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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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[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!
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[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!
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[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.

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[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.
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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.
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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)
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[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.
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[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.
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[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!
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[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?”
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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.
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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)
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[ ] 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.
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[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.
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[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.
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[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.
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Four more votes, one more vote called for writing. Let's have some fun being avant-garde, shall we?
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[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.
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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.
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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.
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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)
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[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.
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[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.
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[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.
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There's a winning option and no brakes on this train. It's time for some right proper succubus activity.
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[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.
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[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.
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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.
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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)
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[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.
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[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.
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[x] "So how did you people come across with your 'extra appendages' in the first place?" (Write-in)

I like this, so changing vote.
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[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.
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It seems people want to know where the dicks came from. Writing about just that.
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[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
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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)
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[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.
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[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!
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[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.
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[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.
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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.
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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.”
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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)
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[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.
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[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.
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[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.
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[x] What stirs me from these doldrums I cannot escape is the heated murmuring of a group of voices.
Is it flanflan x4?
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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.
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Ignore this vote, i changed it to >>39967
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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.
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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.
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Unrelated Fairies
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.
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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)
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[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.
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[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
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[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.
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[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.
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[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.
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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.
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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)
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[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.
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[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.
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[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.
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[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.
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[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.
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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.
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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...
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[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...
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[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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[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...
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Three might as well be impossible to overturn. How long does Koa have? Long enough to fight off an impulse, at least.

Happy to hear it, and I certainly will. This won't vanish after NaNoWriMo. It won't update as quickly, either, but I'll outline that plan when the month's out.
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Eventually, my body starts responding well enough I can properly stand up, as opposed to collapsing upon doing so. There's something exceedingly important to check when this time comes. Leaning over the trough, I look at the layer of seed atop everything else inside it – an obscene amount, by the measure of almost all ejaculations, but hardly a fraction of the mess I should have made if I was constantly leaking. Guess I didn't actually mess up those estimations. Who needs to be alive to know just how filled they're getting? With that settled, I head back to the kitchen, not bothering to clothe myself again – though I do bother to suck up the various aphrodisiacs that clung to me while I was out, letting them swirl into a waiting muff. My existence distracts fairies enough already without a single touch driving them berserk.

That said, the kitchen staff remains unaffected. Definitely some kind of super fairy. I refuse to believe there is any natural fey which is capable of not even turning to glance at me when I'm walking around in the buff. It violates every experience I've had with them. Evidently, Sakuya didn't test my fluids on the kitchen staff – there's still six of them going about their busywork. The nearest middle counter has been filled with a wide assortment of ingredients and utensils, my arrival summoning the maid in front of them. There isn't even an impatient tap of the foot meeting my ears. Only the quick query of, “You wanted to make chocolate, yes?”

Well, I was settling on chocolate because it's what was emphasized. Honestly, I don't know enough to offer a better alternative. I've never really paid attention to what my master snacks on. I could ask Sakuya while I have a fair amount of her attention, but... Well, I'd be lying if I said I'm not concerned about how long I have here. Asking Remilia to her face about it would have volatile possibilities, the way her whims work. Her maid, however, has no such reason to mess with me, while being so entwined she's likely aware of any plans in the works. Maybe I'll learn I'm worrying over nothing. Gotta think positive. Also gotta answer, “Yeah, chocolate. I guess nothing too fancy, since I'm not exactly an expert.”

“We'll keep it as basic as it gets, then. Plain milk chocolate.” Several different items disappear after this has been confirmed, leaving much more room free to work. Not that it quite matters, since we have more than enough spare counters. I have to admit I don't entirely know what everything I'm looking at is, but that's what the maid's here to explain. Helpfully, as I reach the counter, quite a bit of what there is to work with ends up off to the side, focusing my attention. What's in front of me is a tall pot, my guess as to what to use evidently wrong. There's a bowl sitting next to it, that itself has metal strips jutting outwards, bending to clamp onto, presumably, the pot. “Fill this with some water, for starters. Just enough to boil. If you attach the bowl and it's at all submerged, you've added too much.”

I don't fully have her here, as she's still hopping around like a maniac, but she's present enough in real time to hold a conversation. Wasn't entirely sure she'd stick around beyond instructions, honestly. Since she is, I turn to her over the sound sound of water rushing into the pot. “Kinda curious. Does your job get easier when this place is being all puritan?” Huh. Weird. I'd have sworn that was a casual opening. Why's that of all things raising an eyebrow?

As I find out, it's because, “That's strange. Patchouli doesn't usually tell the succubi.” She wouldn't think that was terribly pertinent information, would she? She can just summon another one the next time the mansion goes sex crazy. I attach the bowl and inspect the water level while wondering what I see in my summoner – besides the obvious. It can't just be the dick and what it fills me with. There's plenty of others here. Remilia's much more into it, Meiling's just out and out larger, Sakuya's... awfully quiet while I'm thinking. Sure enough, I turn back around and she's not actually there. Well, give it a second. I throw the pot on a burner and almost like magic, turning on the heat summons her. “Define 'easier.' Also, grate this; one block should do.”

After adjusting for the natural temperature of her voice, it's pretty clear. “Doesn't actually help much to not have to clean up after Remilia and her fun?” I pick one of the cubes of what looks like butter off the counter, shredding it over yet another bowl that holds the results. It comes apart in strings rather readily.

The maid double checks the water – possibly triple or more checks, I don't know how many times she glanced at the pot while things were frozen – and looks satisfied that I can follow simple instructions. “Of course not,” she throws over as she does so. It's somewhat telling that her voice softens a little. “It merely changes the nature of her fun and what needs cleaning up.” She does still need to fill the time with something, I suppose.

“Bit of a stupid question,” I admit, not terribly bothered inwardly or outwardly. I shake some strands of the butter equivalent off the grater so it's all where it should be, or near enough. I doubt that every last shred is necessary. Setting the grater down is the cue for a whisk to appear in my hand.

“It was,” Sakuya agrees, doing an excellent job of turning simple agreement into a put-down. “Melt that over the boiling water and keep stirring.” This time, as I continue to follow instructions, I have the presence of mind to note the room feels several degrees warmer without so much ambient malice in the air chilling the senses. Dumber than that question was thinking she'd be here for the process more than was strictly necessary. I, like the melting ingredients, enjoy the wafting heat of the water below, letting steam rise and meet my face. Just hot enough that extended exposure feels like it might scald, relaxing me while the once white strands melt to a cooking oil's green. I brush some very out of place hair back where it belongs to keep it out of the equation, chilled by the voice that returns. “Timely of you to ask about that, however. That's melted enough; measure out the cocoa powder. You'll want thirty grams' worth, mixed into the liquid.”

I forego my pleasant and localized sauna, turning around to find a pressure scale, an open bag of dark brown grains, and a measuring cup. Convenient that she can just single out the important items instantly, as far as I see. The cup goes on the scale to start, and then I start slowly adding in powder, checking how its weight changes with every little addition. “Oh, really?” I ask as I work, biting the very hook I baited. “Why's that? Has she been talking about changing it recently?” Think positive. Hold a casual tone. Her discussing it recently doesn't imply she's doing it soon.

“Quite recently, actually. The mixture should still be liquid after you've added it in.” Yes, okay, important cooking instructions, but how recently? Did she say when she wanted to? I would actually ask her these questions, but she's left me alone again to stew while I whisk what I've got. The repetition of mixing hardly fills the waiting, letting dread grow as I work. Unease should not be so common a feeling, yet again I'm gripped by the notion I can see what's coming and won't like it. Gotta stay positive. She won't say what I think she's going to say. She won't say what I think she's going to say. She won't say what I'm absolutely fucking certain she's- “Two days ago recently. That looks properly melted.” I fight back the urge to scream infernal curses that would make ears bleed from their blasphemous nature, before volume even enters into it. Why do I have to be right about these things? Sakuya, of course, carries on in an explanation I barely catch over the need to hold myself in check. “A pinch of salt. Seventy-five grams of the powdered sugar. Twenty five grams of powdered milk. In that order, one by one. I assume you can differentiate between the three.” Then I'm alone with the staff once more.

When I can bring myself to turn back around after a few necessary moments of decompression, I find each and every bagged substance I'm looking at is white. If I were a fairy, this would be an ordeal, potentially. Since I'm not, even while I'm distracted by everything running through my head, I have enough sense to be able to figure out which is salt, which is sugar, and which must be the solid milk by elimination. I can't dedicate enough mental effort to repeating the appropriate measurements; it's not occupying enough of my mind. As much as Remilia might have deliberately fucked with me if I asked her up front, Sakuya's doing a fine enough job by accident, just with her usual habits. Why is she so damned busy? Why isn't she here to talk? Why isn't she paying closer attention? … Wait. If she really is gone as often as her real-time presence would suggest... That concoction I took back up isn't fully reabsorbed yet, I could sneak it into the mixture. It wouldn't need to be a lot. A few drops of each. My master can't keep every magical protection up all the time. The ones that keep me from just plucking her tastes out her mind need to be constant, but a lot of what she uses when we have sex would be redundant with my contract's restrictions. I haven't scoured it, I might have been wrong about the provision preventing poisoning. If I made her beg to fuck me... If I drove her so sex-crazed she railed me until her body couldn't handle it... The balance of power could shift, opening her up... Side-step the whole love thing entirely, and-

“You seem quite focused. That important your chocolate turns out right?” The maid's biting interjection stabs through my thoughts like one of her knives. It's near enough to make me leap reflexively and spill the granular milk I'm pouring into the batter. It is entirely unfair that she can just appear whenever, without warning. Maybe I shouldn't be considering that I'd even have a chance to sneak it in.

“Just daydreaming about what life would be like if my master had a libido.” That's closer to the truth than it should be. I'm very far off my game if I'm giving up that much. It shouldn't be a choice between keeping my voice level and not saying the wrong thing, this is supposed to happen automatically – I am a succubus, by all that's unholy. Before she can press on the matter, I press forward, “So what was she saying two days ago?” Gotta keep this about the clock, not about whether or not I corrupt the chocolate. Don't let her get in a jab when I already said I wasn't thinking about it.

“When you're done adding in the milk, stir until it becomes less thick. When it has some gloss, you've stirred enough.” I am kind of sticking with the chocolate plan because I can't deviate right now but I would really appreciate it if she'd use her perfunctory nature to actually tell me that- “She said something quite interesting had happened, so she was moving it up immensely.” Oh. Oh fuck. Oh no. No, she can stop telling me, actually. I don't think I want to hear it I need to hear it, don't I?

Another chore demands her attention, taking her away and giving me longer to think on it. Remilia knows I'm in love. She specifically hastened how quickly the swap would happen because of that. She found out the day of and immediately made it into a game – why is she like this? Maybe I should just do it. I can manipulate them magically. A few drops of moisture in the air would hardly catch an eye. By the time my master had a bite, she wouldn't be able to take her hands off of me for the whole day. She'd ravage me until she shriveled up and then she'd croak for me to keep going because her loins burn so furiously. It would solve so many problems. The thoughts leave me so on edge that when the maid appears to check in again, I manage to catch her before she can speak up. “Did she say when?” I am just going to hope that the undertones of desperation either go unnoticed or are taken as my liking it here.

“The end of the month.” It's not stated with extra cruelty. It's not delivered with sadistic glee. It's just answered the same way she would anything else. Yet it does more to break me than every pleasant torture that runs through her head. I stop stirring and drop the whisk, which rests in the chocolate she's inspecting. She picks it up to look for shine as my hand lowers to my side. The end of the month. It was the first when I found out. Thirty-one days – twenty-eight more. I have four weeks to figure this out. This feels entirely unreasonable. This -is- entirely unreasonable; it's practically a blink. Stability and hyperventilation wage war inside my chest, the former's victory tenuous and narrow. I don't know what my face looks like, but I've locked it into that expression as whatever it might come to with more time to think is assuredly worse. Sounds strike at my ears for a second before I realize that Sakuya's speaking. I tune back to reality just in time to hear, “-all that leaves is picking a mold to cool it inside.” I guess the chocolate is actually acceptable. If she tried to say anything else before that, I didn't catch it.

Everything else has been cleared off of the counter. No need for a second try. No problems. Half on autopilot, I managed to get some chocolate together. I should be thinking that this will help my cause, but instead I fixate upon whether or not it's missing one final ingredient. The shape my chocolate should be in is an afterthought at that point. Hearts? Animals? Stars? Is there really a difference? I take the stars for no real reason, the ladle I picked out earlier handed to me to spoon it in. I give a reflexive, “Thanks.” as the process is all but done.

“It saved me making something to go with her afternoon tea.” I don't even disbelieve that's the reason she agreed to help me in the first place. It's not that important right now. Her vanishing isn't important either. What's important is the debate internally. The back and forth between these intense urges and what sense I have intact to fight them off. Four weeks versus seconds; one chocolate would be enough. Yet she's had plenty of other succubi – she's had time to refine her contracts. It would be the height of folly to assume the loophole is there. I'm not confident I can convince her I'm any different than them in a month. I'm less confident I could do that if I happened to violate my contract in that manner. Trust is hardly something easily reforged once shattered. I could get her so worked up she'd agree to anything, have her rewrite the terms of my contract in ways that afford me so much more control. Of course, she and Remilia are friends, and if she caught wind of my conversation with Meiling, she'd immediately catch onto that.

There are so many reasons not to do it that the very consideration is the short-sighted kind of stupid I'd expect out of a fairy. I'm better than this. So why am I sitting here trying to justify it to myself? Why do I have an excuse for trying it to go with every strike against it? Each counterpoint alone serves as enough reason to abandon it and just continue with my day; together, they all stack atop one another in a colossus that crushes any hope it would work. Still I fight to the rhythmic tick of a clock, even after the mold is filled and I've nothing left to scoop. Fey bustle around me, caring as little for my presence as I care for theirs. Juices drip and retract upon my nethers. One swipe of the finger. That's all it would take. But I won't. I can't. By the time I'm sure of this and I've finished chasing myself in circles internally, I'm tapped on the shoulder. Sakuya again.

“Chocolate doesn't take as long to cool as you might think.” With a demonstrative tap, she displays the give my chocolates don't have by this point. Seems they were helping to make my decision for me the whole time. That revelation delivered, sitting before me is a tray, with one plate holding my pile of fresh confections, and a saucer bearing a teacup. The maid's gone, but I take the hint.

“I wanted to deliver them to her anyway,” I insist to no one, as little as it accomplishes. The last thing I see as I set off is six fairies coming out of Sakuya's personal room, hauling the heavy container of sauce my time with the maid created. It's almost disappointing when they manage to float up in sync without spilling it on themselves, getting it atop a marble counter instead of collapsing into a frenzied orgy that ruins the kitchen. I spare myself the order – and the fairies I'll inevitably have to keep out of Patchouli's crystals – by clothing myself preemptively. I pass by no less than three on the short trip, buzzing carefree through the halls, one of which at minimum would have fallen in a trance to follow me. I arrive to Patchouli's desk to find her in the state I left her last night: brow furrowed as she peers deeply into those eight crystals, focused heavily upon manipulating every facet of spellcraft inside of them. Touching down on the ground, I offer a cough against a balled fist, following up with, “Master Patchouli.”

For several seconds, this gets nothing. I try going over and setting the tray on her desk, and that seems to do the trick. The sweet scent of tea pulls her from the depths of magic she's plumbing to look at the tray, and then to me. “Ah, Koakuma. Remi must have Sakuya busy if she's only prepared simple chocolates and even sent you to deliver them.” A simple, observatory statement. But a wholly incorrect one. She has time in spades to pop one up and into her mouth before I can manage the arduous task of getting a single word out. I don't recall having a tongue this heavy; in fact, it's quite light, despite its length. Nonetheless it ties at the assumption I didn't do the work of making them, even if she has no reason to think that. So the judgment cast down from on high comes, a mildly content, “Well, they're still fine enough.”

The words are impetus, finally getting me to blurt, “Actually, I made them.” It pauses the raising of a second to her lips. Her eyes twist from mine to my offered treats several times, the look coming across her face disbelieving in a variety of ways. “No, really. I did.” It does more to assure her than I honestly expected it to.

“That does explain it. It's been ages since she was so overworked this was all she could give me.” Okay, maybe the circumstances assure her more than my words do, but I'll take it. She pops the second into her mouth experimentally, not much stopped by this fact. I take that she does so freely as proof I would have had my soul scorched to hell – quite possibly literally – if I'd tried spiking them. Rather than that punishment, I instead get, “Well, thank you. What brought this on?” It's an off-handed question that doesn't expect much of an answer.

I'd almost thank the lump I find inhabits my throat, if I weren't quite good at holding my tongue when I want to, at all other times. It may not be Sakuya's knot, but it does the job of shutting me up before I can blurt out something like the fact that I love her. I've had two too many difficult speed bumps to try and slog through convincing her that's a fact right now. So instead, I muster my flagging mastery of charisma, answering, “I just felt like it.” Strictly speaking true, aiding me in sounding like I know how speaking works.

She twirls a star between her fingers, eyeing it more than she does me. In it goes, to the noncommittal reply of, “I see.” This isn't really what I anticipated from this. There was more blushing involved in the stories I was reading. Meiling did tell me not to treat them as sacred; I really shouldn't have expected more. Still, she clearly enjoys the taste, and there's something satisfying in watching her eat them. Perhaps that's enough?

[ ] While the sugary sweets are boosting her mood, I should ask about Marisa. It's as likely a time for her to be willing to speak on it as any.
[ ] She did like talking about her work. I also liked talking about her work. I could ask her about what she was doing before I interrupted. Maybe there's been interesting breakthroughs. Or at least fun anecdotes.
[ ] I expertly- I definitively- I managed to avoid burdening myself with any further emotional pain by not stating I love her. Why don't I risk asking her about that thought I had, that she might have given up love in exchange for power? It's a twisted kind of perfect. Either she hasn't, and there's a chance – or she has, and I can work on casting these emotions aside.
[ ] Some time away from the concerns of my master and what I feel for her would do me well. I don't have infinite time to make things work, but I can't endure an infinite string of bad news. Best to take some time to relax.
[ ] Remilia is going to be drugged up and lost to pleasure, soon. Then she'll be drowning in seed. I can intercept her before her day really starts, so we can have a talk about the ludicrous time constraint she saddled me with.
[ ] Whims hitherto unrevealed make themselves known from the recesses of my mind, borne by the will of the readers. (Write-in)
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[X] She did like talking about her work. I also liked talking about her work. I could ask her about what she was doing before I interrupted. Maybe there's been interesting breakthroughs. Or at least fun anecdotes.
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[ ] I expertly- I definitively- I managed to avoid burdening myself with any further emotional pain by not stating I love her. Why don't I risk asking her about that thought I had, that she might have given up love in exchange for power? It's a twisted kind of perfect. Either she hasn't, and there's a chance – or she has, and I can work on casting these emotions aside.
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[X] I expertly- I definitively- I managed to avoid burdening myself with any further emotional pain by not stating I love her. Why don't I risk asking her about that thought I had, that she might have given up love in exchange for power? It's a twisted kind of perfect. Either she hasn't, and there's a chance – or she has, and I can work on casting these emotions aside.
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[X] I expertly- I definitively- I managed to avoid burdening myself with any further emotional pain by not stating I love her. Why don't I risk asking her about that thought I had, that she might have given up love in exchange for power? It's a twisted kind of perfect. Either she hasn't, and there's a chance – or she has, and I can work on casting these emotions aside.
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[X] I expertly- I definitively- I managed to avoid burdening myself with any further emotional pain by not stating I love her. Why don't I risk asking her about that thought I had, that she might have given up love in exchange for power? It's a twisted kind of perfect. Either she hasn't, and there's a chance – or she has, and I can work on casting these emotions aside.
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Can Koakuma's situation get any worse? Absolutely. Will it, with this line of questioning? To be seen at writing's conclusion.
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There are still some strands of hair not perfectly in place after my fun with Sakuya earlier – I brush them back where they should be, straightening everything out. I don't mind the little imperfections that advertise the fact, but it gives me something to do, filling the time as I collect myself internally for the line of inquiry I'm set on. I can't just up and ask it. It's not the kind of thing that gets asked in a vacuum, for no reason. I think. It definitely dredges up enough discomfort to consider that I can't come out with it, regardless. I start off more roundabout when I feel my tongue is in line, with a chipper, “So, master, you're quite the powerful magician!” She finishes the sip of tea she was taking before even looking over at me.

