FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

You awaken to the dying echoes of your moans. Bolting upright in bed, the rapid drum of your heart pounds as reality slowly clears the fog of your senses.

Eyes bleary, your head whips back and forth, convinced you will see the Devil lurking somewhere within the shadows your room.

But thankfully, you are alone.

You run a shaking hand through your mussed hair, awash in mortified disbelief of the dark nature of the dream. The palms of your hands sting, and you glance down to see little crescents from your finger nails scored deeply into your skin.

You must have been clenching your fists.

Not only that-

'What. The Hell.' Again, you find your panties uncomfortably heated with warm, curling... something, but are relieved that you can move your body without feeling as if your arms and legs encased in stone.

The traitorous ache lingers, and you desperately want to lean into it. Yet something tells you it is wrong, that it shouldn't be there...

...but how can something wrong feel so exquisite?

Your chest constricts with anxiety- perhaps the most disturbing thing about these dreams is the disconnect between your body and mind - your flesh thrums at his phantom touch, melting beneath his fingertips while your brain back-peddles in protest, waging war with your body's response.

But it is merely a dream. Nothing more.

You are determined to think nothing of it, and blink rapidly. Your head is swimming.

Why do you feel so... hazy?

When did you even fall asleep? Your recollection is muddy- your mind feels as if it is wading through murk, blindly grasping beneath the surface to dredge up submerged memories.

A lingering bitterness rings on your tongue. You lick your lips, and... you recall being given a potion, and the Devil advising that they can cause vivid and unusual dreams.

Your gaze then settles upon the nearly empty glass of wine across the room.

'Ah. That explains a lot. Drugs and alcohol don't mix.' You scold yourself for not thinking twice before tossing back the potion.

You draw back the silken sheets only to see your uniform peeling down your front in shredded ruins, and for several heart-stopping seconds, everything seems to freeze: your heart, muscles, time itself, all of it.

It looks as though you were actually mauled by a tiger.

The jarring memory of why you drank one in the first place then comes flooding back, a vicious back-slap of reality.

'That's right...' A colossal fucking monster had attacked you- he slammed you into the wall and tore your dress open.

But Demiurge had come to your rescue when the beast was but a hair's breadth from tearing you limb-from-limb.

"Well... this uniform is trash now." You sigh, and crawl out of bed.

Stripping out of your dress, you trade it for a fresh one from the closet hollow, and hope it does not suffer the same untimely fate as the last. A bit of digging in the bottom drawer of the bureau yields your garters, belt and stockings, and you slip them on and latch them in place.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror does nothing further to bolster your mood.

Your hair is a rat's nest, and your features could use a bit of sprucing up with rouge. But luck is on your side, and after rifling around in the drawer nestled below the sink, you find an ivory comb and a few gold cosmetic pans and brushes in the bathroom cabinet. You begin combing and savor the relaxing stroke of the tines that detangle your hair until it glistens in burnished golden waves over your shoulders.

There is something about the feeling of sharp points ghosting over your scalp that you find oddly comforting... as to why, though, you cannot quite put your finger on.

Your attention shifts to the makeup, and you flip through the brushes until you settle on the one you want. Curiously, you smooth your thumb over the guard hairs- they're so soft... the ones used in the brothel were always old and crusty, shared by all, and replaced only once in a blue moon. They were made of what you are convinced to be boar's hair and were prickly and harsh to the skin. But these? They are made with tufts of fox fur and are absolutely luxurious.

You load a flat brush with a creamy hue and apply it from lash to brow line, and allow it to dry before powdering it over to keep sweat from causing it splotch later. A matte ochre orange is your choice for the crease, and a shimmering rose gold for the lid. You complete the look by drawing out the corner of your lash line with a slate grey, creating a sultry, smoky cat's eye.

Satisfied with your work, you select an especially fluffy brush and begin to swipe your cheeks with a shade of pearly pink as a finishing touch.

You look far more presentable now.

Your shift is likely to begin soon, if it has not already. Again, you are without a means of gauging the time. The candles of the candelabra have each burned down about a half of an inch, so you can safely assume it has been at least four to six hours.

Cautiously, you creak open your door and peer out. To your relief, the sconces along the walls have been lit once more, and the creature that had assaulted you is nowhere in sight. Still, deciding it is better to have something in hand than not, you pick up the candelabra and cautiously tiptoe from your room and survey your surroundings.

