Her enormous body moving with that fluid demon grace — her boobs swaying with each step, the elongated pink nipples stiff in the apartment air, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, her tail flicking behind her, her golden wings folded tight.
She stopped in front of him.
He had moved to the couch.
Sitting back against it with the specific posture of a man who has just finished something significant and is reviewing the results — his abs visible in the lamplight, his cock hanging half-erect between his thighs, the shaft coated in the full inventory of everything that had happened: Soha’s slick, the dried blood of the deflowering, his own load still visible in a thick coating from base to the dark-flushed head, the pre-cum from the earlier hours dried in layers beneath all of it.
He looked at the succubus.
She looked at his cock.
Her expression went through something.
Not hunger — assessment. The face of a being who has been thinking about something for several hours and is now looking at the reality of the thing and running the comparison against the anticipation.
Her face went stoic.
The warm teasing gone. The demon warmth gone. Just — flat, and direct, and carrying the quiet of a woman who has looked at a thing and decided not to perform a reaction to it.
She reached down.
Grabbed Soha’s breast.
The one still leaking — her fingers closing around the full warm weight of it and squeezing once, the milk jetting forward from the nipple in a thin stream that hit the floor. Soha made a sound against the wood. A limp, barely-there sound.
The succubus released her.
Soha’s body sank further. Her boob dropped back against the floor, the nipple pressing into the wood, the milk still dripping from the tip in slow beads.
The succubus walked to him.
She stopped in front of the couch.
Looked at him.
He looked back.
"First," he said, "clean it."
"Then I’ll think."
The silence that followed was the silence of a very old being receiving an attitude it had not anticipated from a direction it had underestimated.
Her face stayed stoic.
One second.
Two.
Then she moved.
She crouched.
Her thick thighs spreading as she sank down in front of him — the frog-crouch of a woman descending toward a floor-level target, her enormous thighs pressing outward, her blonde pussy visible between them as the hem of her nonexistent dress was simply not present, her pink nipples pointing forward as her body compressed.
Her golden eyes were level with his cock.
She looked at it.
Then up at him.
Direct. The stoic expression carrying something beneath it that was not quite anger and not quite amusement and was precisely both.
Her right hand found his balls.
The full warm grip of her palm, the fingers closing around the sac from beneath, the thumb pressing upward into the base of it with the practiced ease of someone who has held this particular thing before in different men across different years and knows exactly the pressure that produces the sound she wants.
Her left hand wrapped around his shaft.
Not small-handed — her fingers still didn’t close fully around the girth, the thickness of him requiring both the grip and the contact of her palm pressed flat against the side of the shaft to get the full purchase she wanted.
She looked at him.
Her blonde hair falling forward around her face.
Her golden horns bright.
Her enormous boobs resting against her thighs from the crouch, the elongated nipples pointing at the floor.
She stuck out her tongue.
Long. Pink. The tip of it curling slightly at the end with a control that wasn’t human.
"You better," she said.
Her voice was low and direct and carrying the quiet authority of something very old addressing something that has just tried to give it orders.
"Not disappoint me."
Her tongue made contact with the head of his cock.
The first lick slow — the flat of her tongue pressing against the flushed crown and dragging from the slit downward toward the corona, tasting the full inventory of his cock’s last hour in one deliberate stroke: cum and slick and blood and pre-cum and the warmth of everything.
She made a sound.
Not performed. Genuine — the low "mmhh" of a being whose tongue has just received something it categorizes as satisfactory.
She licked again.
Down the shaft this time — following the underside vein from the corona all the way to the base, her tongue pressing flat against the skin and dragging the full length of it clean, her hand moving his cock aside to follow the path.
Her grip on his balls tightened fractionally.
His breath changed.
She didn’t look up.
She licked back up. Covered the shaft from base to head in slow, thorough strokes — methodical, unhurried, her tongue working each section of the shaft clean with the focused attention of someone who has decided that if they are doing a thing they are going to do it correctly.
Then she looked at him.
And opened her mouth.
Wide — wider than anatomy suggested was comfortable, the jaw dropping with the ease of something not entirely built on human mechanics — and took his cock in.
The head disappeared first.
Then two inches. Three. The back of her throat making contact with the tip of him and her throat simply — ’opening.’ No resistance. No gag. The throat of a succubus built on different operating parameters than a human throat, the walls of it warm and slick and closing around the full girth of him as she pushed forward.
Four inches. Five.
Six — seven —
She held his eyes the whole way.
Golden irises direct and unwavering, her cheeks hollowing as she began to apply suction, her hand still on his balls, still working the slow rolling massage of the sac.
Eight inches.
Her nose touched his lower abs.
Nine.
Her lips at the very base of his shaft. His balls against her chin. His cock down her throat to its full length, her throat tight and warm and rippling around him with the swallow reflex running in slow rhythmic pulses.
She applied suction.
The vacuum of it pulling inward from every surface simultaneously — throat and tongue and the pressed-flat roof of her mouth all contributing, the pull drawing blood into his cock with a force that made the organ throb visibly in her throat.
He made a sound.
"Hhngh—"
Low. Involuntary. His hand moving to her blonde hair — not gently, the grip of a man taking hold of something — and pressing down.
Holding her there.
Her throat worked around him.
Her eyes looking up at his face with the golden irises carrying something warm and satisfied and entirely in possession of the situation, the tears building at the corner of her eyes from the depth of the hold not changing any of it.
"Fuck," he said.
His voice came out rougher than he intended.
His grip in her hair tightened.
"Now that," he said, looking down at her face — at the tears on her cheeks and the nine inches buried in her throat and the golden eyes holding his — "is a sexy bitch."
Her tail flicked.
Once. Contentedly.
And she began to move.
"Mmmhhh~~♡~ Unmmnghh~~♡♡~"
She moved.
The first bob of her head — slow, pulling back from the full nine inches to the crown and then pressing forward again, her throat accepting the return with the same frictionless ease as the first time, the walls of it rippling around his shaft in a warm, continuous pulse.
"Mmhhh~~♡~"
The moan came from her throat with his cock in it.
Not muffled — somehow full, somehow carrying the complete warm resonance of a demon’s pleasure through nine inches of occupied throat, the vibration of it traveling up his shaft and into his balls and registering in his spine as something between electricity and heat.
His grip in her hair tightened.
She pulled back.
Slowly. All the way — his cock emerging from her throat inch by inch, the suction she maintained pulling the skin slightly with the withdrawal, the shaft glistening wet and dark when the head finally cleared her lips with a sound.
Schllck—
She looked at his cock.
Held it in her fist in front of her face and simply looked at it — the way a person looks at something they own, at something that has confirmed all prior expectations and is now simply being evaluated for the next stage.
"You taste," she said, "like someone who needed to be sucked three hours ago."