erogenous zone? Well, it is... as is every other portion of our bodies. The point is I want her to facefuck me, and if I can still breathe, she's probably not doing it roughly enough.

The kitchen is for eating stuff, or something.
>>No. 40023
[X] I have the funniest idea. I think I should make this about her pleasure. I'm going to use my magic to look like Remilia, so that she can vent some of that pent up desire. Even odds she finds the imitation offensive, but I'm a fan of hatefucking.

Let's see some demon magic.
>>No. 40024
[X] I have the funniest idea. I think I should make this about her pleasure. I'm going to use my magic to look like Remilia, so that she can vent some of that pent up desire. Even odds she finds the imitation offensive, but I'm a fan of hatefucking.
>>No. 40025
[X] Does she know that a succubus' mouth is an erogenous zone? Well, it is... as is every other portion of our bodies. The point is I want her to facefuck me, and if I can still breathe, she's probably not doing it roughly enough.
>>No. 40026
[X] Does she know that a succubus' mouth is an erogenous zone? Well, it is... as is every other portion of our bodies. The point is I want her to facefuck me, and if I can still breathe, she's probably not doing it roughly enough.
>>No. 40027
It's time for liberal use to be made of a mouth, surprisingly. I'd have put money on that Remi option. Shows I shouldn't be betting, so I'll instead be writing.
>>No. 40029
File 157428880146.jpg - (538.12KB, 1024x1280, __izayoi_sakuya_touhou_drawn_by_ginopi__a3f9c5a31f.jpg) [iqdb]
40029
I know what the maid has down there. I know of some interesting properties that it has. And I know that they get really good when applied to a bit of oral fun correctly. It makes the decision nearly automatic. I open my mouth wide and, with a little succubus cheating, manage to keep myself actually intelligible as I answer, “What you can do is take my mouth and treat it like you hate it.” Saliva drips from my roof down to my lower jaw as I speak, advertising how slick and easily used it would be.

It all earns a response in kind, that being the disappearance of her uniform instantly. She's not much interested in delivering a show, same as she doesn't care to see one. Her breasts, naturally, don't hang or sag in the slightest, light and firm enough to resist gravity. But that's not the interesting thing that's unveiled now that she's naked. Its tip is slightly sloped, yet aside from its minor angling is flat, without any hint of rounding. Its skin is a glossy hue of red, a step shy of shining under the magical lighting of the room. Shortly into its shaft – comparative to all of it – is a dip into a pronounced curve, before swinging back to later meet with her crotch. While she looks to keep herself perfectly trimmed and hairless everywhere else, that would be a lost cause in regards to what hangs at her base, mottled fur of blacks and browns insulating cum I can hazard already boils. Calling her the smallest of the residents I've met is hardly a slight, as it's the simple truth, and the smallest among them is still quite past what should be found on a human. Not to mention its presently uniform thickness means she's not actually erect, though length isn't quite what that will greatly affect. A splendid canine cock, and the only reason I'm analyzing it by sight, as opposed to by feeling it inside of me, is one final question. “Any further particulars before I begin?”

I look at the blades and I do like them. I glance at the whips and they are fun. I turn to those restrictive suits and think it's been a while. But, those are all her thing. She said this isn't about her pleasure, so it's not going to be. The less I give her, the more I can milk this before milking her. “None of the toys from your sex dungeon, here. And you can't actually start until I say so.” This is not the means by which to ingratiate myself to her, but I know exactly what I'm doing. Everything from the teasing wink to the playful tone is calculated.

I can already see what I'm looking for in a twitching eye that most would miss, it passes so quickly. The natural iciness of her voice does hide any aggravation she might feel at my attempts to hold her back. It's a perfectly level retort of, “Fine, then. But you know I don't have all day, so get started.” Oh, she doesn't have to worry about that or tell me twice. With that agreement struck, I'm standing atop the cool metal of what's almost a trough: rather long, hardly deep, and not extremely wide. That which shall collect everything soon to escape from me.