"Master?" You call, and your voice echoes into the silence.

The only sounds to be heard is the thud of your heart in your ears, the click of your heels over the cobblestone floor and the crackle of flame. You endure the withering stares of the stone gargoyles perched upon the bookcase, and notice the lanterns hanging from their jaws have been rekindled as well.

The Floor seems to be empty.

Your stomach suddenly clenches in a painful spasm around nothing. You are starving, and suppose you need to fetch breakfast- you didn't get to finish eating dinner, and after so many hours, the remainder of your filet of fish is certainly spoiled. Sliding your hand along the damp surface of the scarred and pitted stone wall, you melt into the darkness of the corridor leading away from the Devil's Floor. The flaxen firelight is your only means of seeing where you are going, and even with its aid, you must strain your eyes. You walk for what seems to be miles, and the bumpy and uneven earth is reason enough to fear falling and twisting your ankle- and with your luck, that is when Greed will make his grand entrance- when you are wounded, helpless and alone.

Your fingers clutch the candelabra tightly as you try to maintain your balance, and can only hope he took his Lord's warning to heart. If he decides to try to have another go at you, you fully intend to jam this candlestick up his ass.

A wave of relief washes over you when the seemingly endless corridor finally empties into the great hall, and you find your footing to be the familiar, smooth-as-glass alabaster marble.

The hair on the back of your neck stands on end when you cross what you deem to be the art gallery, and your eyes, as though magnetized, swing toward the omnipotent gaze of the black tiger.

'Tyger, Tyger, burning bright.'

His eyes of fire watch as you anxiously pass, and you shudder.

Tuare's face alights and she throws her arms around you in a hug when you enter the kitchen.

"I'm so glad to see you! Are you alright? How did it go?"

You nod and chuckle weakly. "I'm...alive."

Tuare's brow knit with concern. "What does that mean?"

"Lord Demiurge has a personal bodyguard- eight feet of towering monster asshole, and he failed to tell him I'd be staying on his Floor. Greed, as he calls him, went into attack mode when I wandered out of my room last night." You tell her as you slip a copper pan off one of the hooks hanging overhead and lay it on the stove fire. "Luckily for me, Demiurge was awake and called him off."

Tuare's jaw drops. "But you are a guest of Lord Ainz! I cannot believe he dared to lay a hand on you!"

"I suppose no one bothered to inform him." You shrug, and select a tawny, speckled egg from a ceramic bowl on the granite countertop, and then break it into the pan. It sizzles with a hiss.

If there is one thing you know how to make, it's scrambled eggs.

"Did he hurt you?" Tuare's eyes shimmered with worry.

"I hit my head when he slammed me against the wall, but Lord Demiurge gave me a healing potion afterwards. He even stayed in my room until I fell asleep." You reply with a small smile. That really was most considerate of him.

Tuare stiffens. "You know... I never did get to finish telling you who he is before you were summoned to the throne room."

That's right. She didn't. "Who is he?"

"He's the one," Her voice drops low, as though she is afraid the Devil will somehow overhear her. "... who suggested killing me outright when I was first brought to Nazarick."

Your heart plummets through the floor.

"And I've heard rumors..." Tuare furtively glances around the room to make sure no one is within earshot. "-that he experiments upon humans and heteromorphs alike. While I cannot be certain that it isn't merely gossip, he is a demon, so I wouldn't put it past him."

'I like to think of myself as...a medical scientist, of sorts.' You recall his words, as well as the tray of menacing tools, the human-sized table, and pile of femurs.

"It's true." You whisper with a thick swallow, and her eyes blow wide with shock. "I've seen his tools. But he says his experiments are performed only on cadavers, and the knowledge he gained from them is how he knew to save us both when we arrived here in critical condition. I think he's a doctor."

Hard suspicion flashes over Tuare's features, and suddenly a memory floats to the surface.

"I... actually recall hearing his voice as I was fading in and out when Sebas first brought me here." You admit and dig out a utensil from a drawer beneath the granite countertop to scramble the egg. "He did something to save me, I just don't know what."

Tuare hums with contemplation. "I unfortunately don't remember anything before awakening- I only recall memories after my healing. So, I cannot confirm or deny if he did anything for me."

You worry at your lower lip, and wonder if it was nothing more than yet another dream.

