Malcubus Ch 09 Lust Never Sleeps

+++++Author's Notes+++++

This story contains lesbian sex, mind control, and some fairly rough non-consensual sex; demons are immoral like that. Do not try to emulate demons. This has been your Scary Fetish public service announcement.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It's nearing 3am. Even on a Saturday night, the streets are starting to empty, the night past its drunken apogee. Yellow lights hold back the shadows, tired carousers stumble into cabs, and a demon prowls the sidewalk.

Actually, she's almost skipping.

Rosmerta has been humming to herself since leaving Sunday's, everything from Eric's classic rock to the snatches of rap music she remembers from the Umbra. The songs don't matter; they're just an expression of her happiness.

Every step is something new, after all. The Fundamental city smells of gasoline and cigarette butts, and her ears are filled with unique sounds, from club music to car alarms. This whole world is

alive

, chaotic and vital and

real

, and she loves it. She smiles at each pedestrian that passes her; most of the women and all the men smile back.

Mortals are wonderful. And none so wonderful as her darling Master.

When she felt the flaming brand of the soulbound press into her spirit, she'd been not a little bit afraid. Those mortals who could permanently leash their souls to that of a demon, those who

would

, are never to be trifled with. Such Masters go beyond petty summoners and shamans; kings have bowed and nations burned at their command.

And Eric Jared Cooper had been afraid His demon would turn Him into a toad.

Right now, her sweet, innocent, and eternal Master is fucking some mortal slut from a bar, and doing a surprisingly good job of it too. A steady trickle of orgone flows from Him to Rosmerta, carrying with it the tastes and textures of their encounter. Power, power and pleasure, and aren't they really just one and the same?

Second-hand pleasure from Eric's encounter contributes to the skip in the demon's step, and her arousal trickles down her thighs to stain her stockings. But even that is a sideshow.

Really, Rosmerta is happy because she kissed the girl.

***

CAITLIN

She'd been so soft.

That was what ran through her head over and over on the cab ride home, making her head pound harder than a thousand nights of drinking. Boys were thick and solid, no matter how fit they were; their hands were strong, their frames heavy, their kisses firm. Boys kissed like they were leading a dance, drawing her along to their rhythm. It wasn't a bad thing, exactly, but it was so

male.

Rosie? Rosie kissed like the music itself.

No direction, but Caitlin had known just which way to move. No pressure, but their lips never parted, even as all the fear and surprise in her bubbled up and boiled away. No thoughts, even, because Rosie was kissing her and that was the only fact that mattered in the world.

And when the redhead pulled back and Caitlin returned to Sunday's, they were surrounded by a ring of cheering, leering guys.

Oh, god,

she'd thought.

I just did that. This is real. Oh my god.

Her whole face was red and Rosie's hand was still on her hip and her nipples were pointing out through her dress for the whole club to see -

"Thank you," Rosie said, beaming. "Thank you." She stood up and curtsied daintily, which was a pretty astonishing feat in that nigh-skintight green dress. "I love the attention... but I don't think my friend does, so could you please give us a moment?"

Caitlin stared hard at the ground. If any of the guys heard the redhead's request, they weren't paying much attention - not even when she added a 'pretty please'. In fact two of them had jostled forward, with the larger man moving right into Rosie's personal space with an ethanol-scented grin on his lips.

Rosie ran a finger down his sternum, gently but politely pushing him away even as he finished his come-on. "I admire the confidence, stud, but you really shouldn't impose on a lady like this."

His response hadn't been contrite, and with all his friends watching he reached out for Rosie's hip.

Caitlin had almost covered her face in shame by this point, but she looked up when she heard laughter from the watching guys - jocular, not lecherous. They were finally looking somewhere other than Rosie - at Big & Large, who grimaced and panted as he stained his chinos.

Rosie stepped back from the ejaculating man primly and took hold of Caitlin's hand. "Come on. I think he's had enough excitement for one night."

They passed through their attendees fairly easily. One started walking alongside them while saying something about buying drinks, but Rosie blew him a kiss and he gasped, stopping and leaning on the balcony railing. Caitlin looked back in confusion, but the redhead was pulling her on.

"What just - "

"Just boys being boys. I hope we didn't give them cooties."

They wound up on the other side of Sundays' entrance. Caitlin found a wall to lean against while her head spun. She soon realized that Rosie was watching her with sisterly concern on her face.