“An astute observation.” Bone dry, no chance it's anything but sarcasm. “Empty words of praise won't do you any good.” Yes, I know that flattery won't work. I tried shouting a lot of it the last time we fucked, and you didn't even react. Seriously, I know it was a little cheesy, but that act usually gets at least something. “Did you happen to have a point to reach?” Yes, actually, as you munch on my chocolate. You aren't even working, you're on a snack break – surely it's no great imposition to have a small chat.

I keep the grumbling in my head, instead policing my tone to inquisitively retort, “Well, I was just thinking that a lot of my masters weren't.” Absurdly true – I can call to mind several small fries with spirits so pitiful they'd instantly die if they tried to fight my master, whether from the strain of flight, or failing to dodge even a single bullet. “Having so much energy isn't exactly normal, is it?” The first thing to answer me is the clink of her cup.

The second thing is a dull, “Gensokyo itself is abnormal, is it not? A haven of the strange and the unnatural, where everything now irrelevant to a progressing world hides, for the collective consciousness of science has eroded belief to fatally low levels.” When she puts it like that, I can imagine it was a lot worse for everyone living here that didn't happen to have a perfectly good alternate reality they could inhabit as magic on Earth died out. All that I really had to deal with was a decrease in summons.

I didn't begin this conversation for that, though. I keep the momentum up, letting it fall into a bit of rote habit, finding it easier to sound as I should when I counter, “Well, even if that's the case, it's not like everyone here is so strong, right? The fairies, for example. Almost all of them are still just bumbling idiots.” Except the kitchen ones. Maybe I should ask her about that – in the future. Keep on target. This is leading somewhere, don't change the destination now.

“You raise a valid counterargument,” my master concedes with a nod. She pauses for another star, melting quickly in her mouth. Following her swallowing, “Many here still do not thrive, merely allowed to survive. Even with the spellcard system governing everything, this land could not function if even the lowliest youkai were empowered so.” She fixates upon me, blindly picking her drink back up to await my response. I've at least steered it well enough to garner some sincere attention.

“Exactly,” I begin by agreeing, because she has a point of her own. This mansion alone has hundreds of fairies, to say nothing of however many are in the wilds. It'd be chaos if they weren't as nonthreatening as their appearance tends to suggest. “That still leaves you as an outlier. So what I was curious about was, did you have to...” Well, I was thinking this whole talking thing felt a little natural for a second, right before I circled back to my point.

“Yes? Did I have to what?” She is unhelpfully flat in asking this, leaving me not wholly sure if it's genuine – though minor – interest, or a slight rib at my expense for falling silent. Whichever it is, her arm covers her face to mute a short bout of coughing thereafter, shaking the delicate cup held between fingers.

Waiting it out gives me enough time to settle on exactly how I'd like to ask it, finally finishing with an uncertain, “... give something up?” I'm met nigh instantly with a raised eyebrow, so I'm quick to continue, “It's just, it isn't unusual for, say, someone to make a bargain – you know demonology well enough to summon me. You could have given up parts of yourself. Your soul if you died, someone close to you, maybe... an emotion or two...” I can't quite come out with the actual word itself. But of the trades humans are willing to make, that feeling is prime among them, so I hear. I don't really handle pacts, so I can't be sure I wasn't fed lies.

She abandons her snacking for a time as I speak, arms folded and gaze more piercing then usual. I feel as though I've erred in my course when she opens up with a rather frigid, “An insulting implication, Koakuma.” My master sighs, massaging her forehead in frustration before she admits, in a softer voice, “But I can't say I don't see how you arrived at it. I look quite like I could afford to trade my soul when death finds me, don't I?”

If I'm entirely honest... well, no, she doesn't. She looks perpetually near to expiring, and every boon her night of good rest might have provided is gone, leaving her with a sickly complexion as usual. Rather than say that aloud, I go with a much less controversial, “Well, I don't think you have to worry about old age, at least. That's one problem taken care of.” Her laughter punctuates the end of that statement, pockmarked with a congestive infestation that swiftly robs her of air.

“I don't think...” She heaves, speaking up a little too soon after exhausting herself. “... you're admitting to...” She forcibly stops herself to fix her shortage of oxygen in several heavy breaths. “... every other problem I possess.” There's not exactly a point in trying to deny it; maybe I put a bit too much tact into my expression or words as I spoke. I steep in the shame of my present incompetence as I let her recover long enough to continue with, “I have Eirin's medicines. It may not look like it, but they work wonders. I used to live in my bed. Atrocious conditions. Impossible to have everything to hand.” Bitter by the end, I can only assume it slowed the pace of her work considerably.

Now, that leaves two other suggestions I made that I can press on next. One is thoroughly awful to consider, with implications that shake the soul and carve into my composure. The other suggests she's willing to engage in human sacrifice. It's a no-brainer which I go with. That doesn't mean I'm not cautious in asking, “Then... was there someone? Someones? It's... an awful lot to be worth a single sacrifice.”

Accusing a lot of people of being willing to do something like drive a dagger into the heart of their firstborn or similar is a good way to upset them – but my master is not one such person, evidently. Admittedly, the fact that she's going to be keeping a fairy in a perpetual state of death for continuous sexual torture at Remilia's behest does call her scruples into question by human standards. Her admission is a ready, “I didn't take such shortcuts either. I didn't have the leisure. There weren't many options for sacrifices, and I wasn't, nor will I ever be strong enough to subdue any of them. Remi would tear me apart. That's all assuming I even wanted to.” That answers one question, but spurs another, highly related.

“It's only her?” Even I have quite the selection of people I'd say I'm somewhat close to back home. I'm close with them because they're willing to use my body until it breaks, but that's the truest expression of friendship, isn't it? I should perhaps be less surprised by the small shake of the head I get that accompanies a gulp of tea.

“Not quite,” she corrects me, looking to think for a second. “Sakuya and Meiling are the obvious additions. I have a great respect for Alice's ability to multitask in magic. The number of dolls she can tether herself to and control is far beyond what I could hope to achieve, and all more precisely than I'd manage with one. Necromancy is another weak subject of mine – in fact, I believe I should call Seiga here. She might have better ideas for how to structure spells more stably inside anything granted undeath. Marisa is...” She starts this up, and then finds she's been droning on a little long in her explanation, face a pale blue as she gives up and works her lungs overtime. I could interrupt her, but I might get something if I don't. A hint more than that she's on this list of... what sounds more like fellow magicians she respects, after the mansion's residents. All my silence earns is a curt, “Well, you get the idea.”

I do, it's true. What I didn't get was much on Marisa – but I'll have to shelve that if I want to get to the actually important portion I've been putting off. That, however, necessitates actually doing so. Awkwardness and hesitation hide beneath final prodding of, “The... emotions, then? You are short of them, a lot of the time.” It doesn't seem worth it to not be up front about it when she caught me earlier trying not to call her an ailment-riddled wreck.

“A side-effect of magic, but not something stripped forcibly away by it.” I turn that statement over in my head a few times as she has another of the dwindling sweets, thinking I've about got the idea when she adds, “I've always valued my work more than most else. There's no greater explanation for it. I didn't trade portions of myself in pursuit of that; I merely apply them there.” That's... exceptionally good news. It may mean I'm going to have to fight her love of magic, but the concept's still there, however many layers it may be buried beneath. It's actually a breath of fresh air to hear.

It doesn't actually explain a detail, however. As a further guess, now that I know what I want, I venture, “If you really didn't trade anything, then were you just lucky enough to be born with this talent? Came out the womb floating and crying in magical tones?” It's good to be able to snap back with something like that. It's murder on me to think I can hardly even manage to direct a talk without opening myself to read like one of her books.

The suggestion isn't worth even a false chuckle from her. Rather, she responds with a blunt, “I think your perspective is misshapen slightly by the circumstances of your own soul. Its power waxes and wanes when summoned, parasitic in nature – then while at home, you feed off the air itself, freeing you of any concern about its capacity.” Hm. I haven't actually given a lot of thought to the fundamental differences in souls between species before. I know that they exist, but as far as my purposes go, a change in the taste of their cum is what it mostly boils down to.

She looks like she wants me to provide a counter, though, falling silent to let me think. A parasite can't really live without something to parasitize, and, well, “Magic wouldn't exactly be possible if using it meant throwing away your soul – especially for the weaker sorts. So obviously a human's soul at least produces more spiritual energy over time. But that doesn't actually explain anything, since you'd have to not use magic for a long, long time to hold that much; you couldn't sustain that while actually using it.”

She taps fingers together pensively before sighing. “It would seem that I'm right. Allow me to explain, then. The insight you lack is in the mechanics of that spiritual generation. Your supposition that simply waiting long periods of time would be ineffectual is correct. Most souls have a natural limit, beyond which bleed-off would begin. It would be negligible, if it provided any benefit at all.” She affords herself a break after this explanation, looking at me over the rim of her cup, expectant that I can piece this together now.

I think I can. I'm sure of myself as I rattle off, “If you weren't born able to wield this much, and if you didn't trade anything to get it, then obviously, that limit can be raised somehow. Presumably through just using magic?” I'm less sure by the end, though. It can't be that simple, can it? That sounds a little too easy. If all someone needed to do to strengthen their soul was cast spells, there wouldn't be amateurs with pitiful reserves.

“You have the right idea,” my master says with a nod, “but let me resolve the issue likely running through your head. Reinforcing one's soul isn't a matter of simply expending it through magic's use; it requires one to become dangerously low on magical energy. One must essentially place themselves inches from death's door. Erring in this process, miscalculating how much of yourself is left – the result is obvious.” It continues to be rather impressive how frank she can be about mortality. The idea doesn't shake her voice in the slightest. I suppose she did live through the process a presumably great number of times, though.

“And that's all that it takes, huh? Just nearly kill yourself a bunch of times and if you don't die, you get to be a great magician?” Needless to say, it's something of a dry pair of questions. Dying when killed makes that sound like a really inconvenient method of gaining power. Magicians have it rough. My master's laughing again however, as ill-advised as that might be. At least it's a quick, biting affair, sparing her another fit.

She sucks in a breath and retorts flatly, “Far from it. Greatness lays in what one achieves – my soul would be worthless without projects to apply it. What good is inordinate power for its own sake? Yet short-sighted fools trade themselves away, assuming mere might will make them even a footnote in magic's history.” There's clear contempt in her voice by the time she falls silent again, chest heaving more strongly by the second. I can't really ask her to keep speaking like this much longer. There's just one other thing I'd like to know while I have her here.

“Is that why you don't do it any more? That there's no point to power for power's sake? I haven't seen you trying to expend your soul since I came here.” It's a short few months in a life that's much longer, but if it's a practice she went through so often, I doubt she sees much danger in it now. She's got to have some reason she abandoned it.

A shake of the head answers me, and a rueful tone further clarifies, “My body made that decision for me; it could be said I traded health, if anything, working with ritual reagents as I have. I can no longer handle the strain, and I'd fall unconscious long before I endangered my spirit.” Speaking of endangering things, she has to pause this to lean over on her desk and simply recover for several seconds. She fends off an interjection with a raised finger, her point yet unfinished. She continues in a faltering wheeze, “The process requires ever more precision, as well. Reducing a soul of oceanic proportions to mere droplets, neither going too far nor stopping too soon, as weakness and delirium mount – it is almost more dangerous a prospect than when one is a novice. Accustomed to freely making use of taxing magic, it gets-” The swaying she was going through as she tried to speak was already rather concerning.

The point at which she falls over from lack of breath for at least the second time in as many days is the point at which I figure I have to stop her. She isn't even working herself up this time. She just won't shut her mouth unless I make her. “I get it,” I assure her, and I certainly do. “You couldn't push yourself without killing yourself. I get it.” I don't have much other choice but to wait until she can shove herself back up weakly to see if she's convinced this is a good stopping point for the conversation like I am.

When she does, she proves she's far more stubborn than the illnesses which are wracking her. “One final note. I am speaking of human magicians – I cannot generalize this across all souls. Now, wait here a minute.” I do, standing idly as I let her polish off tea and treat. She definitely needs the break even more than when I showed up, but it doesn't seem like she minded the talk. Which is quite good, compared to how most of my attempts at conversing with her before have gone. Upon getting herself in order, she has another casual order of, “Now, as I need to get back to work, so do you. Carnahan's Complete Compendium of Creatures. I'll be needing every volume.”

I could have sworn I just fetched the entire pile of grimoires surrounding her desk exactly three days ago. How does she have more that she needs me to get? But I'm hardly at liberty to refuse, so I ask, “And how many are there?” Just to be sure of what I'm getting myself into before I get started. I regret the question immediately after, before her mouth's even opened, sensing what's to come.

“There are seventy-two.” Calling that a galling number would be understating it. And it doesn't even end there. “Also, the pile on the left I am quite sure I've pulled everything useful out of. You can return them all whence they came.” That's adding another two dozen on top of the six of them I already need to fetch.

“Are you sure that you need all of them?” I ask, in the vain hope that she's remotely unsure this is the case. The wheeze my own tone takes has nothing to do with a shortness of breath, and everything to do with a slight case of exasperation. This is going to eat up the rest of today, isn't it?

I am incapable of being surprised when she explains, simply and patiently, “They are arranged alphabetically, not categorically. I will need to be able to reference any letter with complete certainty my search will not be cut off in looking for the beast I need.” That does sound like a convincing reason she might need every single one of them. So I set off to get to work, and it's going to be a lot of work.

Now, it might seem as though magic can solve everything. And in truth, it can solve a lot of things. But half a ton of book is half a ton of book, and that's not exactly much of an exaggeration. Most mages can't physically lift this; I assume it's considered a rite of passage, that if you can't casually and constantly manipulate something like this through telekinesis, you simply can't cut it. It's a wonder anyone makes it anywhere in this profession. I've said it takes about ten minutes to get from end to end in this place at a good clip. This is true. I might have some measure of supernatural might, but far from the sort that lets me casually heft half a ton, let alone then move it with ease. Suffice it to say that between finding the section, the shelf, and the specific volumes I'm after, it's more than half an hour before I return with even one book, almost a third of which is in travel time, despite her workspace being in the library's center. I pop in to my master munching on actual meals and hard at work for hours upon hours, sagging lower to the ground with each new tome. By the time the seventy-second is in her possession, I wouldn't disbelieve the hour count's ten at minimum. I haven't even returned any of the other books. “I'll...” I do my best impression of her by sheer necessity, well beyond a huff at this point. “I'll return those... tomorrow...”

I almost dread that she'll insist her desk has become too cluttered and they need to go now, considering it is presently physically impossible to walk to her chair past the wall of books, but I get a sleepy nod in answer as she keeps at it. She's flagging as well by this point, but she isn't yet incapable of forcing herself awake, meaning there's more work to be done as far as she cares. I'm not sure this isn't past the point of becoming inefficient, but I don't presume to tell her I know better. Even trying to have that argument would require more than I can muster right now. I stumble along a short distance until I'm outside of the crystal's influence, then hover my way to my room in fair spirits. I may not have any strength tonight, but I can deal with being exhausted. I just have to focus less on how I have four weeks left, and more on how it's possible. Love is buried somewhere inside of her, if I can figure out how to dig it up. I don't know that I can, but pessimism won't get me anywhere. I hold that possibility in my mind as I hold up the prize from searching my chest of goods. There she is.

Just like I promised this morning, I run my tongue around Carcie. The sweet taste of precum and the overwhelming salt of sweat mingle in my mouth as I tenderly play with her, snapping away my clothes. “Are you ready to have some fun, girl?” I ask, giggling like I'm only a hundred again. I splay out atop my bed, head resting on comfortable pillows. In the dark I line her up, the way I have innumerable times before. It's reassuring how I part around her for the first few inches, before I'm suddenly slammed within. She grinds perfectly against every favorite spot of mine below, the littlest grooves and bumps in her painstakingly shaped to align with my depths. I'd have to fight to keep her out of my womb but I have no reason to, letting her in as deep as she can go, base slapping me in a spray of juices. Ahhh. Peace. I drift off to slumber as I'm furiously fucked by my childhood friend. It'll afford me a wonderful start to the next day.

[ ] Which begins abruptly, as I feel an ominous, unfamiliar pressure upon my soul. It's not usually supposed to be possible to touch those when they're still inside a body. Slightly startling, to put it mildly.
[ ] As good a start as I might get, it comes with the knowledge that I still have another two dozen arcane texts to replace. I might as well get it out of the way.
[ ] Peace was an accurate word, the night prior. I awake to more than just sexual satisfaction, feeling an almost magical calm. There are far worse ways to begin a morning.
[ ] Boisterous laughter eventually explodes inside my ears, doing a wonderful job of preventing me from getting any further sleep. There isn't even anyone in my room when I start – it's just cutting through the walls like they don't exist.
[ ] Long into my rest, I feel Carcie slip out of me. This isn't unheard of. Sometimes the old girl just gets a little too eager. The part that actually wakes me is being dumped on the floor.
[ ] Poked and prodded is my mind by those that observe, I'm instilled with a sense of what the future holds in store. (Write-in)
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[x] Which begins abruptly, as I feel an ominous, unfamiliar pressure upon my soul. It's not usually supposed to be possible to touch those when they're still inside a body. Slightly startling, to put it mildly.
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[X] Which begins abruptly, as I feel an ominous, unfamiliar pressure upon my soul. It's not usually supposed to be possible to touch those when they're still inside a body. Slightly startling, to put it mildly.
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[X] Long into my rest, I feel Carcie slip out of me. This isn't unheard of. Sometimes the old girl just gets a little too eager. The part that actually wakes me is being dumped on the floor.
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Probably the final update before the month's out. Time to learn what that soul grabbing's all about.
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For a number of hours, I alternate between letting myself get lost in pleasure and using all this spare time to do some thinking. In the lulls between climaxes, I ponder on the nature of that earlier feeling, watching my master eat my chocolates. She wasn't even gushing over them to the point I could justify some level of pride. Why did it feel even slightly good to watch? It was the most off-handed thing. Chocolate made half in a daze while I reeled from the knowledge of my deadline- no, no, don't let it take over again. Spasms wrest control of me and handle that issue, sensations passing from body to soul, holding off any ideas of that happening. It eventually passes, and so I get back to it. Does it really make any sense, to get satisfaction, just from watching a sweet melt in her mouth? It doesn't, does it? It seems absurd to even consider that it does, yet I did. Is that just love? Is it that nonsensical? There was the smile the day before, too. Such a little thing shouldn't be enough to make my heart race, but I can hardly deny the feelings it stirred. Even the thought of them brings something, mingling with Carcie's work in the physical world. How utterly peculiar. I continue to chase the thoughts around in my head like a dog with its tail, accomplishing about as much. As I close in on giving up and accepting I still don't get love, I am interrupted by a totally new sensation.

It's not impossible for someone to reach into a body and touch the soul there. Summoners even have special privileges to do so thanks to their contracts, letting them yank your chain from anywhere. The thing is that Patchouli delivers the soul equivalent of an insistent tug on the hand. This is closer to someone sticking their hand into your chest because holding your heart in their hand is an easier method of figuring out how fast it's beating. This whole love conundrum aside, there are few things I find truly disconcerting, and this is one of them. My eyes fly open, finding that the room is pitch black, magical light not on at all. Or so it looks at first glance: there's a dim red glow off to the side near my head, cast by something – eyes? Did Remilia finish up early and come to mess with me again? Evidently not, as I'm soon to hear a voice I don't recognize as hers, thankfully as my soul is let loose.