Keen to get that started, I kneel with mouth still open, ready at any time for an abrupt plunging. I'll initiate no such thing, however. Slithering, the full length of my tongue escapes the confines in which it coiled, beginning the slow process of building arousal. Up the slope of her head it lazily laps, wetting it while nothing yet drips from the slit resting there. Into that slit it delves on occasion, twisting and tasting vestiges of ejaculations prior. The faintest tinge of iron rich blood, an undeniable marker of a sadist's release, followed seconds later by the confounding but alluring magical essence, strong and sweet as a powerful human's soul would be. It jumbles and twists, however, the motes of flavor scrambled by her intertwining with chronology itself. How wonderful it must taste, freshly potent and generously filling, but I don't see this in my future today, with the plan I've set in motion. “Enjoying yourself so far?” I ask in defiance of any need to shape sound by anatomical means. She's finally settled in place, so I can look her in those wonderful winter eyes as I taunt and toy.

“I told you, this isn't about me,” she answers sharply, not looking to care for my tone. It does imply I'm screwing with her, and not in the carnal sense – which I full well am. “As long as this is what gets me fluids, I don't care.” It sounds like she means it, and that's just not right. Sex is a two way street, and she really should be trying to meet me halfway. She will be, the more apparent it becomes this foreplay isn't really working. There's not so much as a pitter, whether from the sweat of exertion or the trickle of arousal.

Which is exactly the point. “It's perfect, trust me,” I lie with glib abandon as these lead-ins fail to earn her a drop. Deeper within that canal up which seed streams I slip, sighing in poorly placating passion. It allows me to taste the irrelevant lubrication which I've begun to draw forth before it escapes, its conventional sweetness offering order in its freshness, hiding the previous chaos greeting my tongue. Leaving a length inside of there, I lean in closer as if to accept her, but do no such thing. It merely lets me more easily wrap what remains around her first few inches, one portion wriggling inside of her while the other gently strokes as fingers would. A technique it's taken me a long while to master, which catches plenty off guard. Not this maid, however. Not visibly.

“Are you entirely sure?” she presses, narrowed eyes scrutinizing my own state. The hints of a scowl begin to twist her lips, as I don't so much as have the faintest beginnings of rose colored cheeks, let alone a telling gush. It's a sorry state of affairs, no doubt, and it pains me to do it, but patience. Patience is what I need, as it's what she's short of. And while she may be trying to hide it outwardly, I can still read her like a book. The pulses of blood that begin to redirect, desiring to engorge her. The tension inherent in breath forced stable. A glaze painted over that otherwise malignant glare that expresses her hatred of every second I waste. “I'm not convinced you're not merely having fun at my expense.” She tries to keep the edge to her voice that bites like a whipping snowstorm, and she does, for now.

I let that sit for a while, pretending I'm thoroughly intent upon my work, to the point it allows no distractions. As far from the truth as could be. The slurping and sucking noises which I'm adding to everything are deliberate and intentional, one amusement as I flare her temper. The motions of my prehensile tongue are practiced and automatic, pulling out to instead trail from end to end with painful slowness, memorizing every location which produces a twitch of her length that cannot be fought down. I've plenty enough to randomly wrap around her, gradually assuring it's all experienced a tongue's tug, affording it an extra layer of sheen, these the only fluids I offer. My voice perfectly matches the condescension of my question when I feel the pause has stretched long enough, a self-important, “Which of us is the succubus here, exactly?” Even more damning, I ask this without changing how I tenderly appreciate her, revealing every moment of waiting to be unnecessary.

She does not sputter and she does not spit, as much as I'm entirely certain this brazen disregard for her schedule is infuriating. My efforts are beginning to bear more visible fruit, a sphere expanding near to her base. The slow start of that knot. “You're entirely sure that you can't speed up this process?” she demands, hostility suffusing each syllable. I catch it. The faintest motion, impatience's littlest victory demanding she thrust. The purpose of it all draws closer, arms raising in trembling agitation, indicating what sits on her mind. She continues to tolerate me for now, as I continue to tolerate myself. I hear each breath to pass her lips, losing their level nature as fury and arousal creep and color them.