"Hey," the redhead said, "it's okay. You're okay, right?"

"Okay? I - " Caitlin bit her lip. "I guess."

Kiss me again. Wait - stop, think. Oh my god.

"Real convincing." Rosie leaned against the wall beside her, casual as khakis. "Were you more freaked out by the guys watching, or by me kissing you?"

Caitlin looked at her toes and wished her heart would slow down enough to let her think.

Rosie nodded sympathetically. "The latter. Fire and - I mean, crap. Crappers. I shouldn't have done that, right?"

Caitlin started shaking her head, then stopped herself, then just decided to not move or say anything until she worked out what she wanted.

I want you to kiss me again.

Rosie brushed an auburn strand of hair behind her ear. "Caitlin, was that the first time you've kissed a girl?"

A shallow laugh. "Was that, like, not obvious?"

"No, you were - " Rosie sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I freaked you out."

"I'm not freaked out."

"Pants on fire," the redhead poked her in the belly accusingly, and goosebumps prickled up Caitlin's arms. "Really, it's okay. We just met, and you've been so nice to me, and you're really the first friend I've made since leaving home other than Eric and I've already freaked you out and ruined it all - "

"No," Caitlin said, a bit more convincingly this time. "No, don't - you haven't ruined anything. We - you're really cool, Rosie. I don't - I don't know what you want from me or - "

Rosie raised her hands. "Hey, I'm not a lesbian, okay?"

Caitlin couldn't help but grin at that. "Yah, whatever."

"No, really! I just wanted to be your friend - to actually meet another girl who wasn't psycho like all the bitches back home..." Rosie shook her head in frustration. "I drunk too much, that's all. I get - I just get silly, sometimes, I wasn't planning anything like that..."

Caitlin pressed her palm to her forehead. Her pulse was pounding in sync to the background beat of the dancefloor nearby. "So we're just two straight girls who made out in public for ten minutes. Like, in the middle of a club. That's just what friends do, out where you come from?"

Rosie shook her head, but she looked thoughtful. "Maybe we're overthinking this."

"What do you mean?"

The redhead shrugged. "So we're straight. So we're friends. So we kissed. So what?"

Caitlin blinked. "Um, what?"

"It felt good, right? The kiss?" Rosie smiled encouragingly as Caitlin shifted in embarrassment. "And we both still want to be friends, right?"

"Yah," the Asian girl replied immediately.

"So we made each other feel good. That's not wrong, is it?"

"...I guess not?"

"And you're still straight, right?"

"...I guess so?"

"So there," Rosie said with the finality of a mathematician finishing a proof. "No-one needs to freak out. Nothing needs to happen. We're just two friends who make each other feel good."

It sounded good. It sounded easy. It was so hard to think.

They had chatted for a while longer after that, about clothes and a TV show and life in the big city, and things made sense again for quite a while. Soon enough, though, Rosie was leading Caitlin towards the cab ranks. They promised to talk tomorrow, and the Asian girl reiterated her promise to take the other shopping at some point in the next week. Before she got in the cab, Rosie took her hand and looked into her eyes.

She's so pretty. How is she so pretty?

"It's not weird, right?" the redhead had asked.

"No," Caitlin shook her head without breaking eye contact. "No, course not."

"Just two straight friends. And we want each other to feel good."

"Right, yah."

Rosie nodded, eyes sparkling. "Yay." Then she had kissed Caitlin hard on the lips and pushed her into the cab as the world span.

So Caitlin was driven home at 3am, confused and horny and thinking of nothing but the softness of her straight friend's lips.

***

ROSMERTA

No, Caitlin is too close to Eric to simply overwhelm and dominate. Too close... and it would be a waste to have her that way. Caitlin is... nice.

It's true. As much as she worships her Master, Rosmerta could always use a friend.

Eric still wears the amulet; she can see through His eyes as He takes Ana from behind, and the orgone trickling through growls with animal lust. Waiting at a traffic light, Rosmerta leans forward against the pole and raises her ass up, sighing dreamily. She can almost imagine His hands on her hips right now, taking her in the oldest, basest position.

Someone wolf-whistles. It's not a woman, so Rosmerta studies her nails and moves on.

Disparate clusters of mortals stumble and stagger home to their beds. A pair of cops watch the louder male groups with unfriendly expressions. Smokers congregate outside the all-night McDonald's. This isn't the best place to find a friend; outside the well-lit enclaves of the clubs, women move accompanied by men. A successful predator targets the weaker members of the herd.