It's hoarse, like she desperately needs a drink, a fact emphasized by the hiss she employs to speak... to... someone else? “I told you we didn't need to do that. Look. Your stupid idea woke her up. No, I'm not taking the blame. Because you wouldn't shut up about it! No, you two stay quiet, this is between me and her!” There's neither another voice nor a pause to listen to someone else, yet it sounds exactly like half of a conversation. A conversation between four people? The red swivels with her last declaration, as though turning to a different person, before flipping back. I would open my mouth to inquire, but Carcie picks that moment to drive me over the edge, stopping that idea in its tracks. I at least hear what she continues to say as I enjoy myself in this frankly bizarre day opening. “No, I don't think that's why! Because the last four didn't wake her up, duh. No, this one isn't special, either. Why are you trying so hard? Just admit it was dumb. Or you don't get to come out, that's what! You and what army? Yeah, sure, that worked out so well the last hundred times, huh?”

As I lay there listening, moaning, and twitching, I start hearing the undertones that confirm my suspicions. Those motes of ethereal enchantment, the traces of supernatural suggestion – charisma beyond the mortal. Combined with the red glow, I'm fairly sure this is Flandre. I finally get to meet her after two months and change. Meet hers, maybe? I'll muse on it when the majority of my ability to think isn't suppressed. The solo argument fades into the background a while, 'til every pleasant feeling radiating through me from below passes, leaving me with a dull fulfillment. I don't hear her talking to me or herself, so I take that as an opening to try a courteous sounding, “Hello, Flan-”

I am drowned out by the maddened cry of, “Shut up so that -I- can talk to -her-!” I... is that... no, she's not looking at me, that one's at the voices? This is going to be an ordeal. “Because you're stuck up there, that's why! 'Cause your idea was stupid and you didn't admit it! We already knew, but you wanted to poke her eye anyway! We did not need it to be sure, she's laying in Patchouli's familiar bed, naked, and looks like a succubus! No, no, if any one of you says anything for the next minute, we're going back into the underground for another year, and that's final.” Apparently it really is, because that causes her to fall silent and breathe for a time, heavy with agitation. I take this opportunity to throw on the light so I can get a look at her.

The brightening burst illuminates golden-yellow hair, fraught with mess and imperfection, short strands spiking in random clumps underneath a frilled cap like Remilia's. The eyes that turn to look at me are sunken, hiding deep inside the sockets of a gaunt face that demands to be called beautiful, despite how its skin is nearly clinging to bone. Her chest is covered by a bright scarlet shirt and a ruffled pink undershirt, sleeves short like the yellow tie 'round her neck. Beneath this is a mid-length skirt, dyed the same as her shirt – the body these hide in part is much the same as her face. It's near possible to make out the joints where her knuckles meet through the thin layer hanging off of them, and her arms are almost literally twigs; even fairies don't tend to look this bare. Her legs aren't wholly skeletal, but they do look like the only reason they can hold her up is that the rest of her must weigh almost nothing, especially considering she's a few inches shy of the mansion's mistress. Of course, the really telling feature that confirms who this is without a doubt is what's jutting out of her back: charred black bone, twisted into jagged malformations, spread wide in a wholly useless wingspan. Eight crystals like the ones my master's using hang from each – same color, same order, much smaller; this is the enigma of the mansion, Flandre Scarlet.

Not just her looks differ from her sister, but her aura does as well – mixed with the allure exuded by a vampire, I can definitely feel an otherworldly terror that permeates the air around her. I certainly understand why, looking at her. Her tiny, malnourished body commands attention even while looking like it shambled out of a crypt. That's not getting into the three facts on her I was given for if I met her. One was her appearance. The second was that she's, to quote, 'Been largely stable for six decades, and isn't really a danger now.' The third is why that second one is important: she possesses the power to completely annihilate someone, including their soul, a process which is indescribably lethal to basically everything that isn't a fairy, as far as I'm aware. Apparently Gensokyo's rules didn't change that. I think what I felt that woke me up was the preliminary stages of the power. They're entirely sure she's reasonably sane and not a danger? I doubt this from my initial impression, but think I'll remain internally cautious, rather than externally. Instead, I try again, starting up with a friendly, “Hello, Flandre. My name's-”

I'm cut off again, but not because whatever voices she talks with are pestering her. No, she just knows enough to finish my introduction with, “Koakuma. They're all named Koakuma. Of course you'd be named Koakuma.” There's something extremely off-putting in hearing that name three times in as many sentences from someone I've never met, with the kind of certainty that says this is just a common occurrence.

Now bearing my own share of agitation, I spit a sigh and admit, “Yes, that's my name. I probably don't have to explain what I am or why I'm here, do I?” This wasn't as exasperating with the rest of the mansion. I could assume, when I first came here, that Patchouli had just told the relevant people she was summoning a succubus for an assistant and had decided to name her Koakuma. This realization retroactively poisons my first meeting with everyone, doesn't it? I catch Carcie on a downstroke, pulling her out so I don't randomly drop out of the conversation, finally swinging myself to sit up.

“You're Patchouli's latest book-fetcher and you're here because my sister turned everything upside down again.” It's not like I don't know that first fact, but it still stings to hear stated aloud with such conviction. I'm left silent long enough for her to continue and complain, “I never know if I'm supposed to come up dressed for Sunday brunch, or in a microbikini with a fairy skull totem pole on my dick. Why can't she just pick one?” The mental image that second option has created is exactly the right kind of arousing.

The question might be rhetorical – I'm honestly having difficulty reading her – but I figure the appropriate answer to it is a suitably, and honestly, weary, “Because she's horrendously self-centered and doesn't care about the effects her whims are going to have on everyone else?” Like me. I don't think she knows what a one month timer feels like. The same way I don't know how to appease the vampire in front of me.

My comment earns an incredulous, “Don't be stupid. Flandre two's stupid. Do you wanna be like Flandre two? The correct answer was that living forever's really, really boring, and if she didn't, she'd probably die of boredom.” I would have sworn she sounded much more put out by the transitions. I find I'm again denied speaking rights before I can open my mouth in response, as she starts shouting all of a sudden once more. “No one said you were allowed to just count to sixty and then start talking again! I am trying to have a conversation here! No, that's entirely pointless and I won't! Because she's a succubus! We can just ask after! No, now keep it in your skirt!” It's sort of jarring how her head snaps around as though there are actually other girls floating around her. She's glaring to her right a lot in particular this time as she argues with herself, and very literally so. With a twitching eye, she spins back on me with a rapid, “So, what's my sister up to?”

I can already see her getting fed up with whatever other discussions are happening that I'm not privy to. It appears to be time for my best Sakuya impression, figuring out how tightly I can pack my words. “She's trying to cum enough in one day to drown herself.” I beat out her exploding at herself, which makes my impression good enough, as far as I care.

“No fairies in this one? She usually tries to have as much collateral as possible.” Something about that seems to contradict her statement regarding Remilia's whims; this doesn't reach my mouth from my brain before her neck cracks, twisting to look above her with an exclamation of, “I'm getting there! You know I am, you're in my head! You're worse than Flandre four! It's only been a year and a half, nothing's going to have changed! Not another word or you don't get to be in the middle next time!” I'm starting to see what they meant by 'stable.' She has clearly had a very long time to learn how to effectively manage the voices in her head, because any time she delivers a threat, it seems to afford her some measure of peace. She uses it to flip back down to me and ask, “What's Mei like?” It's a question of some interest to her, judging by how she leans forward on her feet.

It's also one I'm not entirely sure how to answer, however. I can assume she wants to know about Meiling, but what could I tell her she wouldn't know better than I do? How she's been doing recently? I can't really cover the whole time she was absent, but I try to supply, “Well, she seems fine? She mostly just guards the gate and takes care of the-”

This girl interrupts me more often than Sakuya, and if she can afford to vanish for a year and a half, her schedule is not nearly as tightly packed. This time, it's to wave her arms like I need to stop immediately, with an added chiding of, “Nuh-uh, no, wrong. You're a succubus. You should know I'm asking about her sex life.” … She has one of those? Oh. That question along with her interest explains it. The fairies aren't the only ones that have difficulty thanks to how big the gate guard is. Flandre does look like she's almost entirely bone that would snap between the guard's twin pythons.

I can much more helpfully state, “I helped her with that some yesterday. Taught some of the fairies how to make themselves stretchy so she'd have less trouble.” I'm still happy with that fact. It's going to considerably improve her life. If she isn't going to be constantly stuffing them both into me, the least she can do is let off some steam with the fey. I assume it's a good thing to report, but surprisingly, the vampire's agitation is turned on me and not a phantom.

“Damnit!” she yells, slapping the back of a hand into the others' palm in a rattle that reverberates off the walls. “If she can use the fairies now, she's never gonna be backed up enough!” She whirls about to the left and delivers a slap to the air. “Stop suggesting we use that on her! She didn't know! I will actually leave you out of it! Only if you mean it! Good!” I think whichever Flandre inhabits the left is maybe a bit too infatuated with that destructive power of hers – it's the direction she was looking when I woke up. Reprimand delivered, I have her focus once again. These outbursts are actually phenomenal for controlling the flow of a conversation, in a demented way. It fragments everything so heavily that it's difficult to speak up after, when she might well round on another of herself. Gonna take some getting used to, this one. I'm about to take that consideration somewhere more concerning before Flandre poses her next inquiry, “Now, about the bet we have going. Has Sakuya actually tried anything yet?”

I fight back the urge to inform her that 'we' don't have a bet going, because it's clear enough what she means. Clicking my tongue, I regretfully inform her, “Of course she hasn't. I'm convinced she won't ever and I've only been here two months. She's far too uptight.” Now, I find this to be a tragedy, because she really should just take a day off to put the vampire in her rape dungeon. Given that this sorry state of affairs is absolutely the smart money, though, I'm surprised to see Flandre kick her feet in disgust and snap her neck looking up again. One would think she'd just lean back some instead of tilting her head so far, but evidently that's too sensible.

“Laugh it up, you,” she says to whichever Flandre that is as she leers. “You might get the fairies for the next month, but one of these years those long odds are gonna pay off, and then we'll never have to share with you again. You're gonna feel like a real idiot when that time comes. Oh yeah? You think so? Well then maybe you should be Flandre two, 'cause that's pretty stupid! She's gonna crack one of these days and then the mansion's gonna fall apart! See? Even she thinks so!” Her finger is jabbing to the left, at... I'm going to assume that's Flandre two. Which I think makes the one up top Flandre three. I don't know entirely know how to interject, but I almost don't care. It's sort of fascinating, like a more interesting version of talking to the maid, where she doesn't even have to go anywhere to completely pause whatever you were talking about. And then she'll just return to it just as suddenly, twisting her broken neck to look at me and stating, “Well, I think that should be everything I need to know.” Hold on a second.

“Are you sure?” I ask, rather kind of shocked. She had a pertinent question for each of the other members of the mansion, so, “What about my master? Don't you have anything you want to know about her?” I sound a tad more desperate than I mean to, but if she has legitimately nothing, then I can't help but feel that bodes poorly for my chances. Even Sakuya at least has a bet running for when her inability to just plow Remilia will finally push her over the boiling point. It's rather telling that her first response is to glance between every Flandre I can't see or hear, looking like she expects them to provide her with something.

“Oh, sure. Blab at me all you want when I'm trying to talk to her, but the second I need some good ideas for what to ask about the witch, you all just go silent. Typical. Absolutely typical. I swear I hate me.” It's rather rare that I get to see a derisive snort used by someone on their self, yet there it is before me as the other three of her apparently fail to provide anything. What I get from her when she's done berating herselves is a frank, “Patchouli's too square to have any interesting developments. She just sits at her desk all day and does whatever my sister tells her to. No fun at all. C'mon, you're her succubus. You should know this.” I do, but I kind of have to hope.

“Never mind,” I state with a sag, shaking my head. I almost thought that was worth asking, but evidently I was wrong. I don't doubt she knows my master well enough to divulge some secrets, as it should be theoretically impossible not to unless she only surfaces for one day before returning to an otherwise eternal slumber. The question is if I think I can actually get them out of her, as I'd describe her sanity as borderline, and also she looks to be conferring with the other Flandres in an actually civil manner that doesn't involve shouting at them to shut up for once. I guess they're capable of agreeing on things. Or at least not being so aggressively aggravating that the only solution is a one-sided shouting match.

Her broken neck slings itself back into place and then falls forward in a nod. “Alright,” she says, voice firm despite the weakness that pervades it. “Flandre, Flandre, Flandre and I have decided that you're pretty good as far as succubi go. So, pick a number between zero and four. And-” She snaps to her right, hell-bent on proving me wrong immediately. “You know I'm already doing that, so why are you rushing me?! I had something I was gonna say and now I lost it 'cause of you! Ugh, whatever! Listen, just pick a number!” She's right back to fighting to get a word in to me, twisting right back and demanding a swift answer.

[ ] Can this process go wrong if I pick a non-integer that still fulfills the requirements? Possibly. Perhaps even probably. My instincts from when I turned five-hundred are acting up though, and it sounds amusing, so I'll deal with or maybe even enjoy whatever fallout this causes.
[ ] Four's the largest number of the lot, ergo four is clearly the most fun of the lot. It's pretty obvious she's making me pick the number of her I'll get to play with, and I was looking to have an orgy on this bed.
[ ] Three's not bad as a pick. I only have that many holes before magic gets involved, leaving one vampire for each. Plenty of fun to be had without having to further complicate the logistics of fitting everyone in.
[ ] Two's actually a solid number to go with. One for the front, one for the back, and given how large everyone around here is, I'll probably get to focus on how they're kissing inside of me.
[ ] One? Well... maybe letting her let the voices in her head out isn't the best idea in any capacity – who knows what number two might do? I don't know how quiet they'll get at that rate, but then again, I don't know how quiet they'll get if I let them out, either.
[ ] Zero? That actually goes through my head as a consideration? Well, I did have a very good time with both Remilia and Sakuya recently. Nothing says I absolutely have to fuck every member of the mansion constantly, except my instincts. Maybe we can try and just talk? She's near to lucid.
[ ] I'm perfectly happy to answer with a number, but a sudden flash of inspiration provides me with a better means of directing what goes down. (Write-in)
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[x] Can this process go wrong if I pick a non-integer that still fulfills the requirements? Possibly. Perhaps even probably. My instincts from when I turned five-hundred are acting up though, and it sounds amusing, so I'll deal with or maybe even enjoy whatever fallout this causes.
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[x] Can this process go wrong if I pick a non-integer that still fulfills the requirements? Possibly. Perhaps even probably. My instincts from when I turned five-hundred are acting up though, and it sounds amusing, so I'll deal with or maybe even enjoy whatever fallout this causes.
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[X] Zero? That actually goes through my head as a consideration? Well, I did have a very good time with both Remilia and Sakuya recently. Nothing says I absolutely have to fuck every member of the mansion constantly, except my instincts. Maybe we can try and just talk? She's near to lucid.

If Remilia is serious about the switch, we should probably get some practice in for the whole puritan thing. She probably isn't expecting a succubus to turn down sex either.
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[X] Three's not bad as a pick. I only have that many holes before magic gets involved, leaving one vampire for each. Plenty of fun to be had without having to further complicate the logistics of fitting everyone in.

[troll]There go the rational number boys ruining another great story.[/troll]
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Voting is not being called called here, but I am outlining the plan going forward now that November's over, as promised. The best way to make things somewhat consistent for all parties feels like a weekly schedule. To that end, voting -will- be considered called at midnight on Sundays. This consideration is by the metric of EST, which should translate to five AM GMT/site time. Monday to Wednesday will serve as the writing days, with Thursday through Sunday being the time to vote and convince people why your option is superior for wooing Patchouli/getting good porn. Effective immediately, that means there's about nineteen hours until voting calls itself. I'll dispense with vote calling posts as well, unless whoever reads this holds strong opinions that they'll remain necessary. Ties to be called with either coin flips or - in some lunatic world where there's a three way or greater tie - dice.

I may not always need the full three days to write. I may not even often need it, depending on how things shake out. In such cases, I'll post the update early, and the already overlong voting period merely grows longer. If I'm slightly late for whatever reason, it likewise merely cuts voting by a marginal amount. This has been your far too formal announcement regarding the future of a story in which no potential partner possesses less than one foot of dick, despite being female. Continue to enjoy, hopefully.

You jest, but I'm not sure I've properly hinted at what the winning option entails, considering it's winning. That, or I'm not giving my audience enough credit.
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A number between zero and four, huh? Well, I could just give a straight answer, but my exposure to Remilia is reminding me of when I turned five-hundred. It inspires an idea that may not entirely be sane or safe, but which I can't deny holds appeal. If she can clone herself, I'm clearly picking how many of her I get to enjoy my time with – yet what if I don't rattle off a whole number? There's a lot of numbers between zero and four, the rest meaning... what, exactly? She'll make smaller clones? Well, I'll find out soon enough. It's a quick retort of, “Two-point-eight-six-nine-three-four-seven-five.” She falls into a squint three words in, thin slits of scarlet light piercing into me.

I'm allowed to finish at least, before she opens with a sarcastic, “You think that's a funny joke, huh? A real good prank? Just an absolute barrel of laughs? That I should be rolling on the floor laughing 'til my gut hurts? Well, guess what, bucko? It was pretty good.” I'd think her tone would at all change during that rant if this were true. She's not done, though, following her meager pause with, “The first time I heard it. But you succubi can't pull one over on me now, oh no. I've been practicing. Isn't that right? Yeah. Exactly. Well put, Flandre two. Maybe you aren't so dumb. Stop, be quiet while you're ahead!” Her side-tracking offers me a proper few moments to be disappointed in how this is something she's prepared for thanks to a prior succubus. I... was right when I said we're not all the same, wasn't I? Am I just blind to the trends I'm following?

If I focus on that, it'll ruin my enjoyment of what's to come. Back of the mind. Worry about it later. In a cautious venture, I tap her on the shoulder before she can launch into a tirade against herself about how stupid she is. It's enough to catch her attention, which seems a sign I can afford to gently, firmly insist, “If you already know what to do, then I'm interested in seeing it.” I don't entirely know how to keep her focused on me, but it's worth the shot. It doesn't look terribly effective as she quickly goes to glancing around herself.

Her voice, however, is quite serious as her mouth opens, face overcome with sincere consideration as she bounces between those I don't see. “Alright, you heard her. We've got just under three mes to work with. Who wants what? Legs? Yeah, okay, I think we can fit that in. No, I told you already, the dick's a quarter. If you want that much, you can't have anything to stick into her. Because I said so, and because I'd regenerate it back. Alright, fine, fine, jeez! If you want it that bad, you're gonna have to add holes to it. So just don't put the holes where the arteries are, obviously, how else? I... hm. They are thin bones... yeah, I think that's fine. Just skimp a bit. No, not there, obviously. It has to attach to something.” The deeper into this conversation with herselves she gets, the more I understand what's about to happen. I was entirely wrong in what I thought this would accomplish. It obviously didn't fluster her, and it's not going to mean she makes a more pint-sized version of herself. They're deliberating over how much actual body to give themselves. Oh, this is going to be good. She taps her fingers on empty air, as though working some invisible calculator, before nodding. “Alright. That should be good. No take-backs. No, not even if you realize you messed up. Then that's your fault. Too bad, so sad, doing it.”

I'd ask what she's doing, but the answer's clear, even if I don't yet understand the method. She goes to float in the middle of the room, my attention rapt. Her arms raise on either side of herself, palms facing forward, towards me. After a moment's concentration, she flings them back. I can hear how the bone cracks as she does, joints fracturing from being deliberately bent the wrong way. Ninety degrees straight behind her they move, and in her wake, she leaves one complete pair of arms at forty-five degrees, and a porous, skeletal pair where she began. She repeats the process with her legs, kicking backwards the same amount. Even more harsh cracking comes from much larger bone, leading to the same end result: the creation of an intact pair between her legs and the seemingly crumbling bone inhabiting where that kick began. She spins her neck in a full, violent rotation, a grisly, half-eaten head appearing behind hers, flesh clinging only enough to anchor harrowing eyes in their sockets. Then the straining begins. At all the points where she meets with the new limbs, her body quivers and shakes, to the wet squelch of tearing muscle. It grows more intense by the second, until there's a final, cacophonous crunch, announcing the process completing and the Flandres separating. There's only one appropriate response, even coming from me, and I'm aroused by this all. “Oh my fucking hell.”