“This is the most effective way to get you what you want, I promise.” It's not false, but I make sure it sounds that way. Then, I deliver some much needed focus to the thickest part of her, very slowly growing more so. Attempts to constrict it amid all else fail, its rigidity more than the thin muscle can manage to shrink back down. The shudder the failed attempt gets is plain. It's such a simple sign of dominance, nearly invisible, but it eggs her libido on. My waiting mouth leans closer still, lips near kissing her, parted just enough for her shaft without accounting for what's building near to its end. The air which greets the maid, kept barely away from my eager hole, is only warm – it does not burn as it should with lusts inflamed.

Sakuya is still rather capable of holding herself in check, even with all the signs she gives off. Fingers which clench grip only palms, showing off what they wish to do without taking that extra step. What must be a truly roaring inferno in her chest hardly shows in its rise and fall, though the facade cracks piece by piece. She is the first to begin turning red, arousal discoloring her cheeks as anger floods a vein. “I can't help? In any way, shape, or form? Nothing I can do? At all?” The stilted speech shows the effort it's requiring by this point to hold herself to any standard of decorum. I watch each word carefully form, spying flutters and squints fighting over her eyes, desire locked in battle with rage and concentration.

“You don't need to do anything at all.” With this assurance, I wrap as much as I can, spiraling along her shaft. “It's incredibly important that you do nothing, even,” I add, while slathering the first half of her prick in half-hearted love. “Just keep waiting. There's going to be so much when I'm done.” Oh, there will be, I can feel it in the building juts of her hips. “I am an expert. A professional. I'm more of an expert in sex than you are in being a maid.” That one might not actually be true, but the important thing is how smug it sounds while I continue to give her nothing but foreplay. “I would appreciate it if you'd let me concentrate. I'm doing very delicate work, you know.” By this point, I am actively cutting her off from offering any response, the fact that I'm not shutting up to let her have a word in edgewise looking like it might well crack a tooth. “Just because your mistress is an honorary succubus in my books, you think you know the best way to get me wet? Awful presumptuous of-” Bingo.

One moment, I'm being as annoying as it is physically possible to be. That same exact moment, I can feel my tongue being crushed between her growing knot and my teeth. Her hands have snapped and gripped my hair by its ends, tugging so hard it feels like they'll rip out by the roots. My face shakes and rattles from the impact, the only reason my nose isn't flattened against her the fact that I haven't opened wide enough for her to get all the way in. My jaw hurts from the instant impact, and my ears ring from the shrill scream of, “I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR GAMES!” The composure she prides herself on is entirely absent from this, with nothing but pent up need and furious contempt to be found in her voice.

It really is impossible to get someone to properly, angrily ream your face if you don't work at it. But my work pays off now as she takes the reins and whips them in a frenzy. I can feel my brain rattling from how much she puts behind every buck and every yank, with no compromise to be found on speed. Everything is a blur as time's manipulation slings me back to be slammed into place once more. I don't even have time to get my tongue out of the way, leaving it continually compressed and throbbing in pain. Calling it amazing would be an understatement.

“YOU'RE STRINGING ME ALONG JUST TO PISS ME OFF!” she continues to rant, positively irate at this fact. “YOU AREN'T TRYING TO HELP ME OUT AT ALL, ARE YOU?!” That, however, is false. Blinded by how she focuses her everything on trying to break every single one of my teeth, she is not looking at how the situation has changed. My nipples gush with something white that isn't milk, an excellent means of driving sperm into overdrive, filling testicles far faster than they can be emptied. Nether lips tremble with unabashed desire to be speared the way my mouth is, a waterfall of inky black escaping them, capable of sustaining an erection long past the point of shooting blood. The abuse quickens my pulse finally, the sweat beginning to run down my body a deep red, able to instill such a heat pleasure becomes the only thing on the mind. She's getting exactly what I promised. And we're both getting some fun.

She might not be registering it as fun, but those throbs tell me all I need to know about how her body appreciates the lack of restraint. The only reason I've my teeth left in my mouth is the fact that she's still human, whatever other terms might apply, and she doesn't have the raw might necessary to simply smash them out of her way. Fuck is she trying, though. The liquids gathering beneath me let me slide along the metal, halting friction so that I'm knocked back, giving her that much more room to pull me in again. Try as I might to help with something more than the tightening of a plenty thin throat, she's just moving me too fast, my particular brand of sexual cheating bested by a rhythm so fast it nearly blends to one note.