But then, a supreme predator targets whichever member of the herd strikes its fancy.

Rosmerta is passing by the recessed entrance of a strip club when the bouncer ushers a couple out onto the footpath. He is casually handsome and walks with the confidence of wealth. She is blondish, very pretty, and dressed in an unseasonable trench coat. To a demon's senses, she smells of potential. Rosmerta continues walking confidently in front of them while listening to their conversation.

"...if I am ever going to know your real name, mon petit Desiree," he drawls. Demons are well-versed in human tongues, and Rosmerta suspects his accent is affected.

"I don't know," 'Desiree' replies with a giggle. "I think there's some sort of rule against revealing my secret identity right next to my Daily Planet."

"Pardon?"

"Sorry, just - tell you what. Ask me again after a glass of champagne."

"That, mon cherie, I can do," he says. They turn at a street junction; Rosmerta, who paused to wait at a light, follows behind them at a discreet distance.

Desiree is doing most of the talking, as enraptured women tend to. She's trying to explain to the man that she never does this, that strippers never go home with clients, that "Frank tells us not to, he tries to look out for us, but - gawd! Listen to me. Am I rambling? I'm rambling."

"I think you are cute when you are flustered, Desiree. I can see you blushing."

"Oh gawwd. This is - I'm still new at this, okay? Not this, what I was doing back there, and of course you could tell. This is like my second week - rambling. There I go again." She stumbles, but his arm is there to support her. "Thank you, Sicard." She looks up at him, blushing yet more. "Is that right?"

"Your pronunciation is bon," 'Sicard' assures her. "Too good for an American, in fact. Are you travelled?"

"Maybe. Maybe I'm not even a stripper. Maybe I just really liked the look of you and followed you back to the booth, and everyone else in the club just went with it." There's a pause, then she giggles again. "Ignore me, I'm a bit drunk."

"I wouldn't want to take advantage," he smirks.

"Sure you wouldn't," she says, then brightens at the sight of the building in front of her. "Is this you?"

"Oui, Desiree. Bienvenue."

***

The skyscraper thrusts up into the night sky in a way that Rosmerta instinctively interprets as phallic. It is two dozen storeys and wrought of fine cream concrete in vaguely Mediterranean style. The lit red sign near its roof says 'Marriott.' As they walk into the airy foyer, Desiree is as quiet as any pauper in a palace. Sicard nods easily to the bellboy at the desk, showing his keycard before moving to the elevator banks.

The hotel's glass frontage means that Rosmerta can see them enter the elevator from all the way across the street. A human would have needed binoculars, but her blue-green eyes easily track the indicator light move up to the 17th floor. A smile creases her lips.

Perhaps during the day she could have gotten upstairs with some smooth talking or a quick flash of skin to a bellboy, but it is past the witching hour. The man on the desk would not see her as a threat, but neither would he be convinced to loan her his keycard, no matter how beguiling she looked. It would be easy enough to slip past him with the amount of orgone Eric is feeding her, but... the night's still young. Rosmerta feels like stretching her legs a little.

She circles the Marriott until she finds what she seeks: a much shorter part of the building, three storeys, its many windows dark. The pool.

In the alley behind the pool, she checks one last time for observers before shedding her human form. She feels the power of the Umbra move through her, relaxing and releasing her muscles, remaking her form. Her wings and tail flex flee. It's a glorious feeling, like finally stretching after a long sleep. Rosmerta lets herself enjoy the moment, and the cold night air on her now-exposed privates, before coiling her calves and moving. She leaps up onto a dumpster, up again onto the side of a wall, and springs off towards the Marriott pool's roof with inhuman vigour. Her pink wings beat. Unlike some demons, succubi cannot truly fly under the Fundament's iron laws of physics, but they can certainly jump like there's hell at their heels.

Rosmerta lands on the roof with feline grace. The swing of her oversized breasts is countered by a quick twitch of one wing, and her teeth are bared with primal glee. She is not an athlete or warrior, but demons are born of fire, and fire is a thing of power and movement. It feels good to burn freely, if only for a moment.

There are skylights dotting the roof. She shears the padlock off one with a couple of hard bites, grimacing at the strain on her fangs and the taste of cool metal. Then she's in, dropping down and gliding to the pool's edge and landing.