"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to scare you," Tuare lays a hand reassuringly over your shoulder. "but I do want you to be careful. He is dangerous, and I don't want you to get hurt."

You nod, but still find yourself wanting to give the Devil the benefit of the doubt. "I will."

When your breakfast of eggs is cooked, you sit with Tuare to catch her up in detail as to how your first day on the Seventh Floor went.

The heavy stone of anxiety in your stomach lifts a little in her sunny presence. Gods, it is so good to see her again.

"That's great that you have your own room! I have to stay in a common room with the other maid staff. While I have my own bed, we all share a bathroom, kitchen and closet." Tuare says, and your stomach turns a little as you recall a similar arrangement in the brothel. Suddenly you are twice as grateful to have one of each to yourself.

"Speaking of which, I see he provided you with a new wardrobe," Tuare's eyes flicker over the plunging V of your new uniform and she takes a sip of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

You sigh and press your lips together with a light blush. "I know, it's ridiculously revealing. But it is also unbearably hot up there. I think that sea of magma you mentioned flows right under my floorboards." You say, spearing a bite of eggs onto your fork. "While I'm sure the design of this uniform is mainly to prevent overheating, I will not deny the likelihood that he enjoys a peek-of-ass-cheeks as well."

With a most unladylike snort, Tuare chokes on her juice and you both have a hearty laugh.

---

After breakfast, you bid Tuare goodbye with a promise to see her later this evening and reluctantly drag yourself back to the Devil's domain. Armed with a fresh rag and feather duster, you start in the common room of the Seventh Floor and go to work dusting the overly-crammed bookshelf. All of the titles are unfamiliar to you, and a few pique your curiosity.

A study of human anatomy. Walking the astral plane. The life cycle of Incubi and Succubi. The woven web of dreams.

You are tempted to pull one out and flip through it, but know better than to fondle what isn't yours, so you try to fill the void of unsettling silence and drown the temptation by humming to yourself.

"When you finish up here, I would like you to clean my personal chambers."

Your heart launches itself off a cliff and your stomach flips into your throat, and you damn near drop the feather duster for the millionth time.

'Fuckpuddle Tittysprinkles! Someone needs to put a bell on him!'

It is so unnerving how quiet he can be. He walks on velvet feet, like the ghost of a stalking panther.

"...Yes, master." Swallowing thickly, you turn towards him and favor him with brief eye contact, and then promptly drop your gaze. You are gradually learning to look him in the eye, as he prefers. But meeting his startling gemstone gaze takes a unique brand of courage, and you feel your heart liquefy in your chest under the heat of his scrutiny.

The Arch Devil lets out a lithe chuckle, his lips curling in amusement to reveal pearly white fangs.

Instantly, you are reminded of last night's bizarre dream.

_ 'I've yet to even begin.' _

'Oh, gods, don't blush, don't blush-' Panic surges through you.

"You seem to be rather nervous. Do I frighten you?" He teasingly asks as he steps closer to narrow the distance between you to a mere three inches. You feel yourself shrinking beneath his shadow as he underscores your size difference. At six foot two, he is at least two heads taller than you, maybe three. You have to crane your neck just to meet his eyes.

You draw a staggering breath, and-

'Oh... oh, he smells so good.' Like thick, dark spice, scorched sandalwood and wildfire, with a tang of masculine musk.

He cants his head slightly, reiterating that he is expecting a response.

Oh. You have almost forgotten he had asked a question.

Would he be angry if you said he absolutely scares the shit out of you, but you are strangely and continuously having the most inappropriate dreams involving him, and it's making it impossible to think straight in his presence?

Quite possibly.

It is safer to lie, so, you do.

"...N-no." You whisper, meekly looking up at his towering form, determined not to shy away from his stare this time.

The look he then levels you with freezes the blood in your veins, and the sense of boldness you possessed just moments ago instantly drains. His eyes narrow and his mouth quirks into a leer as he regards your shaky response. Under the menace of that relentless diamond gaze, you are paralyzed.

Demiurge's arm suddenly shoots forward, seizing you by your shoulder and the claws of his other hand spears through your golden locks, clenching tightly. A yelp of shock flees your throat as he roughly yanks your head back, exposing your vulnerable jugular, and then he lunges.

'He's going to tear my throat out!'

He dips his face down into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, scenting you like a predator.

You still as the compassion he displayed last night passes from his demeanor like the sky under the sun eclipsed.