In front of me are four Flandres. Or, more accurately, the fragments of four Flandres who have stripped themselves of anything extraneous they could, and evidently, that was a lot of things. The girl herself, wearing a proud grin, is the only one of them that's complete. To her left sits a Flandre who exists only from foot to crotch, terminating right past where a flaccid member is attached. To her right she's flanked by a floating, headless torso, arms somehow paid for and intact. That's probably because she's largely hollow, and doesn't have enough flesh left to seal herself; I can see her heart, hanging, swaying, and pumping away to fill barely insulated veins and arteries, likely necessary to eventually get her erect. I don't know how the hanging testicles intend to defy gravity and force an orgasm up her length, but I'll assume it's possible. Behind her is the fourth, explaining why I was seeing raw bone; that's what she's made herself of. A pockmarked, degraded skeleton, looking barely fit to support anything, handily short of many things to support. Ribs at random are missing from the cage, her spine is lacking in vertebra, and she's almost entirely devoid of any meat aside from the second head that belonged to her. She's somehow anchored her cock to her pelvis, likewise letting twin testicles and a beating heart simply hang. I'd hazard that, in the leg's case, the necessary items are just bundled up inside the empty crotch. That said, calling the sight bizarre doesn't do it justice. It looks like something straight out of horror, leaking blood onto the floor as Flandre prime, the only one that's capable of speech, asks of me, “So, what do you think? Two-point-eight-six-nine-three-four-seven-five Flandres worth of Flandre. And I still got all four of us out. Feeling dumb yet?”

I'm feeling many things, stupid among them. Not because I've failed in my objective, but because the more I stare at it, the less sense it makes. I want to fuck this confused mass of vampire bits, but I also want to know, desperately, “How does this work? How does any of this work? How do those legs even live? How do those bones even move? How are you calculating that?” I am not ashamed to admit that I'm flabbergasted, as this is nightmarish nonsense, and I'm willing to set my lusts aside for a moment if it means sating my curiosity. I, however, am not Flandre, nor her clones.

The skeleton, being the only other one that can see, is zeroing in on me and lifting me up. Despite not even having muscle, I'm still grabbed like I weigh nothing, so she can drag me over to the group on my knees. Taps on the much less complete vampires seem to indicate I've been gathered, as they hover to surround me, nudging with arm and leg to find out where exactly I am. All the while, a Flandre who sounds much more collected – but no less hoarse – laughs. “If you wanna know so bad, ask me after! I already let them out, so it's time to have fun!” Severely doubting I have any means to overturn that statement, I simply appraise what I'll be working with as she flings away her clothes at vampire speed. Her being intact, it's obvious from the two large lumps on her stomach – like sister like sister, the member of a bat. Unlike sister, now that she's naked, I can see that it's not just the midsection Flandre that's so hollow – she goes beyond flat chested to concave, sagging into her own ribs. My ability to appreciate this is limited, as there's a throng of horny vampire parts that keep expectantly prodding me. Time to get to work.

For starters, I let my tongue slip out, lashing it across fingers and palms to get them juicy with saliva. So prepared, they reach to either side of me, caressing little things soon to not be. I twist to look behind at SkeleFlan, beckoning her to stand closer. As she does, I look back at and sink onto the girl herself, letting my mouth swallow her; at the same time, my tongue continues to hang out, darting backwards, slipping through hair to lavish the final Flandre in affection. Four at once is hardly a trial now – but that may well change as time goes on. Already, I hear exposed hearts speeding up, hastening the engorging flow they're dedicated solely towards. I see and feel them grow, the prick inside my mouth beginning to steadily lift me as it lengthens. I pull off it before it can, twisting to let another have my attention. Now it's the headless torso, whose more notable deformity becomes obvious as she stiffens – this was the one that needed to make concessions upon herself, shaft mottled with small missing patches. They cut deep enough I can watch streams of pre squirt out of them, lessening what comes to drip from her tip. I want to know what that looks like when it reaches its limit. For now, I continue to shift focuses, moving through each and every vampire, whole or not, eyeing greedily what my efforts earn me. Inch after turgid inch of flesh to pleasure and be pleasured by in turn, steadily rising to what I'd expect.

Whatever Flandre's other selves may be, they're not wholly self-centered. Not that I'll need much in the way of extra stimulation, but they do kindly offer nice gestures all the same. The pair of legs constantly fiddles around, finding the gap between my own; her foot lifts and rubs, twirling my clit in circles and diving toes inside a wet, waiting muff, intensifying shivers of anticipation. Hands reach from behind and beside me, finding breasts to fondle, skin meeting skin on one, where the other is greeted with chilled bone. Kneading, twisting, and pulling, their efforts are rewarded, hands wet with what comes from enthusiastic nipples, teased out alongside sighs of passion. That leaves the girl herself, who simply rubs at my hair affectionately, cooing at me for her own part. “That's a good girl. We'll be sure to make it really fun for you. You don't mind if we get a little rough, right? 'Course not. You just wanna be nice and full, with all those little gaps plugged up.” She's not wrong, which I can't help but dislike in this scenario. I'm supposed to be the one telling people what they want when we've just met, not the other way around. No sense in protesting it, though. I nod in the middle of another transition, near to my goal. Straight up each and every one points, and it's clear their erections do represent at least a quarter of themselves – when I think they must surely be wholly prepared, slick with their own juices and my saliva, they prove there's yet more to go. Flandre and her calcium companion have to lean back, nether heads reaching past their more standard ones, all four of them wider around than a hand can grip. Seems she's not the littler of the two in all respects.

Watching unprotected testicles throb, readying themselves for the arduous work they'll have soon enough, I stand when I'm quite sure they can't get any harder, lines of drool coming automatically down my lips, licked away. It doesn't take a genius to figure that with four vampires here, I'm not likely to get or need much of a chance to direct what goes down. But that doesn't mean I'll just sit here, stock still, until they pick me up to have their way with me. The legs stand behind me, finding the cheeks of my ass grinding up and down their shaft. The skeleton stands before me, elbows nudging breasts close to it, sliding along a well-lubed rod. To the left, the chest hovers, hands moving from rounded mounds to sides, ready to lift me and take away all autonomy; on my right, the progenitor of all these oversees this all with a sharp, lustful grin. I definitely don't have much longer, but I'll play it up for her while I can. “You're entirely right,” I admit to the sound of a finger's snap, flames running along me. Breathing won't be a problem, as my ass leaves the legs behind. “I'm just an empty shell that needs filling. I can't start the day right if I haven't been stuffed everywhere.” Another burst of flames alongside that purr; a succubus' body can handle quite a lot, but I figure it best not to take any chances. “Use me. Don't hold back. I'm your toy right now, so play with me however you want.” I watch the upper body flip upside down, frantic heart now hanging out the empty neck stump. I know what it wants, opening my maw wide. I'm not going to be getting much of a chance to speak now.

Its cautious lowering is more subdued than I expect, but that may be owing to its inability to see and line up. I can help there, leaning forward and coiling around it. Like a leash, my tongue guides her to the gaping jaw she wants, as the others likewise take position. The legs behind me find my rear once more, forcefully parting cheeks; I offer aid there as well, lifting slightly to more readily present the hole being searched for. SkeleFlan situates herself in front of me, with Flandre the first behind. Together they pry at and poke the drenched cunt that begs to be plowed. The skeleton, however, has a different destination in mind as the one at the fore; just beneath that wonderful nub she finds it, testing how it might stretch. Vestigial to me, largely, the urethral canal – but nothing that someone might want to stick their dick into is truly useless. Sliding in a knuckle goes smoothly, and two side-by side can open as wide as her fingers can part. Everywhere is open on a succubus' body, and so she readies herself. That leaves just below it, where, hugging me and her skeletal system, Flandre waits, fixated upon me between gaps in bone. “Ready, girls?” she asks, despite the fact that she's the only one with functioning ears. “On three now. One.” I expect an early start, but receive no such surprise. “Two.” The surprise seems to be that, outside of her head, these girls give her much less trouble. “Three.”

I'm glad they do listen to her. Really, I am. Despite what impression her arguing with them might give, she is in sync with these clones. They shove in as one, and I have to actively fight off the climax this tries to bring. The torso crashes into me, hilting in less than a blink, and all she needs to bludgeon my face is what little of her there is to ram into me; the smack resounds among the others as her head plants itself inside my stomach. There's no chance of anything but a heaving of the legs' contents when they shove inside, back battered by veins and arteries, sacks of semen squishing themselves, burning and ready as my intestinal tract replaces and shuffles less vital organs. A tiny little hole, once useless to me, requisitions more of my form to extend itself and make room for the monster that rams it, actively trying to crush lungs I don't thankfully need right now. And of course, when a vampire decides they're going to be breaking open your womb and shoving it deeper than they even have the cock to fill, they do – those recesses simply expect that there's going to be more, even as she's stopped by her own skeleton, and so they rise, unabated by the fact that nothing is truly pressing them. I'm crushed downwards. I'm pushed upwards. I'm driven backwards. I'm forced forwards. A tangled mess of distensions display proudly upon my neck, my stomach, my back, insides chaos as they're filled more with Flandre than myself. It's infernal bliss.

My hands reach to grab hold of the pair in front of me, reciprocating the hug I'm receiving. It's about all I can manage or possibly contribute, especially as things actually get going. They pull back and reinsert with a practiced lack of unison. When my ass is left near empty, my mouth is again plugged; when that is offered reprieve, twin phalli plunge to womb and bladder in tandem; and so the cycle begins again, guts trying to realign themselves fucked right back out of place. It's a never-ending, ever-shifting cycle of wondrous, fiery delight, the initial bursts just dying the moment another piston replaces them. I can barely get a moan out with what breath I have, in the spaces between my throat being clogged. It meets with the high-pitched squeal of Flandre's, claws digging into my back and drawing streams of crimson. All the more, all the better, an ache that adds to the rapidly mounting list of reasons I should simply let myself go. But it's important to not be the first to give in, even if my body so horribly wants to. Between the many slick slaps, those squeals turn to words, still registering to me for now. “Oh, it's been so long since we had a succubus! We're gonna have so much fun!” The utter lack of guile is in stark contrast to her sister, and endearingly cute. It would also be a lethal level of enthusiasm if I weren't meant to be reamed with abandon, but I assume not everyone gets this treatment. Probably.

The important thing is that I'm getting this treatment, and it's treating me right. Every press, pull, and jostle as they ravage me is decidedly a treat, bringing me to clench and quiver just as much as I deform under the excessive filling. A wildly flailing tail finds its way inside of the open-topped legs, periodically batting against the centers of both pumping blood and pulsing cum, unable to hide their desires. Even by my usual standards, it's a very direct glimpse into how great it must feel to make use of me. With fluttering eyes and curling toes, I'm not hiding my own enjoyment much better right now. Without even a single orgasm, I'm already becoming a mess. Every time I'm met with, there's a spray of juices, whether originating from me or the Flandre now deep inside. Melding with the thick layer of sweat, there's not a single portion of my body that's not coated in several different liquids, originating from half a dozen different orifices. They all near sizzle, hot as I burn in the middle of so much concentrated passion. Impatience sets in. I can hardly fight it any longer. That need below, those carnal surges flooding through me. I require release, like a man in the desert needs water, and I can't continue to hold myself in check.

As wholly as I'm filled, it's nigh on impossible for any part of me at all to clench any more around the welcome intruders. That hardly means I'm not trying as every hole I have bunches up tight enough to strangle. Attempts to scream in ecstasy prove futile, as not only is there no air to force out, but the torso claiming my throat pulls back less with each new thrust. Profane waves of pleasure roll across the whole of me as my composure shatters and I simply steep in these sensations. I catch only glimpses of whatever Flandre is saying over my own euphoria. “-cumming alread-” flickers through my ears in a more lucid moment. “-when she's back-” fills another space where I can generously be described as near to conscious. I'm not quite all there, but when it's all winding down, I get one final, needy shout. “Oh, just go already!” If I hadn't just come out of a climax, I'd certainly be thrown into one with what that order brings.

There's not a hint of hesitation between them, and I feel the rush before it strikes me all at once. Four simultaneous jets of jizz that flood every internal crease they can find. It spews from the holes of the Flandre above me with fury, coming to clog lung, nose, and mouth, all while sinking into stomach. My guts are repurposed for the sole job of holding the heavy volume being dumped within, scalding at stretched thin walls. A bladder often empty is filled well beyond its limit in but one rope's worth, with oh so much more following in the wake of that. And, sure as can be, my beaten open cervix is allowing a tide of white to fill my womb in such quantities that, if I could get pregnant, I certainly would. From two locales I get to taste it all as the storm of seed begins to bloat. Its undercurrent is much the same as Remilia's, corrupt and impure with vampirism's taint, but there's so much more here. The spice of raw lust, the iron of sadism's grip, the sweet purity of childhood's innocence, the whole of that and more a chaotic blend unsure of how it wishes to define this girl. Even Sakuya's time-distorted flavor at least makes sense when unscrambled, but this hardly has a common thread between everything driving it.

I'm undecided on how I feel about this as a dish, but I'm going to be getting plenty of it. It runs in rivers out of me up top, but everywhere else I'm so thoroughly plugged by vampires holding themselves to the base that nothing's going anywhere. I have a hard time imagining anyone else here could so quickly swell my body, having only one or two shafts up which their load can travel. Flandre holds a clear advantage with four of her here, compressing my insides further yet as every cavity expands to make room for the bubbling, clinging mess. I can feel the force of the draining going on above sending it winding through my intestines – consequently, I can feel its meeting with the orgasm of the vampire behind, the two arguing over where they get to unload. Every single burst is audible, every crash and slosh proud among the wordless, high cries of the only girl here capable of voicing her feelings. I don't quite become perfectly rotund, the same way I normally would. I believe that's the fault of my lungs, which don't often get to enjoy the same benefits as anything else open enough to fill. But I'll not say no to how it shoves out my bust with even the scraps it's getting. By the time it's over and I've again learned what it's like to be fat, I'm sitting on the edge of another release, not panting like a bitch in heat only because that would require freedom to use my tongue. They all withdraw as one, and the result is inevitable – three holes below spewing things back out, rapidly beginning to form a puddle, even as thick as the stuff is. Of course, there's a very important detail contained in the fact that they pull out, that being they're still stiff enough to. “Alright, hole change!” Flandre calls, as they all flutter around me and figure things out. Oh. Oh, that's how it's going to be. I can't find it in me to complain when they arrange and she counts up another, “One... Two... Three!” I also can't find it in me to keep myself on the precipice of release as they crush me together again, impacting with enough ferocity to drive gallons of semen out even as fully as I'm plugged. Today will be a good day.

Tracking time is difficult. Remilia has just as much stamina as this girl does, but when I'm enjoying a long session with her, I have enough time to get myself in order between her stirrings. I have no such chance with her sister. They swap between holes without care, each taking a turn to find out which they like the most, and then fucking me in all the others a dozen times combined still. On multiple occasions I grow so obscenely distended from all they've released inside of me, it becomes impossible to fit everyone around me, in order to fit everyone in; this isn't an issue for a vampire. With gusto that would be concerning if I hadn't made myself a bit more durable, she simply flings me to the ground and comes down on top of me in a stomp. Despite her weighing approximately nothing, it slams so much seed from my everything so quickly that the walls should have holes in them. Having shed me of a hundred pounds and, more importantly, a gluttonous gut, she carries on with the festivities right after, until everyone's had their fill. Or, until most everyone's had their fill.

By the time I am anything resembling coherent again in this long stint of sexual satisfaction, my room looks even more drenched than when Remilia and I set out to drench a room. I believe I am not literally buried in the muck like a shallow, watery grave only because it is ejaculate so dense it's closer to solid than liquid. Vaguely, I'm conscious of what Flandre is saying over the sound of my leaking, having been left with a debilitating amount of semen inside of me. “Guuuuys!” she whines, and I can picture her tugging at a passed out clone; can't see it, since my eyes are hidden under four layers of cum. “We only did it two-dozen times! I know you're only clones, but c'mon! We finally have a succubus again! Are you gonna wimp out on me like that?” The silence isn't telling, as none of them could have actually answered that, but the little harrumph she gives is considerably more so. “Well, fine! If you're all just gonna be that way, I'll keep our new friend all to myself!” With the snap of heavy strands and a succubus-shaped void in the cum pit, I'm taken from the clutches of the bog my room's become. I assume she's staring me in the face, mostly because that's the only reason I can figure for why she'd need to clamp a hand over my mouth and stem the fecund fountain escaping from it. “Need help?” she asks. I shake my head, just a little blearily. I'm... I'm good. Real, real good. I'll just absorb this when it becomes strictly necessary. It isn't yet. “Well, since they're all out of it, wanna have a chat, then?” Shit. I guess it will be if I actually want to provide a topic.

[ ] Okay, it's after. I'm going to get an explanation for how that duplication thing works and what the fuck I just got to bear witness to. I loved it. It was great. That only makes me more curious about the mechanics of being used by a pair of legs.
[ ] We've only just met and she's gotten several signs that point to me being like some other succubi, possibly every other succubus if I'm really that wrong. I can change that, though. What will she have to say if I tell her I'm in love with my master? That's an interesting development, right?
[ ] I'm almost entirely sure that I can't convince Remilia to extend how much time I have. I'm not her blood relative, though. Maybe if I ask Flandre, she might be willing and able to manage that. She sincerely sounded bothered by the swaps.
[ ] She's disappointed that her clones ran out of stamina. I am too. Who says I need to suck in my gut and have a talk? There's one raring vampire remaining and no reason I can't keep her to myself for even longer.
[ ] She said before that living forever is boring. It can only get more so if you spend most of your time locked away and, presumably, largely alone. How does she not die of boredom herself if she isn't coming up and taking part in her sister's games? What does she do with infinity down there?
[ ] Considerations hiding in the shadows choose now to strike, inspiring a line of inquiry worthy of looking like I don't snack on entire buffet tables. (Write-in)
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[x] Okay, it's after. I'm going to get an explanation for how that duplication thing works and what the fuck I just got to bear witness to. I loved it. It was great. That only makes me more curious about the mechanics of being used by a pair of legs.
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[X] She's disappointed that her clones ran out of stamina. I am too. Who says I need to suck in my gut and have a talk? There's one raring vampire remaining and no reason I can't keep her to myself for even longer.
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[X] She's disappointed that her clones ran out of stamina. I am too. Who says I need to suck in my gut and have a talk? There's one raring vampire remaining and no reason I can't keep her to myself for even longer.

Wow...already two Flandre scenes in and we haven't hit the pointlessly contrived death flag? We're entering uncharted territory here fellas.
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But, then again, who says I need to provide a topic to talk about – or even try to take part in any kind of conversation? Who says I can't stay horribly bloated for as long as I want? Forget the fact that her clones are laying somewhere in this mire, she's still perfectly ready to go. That's all that really matters. Sluggishly, my head sways, denying any interest in talking. In response I receive an insulted sounding, “Really? No pillow talk, huh? You're just gonna use me for my body and then forget about me? Well, maybe I'll just use you for your body too, then. What do you think about that, little miss slutcubus?” I can't deliver a thought more complex than 'yes', but I dutifully slide my head in assent. “Why didn't you just say so in the first place?” she asks, incredulously. I perform the taxing trial of lifting an arm to point at the mouth she's clamped shut, which would be vomiting seed if she weren't. I imagine a squint for the second it takes before she answers, going by her tone as she says, “You win this round.” I prefer to think of it as the both of us winning, since we'll each get to enjoy ourselves further. A point of view not fully shared it seems, as she indignantly adds, “But I think you've had it easy long enough. We were doing all the work this whole time. Doesn't that just fill you with shame?” If something was going to fill me with shame, it wouldn't be getting manhandled by a quartet of vampires. That's no failure of sexual skill; that's merely admitting I'm only going to move how they direct me. That said, the last of the vampires which is in any shape to continue drops me.