“I'LL JUST DO IT MYSELF, AND MAKE YOU REGRET IT LATER!” Oh, I don't regret anything. The sting of my ears at her unleashed temper is wondrous. The fact that I can hardly manage a breath even through my nose is just what I was after. And now my nose is twisting from side to side, the lump impeding my progress and hers continuing to build. Much as I enjoy having my tongue crushed – and I do, each new spike of pain is beautiful – I do have something I need to do, rather than just letting her continue to play mad dentist. Spit is already being flung out my mouth in plentiful amounts, matting the fur of her balls that I've yet to meet; all the more escapes with every movement as I start forcing my jaw open wider, the better to accommodate her, splattering her legs in a torrent that really should stop the demented cry of, “I HAVE THINGS TO DO THAT DON'T INCLUDE PLAYING ALONG WITH YOUR BULLSHIT!”

She claims that, but she's playing along very nicely; I couldn't call this more successful. I'd much prefer if I could actually get my mouth open before she could fit in another hundred pistons and pulls, but I'm not the one who's made time my bitch comparable to the way this dog dick is making me one. It's a good thing I don't keep a sharper smile, otherwise I don't think she'd hold up while I have to more than dislocate my jaw to let her in, engaging in the very unprofessional addition of teeth to what is technically a blowjob, in some fashion. Even if I've very little input on its progression or when she'll hit climax.

A fact which she lords over me, mania still present in every word. “AND AFTER ALL THAT TALK, YOU CAN'T EVEN DO THIS RIGHT! YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO USE YOUR TEETH! WHAT KIND OF SUCCUBUS ARE YOU?!” The kind that just needs to angle up a little more, finish getting the mandible to one-hundred-eighty degrees, and can then slide over and around the enormous sphere which has been causing issues. She does not anticipate the slap of my face meeting with her stomach, stunning her for just long enough for me to clamp my mouth back down some, inasmuch as I can. That locks me in position, so that when she's done stumbling from her own blow, the dull backside of my teeth are what she meets with. Much less jarring than the ends, and also leaving her with very little room to maneuver.

An impediment that won't be stopping her. Now that I've gotten where I want to be, I'm being ping-ponged back and forth along what little there is behind the effectively tied knot. It's engorged to being nearly head sized, and doesn't really have to choose between puffing out my cheeks to absurdity or making it look like my neck's in danger of exploding, as strained as it becomes. It also thoroughly destroys any chance I can continue to breathe, windpipe easily sealed shut by the girth presently crushing it. I'm not as bothered by this as I could be. There's just one important thing I need to see before I'll be happy to let her suffocate me as much as she'd like.

The slap of flesh upon flesh is constant and echoing, the dozen sounds unable to even begin dying before a dozen more seek to replace them. It's joined by the meaty thud of her balls, though it's difficult to say whether they're swinging into my chin or if it's being dragged into them. These things are barely audible over how she carries on, “AND NOW YOU WON'T EVEN MOVE! HOW DENSE ARE YOU?! YOU ABSOLUTE AND UTTER-” It's then her tirade is interrupted, and while the shouts don't really die down, they do lose their rage, becoming instead the unfettered bliss of an orgasm. The last growths she can experience complete, and at her apex, pleasure overwhelms her. Its passage obfuscated in large part by that growth, the first wave of spunk splashes inside the stomach it's being delivered straight to without any more effective warning. What follows isn't so much a series of shots as it is an endless deluge of roiling jizz with nowhere to go but inside of me.

It's rather natural this entire process sets off a chain reaction on my end. Held to the maid's nethers as though trying hard enough will let her crush my head, no shortage of stimuli seize control of my body. I can't announce my pleasure, what with the fact that my lungs have been blockaded, but that's not worth shedding a tear over. My tail curls and straightens, unsure what to do with itself in the middle of all this. I bang against the sides of the trough in my throes, adding a metallic clang that's drowned out by Sakuya's voice. And, without reserve, my cunt spews enough of that black liquid to keep Remilia going for weeks, well beyond what she needs for her plans. That just leaves the rub that I'm presently preoccupied while running out of air.