"Now, why would you lie to me, hmm?" His hiss slithers in your ear. "I thought we had an understanding... and you- well, you reek of fear."

The demon's tongue lashes out in a scathing lick, your flesh sparking where he connects, sending your senses reeling in a downward spiral. Then comes the velvet slide of his voice.

"I can even taste it; it is so strong."

You tremble in his iron grasp, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end; his breath on your throat is hot as it fans over the sensitive skin and your face goes numb with fear and... something else which you can't identify.

"I strongly advise against attempting to deceive me, little human. Because chances are, I will know the truth." His words are silk but threaded with steel. And with that, he unhands you.

'Little human.' Never has he uttered those specific words aloud before, but you know he called you that in your dream last night.

For at least three minutes you are numb; frozen in place like a deer in the headlights- it even escaped your attention that the Devil had walked away. Your heart threatens to pound out of its cage and chilly, nervous sweat trickles down your neck. Your breath coarsely stutters from your lungs as you realize you are alive, and he has not hurt you.

But you were so sure he was going to strangle you.

The predatory intent in his voice and gestures shake you to your very core. He is more animal than man; you sense a powerful and violent demeanor loosely wrapped in a thin veil of composure.

Now you are absolutely terrified to set foot into his quarters alone, but you have no choice.

'Just do it. Go in, clean, and get out.'

You take your time finishing the common room, desperately trying to wrangle your anxiety under control. When it is spotless and you have no further excuse to delay his request, you take a deep breath and approach the towering twin doors to his chambers-

...and pause when you behold the immaculately crafted relief carving of Chinese dragons etched into the wood; Their lips are drawn back into wolfish snarls, and every individual scale of their bodies, as well as the ridges of their wickedly curved horns and dorsal spines have been expertly whittled by hand and lacquered for a gleaming effect. Most captivating of all is their eyes- the one on the right is inlaid with glittering diamonds, and the left is embedded with sapphires of ocean blue. The talons of their right hands bridge the narrow gap between the doors to clasp together, while they reach for each other's throats with their other. Their tails coil and intertwine into a double helix spiral.

'War and peace.'

How befitting for a Commander of Defenses.

After admiring the sheer artistic skill and countless hours which must have gone into crafting such a majestic masterpiece, you use a trembling hand to knock, and hope to the gods he doesn't answer. Much to your dismay, he does, and you are granted permission to enter.

Meekly, you take a step inside to find him folded in a chair with a parchment scroll unfurled in his hand, quietly reading, his armor-plated tail twitching restlessly behind him. While his seated position is less threatening, it is not enough to encourage the drop of your guard. He remains a beast at rest.

You slowly kneel to him, and he permits you to rise with a brief motion of his hand; as you do, you take in your surroundings.

'Holy shit.' Your heart freezes in your rib cage and panic spills into your veins, cold and paralyzing.

There are no fewer than two hundred skulls and miscellaneous bones, inhuman and human, everywhere. Displayed on the dressers and desk, hanging on the wall, and just about anywhere there is free space. Your stomach churns with fear and you fight the impulse to bolt.

Gulping, you then notice upon closer inspection that the very chair he is reclined in as he peruses over a scroll, seemingly preoccupied, is entirely constructed of artistically arranged spines, ribs and femurs.

An icy tingle numbs your face as the color drains away from it.

Every fiber of your being screams at you to run from this place, but you know that is the worst thing to do in the presence of predator.

"Do not fear- they are merely tools of scientific study." The Devil informs you when he sees your eyes swimming with anxiety.

"Do you see this one here?" He queries, and reaches to tap his claw on the polished cranium of a small skull resting as a paperweight on the corner of his desk.

"Look closely- Craniosynostosis affected this unfortunate specimen. It is a congenital deformity of the infant skull that occurs when the fibrous joints between the cranial sutures close prematurely. Due to this closure, the infant develops an abnormally shaped skull because the bones do not expand with the growth of the brain." He clinically explains.

You can only swallow around the lump in your throat and tightly nod in reply, but you know the look of watery skepticism is likely written all over your face.

'Is your fucking throne of death for scientific study too?' You're tempted to ask, but you do not believe he will see the humor in it.

The way your gaze flashes over the morbid furniture does not go unnoticed, and he chuckles.

"Waste not." He seems to read your thoughts, and yet, his remark begs for clarification- but he only favors you with his signature vulpine smile, his eyes dancing with mirth.