Calling the impact as I strike the ground wet wouldn't do it justice; it's a splattering squelch whose echoes alone speak of vampiric virility, coming in two stages. The first as my lower half, ass on down, clears itself a hole in the deep pool of white; the second as my upper half, unbalanced and unsteady after this abrupt fall, follows its lead to collapse in what must be a remarkable shower of seed. Unsurprisingly, as the layer of filth I've been dropped into tries to ooze back over me, it's quickly – as quickly as ejaculate this thick can, anyway – working to bury my head beneath plenty of it. As with my experience the last time I found myself in this position, prying myself loose of this is difficult at best, and as the layers seep towards me and build up, I do exceedingly poorly in getting back up, all while Flandre says nothing. I know she hasn't left at least, because my sense for sex tells me there is a wondrous erection right by me, but the vampire is apparently forcing me to confront my own 'shame' and manage this myself. Well, if that's what she wants. I tug at an entrapped arm, which manages a remarkable amount of progress towards freedom – I find it worth remarking on how it doesn't budge at all.

Flandre's voice cuts back in, more muffled every moment as my ears are increasingly well plugged. “See? Shameful. Disgraceful. Can't even get up. You're just gonna have to prove you really want it if we're gonna keep going.” As I can't answer her with words, I instead choose to try and drag my head up. I get it to incline, attempting to follow where her voice came from to bore into her with confidence, regardless of all the grime preventing that. I must be at least a little on target, because I can hear clapping, filthy and far away as it might sound. “That's it! Show some spirit and we can do whatever you want!” For all I can tell, its a sincere cheering on – but I'm a little cum-drunk and having difficulty hearing besides. I clamp my mouth shut, to prevent the unfortunate, constant vomiting my overstuffed nature has been causing, resultant stream trying to shove my face back down. As strands continue to push through the tiniest gaps between my teeth all the same, I manage a little more progress, twisting myself upwards as much as can be done without either freeing or breaking my arms. The latter won't actually help with the former, so I just need to keep at it, to the intermittent coos of, “You can do it! C'mon! Push! Push!”

Pushing would not be helpful, but I do pull, and I twist, and I wrench. I could make this so much easier on myself if I just sucked everything in, but no. No, I'm not going to take the easy route; this is about pride at this point. Or at least about not having to slim up. With every wriggle, putting my back into it, I steadily shrug myself free of the ground's grip. It's painfully slow as a process, and simply painful besides, every centimeter fought for feeling like it'll come at the cost of dislocating my shoulders. I can't stop or relax for even a moment, because as soon as I do, everything I'm dragging with me will snap back down and undo all progress. My teeth stop gritting because I'm trying to hold anything in, sheer effort grinding them against one another through their white coating instead. I feel and even hear the strain of the connecting threads tying me to wood with any ground I gain, fighting against what seems like hundreds of clinging hands. In the midst of this grueling, tedious process, I reach an important milestone, as I feel my elbows tear out from beneath the seedy swamp. Along with meaning half of each arm is no longer encased, it offers me a new joint to work with. Far from fast yet, I nonetheless do pick up the pace, making sudden jumps that audibly stir up my body's contents. One by one, leap by leap, I eventually get not just my arms, but even my hands out, sitting up straight in spite of several mounting factors that insist I should just lay back down.

For my great accomplishment of straightening my spine – and, by consequence, trapping my legs underneath a heavy, distended gut – I am awarded aid. It may not sound like a lot to have my ties to the floor severed by what I assume are Flandre's nails, but the muck's hold is honestly more firm than a depressingly high number of partners I can call to mind, my current master included. “Almost there! Keep going! I believe in you!” I continue to receive almost saccharine encouragement, and if the one delivering it weren't a vampire, I'd be entirely convinced I'm not being mocked. The best I can do, regardless of how she means it, is to keep at it. So I do, planting my hands against the bog and shoving with everything I have. My head wings don't want to, weighed down as they've become, but I flutter them all the same, aiding my work now with magical flight. That proves to be the ticket. What was an ordeal is shown as surmountable, almost too much so at the end. I lift at a much better pace, freeing my legs from needing to support my swollen gut, but I can't quite stop myself once I'm excavated. I fly forward, and I was pointed at a vampire last I was sure of anything, which doesn't seem to have changed. Less of an issue when she's not even a tenth as fragile as she looks, because my haphazard, accidental headbutt doesn't so much as push her back. In fact she just takes it as good reason to rub my head affectionately once again. Her fingers pierce the amorous armor that's built up around me, sinking beneath white to run through hair, to deliver the happy reassurance of, “That's it, there you go. See? You can do it if you try. Doesn't that feel so much better than just laying limp and letting us handle everything?” I could try and convey an answer with only head shakes – or I could just continue to assert some level of control.

Much better plan, the latter. I right myself and flip around, the better to take her from my rear. I don't need to see to line myself up, its very thrum revealing to me its presence. Were that not enough, I suck up seed dribbling from nostrils like snot, taking a whiff of the room. Overwhelming and likely nauseous to most is the stench of a pond's worth of discharge, hot upon the damp air however long after its release; hiding beneath that is arousal's musk, unfaltering even after so many rounds, tracing in my mind a path right above it. With exceptional effort I take hold of ample ass, parting despite every protest the nut-based glue offers. Thus, with abundant confidence, I drive myself towards the ground. Shortly, one of the gaping, dripping holes below finds itself full once more, the teasing few inches I fall upon filling a colon already full in a meaty spray. I lift back up, nearly pulling off, then drop just a little further, angling back as I do. I couldn't force the vampire back if I weighed a hundred times what she does, but she obliges me and takes a step behind her all the same in time with the thwack of our meeting. Trembles take hold of my body for just a moment, no jizz so thick and dense it can properly replace a dick hard enough I can't dream of denting its girth. These trembles resurge as I rise and fall once more, 'knocking' my partner back with another impact. Step by step I fuck her towards the wall, gifted playful giggles on every movement. Sinking lower as she runs out of room to backtrack over, I'm nearly halfway down her as I finally feel resistance, hearing a thunk muted by its sopping nature. That'd be the wall.

It also seems to be her cue to finally take the arms she's made no use of, roaming them across my body, scooping away caked layers with sharp hands. Her head, undaunted in how it's being pressed, nuzzles the back pinning it. Her teeth come dangerously close to ripping me open as they munch away, clearing space enough for her to speak, faintly as her already weak voice might escape. “Do you want me to take over now? That was an awful lot of work.” I don't appreciate this attempt to be cheeky when she should be moaning into my skin, so I answer by crashing against her pelvis and crushing her against the room's edge. The little mewl which comes is closer to what I should be getting, but she has plenty enough fight left to keep at it. “I could just pick you up.” I could just beat myself against her crotch again, too. “Treat you like a toy again, just like you wanted.” She's my toy, and I'm the one getting off using her now, sloppily prying cock out of my guts and slamming it back in to even sloppier sounds. Try as I might however, I can't ram back with enough strength to empty her of air, even if I earn gasps. “You're making this way harder on yourself than you need to. You've done enough.” I have to say, as I try furiously to at least reach a pace that leaves her too busy groaning and sighing to do anything else with her mouth, that she's not quite as good at the taunting as her sister. It's the voice – doesn't quite carry that same easy elegance, insinuating superiority with every syllable.

Not that it makes me any less inclined to stop her. If one point of stimulation isn't enough, I'll just have to add another. Her mouth begins opening as my tail twists around, positioning itself, and the cry I get in return is sharp and pain-laced as it slips inside her muff, point meeting with cervix. There's plenty of pleasure besides, no shortage of masochism to be found. I bend and curl inside her on subsequent entries, seeking out every strip of flesh that gets her to constrict. I can feel the pulses running up her shaft when I rise, veins bulging out that little bit extra. A useful note for later. For now, I can just focus on how peaceful it is without her commentary, graced instead with everything from a whine to a squeal. Another prize makes itself known with each desperate downward plunge, a buckling of the knees below me; I know I can't possibly weigh enough for her to ever have difficulty lifting me, so this is a good sign I'm really getting under her skin. It's nearly enough to get my own knees knocking, piling more tinder on the fire of my loins, burning higher as the two of us sink lower. Eventually she gives out all at once, the two of us scattering seed to meet with floorboard as she's forced to ground by her own flaring lusts.

That leaves me with two mobility issues. The first is the sticky mess I've entrenched us in, and the second is the vampire arms squeezing the sphere I once called a stomach. It seems much like how a child might hold onto an extra large stuffed animal, only I believe those are usually fuzzy instead of sodden. I can barely make out contented mumbling in the middle of every other sound fighting to reach my ears, adding to the effect. Of course, her impression of an actual child is let down by how her hips begin to buck; less because a child couldn't be coerced to, and more because the thud betrays far too much involuntary power. I can't exactly make her stop, given she's holding me tightly enough to hasten my draining, so I just let her have this. It's getting just a little difficult to keep up a rhythm and maneuver my tail anyway. Letting her handle the thrusting leaves me entirely free to roam inside her nether lips, scratching at all the spots I've uncovered and making her squirm. Outside that canal, I flick over the tiny nub between slit and shaft, slowly teasing along it. But I'm not sure that either has more of an effect than where I'm touching her deepest. I can't quite brute force my way in, but that hardly means I can't earn access. The very tip of my tail works in circles, coaxing cervix and weakening womb, until there's a twitch I capitalize on. By the time the opening has snapped shut again, I'm in and having my fun. The spade I've slipped in slaps at her walls like a petulant unborn infant kicking for milk it can't yet be fed, prising screams I delight in hearing.

Given their intensity, I don't exactly need a succubus' senses to know what's coming – I have them all the same, which means that when I smack against those two mounds, reservoirs of cum more round than the breasts she should have, I know they're tensing and eager to spit. Soon after, I can feel her thicken from everything traveling up her to soon be in me. And then I'm hit by her orgasm. Contrary to what one might assume, being as full as I am does not make what comes feel like just a drop in the bucket – it's unleashed with gusto, and it's trying to tear my intestines out of place, regardless of any prior loads in its path. Gurgles come from inside me as everything shifts and shuffles around again to accommodate the newly added bulk. A fact registering somewhere rather distant, as I've joined her in losing myself for a time, not that I'm able to express it terribly well. Choked silent by filled lungs, webbed down by viscous ground, and hugged tightly into a bony frame, it might be difficult to spy it. I hold every confidence that Flandre is announcing her pleasure with enough for the both of us though, so I don't need to worry. I can't prove it, as she's finished by the time I come to, but there's more important matters to attend to. Like the perpetually erect thing that remains inside me, as the vampire breathes into my back. I can't see her smile, but I can feel it, in the sharp teeth that press against me. “I'm gonna be a little impatient, now, okay? Okay, cool.” She doesn't actually wait for me to answer in any capacity, and is just assuming I'm going to assent to her continued advances. She's right, but what if I thought I could do with something other than sex? Well, then I'd have clearly lost my mind, and the correct solution would be-

Probably something like that. In turning the tables on me and leaving me the one against the wall, she doesn't have to go step by step. Effectively, she just appears on the other side of the room, trying to squash me and doing a damned fine job of it. My mouth flies open, spewing one geyser, and I lose a significant quantity of my bladder and womb's contents to the two below – even her presence in my asshole isn't a perfect seal against treatment this rough. She no longer holds me by the stomach, hands instead digging into my ass, nails biting until they bleed. I'm probably covered in little scratches like that by now, which only serves to motivate me to keep this going. Not that it's my turn to have a say. I'm hefted overhead, one hand precariously holding me by a cheek while the other angles as much as her slightly too rigid length can. It's rapidly blinding her, given I am essentially a localized dispenser of grime, but she's trying to line up all the same. Her first attempt to tug me back down shoots off to the side, scraping me at best. Her second is much more on point, but nonetheless slides over me, not into me. The third time, she's got all she needs to know, and I've got more than is reasonable plowing my urethra in ways the hole was never meant for.

When I'm nice and secure, snugly stretching to her satisfaction, that leaves a hand of hers free. With a continuing trend of being rather bad at restraint, it slaps where it held me a few seconds prior. It doesn't leave a red hand-print; that would imply it only harms me where it falls. One half of my ass finds itself almost entirely cleansed of the gunk she's been dirtying my everything with, turned from spunk white to rash red, nearly on fire and feeling like it wants to tear off. Fuck, that's a spanking. It'd get me to yelp if I hadn't spent who knows how long without a single molecule of oxygen. It's hardly in a vacuum, either, soon followed up by a hectic surge of what passes for her hips. I'm hardly allowed to disparage them, the way they can strike me; if I didn't know any better, I'd swear she's trying to beat me back into normal shape. It would explain the position and the fact that, as she's getting going, she seems determined to put as much pressure on me as possible. Each withdrawal is deliberately slow, yet each insertion is thoughtlessly instant, shrinking my corpulent midsection in rains and rivers of seed. She whispers straight to the ear which her tongue runs along, delivering a few sultry words at a time. “I don't have to share...” I suppose she doesn't. Is that relevant, I wonder, in the moments I have before my bones shake once again following a dazing piston. “Which means I'm not gonna share...” I may have been more spot on than I thought. She's got me as alone as she likes save for one little fact. A fact that continues to diminish under her efforts, potent as they are. “Not even with myself...” Which means- “To make you look like that.”

Damnit, why are these vampires allowed to just pound into me before I can see it coming? It's like they're purpose-built to interrupt my thoughts with unexpected pleasure. … Why am I complaining, again? Why am I actively looking for reasons to try and be angry, in the middle of being ravaged against the wall like enough effort will demolish it? In truth, it probably would; the flab I'm losing as she speeds up and starts intermingling more slaps to a swiftly tenderizing rear end may be dwindling insulation. I guess I could try and gripe about how I like having my weight doubled by sheer volume of semen, but she means to fill me back up. And, in the mean time, why on any plane of existence would I bitch about how this is turning out? She beats against my bladder like she wants to dislodge it entirely, which feels about half as savage as she brutalizes my backside. She doesn't have to force me to continually regurgitate my stomach's impregnating contents, as it's a trial to hold my jaw closed. Her sister is conscientious enough to not ream me like she'd rather I end our encounter in giblets, so I can sometimes forget that's possible. Maybe I should ask Remilia to be less courteous next time. When I'm not wrapped up in this.

Manic is the best word for encapsulating the breathing coming from behind me. Flandre's no longer even guiding me with a hand; she just bucks upwards with obscene strength, nearly popping me off her turgid monster. Her freed appendage acts as something of a buffer against my flying off, doing so by choosing a tit at random to grip and kneading it wildly – the process is approximately one step below just flinging me towards the ground using my breasts. I would be less okay with this instinctual understanding of what I want, were I not enjoying it thoroughly. Holes that aren't even being speared quiver in anticipation, desiring this for themselves, wishing to try in vain to clamp closed against this onslaught. As they express their opinions, so too does the vampire. Her tongue laps at my neck, hastily cleaning a portion, inasmuch as anything in this room is clean. Then her fangs hover close – disconcertingly so, most might argue – every time I fall. “Hey.” A single word, scalding against my skin, in the opening she has. What follows comes in short spurts, no less intense than her intro. “I'm hungry, but, I gave Flandre three all the fairies for a month. I can have some, can't I? It'll help us go even longer...” Springing a choice like this on me in the middle of something like this is hardly fair; I'm far more inclined to just answer in the affirmative while I'm flailing from carnal excess. Oh, just-

Evidently, it was not a choice. I would call that more forewarning that she'd already made up her mind. Teeth puncture flesh, deep into muscle beneath skin, vampire's maw greedily sucking at the wound so created. Held in place against her, squirming but not fighting, I can feel the effects as she enjoys a meal that sounds as messy as it is grisly in this erotic pause. Two of these feelings are purely physical: balls I've worked to drain refill against me, while an already enormous erection proves it can try harder, when it wants. The third, however, is something I'm uniquely equipped to discern. An unholy surge in lascivious thoughts, libido tuned to overdrive. Mental note: ask Remilia why she needed help when blood does the trick. Or maybe I don't need to, as the erratic heaving of the vampire's chest has become something on the level of bestial. I don't need to see to picture the flared nostrils spewing steam in snorts. Arms fling back around me, and sure enough, I've thinned to the point that even they can wrap around me. Their intent in doing so is to twist me around so that I'm facing her, now that there's much less to get in the way of that. As for what is?

Well, when she pulls me against her like that, shoving my abused cavity nearly to the point it's level with my neck, she doesn't need any more help in squeezing the last remnants out of me. Nails meet and dig again, adding to the list of things I'm going to need to patch up when this is done, or quite possibly soon. That bite didn't get anything vital but it sure isn't shallow and I can't quite make myself care at the moment because she's chosen this moment to headbutt me. Wait, no, that was probably just a bit too much vigor in bringing our lips together; it seems like she wants to engage in a rather extreme version of snowballing. I'm far from disinclined to oblige, absentmindedly seeking out her tongue with my own, that they might meet amid these waves. Though it necessitates she doesn't simply wildly throw me around, she barely needs a fraction of her length to deliver a jarring jab. Combined with her crushing hugs, the well from which she's sampling begins to dry. Waves weaken and cease, downgrading to gushes, shrinking to spurts, and eventually becoming a trickle. At least until her arms roam just a bit higher, to my upper back. Is she going to- the fact that I'm finishing by vomiting up what was filling my lungs is proof that, yes, she's going to do exactly that. When she finally pulls back, far more than saliva connecting our entire faces, I can actually take on air. Polluted, grimy air, which would still drown me if my lungs were concerned about that, but air all the same. “You were quiet for long enough.” The fact that she can speak in even a shaky voice, with what I feel radiating off of her, is an astonishing feat. “You have something to say, right?”

There's one thing I need to say. It's the only important thing I could say, given the situation I'm in. A virulent, hacking cough of, “Stop... waiting... around...” I can feel her throbbing, unsatisfied need with only my body. Likewise, everywhere she's emptied feels... well, empty. They yearn. I yearn.

The only pause before her requital is the simple, heavy word of, “Good.” Then we go from wall to ground and I'm not sure if it's the wood splinters or the deforming thrust which finally brings me to my peak, but either is lovely. My bladder presently inhabits the region near my collarbone, and somewhere in the haze of pleasure, I have the random thought that the resultant swelling underneath my neck looks akin to a frog. When it is swelling. Having held it all in quite long enough, Flandre has set upon a frenetic pace in her own release, to the point it seems entire ropes can start at one end of me and terminate at the other. This is slightly concussing, as much as it bangs my head, which may explain why my eyes feel like they're swirling more than usual for an orgasm. Whatever croaks I can get out with the paltry breaths I took, they're absolutely drowned out by the cries that sometimes reach me through my own delectable delirium. The tide of proffered white is decentralized, spread over a huge area, and nonetheless forms a ridge down the middle of my chest. It's not just as much as her first ejaculation earlier, it seems like more, though estimating these things in the middle of my throes is difficult. Timely, then, that I come out of them, gasping and fighting for every scrap of air I can manage – a task made difficult by the vampire atop me who's hardly done, driving out breath I don't have. At least I can now rest entirely assured that she's firing more, as I wait for her to actually run dry in this go. It gives me time to clench a fist in an overly grandiose manner, which serves as an adequate replacement to a snap, so that I can mend myself in fire. A hunch assures me I won't be getting a long break. Sure enough, as a shivering Flandre collapses onto me, having refreshingly warmed my insides, she hasn't even bounced back before she asks, “Ready?”

