Page 32 of Lustling

Cassiel pumps his cock in slow, controlled strokes. Then—he spills his hot cum onto my tongue. The taste floods my mouth as his voice breaks for the first time, a snarl twisted with anguish. “You want my cum?” he breathes. “Take it.”

Deimos grips my hair again, yanking my head toward him. “Enough fucking talking, Lustling.” He kisses me hard, tasting Bastion and Cassiel on my tongue. His mouth is brutal, devouring.

I moan into him, dizzy from the overload.

“Fuck, she’s so fucking good,” Bastion groans behind me, his pace relentless.

Deimos pulls back, smirking, then shoves his cock into my mouth with no warning, no pause. He drives deep, hard, until my breath stops. He doesn’t pull back. My lungs burn. My vision blurs. Do I even need air now? I don’t know.

The panic rises—and so does the pleasure. The lack of air sharpens it. My body convulses, another orgasm crashing through me, violent and relentless.

Bastion snarls behind me, slamming in deep one last time as he comes inside me, filling me to the brim.

Deimos laughs, finally pulling back, letting me gasp for air. Then—his palm cracks against my cheek.

I moan. Not from pain. From pleasure. His hand is a seal. Claiming. Final. And I like it.

“You like taking our cocks, don’t you?”

I nod, eyes glassy, mouth open.

“You were made for this,” he growls. “Our perfect little succubus—” then his tone sharpens, crueler, “—our demon fuck whore.”

The word hits me like a slap. It should shame me. It feeds me instead. My body clenches around Bastion. My mouth opens wider for Deimos. My hunger howls.

And something inside me snaps.

The bond. The tether.

It strengthens—pulls tight like a noose of power and heat. Deimos’ body goes rigid above me. His cock jerks. He comes hard, pulsing deep into my throat. The taste triggers another orgasm—my third, maybe fourth. I lose count.

I can’t take anymore. My body isn’t mine anymore. I’m something else now. Something deviant. Something starving.

My vision darkens. My body collapses.

And then—blackness.

SIXTEEN

Ishouldn’t be listening. But I am. God help me, I am.

My fingers clamp down around the edge of the dresser until the wood beneath them groans. The sound is sharp in the quiet room—except it’s not quiet, is it? Not really. Not when the walls hum with her cries. Not when every brutal moan and breathless gasp from down the hall slips through the cracks and slides against my skin like smoke.

They didn’t shut the door. Or maybe they did and it simply doesn’t matter—because her voice carries. Italwayscarries.

She’s screaming now. For them. From them.

And I—I can’t stop touching myself.

I barely made it back to my room before I came the first time, fist clenched around my cock as if it could purge the need from me. But it only made it worse. I came hard, and I’m still hard. Still aching. Still leaking. The fabric of my pants is soaked and sticking and every movement is a kind of agony.

It wasn’t disgust that made me leave.

It was fear. Not of them.

Of what I would’ve done if I stayed.

Because when she looked at me with those wide, shattered eyes and whispered,“You don’t think I’m desirable?”—something ancient and monstrous broke loose inside me. Something I’ve buried so deep it doesn’t even have a name anymore.