His eyes then lazily travel the length of your body, shamelessly tracing your curves.

Apparently, the joke you made to Tuare is 100% accurate- that the uniform's design isn't purely functional, but indeed at least partially for his viewing pleasure.

To exacerbate the situation, the tip of his tongue slips down the curve of his canine, reminding you of the way it had curled around your breast in the first dream you had involving him.

'Oh, gods- oh, no...'

You are powerless against the heat you feel creeping up your neck to light your cheeks in scarlet, and a throbbing heat rapidly unfurls from between your thighs as the phantom of his tongue laves over your pebbling nipples.

Utterly mortified by your body's response, you can only stand there, mouth agape in stunned silence.

You see the claws of his free hand curl into a bruising grip over the skull crowning the armrest of the chair, and you tense; but he does nothing more.

"You may begin." Demiurge prompts, snapping you out of it and you suddenly remember you are here to clean.

"Y-yes, Master."

'What the actual fuck was that?' Only after awakening from those dark dreams did you feel that hot, urgent pulsing between your legs... so why is it happening again now? Your mouth is suddenly bone dry and you forcibly shove your concern for your sanity into the back of your mind and try to focus on your duties instead.

With small, hesitant steps, you begin to explore the polished expansiveness of his personal chambers. Beneath the chaotic order of scattered ivory, the place is actually quite elegant and spacious, furnished with sleek, black leather settees strategically positioned before a roaring fireplace.

Steeling your nerves, you go to work dusting every surface of the furniture and the morbid decor of creature remains, and struggle not to tremble like a leaf as you gaze into the hollow eye sockets of the human skulls that seem to emptily stare back at you.

You cannot help but ponder if they are the remnants of servants who had met their fate after failing or offending the Arch Devil in one way or another.

Paintings hang above the richly carved stone mantel, and white powdered ash from the burning logs crowds within the crevices and grooves. The dancing fire licks and spits at the curved ceiling of the hearth with glowing, bright golden flame as it devours the thickly cut wood.

A glimmer of warmth catches your eye, and you turn to see a dining alcove that boasts a hand-carved table of varnished burgundy and matching chairs reflecting the scarlet firelight.

Down an entryway is the master bedroom, with a large, lovely bed with red satin sheets and draped in a canopy of black, frothy netting as the centerpiece. It is positioned opposite to arched balcony doors so he can lie abed and see the sky.

So, there is a means of telling time here, after all.

"Would you like me to clean the bedroom, Master?" You ask, hoping to get a glimpse of the view from the window.

"No, thank you. For now, it is off limits." He politely declines, and fluffs the scroll to read further down.

'Damn it.' You nod, and continue cleaning.

As you skirt past an armoire, you step in something sticky. Your gaze drops to meet with a large, dark stain on the wooden floor, possibly a spilled black coffee.

"I would like you to scrub that before you leave." Your master requests, and you jolt. "The maid's supply closet is down the main corridor and to the left."

Your back is to him, so you can only imagine the amused grin that crosses his face when he no doubt sees you jerk with a start.

"Yes, Master." You crouch down and unfasten the many straps of your heels and slip off your shoes, so as not to track the mystery stain, and are thoroughly relieved to have the opportunity to step out of his graveyard of a room in order to retrieve a bucket of water and a scrub brush, even if it is for just a few precious minutes.

Once outside his quarters, your breath bursts from your lungs in a whoosh and your heart thunders uncontrollably as your composure temporarily crumbles.

The way he was looking at you... like he wanted to devour you... his gaze was hot enough to melt you to the bone.

You make your way on gelatinous, quivering legs to the maid's closet to collect the necessary cleaning supplies. The idea of hiding out in here is appealing, but if he can really smell your fear, you know he will find you in no time and worse, you will be cornered.

You gather the supplies, and dump a jug of distilled water in a steel bucket, and empty a glass container of white vinegar and a container of cleaning solution into it.

Quickly but reluctantly, you return, then kneel in preparation to scrape at the stain.

Of course, as you feared, both the low-cut top of your uniform and gravity are determined to work against you; your breasts threaten to tumble out.

Terrified you will catch his intimidating gaze on you, you keep your eyes averted from his and make a point not to look at him.