I think this girl likes to ask a lot of rhetorical questions, because I'm not offered long enough to actually get a word in before I learn that my bed is sturdier than it looks, as it's somehow intact after we've transitioned to it. Which kicks off the latest in a trend I'm happy about, of lengthy sexual sessions which it would be absurd to try and detail every second of. The vampire makes good on her promise, and no matter how savagely she slams me around, she still manages to distend me all on her own, without the help of her clones. Orgasms come and go, in and out of sync. Her extended releases and refusal to slow down at all mean I undergo a lot of stirring as she's busy exploding inside of me, giving her a distinct upper hand in that regard. A less rational part of my brain tells me that I should fight fire with fire and try dosing her with aphrodisiacs to counterbalance things; the part able to think about anything other than cocks endlessly knows that I'd lose a week, if I even survived what ensued. I already need to find time to heal every half-dozen rounds, lest I grow too weak to actually keep up. Long before we're even close to done, I have reached the conclusion that whatever else Flandre is, she's exactly my kind of dangerous. I may or may not be able to rein her in, but until I know that, I'm just going to go in under the assumption that heavy-duty, animalistic rutting is going to be the end result of every encounter.

By the end of it all, when I am sore in spots I rarely get to feel sore in, I am not in the same position I was the last few times I ended up this disgustingly round. Which is to say, every single place that got fucked like there's no tomorrow isn't disgorging my hard-earned rewards. This is mostly because I'm on the ground, the ground is below sea level, and the sea is made of semen, under which I am buried. In truth, this is probably a minute or so after proceedings ended. I recall, in the middle of one last climax, finally feeling Flandre shrinking, having thus claimed victory. I had more in me. Have. Have more in me. Just... soon as I can pick myself up. I'm going to need to abuse my favorite post-coital trick several times, because once simply won't free me. I think we got up to knee deep? A few things are a blur, because the world gets blurry when you're zipping around at vampire speeds. Flandre might still be here. She might well have left. I can't say, from where I'm at. Worry about it in a minute. I'll worry about it, and what to do with any day I might have left, in a minute.

[ ] The only person I haven't fucked yet in the mansion is Meiling; the only person I'm not likely to fuck soon in the mansion is Meiling. Always seems to shake out that way. I've already had my insides flooded a hundred times today, now it'd be nice to chat.
[ ] I may have gotten a soul tug at some point during that romp. Blurry and all that, not entirely sure. Regardless of whether I did or not, there are books that need to go back on shelves. Not that they'll rot if it's put off a little longer.
[ ] Should I lay here long enough, the maid will assume this needs cleaning, unearthing me in pursuing this task. Maybe when she comes, I can convince her to help more with chocolates and sweets?
[ ] If there's one thing I am, it's insatiable. When I pick myself up, I have a very specific destination in mind: a flagrantly flaring aura of sexual dominance that I don't recognize, which makes it either a visitor or someone Patchouli summoned. Either's worth checking out.
[ ] Flandre hadn't left. But she is leaving, as instanced by the fact that viscera and bone shoot up out of the ground to perforate her. Probably the clones rejoining. I never did get to ask about that.
[ ] The people speak, and to their voice I listen, for what remains of my day. (Write-in)
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[X] If there's one thing I am, it's insatiable. When I pick myself up, I have a very specific destination in mind: a flagrantly flaring aura of sexual dominance that I don't recognize, which makes it either a visitor or someone Patchouli summoned. Either's worth checking out.

Who could it be?
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[x] Flandre hadn't left. But she is leaving, as instanced by the fact that viscera and bone shoot up out of the ground to perforate her. Probably the clones rejoining. I never did get to ask about that.
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[X] If there's one thing I am, it's insatiable. When I pick myself up, I have a very specific destination in mind: a flagrantly flaring aura of sexual dominance that I don't recognize, which makes it either a visitor or someone Patchouli summoned. Either's worth checking out.

Let see some Koa dom.
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Okay, I might take more than a minute to enjoy being hidden beneath an inordinate amount of cum for one vampire to produce. But it's just so cozy here, all warm and snug beneath this breeding blanket; I can hardly be blamed if I take the time to relax in it. I'd consider writing the day off and worrying about things tomorrow, honestly. Just revitalize the magic I'm using so I don't need to breathe and sleep under all of this. But I'm provided with a very compelling reason to not: a sensation, an aura, of immense and unrestrained sexuality. An assault upon the mind that speaks of a near insatiable appetite for the pleasures of the flesh. It reeks of an arrogant stench, steeped in pride and touting unparalleled ability to subjugate others. Peculiar that, despite this, it bears none of the frigid bite of sadism. Even the mansion's residents don't register this strongly to me, so whoever this is must have inhibitions well beyond negative. And anyone that boldly broadcasts themselves like this is someone worth meeting.

I wonder who it might even be as I set about freeing myself. It's not the right mindset for most incubi; I'd recognize one of those instantly. I shrink down and, consequently, drop essentially a slab of semen onto myself, its thud likely echoing above given its dazing impact. Maybe knee deep was a conservative estimate. As my eyes spin and I shrink again to keep sucking up seed, I consider that there's no major marker I recognize. That precludes most sorts of demons and devils that I might otherwise guess, and makes me think this isn't someone else my master's summoned for her project. Someone that lives in Gensokyo, probably? Is the wider populous just as lasciviously inclined as this mansion's members? I haven't gotten that impression, so I doubt it. This must be someone in particular. I don't know enough of the notable people that exist here to really offer a good guess, so I just need to excavate myself and go see. That takes another four rounds of letting progressively less collapse onto me, until at last, I have freedom. Standing up while I take in the air I've been doing without again, I find the knees were a really conservative estimate. This is past my waist; I must've taken some really fierce knocks to the head while Flandre and I were having fun to be this far off. Good thing I can just fly.

Before I set out, I take it upon myself to try and swipe clean the face of my clock. It takes a lot of rubbing, some picking, and a considerable amount of consuming, but I eventually unveil enough of it to figure out it's about half past four. In the afternoon, presumably, as time's exhaustion isn't mixing with exertion's, the latter fading by dint of sex being its origin. Satisfied that I still have something resembling a day left, I take it upon myself to get out of here. There's a road block or two in the way of that, however. I'm going to assume the cracks got gunked up whenever Flandre left, but regardless of the when, the whole thing is so glued into place I need to practically shoulder check the door to make it open. Even once I've thrown it open, that leaves me with the unenviable task of trying to close it behind me. Thick as this seed might be, it could eventually seep its way towards some bookshelf in the library, and I don't want that on my head. Getting it sealed back up is a matter of another round of shoulder shoving, until I'm fairly sure either that the door is in place or I have successfully re-gummed it so thoroughly that there's not much difference. I should be slightly more proactive in getting this cleaned. Which is to say, rather than assuming Sakuya will just handle it, I take a minute to dip my finger into what managed to escape and scrawl out, 'Clean please.' onto the door. Perfect.

Now, about that aura. It hits me all the stronger here in the library, and... in fact, I can feel it coming from further in. Was I wrong about her summoning someone else, or does she happen to have a friend that's her polar opposite? I'll find out, I suppose. Tracking them down isn't hard; they might as well be screaming my name like they've spent hours searching desperately for me. I can make a straight shot to them with minimal interruptions. It would be no interruptions, but I have to pause to kick off a fairy that gets a little too attached to me, to ensure she can't muck up my master's experiment. After the one, I just clothe myself to simplify things. That dealt with, an aerial jaunt sees me nearing the opening where Patchouli sets up shop. A rough voice, bordering on masculine, rumbles through the shelves as I do. “No, c'mon, for real though. Y'had me sitting here for hours by now. These things actually doing anything or were y'just pulling my damn leg?”

I'm just close enough to make out the dry, weary response of, “Yes, I am quite certain. We're nearly through, so remain patient another minute.” Well, that doesn't sound like my master's being friendly with them, which I'd argue rules out this being someone she likes. In that case, I just don't know what to expect. I -do- know that I -don't- expect what I see when I finally clear enough shelves to catch sight of the scene.

The woman casually reclining on the floor of the library is a giant, and very nearly a literal one; I think she may still be taller than I am even while seated. Paired with that height are bulging muscles from head to toe, enough to supply several bodybuilders with physiques they'd kill for. Her bangs are parted around a deadly sharp looking crimson horn that juts from her forehead, and those bangs are only a fraction of the wild head of blonde hair allowed to trail onto the floor. I'd be assuming this was a rare male for this place, were it not for the enormous bust which a clinging white shirt is straining to contain. Her arms are chained – or were, at some point – but it doesn't look like it ever did much to hold her in place, as only ruined scraps of steel hang off the manacles around her wrists. One of those once-shackled hands is holding an irresponsibly large saucer cup from which she's drinking what smells like sake. She looks neither drunk nor tipsy, in spite of the fact that there are clearly no less than a half a dozen gourds of the stuff next to her, and that's just the uncorked ones. Where my eyes really fixate, however, is her skirt. It's exceedingly long, colored a deep blue that borders on purple, and just slightly see-through – tantalizingly so. I can't fully make out what's behind it, but... I can make guesses. I can absolutely make guesses that get me salivating, especially if what I'm seeing is yet soft. She sniffs at the air as I touch down, and beats me to announcing my presence by glancing over. She beams more happily than it seems reasonable to on seeing me, belting out a hearty, “Koakuma! Yer finally back! Thought y'up and died or somethin'. How the fuck've ya' been?”

My previous encounter with Flandre is fresh enough that I withhold the curses I want to spew, mentally and otherwise, on being greeted like an old friend by someone I've never met. She's not at fault. I can just calmly explain I'm not who she thinks I am. “My name is Koakuma, yes, but I'm not the Koakuma you're thinking of. That was someone else entirely.” As long as she knows anything about summoning, that should-

“What, changing yer image or somethin', just 'cause this place went all no-sex for a while? Don't tell me they got to ya' with that dumb bullshit. Should've just come to my place when they did, instead. ” She shakes her head in disappointment as she finishes this, finding fault in decisions neither I – nor, likely, my predecessor – made. I'm just going to assume her level of magical knowledge is inversely proportional to her musculature.

“No,” I stress, as Patchouli casually spins Flandre's crystals around with a wave, muttering to herself. “I'm trying to say that you met a different succubus, who was also named Koakuma. We're entirely separate and distinct. Right, master?” If I get her in on it, this misunderstanding should be easy enough to clear up.

Without looking up from her work, the purple-haired woman responds with a listless, “It is up for debate whether you are 'entirely separate and distinct,' but I have noticed some discrepancies.” Thanks, master Patchouli. Thanks a bunch for that vote of confidence. Really helping me out here.

The thump of one of the giant's fingers tapping against the hardwood reverberates as she gives these statements some thought. Just how much strength is packed into those muscles? “So,” she starts, speech slow and uncertain. “Yer not Koakuma. Yer another Koakuma. But ya' look and sound like Koakuma. Despite not being Koakuma?” I breathe deeply through my nose and exhale the same way. It hits me with a pervasive, dominating musk, emptying my head of any thought but slobbering over every inch she might have for a moment. I pull back to reality, rather than make that reality. I need to make her understand.

With some measure of effort I keep cool, answering her, “Yes. That's right. I'm a different Koakuma, and we've never met before. Whoever you used to know, I'm not the same individual as them.” She still looks skeptical, one hand under her chin while the other doles great swigs of her drink.

When she's had her fill – enough to put a man under in one go, it looked like – she turns back over to my master. “'ey. It's been 'bout a minute, right? We done yet, can I get my ass up?” She receives no reply for several seconds, colors swirling through air around her.

Either of us is likely to speak up when the pause drags on, but we're both beaten to it by her enthused response of, “Yes, it seems like the copying process is functioning perfectly. I shouldn't need your cooperation any longer.” Not that she looks up from her magical data. I'm almost surprised she even smiles.

“Perfect.” The giant stands up and walks over to me. I swear I feel the faintest of tremors despite the fact she looks like she's taking exceedingly cautious steps. When she's within arm's reach – hers, not mine – she informs me, casually, “I'm gonna clap ya' on the back now.” What?

Oh. That's what. One second I am standing. The next second, I've smashed several floorboards and might have had my spine snapped if I weren't still under the effects of that spell to make myself more durable. What the actual fuck is this woman made of? I'm pried up by two fingers pinching my vest, getting me off the ground well before I'd otherwise have managed, and helping me actually look her in the eye besides. “Was there a point to that?” I wheeze, having lost more air than I can actually hold. Not that I'm complaining. I am formulating all the different ways this woman could ravage me and how much fun it'll be. But it seems a tad random.

“'Course there was,” she answers, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “My Koakuma sure as shit knew to brace herself before I smacked her like that, so that means y'ain't her. Proves more'n any amount of talking's gonna.” That is a very hands-on, rather painful method of confirming things, and I can't disapprove. I don't expect her to drop me, so I don't catch myself, landing on the ground in a heap. Either not noticing this fact thanks to her vantage point or not caring, she carries on with, “Guess introductions are in order, then. Hoshiguma Yuugi's the name. Won't find a tougher oni anywhere, Gensokyo or not.”

I pick myself back up, just functional enough to manage. Being right in front of her emphasizes the fact that I'm at slightly higher than crotch height, and I wholeheartedly believe her claim. It's a bit pointless for me to introduce myself, so instead I take a few steps back, craning my neck to ask, “Is there a reason we haven't met before now, besides the obvious?”

“Is it obvious I ain't got much reason to come here when I ain't welcome just for sayin' I wanna pound ya' into the dirt?” Her frank question receives a quick nod, and a wave of her hand whips me with wind despite its lackadaisical nature. “Nah, then. Place got real boring real fast after that; gave up on trying when she didn't even come to visit.” She raises her 'cup' – more a giant, lipped plate for serving entire parties – but finds a reason to lower it before she starts drinking, asking in turn, “So why the hell are ya' a different Koakuma? What's up with that? Seems kinda stupid, if y'ask me.” A statement I can get behind, without any doubt, if for different reasons.

Rather than go into those reasons, I stab at the heart of the problem. I can get a serviceable answer out in a mere two flat words, “Blame Remilia.” She's in the midst of that quaff she was considering before, and the gulps before her answer give me enough time to reconsider and add in, for my own benefit, “Blame my master, too.” Doesn't even earn me a glance or a snide retort from the magician.

“That so?” Yuugi muses, ponderously tapping an earth-shaking foot. She glances over at my master, and then shrugs. “Well, ain't no fun in beating up a cripple, so I'll just have to take it up with the vampire when I see her again.” I kind of want to see that fight, actually. “Oi. You too. Why the fuck?” An accusatory finger accosts Patchouli, demanding an explanation out of her as well.

This, too, isn't enough to get her to look away from whatever she's doing with the copy of Yuugi now in her project. It does get a tired answer, at least. “I cannot sustain a succubus when doing so requires seclusion and distraction from my work. Obviously I had to dismiss the last one.”

In retort comes first a derisive scoff, and then a demanding, “So why didn't ya' just send her to me, huh? Even if this place decides to fuck itself up, y'ain't gotta just get rid of her.” She's offended on both her behalf on my own, it seems like. Or, at least, the behalf of the last 'me.' Both of us at once, maybe?

Her offense brings another sigh to Patchouli's lips, the magician dully replying, “Do you have even an inkling of the difficulties inherent in balancing a magical contract to allow a succubus to feed off of someone other than their master, especially in a place like Gensokyo?”

“Who the fuck cares about that?” the oni counters, steamrolling right over the fact that the answer is obviously that she doesn't. “Ya' seriously gonna tell me ya' just did away with 'er 'cause ya'd have to do some work to keep 'er 'round?”

Still eyeing her project, the magus takes on an authoritative tone and ripostes, “Yes, that is precisely what I've just stated. If you'd care to debate the matter of structuring clauses inside of a soul-binding contract, I could afford you five minutes to tear apart whatever asinine misconceptions you possess.” Not that I'm on my master's side, but from my estimations, she could probably manage it in three, unless Yuugi is exceedingly pigheaded. I like her thus far, but magically inclined she is not.

“Bah. Frigid bitch.” Nor is she that stubborn, letting the crass remark signal the end of pestering my master. She reaches around me to swipe up another gourd, ripping the cork out of it with her teeth before pouring plenty more into her chosen receptacle. It seems like a waste of effort, as by the time she's shaking it to make sure every drop is out of there, well... every drop is out of there. Why bother moving it, at that point? I'd ask about it, but I have a slightly more relevant line of inquiry.

“New question,” I quickly interject, before she can start demolishing this latest round of alcohol. “Did you just come here to help with my master's project?” The boisterous laughter that answers my question is impressive both in how swift and how loud it is, visibly getting my master to wince.

When it passes, she shakes her head, adding a blunt, “Nah, like hell.” She pauses for a small sip – also known as at least a glass' worth – and continues to explain, “I just let myself get roped into it. That angry maid came by and said I should visit, might see ya' if I did. Didn't have anything better to do, figured I might as well. Was honestly thinkin' she'd duped me 'fore ya' showed up. Busy day?”

“Hectic but leisurely. Flandre happened.” I say this under the assumption that it means anything to Yuugi. Which, in hindsight, it might not. Before I can amend that to less assume an occasional visitor is intimately familiar with someone that spends years hiding away, I receive a surprising retort.

Largely as it comes from Patchouli, an offhand, “You let Flandre happen. She's entirely capable of understanding consent.” Given the sidelong glance that the pile of books to her left receives, she takes some level of umbrage with my not having removed them by now. It's still yesterday's tomorrow, I'm not reneging on my promise that I'd get it done today just yet.

“I'll handle the books soon. They'll take me a long while.” They won't be so kind as to all have come from the same shelf. Accounting for travel time, remembering where I got each of them, trying to hold a half-ton grimoire in one hand while shoving aside the slanted tome overtaking where it used to rest with the other... I may have overestimated how much day I had left, actually.

“Got a better idea.” Yuugi cuts in now, grinning down at me from her towering position of not sitting. “I help ya' with whatever dumb book bullshit she's got ya' up to, then we have a bit of fun. What's she even need ya' to do?”

I point at the stack of books on the left, just as imposing as it was yesterday. “Those. I need to get all of them back where they belong. They're just kind of heavy.” In utter defiance of my statement, she stomps her way over to them, leaning down and scooping her fingers under one of two piles of a dozen. It looks weightless as she hefts it, balancing them all atop a palm nearly as wide as the absurd tomes.

“Ya' need me to rearrange the shelves, too, just lemme know. Wouldn't even have to take these paperweights off 'em,” she boasts as she does. She's just showing off to impress me and I have to admit that it's working wonders. I can hardly find a reason to turn her down. Visions aplenty run through my head of all the ways she could use me. I let my eyes wander to that skirt, barely hiding what must truly become a monster. I can read her desires like a book, but that cuts both ways. Cockily, she adds, “Looks like a yes to me. Ya' wanna point me to where they go?”

Do I? Do I ever. I fail to see a single downside to this. I guess I might fully miss out on a day I could be using to get closer to my master, but do I really, absolutely need every last one of them? Well, yes, actually, I likely do; but nothing says I can't allocate some of them to keeping my spirits up. A day away from these concerns, just to relax and be fucked until I should be a ruined, gaping mess. That hardly sounds like a bad idea. In fact it sounds like a wonderful idea. I'm most of the way there, and I'll get all the closer if I just let the words come out of my lips.

[ ] Yuugi's easily beyond large and strong enough to ferry all two dozen books for me at once – with that kind of size and power, she could just hold me in one hand like a sex toy and use me. It's the kind of thing that really does benefit from a hand able to grip the whole torso.
[ ] I'll get her to help me deliver those grimoires, and then I'll put forward something interesting. Yuugi's clearly a physical powerhouse beyond compare. But just how much of one? The resident expert in martial strength is Meiling. Could she fuck me while having a match with her?
[ ] Let's put these tomes where they belong, and then, I'm going to take advantage of the pride she exudes without care or end. I can get the oni off without ever putting her inside me, doing nothing but worshiping each chiseled portion of her.
[ ] After I've taken her up on that offer, I'm going to go with her idea: pounding me into the ground, preferably until there's a crater beneath us. I'll add a twist, though. I know for sure she won't need any help to fill me up, but I could help all the same by giving her obscenely large sperm, for the fun of it.
[ ] I... could turn her down. I'd surprise my master, at least? I guess that's one positive. Yet, then I wouldn't get to have fun with Yuugi. Is that trade-off really worth it? I'm not sure it is, but I'll know by the time I'm done. I'll have a long time to justify myself, to both me and to my master, whose interest this will surely pique.
[ ] Oh, but the possibilities truly are endless. One list couldn't contain them all. In fact, I've just thought of another way this can play out. (Write-in)
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[X] After I've taken her up on that offer, I'm going to go with her idea: pounding me into the ground, preferably until there's a crater beneath us. I'll add a twist, though. I know for sure she won't need any help to fill me up, but I could help all the same by giving her obscenely large sperm, for the fun of it.
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[x] I'll get her to help me deliver those grimoires, and then I'll put forward something interesting. Yuugi's clearly a physical powerhouse beyond compare. But just how much of one? The resident expert in martial strength is Meiling. Could she fuck me while having a match with her?
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[X] After I've taken her up on that offer, I'm going to go with her idea: pounding me into the ground, preferably until there's a crater beneath us. I'll add a twist, though. I know for sure she won't need any help to fill me up, but I could help all the same by giving her obscenely large sperm, for the fun of it.