I can feel my gut growing heavier under all being released into it, which is coming alongside the black spots swimming in what remains of my vision. The pounding in my head is only partially because of the nails trying to dig into it, the rest accounted for by the dwindling amounts of oxygen beginning to reach my brain. It's a problem that compounds itself. My orgasm prevents me from stopping the asphyxiation I'm undergoing; the prolonged period it lasts brings about new and exciting effects; the effects further extend it, putting off when I could solve this problem. Well, 'problem.' It's hard to call even a burning in the lungs as they scream for air an issue when it leaves my whole body quivering, stomach rounding all the while. Nor, when it spreads and agony is found in equal measure to my pleasure, can I drum up terribly much concern. By the time these sensations are fading, it's got nothing to do with anything easing up; my body's just getting too worn out to accomplish anything. The dying embers of satisfaction and suffering herald my own death.

Probably sounds like a more pressing matter than it actually is. Well, okay, it's not ideal, admittedly; I don't quite feel confident in puppeting it so I can appreciate the steady bloating I'm definitely undergoing right now. Making an actual corpse move isn't entirely in my wheelhouse, and I'd like to not starve to death. But yesterday, Patchouli was right to not be terribly concerned over the thought of me dying. Like a fairy, I'm a soul crammed into a body; they might even have periods of just sitting here like this after they die, too. Not entirely sure, given there isn't always a lot going on up there. The only problem I'd have with dying is how much damage my body suffers, and there's not really much immediate trauma from suffocation. Fixing it up and getting it in working order is a nuisance, perhaps an unwelcome one, but it's not likely to mean I shrivel up and am kicked back home because I can't make it to my next feeding day.

This is basically like a second bout of sleep. Only I have a much more agreeable cause for it, and the inclination to speculate as I wait until it feels about right to jump back into my body. It can actually make for a pretty fun game, calculating the distension I'll be returning to. My throat was pretty solidly clogged, so I don't have to worry about it bubbling back up the front. My ass... I was a bit too busy to close that up, so it might be leaking from that end as quickly as the bowels allow. My official cause of death – ticked down as 'orgasm related control difficulties' – does muddy the waters, since that could cut either way. Instinct tells me it was probably tightening, though, so I start doing some guesstimations.

Five minutes or so of mentally dubbing the sound of a thick, heavy liquid crashing into itself later, I've got a good image of how I look like a greedy, fat little pig. By ten I have it in my head, so to speak, that I'm probably at the point where I'd be asked when the child is due, and maybe a little further along besides; I've spent a good portion of that time trying to mimic what Sakuya sounded like when she finally went over the edge, finally satisfied with the noises of hers I've added here in the lonely dark. I reckon it at about twenty minutes when I can see myself actually straining to be contained by the metal I perished inside of, flesh losing the battle of which will be forced to give way – I nonetheless add in the creaks and groans of thin plates of iron under stress, as a bit of a morale booster. The thirty minute mark, if my internal clock is functioning – not perfectly tuned, that thing, so I'm probably off – is when I imagine that I've run out of room in front of me to grow out, instead expanding over the lip of the container, the flab of seed hanging towards the ground with appropriately dramatic sloshing. Something about my calculations strikes me as wrong when I'm convinced that by this point I have to have somehow spilled over until I reach the ground, but it's only minute forty-five... I'm also running out of relevant sound effects to add, especially since by this point I'm fairly sure that Sakuya's unloading directly into more of her load. After a long while, I've edited the trough out of the equation just to give myself a different theoretical view, and have concluded that I have achieved such rotund proportions that a pregnancy of this magnitude would involve the birth of at least two dozen children at its conclusion. Speaking of conclusions.