Returning to human form is slightly more complex than revealing her demon self, but no more taxing. Succubi are able to suppress their infernal mien quite easily, for the simple reason that it's hard to seduce a man when he's tying you to a pyre and reciting from the Maleficus Maleficarum. The demonic temptress vanishes, leaving a less outlandishly beautiful mortal teenager in her place. Her previous outfit also reappears, although the green dress has gotten another inch shorter now that Eric isn't around to complain. After the cold of the alley, her nipples still stand out against the fabric. She tweaks them and thinks to herself,

soon enough, girls

.

The hallway outside is deserted, but she's definitely in the hotel proper, as there are room numbers on some of the doors. She sees an elevator bank but walks past it - the lifts might require a keycard. What Rosmerta wants are stairs, and she sees them as she turns a corner in the hallway. Unfortunately, she's also seen by the portly janitor stocking a linen closet.

He blinks at her appearance and takes out his headphones. He's Indian, in his 40s or 50s. "Excuse me, miss?" It is rare for guests to wander the lower levels of the hotel at night, let alone beautiful teenage girls. "Can I help you?"

"Oh thank goodness!" Rosmerta says with a drunken wobble in her voice. She smiles and walks toward him, relaxing her posture. "I thought I'd be stuck up here. Please, I'm so sorry, I've lost my keycard."

"It's okay," he says distractedly. She is, after all, a distracting sight. Suspicion clears his eyes as she approaches him. "Wait, if you don't have a card, how did you get - "

Rosmerta leaps the last few metres, wrapping her arms and legs around him and knocking him back towards the linen closet. She locks lips with him before he can utter anything more than a surprised gulp and pours Lust into the kiss, a hand running through his hair. For a second, the janitor is stunned into silence. For another two, he surrenders to her lips and tongue, moaning helplessly. After that he's gone, bolts of magical arousal bouncing back and forth between his brain and groin in a feedback loop. He collapses underneath Rosmerta and slumps to the ground unconscious, his cock spurting in his pants. The man will orgasm again as soon as his refractory period is over, again and again until he wakes up; he won't sleep without a wet dream for at least a month.

Rosmerta retains her feet and fixes her hair before wiping her mouth. The janitor's keycard is tempting, but he stairs are right there, and a little cardio can hardly be

bad

for her ass.

***

There's a faint sheen of sweat on her brow by the time she reaches the 17th floor, but she goes unaccosted. The hallways here are lit but empty. Adjusting to the quiet, she stills her breathing and listens. The sounds of passion are easy to follow.

She knocks on the door to Room 1701, and lets twenty seconds go by before knocking again. Although the room is soundproofed well by human standards she can hear cursing and movement on bedsprings from inside. She knocks once more for good measure as heavy footsteps approach the door.

"Un moment, Veronica," she hears. Then: "What?" Sicard asks roughly, pulling the door back on its chain. His carefully-dishevelled hair is now actually messy, and he wears only his shirt. "T'es qui?" He sees no-one through the crack, and after a moment releases the chain and opens the door all the way. Rosmerta's still in an energetic mood, so she weaves a spell of silence around the doorway and waves hello. "Hey!"

Sicard mumbles something confused.

"You really shouldn't open your door to strangers at this hour of the night," Rosmerta advises him. Then she jabs him lightly in the solar plexus, crumpling him up and forcing all the air out of his lungs. His surprised question tries to become a scream but ends up a near-silent gasp. She pushes him back into his room and shuts the door behind them even as she reaches up and sinks her fangs into his neck. Warm venom pumps into his bloodstream, spreading through his body even as his gasps fragment against her spell and her legs wind around his, keeping him standing upright.

A female voice calls out from deeper within the room. "Sicard? Who is it?"

Rosmerta extracts her fangs and licks the wound with relish, savouring the coppery taste. She remembers the man's accent, his gruff baritone.

"No-one there," she says in Sicard's voice. His eyes stare at her in panic, then begin to glaze over. "Perhaps a prankster, but in this hotel?" She adds a touch of snobbish distaste there. "Un moment, mon cherie."

Sicard is still wriggling aimlessly, but his body has forgot why he's struggling. She slowly releases him, letting him catch his breath and lean against the wall, staring blankly into the middle distance. "Desole, Desiree," she says in his voice. "I'm afraid I need to use the bathroom." That's followed by a whisper in Sicard's ear and a light push, and he walks back across the room and into the ensuite. After smoothing her dress, Rosmerta moves into the room after him.