Well that's a kink I didn't know existed.
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[X] I'll get her to help me deliver those grimoires, and then I'll put forward something interesting. Yuugi's clearly a physical powerhouse beyond compare. But just how much of one? The resident expert in martial strength is Meiling. Could she fuck me while having a match with her?

I am absolutely in the market for a fight-scene that's simultaneously a fuck-scene.
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The time has come and the vote is tied. The option first voted for is heads, thus making the other tails. Let's see what the future holds in store. Coin flip: tails!
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Thus I do, smiling oh so brightly and sincerely as I answer a cheery, “I'll show you where they go and then we can have some fun.” The dozen books Yuugi's already holding are set atop the other pile, stacked now precariously tall; yet they don't topple as she lifts it all. I'd imagine they want to, however. So does my master, seemingly.

“Do not drop them,” she stresses, not entirely appreciative of the display of balancing prowess. The spines probably wouldn't take kindly to falls from the heights we'll be at, admittedly, so it's concern that's warranted. Not that the oni thinks so.

Entirely dismissive is the response of, “It'll be fine, I ain't gonna spill 'em.” This does nothing to allay concerns, but I don't think anything will aside of showing back up to say we're done and her tomes are fine. Yuugi's already heading off, considerate enough to clear some distance before she starts flying, and I take after. Turning to look at me, not even focusing on the stack of books that really should need some attention, Yuugi asks, “So, what're ya' thinkin'?” A lot of things, actually, some of which aren't even related to what she really means. I'll start with those, rather than gush about how I want to see and feel her breaking my bowels.

“What's up with the bowl?” I ask for starters, as I hurry to catch up so I can read what it is I'm even returning. That initially doesn't get more than a bemused raise of the eye, giving me enough time to figure out roughly where all these things should go and point into the distance. “Most of them should go about there. And I mean why do you bother pouring your drink into it. Kinda pointless, isn't it?”

“Oh, that. Nah, there's a point to it. Two of 'em, even. The first is that this here's a high-grade sake dish. Pour any drink into it – even the cheapest swill – and all of a sudden it's top-shelf stuff. Y'wanna try some?” On the one hand, I can't be entirely sure how strong the stuff is; for all I know she's just immune to getting drunk, as a perk of her heritage. On the other hand, one sip can't down me. I think.

What really tips the balance of consideration is the assumption that even if I K.O. myself, she'll probably just start doing things to my unconscious body that I'll feel. She definitely wouldn't let it stop her, and couldn't deliver the books, at that point. So, with courage, I declare, “Yeah, sure. I'll have some.” I can feel the approval even before her speech as we pause our search.

“That's the spirit,” she encourages me with. “Let's get a bit in ya'.” Bringing the rim to my lips, she leans it forward. I should maybe have specified what value 'some' entailed, as I think we have two different definitions of it. I get my sip. And then I get another. I get a few more, throat starting to burn like I'm downing liquid fire. I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume its taste is amazing, but at the rate I have to swallow to keep from spilling, I don't exactly get much time to savor it. I really would rather remain conscious and in full possession of my faculties, so when it keeps going and seems like it's not going to end until I end it, I pull back. Evidently she was waiting for this, as she manages to stop dispensing without even staining my vest. That, or oni have their own sixth sense for alcohol related matters. “Not bad, eh? This is just the shit I can get in bulk. Y'oughta see what it does to the already quality booze.”

I'm not really a connoisseur of alcohols, but thankfully, heat isn't something that tends to bother me. If nothing else, I don't choke or sputter the way I otherwise might. I'm not sure I'm adequately qualified to rate the effects of her dish regardless, so I opt for the diplomatic response of, “I don't think it'd feel this potent, then, if it weren't doing something.” Keeping stride, I follow with an earnest, “So, what's the other reason for it?” I would like to know. I'd also like to gloss over my lackluster sake review.

As a demonstration, she shifts around the dish of sake with a flick of her arm, leaving it resting on only fingers. I'm not sure I quite see the point, looking to her to explain further. Her chosen method of doing so is to retract half the fingers she had it sitting on, middle and pointer fingers now all that's supporting it. Okay, that is getting to be something of a feat, but is it just for showmanship? I assume so when she retracts the middle finger, one single digit keeping the whole thing afloat. “Pretty good sense of balance, right?” The question actually lacks the smug self-assurance that she all but oozes.

It's all quite dexterous despite her appearance as a solid slab of muscle, I have to admit. Still, “While that may be the case, I'm not seeing it. Do you really need more ways to show off?” An amused chuckle follows in the footsteps of these words. Not that, then, though she's still grandstanding; I will say that the point at which she's got it on only a fingernail is the point at which I am actually inclined to start applauding, stopped by the fact that she just keeps going.

“Y'see,” she says, not actually watching herself work, “I'm kind of basically impervious.” With this explanation, she swings her hand around, alcohol sloshing inside the saucer, without a single drop actually slipping over the edge. She brings it back into place quicker, twisting on her little fulcrum to keep it steady as she does. “Makes fights get a little old, right? So I came up with a solution.” In a maneuver that would have my master shrieking, she tosses her drink up just a tad while letting go of the books. They barely have time to register gravity before she's snapped around, catching them in the other hand, the one which was supporting them now the nail holding up alcohol aplenty. That, for sure, is worth clapping over.

As the light impacts ring and echo, I suggest, “They win if they manage to get you to drop the bowl, then?” as the natural conclusion of what she's saying. A disbelieving puff of air comes from pursed lips thereafter, leaving me further off than I'd expect. “Seriously? What, not good enough?” I ask in disbelief, wondering exactly what she does to level the playing field with this, then.

“Not even close,” she answers with a shake of her head. Skyward the bowl is again sent just a little, so she can hold it by its edge now. Thumb and pinky hold just the top of the container in the most limp looking grip I can imagine, nonetheless keeping it level and steady. “Go on. Take it. I'm barely holding it, right?” Not that I don't know I can't, but I make the attempt anyway to see exactly how insane it is. I try to shove it downwards and it doesn't budge. I try to wrench it outwards and I don't even see her arm tense in fighting me. I extend a hand, telling her to pause for a second, dropping to the ground so I can aim an inverse dropkick with about as much speed as I can put behind my magical flight; I manage to make my feet sting, and that's about it. “Y'wanna keep going?” It would be an arrogant question, if we weren't both certain I could try all day without making any progress.

Rather than spend a few minutes doing so and trying so hard I cause injuries I'll have to waste energy healing, I concede. “You win. It's not moving.” That said, I can't help but point out, “I don't think it's very impressive to be stronger than a succubus, though.” That earns a concession of itself, in the form of an inclined head.

“Probably not, nah. Y'got a vampire on hand for me to prove I can still do it to 'em?” I don't. She's also carrying an approximate twelve tons on her other hand lazily, so I'm not really going to fight her on the matter. Her entire existence sort of proves her point, thus I just shrug. Spying a book askew, I wave her down and, sure enough, one of the missing tomes goes here. While we sort out actually pulling that one from the stack – that is to say, while we go to ground so we won't drop them all several stories – she takes initiative to explain, “How it actually works is if they get me to spill a single drop, I'll give 'em the victory.”

On second thought, that does make more sense than what I suggested. She could still drop one of those gourds, and probably balance one, too. Much harder to spill something from a container several feet tall once it's been at all emptied. Having established this, the next point of order is, “How much does that actually help?” By now I rather expect the noncommittal noise that comes as she plucks the book up and goes to put it in the obvious gap.

The actual reply to follow is a distinctly unenthusiastic, “Kinda depends.” Gingerly tapping a spare finger against her saucer, she eventually adds, “Maybe gets me half a dozen people I can actually have a good scrap with? All the magical light bullshit doesn't help, either.” I'd think that it actually would, as she should probably be less resilient to the magic. But maybe she just isn't fond of the spellcard system. Actually...

As we float back down to collect the pile and continue our search, I grow a smile, an idea forming in my head. “Is Meiling on that list?” I ask, as outwardly eager for the answer as I am inwardly. The crack of a clicking tongue is hardly a promising start.

Nor is the disappointment behind her tone much better within the response of, “Just a bit shy, really. Better'n most, since we can actually go fist to fist, but still lackin' a bit of oomph, y'know?” That's not as bad as I was thinking. In fact, that might well be perfect. I can work with that. “Come to think of it, actually, been a while since we had a match, given I stopped comin' to visit...” She's even thinking what I'm thinking. A part of it, anyway.

“Why don't we fix that?” I suggest, licking my lips at the thought. I'm already continuing by the time she's raised an eyebrow in piqued interest. “Maybe what you need there is another handicap. So you and I can have a bit of fun, while you two have a bit of fun.” Every word I speak broadens her grin, until it looks like her mouth's wide enough she could swallow me whole, deep guffaws casting it open.

“I fuckin' missed this,” she says, throwing an arm around me and squeezing nigh on too tightly for a moment. “This is the kinda shit even the oni back home don't think of. I'm gonna steal this one. You sure we gotta bother with this book nonsense?” Unfortunately, yes, we do, as I sort of want to not be dismissed for shirking off the few duties I have.

That said, my answering nod needn't be too heavy with grief. After all, “I think we could speed this up a little. I'll go find where to put them and shout for you; just follow after as fast as you can while balancing them.” It'll cut into our ability to chat, yet I think the both of us would rather get down to business. And by think, I mean know, as I can feel the welling tide of lust that boils to the surface and threatens to explode. I don't even need to wait for her affirmation; I just speed off, rapidly scanning for where a book is clearly missing. Up aisles I skim, blitzing to and through every row that may have once held a grimoire in need of return. Yuugi keeps closer behind me than seems reasonable, but the obvious and resounding crash of dropped books remains absent; all that comes of it is the work progressing that much faster. It ends up taking longer to find the right shelves than it does to get a book – sometimes even two, when we're lucky – onto them. Makes me wish I usually had an assistant, I could save myself literal days. If they could follow after me while balancing enormous piles of books that would want desperately to fall to the ground and maybe this really only works because it's this oni specifically. I'll just have to not get used to it. By the time every tome is in its proper place, I'm not entirely sure how long has passed in the rush, but I'd say thereabouts of an hour – which is a great improvement over a task that likely would have marked the end of my day otherwise.

One final detour awaits before we can go rope Meiling into participating with us. That would be my master's workspace, where we aren't so much greeted as acknowledged by a glance. “I didn't hear them falling through the floor, so go on, then. Leave me be.” Not the friendliest of receptions, but hardly surprising, given she looks focused. We have plans anyway, so it's hard to be offended. The only reason thereafter that we're not off immediately is that Yuugi takes the time to swipe up all her gourds, slipping their tops into loops on her shirt's back at alternating heights. They interlock with one another to almost look like some sort of armor, as though she'd need anything of the sort. With that donned, Patchouli has her peace, and we have someone to recruit.

While the main entrance doors are large enough for her, exiting the library requires ample amounts of ducking and twisting to get her out without simply tearing a hole in the wall. Not that Sakuya couldn't fix that, but it's rather unsustainable as a practice somewhere there's not a maid with infinite time. Good, then, that we arrive in front of the mansion without rubble and splinters dusting her clothing. Meiling is not in the middle of making use of my external aid as we float over the walls, but the scent of cum is still on the air, as are the passions that reach my senses. I can assume she's appreciated the new trick some of the fairies learned. Not that the other red-head can really smile any brighter to see us. “Finally done, Yuugi?” she asks the giant, greeting me with a wave as she does.

“Finally's a good word,” the oni agrees, distaste for the process clear enough in her voice for just a moment. There's plenty of cheer besides, however, enough I reflexively brace myself when her arm rears back. Sure enough, my wave to Meiling is interrupted by a clap that slides me forward a good foot and digs my heels into the ground. “Got to meet the new Koakuma, though, so I'd say it was worth it. She's got some pretty good ideas, too.”

“And what are those?” Meiling inquires towards specifically me, turning to offer a look that seems more intent than it needs to be. She's not usually with Remilia in the interest in sexual plans camp; I may be getting judged again.

Not that I'm sure why, as I'm happy to report our collective plan. “Yuugi said you two haven't had a fight in a while, so I thought you should. While she's railing me, just to make it a bit more even, and a lot more fun.” Well, I didn't expect the idea would light her world on fire. She doesn't have to look disappointed, though.

“It might balance things out,” Meiling admits, not wholly appreciating that fact. “And it would give me someone to have a proper sparring match with...” Really, the sigh hardly seems necessary. “Are you sure I can't talk you both out of it?” she asks, looking between the two of us. She definitely takes some issue with the idea.

I open my mouth to speak, and the words I attempt to say disappear beneath Yuugi's booming laughter. Rather than try again, I let her continue brazenly into, “Y'try and say 'no', I'm just gonna slam 'er on my cock and start smashing my way through yer mansion 'til ya' gotta come stop me anyway.” It's a very effective threat, considering that even Meiling has to look well up to look Yuugi in the eyes. Then she looks down to me for a more reasonable response.

And, strictly speaking, it's very reasonable to ask, “Does it look like I could stop her?” Her arms are at least as thick as my torso is wide, and they're even stronger than they look. What exactly would I even do against an attempt to grapple me? Fly in the opposite direction and learn she can fly just as fast, if not faster? Well, no, because I'd absolutely let her; besides, I don't think she'd get as far as ripping the iron gate off its hinges and throwing it through a wall before Meiling relented.

She definitely won't, as the gate guard resignedly shakes her head, giving up on the frankly silly notion that there's a reason for this not to happen. “Alright,” she says, sounding unnecessarily defeated; I may need to figure out what the deal is when we're done here. “We'll have our match, then. Prepare yourself.” She does the same, stance squaring and arms taking to the ready.

Yuugi's knuckles pop one by one as she runs her thumb along them. She looks not at her opponent, but to me. “Well?” the oni asks, arms indicating the whole of her body. “Y'heard 'er. Why don't ya' help us get ready, Koakuma?” She certainly doesn't have to ask twice. She doesn't even have to ask once. I'm very interested in seeing what she looks like, free and readied.
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I'll not be needing these clothes that up and vanish, and she's not going to be needing hers, either. She handles shrugging off the shirt, while I work on sliding down the skirt. As I do, I keep what I'm revealing a surprise for when it's fully exposed. Instead I focus on what's in front of and above me – which leaves plenty to focus on. Hair in spades sprouts from the crotch just below my vision, a tangled mess obfuscating the base I might otherwise catch sight of. My fingers spare a moment to run over abs closer to metal than to flesh, a dozen in total, six seemingly not enough to express her might. They run up against and hide behind a bust even more vast than it first seemed, her garb having done an adequate job of constraining them, somehow. The fact that I can reach them at all, standing upon the tips of my toes to bite and to suckle, says more about their heft than it does my height. Spied behind them, underneath upraised arms, are two more patches of unrestrained blonde hair. A fact which vanishes underneath the flutter of cloth swaying in gravity's hold, and especially given the slap my nethers suddenly receive. But not from roaming hand nor from prying knee, oh no. The bruising blow gets me to look down, licking my lips all at once. “What do we have here?” I ask rhetorically, lust suffuse in every word.

What we have here is a marvel, doubtlessly, able to easily strike fear into the hearts of lesser sluts. Near to where it sprouts, its girth seems almost manageable by some – but it slowly expands until reaching its midsection, whereupon it's more akin to a weapon than a sexual organ. In fact, rising to a dome-like, oozing head, its shape is rather reminiscent of something one might bludgeon with. The nubs – effectively blunted spikes – that disfigure its surface hardly do anything to dismiss this notion, quite possibly still capable of crushing their way through any armor. The whole thing pulses like one enormous vein, growing more full of life with each new stream of blood to pass through it. Even now, still extending in anticipation of what's to come, its length eclipses even one of Meiling's behemoths. And, of course, beneath it, there is only virility itself. Were she not so imposingly tall, surely her sack would trail along the ground as she walked. I can almost imagine its reserves to be infinite.

But I don't have time to gawk and gape. Even as I take in the sight of it, I take its position, square against my cunt, as invitation to slide along it. It can't lubricate itself at the moment, as even rising to meet me below leaves it angled heavily downward. But I can do the job myself with vim, drenching it in juices, particularly hefty spurts coming whenever I run over a bump that pierces inside and jabs at something sensitive. Quivers of desire combine with low moans, while behind me a ravenous growl sounds from the oni topping off her drink. The dying trickles of sake being poured herald intent, and that intent is Yuugi's, cock slinging upward again and interrupting my ministrations. I'm cast into the air as she drops a gourd, hand swinging to catch and stop me. A sultry whisper of, “I think that'll just about do.” meets my ear as I'm held, followed shortly by a coarse, “Why don't ya' pick where y'want it, y'little whore?”

I'm set free to choose, dropping to rest on that monstrous shaft, her lower head standing higher than my own, even while she continues to engorge. How can I not want it everywhere, to be filled from all sides by it, until there's less of me inside myself than there is oni? But as I have to pick one, it seems like keeping things simple will give me a better view of the action. Floating upwards, positioning myself, I settle my slit above what looks like it should never fit. I know it will, though, and I know what's coming – I see it from a mile away, unlike when the vampires do it. I get as far into my teasing query as, “Why don't you-” before it hits.

And it surely hits. Yuugi's free hand rests on my head to stop me slipping away, while her hips thrust upwards lazily. 'Lazily', for her, is enough tear apart the very idea of resistance, and bury about half a foot of phallus into me. Punching aside my guts and lumpily expanding my stomach like I've already been well-seeded, it replaces what I meant to say with a squeal, singing a duet with the oni's groan. Her followup is a cocky, “Thought y'might need a bit of help gettin' it in.” Well, if that's how she wants to play it, then I'm gonna have to take Meiling's side in the upcoming fight.

I have two answers to her arrogant assumption she's too wide for me to force in on my own. The first is to spread my cervix and drop myself deeper onto her, furthest reaches crushed unevenly; the second, once each of us trails from voiced pleasure, is a bold, “I think I can handle you just fine.”

The chuckle that first responds is hearty and deep, a prelude to a cheerful, “Good answer, that!” Thus she nestles me safely inside her bosom and while it's hardly perfect – even she'd have to lean up to kiss me right now, as I'm raised up quite high – it should insulate me against any body shots. Properly prepared now, Yuugi turns us to face Meiling, whose stance has held firm through this all. “Think we're 'bout good, here.” One hand holds aloft her drink; the other beckons the gate guard. So it begins.

A nod. A half second's pause. A rush of wind as Meiling blasts forward, whirling in a sideways kick aimed straight for the dish. But Yuugi and I twirl into the air as she flies past us, a scattered rainbow of projectiles spiraling after the lack of impact. The oni doesn't even take the moment to capitalize, instead dragging my head down to lock lips. Her tongue penetrates deep into my throat, filling it more than some entire erections have. Swirling, jabbing, drenching my mouth with excessive amounts of saliva, she doesn't even care to break it as Meiling remarks, “How brazen!”