I have to imagine that Sakuya is either done or finishing up, but since I can't be sure, I give it just another minute, tacking on an extra child to my mental simulation. Then I dive back into myself. As I give what was a corpse life and healing, I am greeted by the familiar and magmatic searing of oxygen's absence. That's just going to kill me again in a second if I don't do something. Since I can't feel an entire head stretching my throat, but can feel myself vomiting up semen in quantities sufficient to start a dynasty, I repeat the handy trick of shrinking flat to absorb all the cum inside of and on top of me. The gulp of air that lets me have brings immediate and soothing relief, staving off any ideas of seizing up in ecstasy once more. I'm still far from functional, though, eyes not even opening. It's a good minute before I have the strength to get an arm up and try to pull myself seated, finding the world spins as I do. It's the sort of delirium that should always follow a good carnal bout. I'm alone as I try to focus fuzzy vision, or so I think; I don't feel an overwhelming desire to murder me, which is a pretty good indication Sakuya isn't here, or at least isn't mad. I pry myself out of the muck of sexual fluids and seed I was collapsed in, standing only to tumble over and onto the ground. Okay. Still reeling slightly from that whole dying thing. I at least shove myself face up, and in doing so, find I'm looking up at a maid – one only mildly cross, which is very good by her standards.

“Can you hear me yet?” she asks flatly, having returned to her usual habit of hopping around in clear and surely extended bouts of stopped time. I open my mouth to speak, find nothing comes out, and nod instead. The mouth opening was enough for her. “I gave some of that mixture to one of the fairies while you were out. I had to tie her down after. I don't believe I'll be needing to visit Eintei; return to the kitchen when you're ready.” The thumbs up I try and give her is so slow she's long gone before the thumb's extended, to say nothing of raising the arm. Good time, that. Just gotta fight back every throb and get to the kitchen again. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes. Dying ain't so bad.

[ ] I had the idea for chocolate in my head, but I could talk with Sakuya about what sorts of sweets my master prefers while making them, ensuring I produce her favorites.
[ ] She likely doesn't hate me enough after that to refuse discussing why she won't just fuck Remilia, and it's strange to say the least; worth poking her about to pass the time.
[ ] I haven't asked her how long her average day is before now. The answer might be slightly concerning, especially if I also ask for some of the longest, but that's what makes for fun anecdotes.
[ ] Actually, I'm not sure how she even got here. Or why she's here. I may not know how long her average day is, but I know it's 'long', and I imagine that's somewhat responsible for her personality. Couldn't she live a much less stressful life almost anywhere else?
[ ] Hold on... Sakuya knows Remilia inside and out, despite never having been inside her. If there's anyone but the vampire herself I can ask about when it's likely the mansion's going to undergo a swap to puritan, it's gonna be her.
[ ] The muses sing and in so doing unveil what truly needs asking. By the will of the people, I know what to pester Sakuya about. (Write-in)

Also pick one of:

[ ] Now, I'm pretty sure there's something regarding trying to drug my master with aphrodisiacs via underhanded means like snack platters in my contract. But if there isn't... Keeping a completely comprehensive set of wards running twenty-four seven would be draining, and she probably doesn't...
[ ] I know nothing about love, but I do know a thing or two about trust. Despite the inkling that it's not entirely impossible to poison Patchouli like Sakuya suggested, the idea sounds risky enough I fight the sudden urge back. If it fucks up...
>>No. 40034
[X] Hold on... Sakuya knows Remilia inside and out, despite never having been inside her. If there's anyone but the vampire herself I can ask about when it's likely the mansion's going to undergo a swap to puritan, it's gonna be her.

[X] I know nothing about love, but I do know a thing or two about trust. Despite the inkling that it's not entirely impossible to poison Patchouli like Sakuya suggested, the idea sounds risky enough I fight the sudden urge back. If it fucks up...
>>No. 40041
[X] Hold on... Sakuya knows Remilia inside and out, despite never having been inside her. If there's anyone but the vampire herself I can ask about when it's likely the mansion's going to undergo a swap to puritan, it's gonna be her.

[X] I know nothing about love, but I do know a thing or two about trust. Despite the inkling that it's not entirely impossible to poison Patchouli like Sakuya suggested, the idea sounds risky enough I fight the sudden urge back. If it fucks up...

Man, this story is great. your writing rocks and everything is just entertaining. keep up the great work!
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