What, exactly, transpires – well, that hides behind Yuugi's face, pressed against mine. I hear a flurry of rough impacts, colorful bursts of light just reaching my eyes. What I focus on, however, is trying to unbalance the oni. Inside my snug domain I knead at the mounds entrapping and protecting me. Past meeting lips, I reciprocate, snaking around the invader to play inside her own gullet. And, naturally, my cunt grinds, accepting more of her and finding itself prodded by protrusions, drilling into me at random. I shiver as moans disappear into her mouth, eventually freed as the kiss suddenly ends. “Y'even tryin'?” Yuugi taunts, foot flinging upwards.

Meiling's arms cross in a block as she hurls out of the way; I assume it saves her a few hundred feet at least, but she still goes rocketing into the air even before the massive fiery orbs chase the grazing kick. She sort of needs to stop the out of control spinning before she can arrest her momentum, and that leaves private time. Repeating the earlier trick, only with a bit more showing off, a finger against my head holds me steady, leaving her free to thrust up into me. Sheer girth and her unique anatomy ensure that, rather than pull out of me, she simply pulls me down on her downstrokes. She's clearly taking it slow and easy, opting to only insert a little more at a time. In spite of this, my whole body shakes with each movement, bones jarred like this alone might dislodge them. “Oh... fuck... me...” I breathe out slowly, several clouds past the ninth.

“That's the idea,” Yuugi answers, grin full of confidence. She doesn't even pause her work to spin 'round, just enough the whistling axe kick that drops out of the sky misses the cup. Crashing in a cloud of grass and dirt, the crater briefly explodes with vibrant hues before the bullets inside fade and the martial artist dashes out. She forces some respect out of the oni, strikes coming in blurry combinations of fists; an enormous hand has to cover the sake, all while ceding ground so one can't reach around to disturb the dish. Anchoring myself, I fight alongside Meiling, pulling upwards as much as I can; I feel how my extended canal is pried out by the attempt, glued to Yuugi's length. The slam I manage to set up with this lends a lustful tinge to the goading, “C'mon! Almost working for it!” Yet it doesn't stagger her the way it does me, organs jumbling and twisting around the dulled spikes. Chaos wreaked internally, I spasm, vaguely conscious of the Chinese girl flipping herself over the defensive hand.

By the time I'm more focused, it's clear this was ill advised. I feel us whirl around again, and then trees nearby begin to splinter. To her credit, Meiling is trying to use them to stop, but her feet plow through the wood instead, as rapidly as she's moving. It suddenly occurs to me that I am not actually resilient enough to back up my earlier claim right now, and I quickly snap my fingers in a more potent spell. This comes just in time for my lungs to shove out of the way, pressed flat against the muscle of my back. My teeth grit as it feels like I've had a sledgehammer shoved, hammer end first, into my chest cavity. The dick responsible retains its iron grip on my muff's walls, the very motion that put Yuugi inside of me simultaneously working to drag them out. I'm not sure that I should, but I could get used to this. Another comes, as the dozenth tree in a row finally holds firm, prising a delighted hiss from my lips. From the oversized oni, it earns a hot and heavy breath; I catch her eyes closing for just a moment, bliss washing over her. That one's her mistake.

The tree that had held up no longer does, as it's been used to rocket towards us. The crack of it snapping is nothing compared to the crack as the palm strike lands, right on Yuugi's face. My ears pop, bleeding from the thunderous impact, a gale summoned by the qi-infused blow. Even the oni's head snaps back from the overwhelming force, likely catching some of whatever magic was conjured behind. “Got you!” Meiling shouts, gripping with those same fingers and swinging herself around to go for the killing blow – only to find the alcohol ducking under her sweep. Rather than be flung again, she lets go and flings herself, hurtling over the drink. Yuugi's efforts have been paused long enough for me to catch the ripples brought by whipping wind, casting droplets into the air. A swing of the dish does the job of landing each and every one whence it came, as best I can tell. As best Meiling can tell, too, casting a heavy breath of her own, more of disappointment.

Yuugi, however, chooses raucous laughter, head snapping back into place. “Pretty fuckin' good, there! 'Bout felt that one!” she calls as her opponent comes to a stop. The oni's breath doesn't come heavy; her pulse has hardly quickened any more than it needed to harden her. I may have failed to estimate exactly how absurd a category she belonged to, if this isn't even working her up. My pondering on what level of nonsense this can reach vanishes, overwhelmed by the tug I receive. That it leaves my legs in their sockets is amazing, almost as much as the sensation of my brain rattling; that would be the tip of her prick crushing itself against the base of my neck. I haven't quite felt myself with the bush that represents her base, either. The path to get air up or in is rather twisted, but I scream in ecstasy all the same, however strained it comes out. Strained enough it's drowned out by the oni's guttural cry of, “Think I'll take a turn!” Each of those words assaults me with pulses of obscene carnality, the most concrete hint she's at all approaching release.

We speed forward with enough vigor I'm pressed further down, much as it may seem there's nowhere left to go. By my own efforts of angling, this leaves her scraping the back of my head rather than stuffing my womb up my mouth. Thus I'm able to pant with cheeks flush, and also see Meiling start to fly away as soon as Yuugi's begun to move. It's just enough the wide back-hand goes under the guard, sparing her its fury, the buffeting air in its wake, and the resultant fans of green spheres. I'm not quite sure which sloshes more – the booze which is somehow staying where it's supposed to, or the precum filled womb pressed against steely skin. I think it's a moment to strike, but so does the oni, still; it seems to work out in the end. While it's not truly of my own volition, the uppercut she transitions her slap into carries us upwards, and that does the trick. Senses working in the back of my mind assure me that the length of dick which has rocketed past my head is more than most are endowed with, as I finally receive the hefty sound of ass meeting with crotch, scarcely muffled by her hair. It brings Yuugi to sharply inhale, and I'm privy to the spark that runs up her, as much physical as it is mental. Her fist goes well off course, but from what I can tell in my delirious haze, it was already being dodged. All the same, the distant sound of triumphant declarations signal victory, and the combat's end.

Or so Meiling might have thought. We jolt sideways, the moment of weakness passing before the retributive strike lands – the bright, swimming spots which blinded my vision likewise fade, letting me see the shoulder check that the guard receives, right above the outstretched leg. Twisting downwards, Yuugi sends her plummeting towards the earth, which again dustily disperses as it gives way, lashing waves of amber chasing the Chinese girl into the pit she was used to create. “What was that 'bout me bein' distracted?” the oni calls down. She may act like she's not at all affected, but I hear it. The lascivious undertones that speak more of the sex than of the fight, even as she casts laughter towards the obscured figure. Throbs run up her shaft, further contorting me within. My spleen feels like it's somehow ended up where my heart should be, that in turn sinking to hide behind where my pulverized womb would, in theory, rest. Bones meant to insulate willingly part, ribs split open like the cunt being speared. We descend, and a foot raises ominously, set to further crush Meiling into the dirt. In an inverse of sense and reason, thrusting hips catapult me upwards at the same time, tearing me from myself as much as they loose her length; it is their drawing back, that which should remove her, dragging me down to receive everything I was missing, pelvis trying its utmost not to crack. I'm unsure if the slow speed of our descent is more to do with menacing the guard or keeping the sake stable, and the ravaging this flinging brings about makes figuring it out near impossible. “I know y'ain't done yet, so get yer ass up and-”

The taunting request is answered by the martial artist launching, clothing torn in a number of places. Her upraised foot shimmers, wreathed in rainbow as she weaves around the prepared stomp; striking upon the underside of Yuugi's sake-bearing hand, the gathered power releases in a disorienting flash. Dazedly, I register some shout underneath the ringing of my ears, but it's as good as wasted on me. Unsure exactly what's going on, I do the only thing I really can do: distract. Whatever effect this has on the oni, I try to best it, taking this moment to line myself in liquid pleasure using what remains of my sense. Content that must surely have done it, I retire comfortably to bliss, one final nether-wrecking impact sending me over the edge. Mangled and tangled as my insides are, indulgent cries die in the throat, crawling past my lips with what little strength remains. Attempts at thrashing by and large fail, trapped between tits as I am, erratic throes unable to fight those confines. Poisonous, tainted juices spew below, slathering gargantuan orbs full of sperm in enough liquid lust they must surely desire nothing but to empty. The void of reason I am allowed to enjoy is extended, carnal release eclipsing all for as long as it lasts. It's only as my mind begins to claw its way to the surface, and things outside my own body and its satisfaction meet with me again, that I come to a few realizations. The most immediate is that I don't feel as though my weight has doubled. Another few seconds while I try and force the echoes of climax down reveal a boom that should only really come if the fight is still on. Were that not telling enough, it's followed by a haggard, winded, “Why won't you give in already?!”

Every other tone in the response finds itself drowned by singular desire. “'Cause y'ain't... fuckin'... won... damnit...” Contrary to Yuugi's words, the desire ruling her is not victory – that doesn't so much as stalk behind boundless need for it to end. Turbulent testicles tell a tale of restraint gone overboard, mastery of muscle alone keeping me from the filling I am owed. Why won't this woman give in and bloat me already?

Not that Meiling doesn't seem to teeter on a similarly precarious precipice, as my eyes finally force open to see her state. Calling her clothed still would be generous, and she's bent half over like staying conscious is an ordeal, despite a lack of visible wounds. Her stance is sloppy her sway is more unease than anything, but she casts lidded eyes over all the same. “You're in no shape to continue this. Cede, Yuugi!” She doesn't expect the weary demand will work, which is why she leaps into the fray, closing what distance was left. Speed, power, accuracy, it all seems to have vanished while I was out. If one didn't know any better, they'd think her an amateur, slowly chaining between punches and elbows.

Not that her opposition moves like a champion. The surprisingly agile twirls and dodges have all but vanished in favor of abusing the utter bulk that fends off attacks merely by existing. A single lapse in concentration, and the floodgates will open. I don't even know that the giant's exhausted so much as she's in danger of being the one to drop her drink. “C'mon... that... all... y'got... y'weak... little...” Her breath comes in huffs, the exhalation of every word more taxing than the last, until she can't even manage them. I sense intent to thrust, but her hips refuse to obey, lest it undo her. Surges strike below, momentary lapses before the river dams itself. Unfortunately for her, I'm now fresh, even as full as I am. It'd take more than idling inside me to leave me senseless, no matter how ridiculously endowed she happened to be. So my hands raise.

I work them out of the mounds which enveloped me, wrapping around the jutting horn, which I start to pull myself up by. I may not be senseless, but that doesn't mean I'm not still high on the frankly destructive amount I'm full of, slipping out bit by bit. Inarticulate grunting is my reward for taking it upon myself to keep the sexual portion of this fight afloat, the oni's guarding arm lowering in turn. Throwing my arms, I accept her once again to the hilt with less speed than I'd hope, stymied by her chest. It manages to work all the same: she cracks. A shot of seed rips into me, flying the length of her cock in an instant and trying to tear through me like some kind of bullet. One single, titanic burst, enough to flood most wombs to capacity. It tastes of every alcohol known to man at once, seeming in its release to be so much booze I should spend the next week in a drunken haze... yet, these drinks should not be on the rocks. Jizz burning so hot should not, to my tastes, be this cold. But it is, the reason being the simple closure which is forced. Even now, she drags her composure back. Honestly baffled, I weakly growl out a demanding, “Just let me have it already!”

Meiling gets it instead, Yuugi's blocking arm effectively falling over, which counts as a blow in and of itself. “When... she's... down...” The inelegant arm drop does help with that; the guard doesn't have it in her to really evade it. But Yuugi can't concentrate enough to make it a strike proper, weight all there is behind the attack, for want of a better word. A lot of weight, but buckling knees don't fully give out, just spied as I pull up again.

Raising once more means I have to fall again, and I do, distending my very back as I sink to her base with a thud. Three responses, all at once. The first: wordless ecstasy. The second: her arm sinking to the side, shrugged off. The third: another fecund torrent, filling me and swelling the grievously misplaced cavern. Yet even as the oni spasms and sprays inside of me with such volume I sag onto myself, she stops. Damnations upon her there is a point where pride begins to get in the way and this is it. My partner in this duel agrees. “You can't call this fighting any more! Give up!” Pulling her legs out of the divots they've dug is taking time and effort, keeping her from even reaching the bowl that represents her target, kept safe largely by the height and reach of its owner.

A state I will not stand for. I know I'm only getting trickles – Yuugi's libido bites into me like existence itself is jagged and sharp. There is so much more hiding, and I want it. “Gonna... I'll... You'll...” Forcing herself to try and even start a sentence, the oni can say nothing as I abandon even gripping her horn. Crumpled head wings flutter, and I lift, up and up, spreading my legs to part the bust which had me trapped. Just enough it won't get in my way once I reach my apex. Where is that apex? It's at the point where I've pried all of her – and by extension, all of me – out of myself. It's the point at which even my womb, turned to a sphere and barely recognizable but for the tiny, trailing ovaries, meets with the breeze. Only then will I frantically plunge myself back towards the ground, sliding her past the nightmarish landscape every other organ has become. It's not even a fraction of how violently she could have managed it, but there is nothing left. I don't need to hear the roar that rends asunder my eardrums – I can feel it in her loins.

The teasers warned me of what was coming, but it's so very refreshing to finally and actually get it at full force. A geyser whose eruption is nearly volcanic, the chill which marked her taste has vanished, replaced with heat beyond measure, to match the actual temperature of the semen inside of me. I can only imagine the shifting and churning of every last dose I'm offered is as audible as the last, the way it all reaches the ends of where it's being unleashed. It doesn't matter how much is already there, or how long into it she gets – no wall of her own release can stop the newest arrivals. And there's no doubt that there is plenty there, or that she is at this for a long time. Before, I hung atop my head, almost like some obscene, fleshy hat; soon enough I lay over my face like a mask, blinding me to anything but my own growth. That's hardly even the beginning of just how much there is to sow after this was fought back for so long. Sinking deeper onto myself, my chest, once hidden by Yuugi's, is now instead obscured behind the flesh which gravity is working to drag down. My arms wind up bound by the ever-creeping, displaced mass, which marches unabated until, and even after, it reaches the point where it should inhabit. At some point I simply lose track, the fury of this release forcing me once more into passion's grip.

By the time I'm conscious of the world around me once more, things have finally died down. And by that, I mean Yuugi's orgasm is on its dying spurts, which feel about as intense as the few tastes I got when she was trying desperately to keep herself from doing this. Why, I can't honestly figure. Why would anyone want to stave this off, just to try and win a fight by attrition? By volume, mass, and almost every other metric one could think of, I am presently more oni spunk than anything else. I can't be sure if this is normal or if she was backed up, but I can be sure that I am essentially cocooning myself. Skin hangs like rolls of fat, and I can feel it reaching below even my legs – in a roundabout way I am, at the moment, inside my own womb. If only because it's been fucked out of me and then so grotesquely stuffed that it can't fight gravity. I'm certainly not going to complain that this is the method by which it's happened. I'm just going to bask, ride out the rest of everything to come, and then figure out what happens from there. Also who won. I have a guess, but I'm not preternaturally sensitive to fights, so I can't be sure.

Yuugi is not soft when she's finally done, which doesn't surprise me in the slightest. This may have dented her stores of seed, if I care to be generous, but it's clear that she'd gladly jump right back into it. Would, but I think that the liquid which we're presently being splashed with is the sake that was supposed to be protected. This is confirmed by the dulled statement of, “For once, that's my win.”

We must have fallen at some point, given the lurching rise I can feel. In contrast to what was clearly Meiling, the oni's response cuts through every barrier of her own making, laughter easily reaching my ears, same as the admission of, “Seems like it.” Of course, she doesn't sound weathered by that bout, despite how she couldn't even throw a punch by the end. In fact I think Meiling only dumped out the drink because if Yuugi got back up, things simply would have continued and there was no getting through a second round. “Pretty good handicap, eh?” I can all but hear her grinning to go with this statement.

“I can't exactly deny that.” Her exhaustion mixes with some reluctance, which still sounds out of place. “For now, though, as the winner, I'd like to request you go.” Well, is that strictly required? The stern tone is just nonsense, really.

“What, already? That was just one round. Y'might be done, but Koakuma ain't. Ain't that right? Y'just wanna spend all day fuckin'?” As she speaks, Yuugi tugs me upwards, and as she tugs me upwards, she pulls my womb with her again. It doesn't all retract back in at once – in fact she has to keep dragging me up to pull it all in, all so that she can then pull it back out, this time less obtrusively. Not that I'm not horrifically deformed by its removal, given that it's roughly equivalent to simultaneously birthing twins. Fully grown ones, which also happened to come out on the heftier side of things.

That leaves a lot of groaning to do until I'm no longer weighing myself down. I would still be, but thankfully, her legs are supporting what would otherwise be trying to drag the rest of my internals out with it. I take just a moment to marvel at the sight. I could easily crawl into that womb for real. Just cozy up in a recursive bundle of ejaculate and sexual gratification. That's going on the list of things to do, at some point. For now, I have an answer to give.

[ ] Well, there's probably a reason that Meiling is staring at me rather intently, even if it presently vexes me. I can at least take the hint and devote the immediate moment to figuring out what's up. But I'd be more than happy to see Yuugi every day from now on.
[ ] Okay, being realistic with myself, the Chinese girl isn't staring at me for no reason. I really should hear her out. That does mean Yuugi should go, but, well, she could come back every few days. We could pack a lot of fun into the occasional visit.
[ ] No, I need to be sensible. The gate guard isn't scrutinizing me just for fun – the why of that is definitely important in some nebulous way. That said, I'm reasonably sure that having the oni stop by once a week or so wouldn't eat up too much of my time.
[ ] Yuugi's right, and every second I spend deliberating otherwise is another second she isn't pushing that prolapse back into me. I would be remiss if I didn't at least try to fully drain these balls once; I can't reasonably disappear forever, but I can spend the day with her, just to get this out of my system.
[ ] I'm... actually going to have to take Meiling's side on this, too. She probably should go. I have a lot to manage in less than a month, and when I really think on it, I'm going to lose a lot of time and magical energy if I'm fooling around with Yuugi. I don't like it, but it is reality.
[ ] Yet there's always more lurking elsewhere in my mind, ever ready to creep to the fore when it proves necessary. (Write-in)

I'd just like to apologize for the delays in the delivery of this. It was one part bad luck in timing with Christmas, one part difficulty in actually penning the update, and plenty more parts laziness once the schedule broke, which I can't possibly deny fault in. Ideally, I should get back on track and hold to it better in the future.
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[x] I'm... actually going to have to take Meiling's side on this, too. She probably should go. I have a lot to manage in less than a month, and when I really think on it, I'm going to lose a lot of time and magical energy if I'm fooling around with Yuugi. I don't like it, but it is reality.
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[x] I'm... actually going to have to take Meiling's side on this, too. She probably should go. I have a lot to manage in less than a month, and when I really think on it, I'm going to lose a lot of time and magical energy if I'm fooling around with Yuugi. I don't like it, but it is reality.

RIP womb. Taken before it's time, what a cruel world we live in.
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[x] No, I need to be sensible. The gate guard isn't scrutinizing me just for fun – the why of that is definitely important in some nebulous way. That said, I'm reasonably sure that having the oni stop by once a week or so wouldn't eat up too much of my time.
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[x] I'm... actually going to have to take Meiling's side on this, too. She probably should go. I have a lot to manage in less than a month, and when I really think on it, I'm going to lose a lot of time and magical energy if I'm fooling around with Yuugi. I don't like it, but it is reality.

Not that we can't maybe invite her AFTER a month has passed if we're still around. Who knows? But the important part is we focus on Patchy.
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[x] I'm... actually going to have to take Meiling's side on this, too. She probably should go. I have a lot to manage in less than a month, and when I really think on it, I'm going to lose a lot of time and magical energy if I'm fooling around with Yuugi. I don't like it, but it is reality.

Oh man, came to the board on a whim for the first time in a while to see if there's anything new, but I sure wasn't expecting to see such a well-written story.
I hope you'll keep going with this, because I'm loving this so far.

Not sure if I should even vote, since this is winning anyway, but thought I might as well.
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