Suddenly, your blood alights with adrenaline; now that you are closer to it, the soured coppery smell and deep burgundy color makes it frighteningly obvious that it is not a spilled coffee as you initially thought, but a blood stain, maybe a week or two old. And by the size of it, someone has likely died.

It has not even been wiped, and it brewed in the unforgivingly humid heat of this level; but rather than drying, it coagulated into a rancid, tacky pool. It occurs to you to wonder if he had left it here purposefully, as a reminder that it can just as easily be yours, should you fuck up somehow.

'Don't think about it, just clean it and leave.'

You whip the water into a soapy lather with the stiff-bristled scrub brush, and lean forward on all fours. It smells gods-fucking-awful, like death warmed over, and you fight the urge to gag tooth and nail. You scrub what you can as you face him, but to complete the job, you will have to have your back to him. There is only so much you can get from one direction as it is oddly placed and collides with a baseboard.

'Fuck.' Hesitantly, you turn the opposite way.

He is definitely going to get an eyeful.

---

The Devil can see how badly she wants to run when she lays eyes upon his countless trophies. He deflects with the perfectly logical explanation that they are mere tools of scientific study, but that is only partially true.

Oh, how he wants to gloat that these are the bones of those who dared to disrespect the name and glory of Ainz Ooal Gown. He permits a brief flash of fangs, acutely attuned to her suspicion and he reminds himself not startle her. He licks his teeth, and...

....the tempo of her heart quickens with a sudden, thick tang of arousal which laces the bright citrusy sweetness of her scent, making his mouth water. It is all he can do not to allow the chains of his self control to slip from his grasp.

_ 'Not yet...' He digs his claws into his ivory armrest with a white-knuckle grip as he silently coaches his restraint._

He needs space. NOW.

"You may begin." He prompts, and she takes that as her cue to proceed with her duty.

Demiurge observes her from the corner of his eye, as she hurries around with a feather duster, flicking it over the various surfaces delicately like a little bird, occasionally glancing his way but adamant not to make eye contact. She is obviously eager to flee, but still manages to do a thorough job and knows better than to shirk her tasks.

Good. She's efficient in the face of imminent danger, if nothing else.

But that maid's uniform which is perfectly tailored is nothing short of torture. He deems it Pestonya's finest work to date- its corset-style bodice shows a lovely portion of cleavage and clings flatteringly to her shape, accentuating her tight stomach. The scandalously short hem of the skirt allows him to clearly see garters at the tops of her thighs, securing a pair of coal black stockings with a delicious seam running up the back of each leg.

She then asks if he would like her to clean his bedroom- but the demon declines. He has yet to have the headboard replaced, which is still heavily streaked in claw marks after Malphas' last visit. He'd prefer not to answer the questions which were sure to be raised regarding their origins as of yet.

Her movements are cautious and tightly wound with tension, her eyes flickering over the empty sockets and grinning jaws of the skulls.

When her heels stick to the bloodstain pooled before his armoire, he requests that she clean it. She immediately complies and asks no questions.

_ 'She is likely thrilled to have an excuse to leave.' He tells himself, and expects he will have to chase after her when she doesn't come back._

But lo and behold, as though to prove him wrong, she returns shortly after with the cleaning supplies, and she crouches down to scrub at the stain.

Her nose wrinkles just slightly with revulsion and she pales when it dawns on her what exactly it is she is looking at, and yet she continues to boldly stand her ground while doing her best to maintain a poker face.

_ 'Impressive.' _

When she stretches out to position herself on her hands and knees, his groin throbs as he sees how her breasts threaten to spill out of her top and he feels a lump of pure, distilled lust rise into his throat and lodge itself there. Demiurge wonders what it might feel like to pull her into his lap to feel her curves beneath the paper-thin lace and ruffles.

He had expected her to face him the entire time out of fear of taking her eyes off of him, but much to his surprise and pleasure, she does the complete opposite. She turns around and leans further forward, putting her back into it; her skirt hikes up to reveal that she even put on the lingerie supplied for her- a mere scrap of lace, just barely hiding the blushing pink of the silken flesh at the apex of her thighs.

The demon watches intently with the unblinking, carnivorous stare of a shark as she treats him to a fabulous show of her perfectly heart-shaped ass, framed in white silk ruffles and bare except for where her black garter straps bisect each cheek from the tops of her stockings to the connect with the hidden belt. His tongue sweeps over his fangs.

The thought of holding her thighs apart and tugging aside her panties so he can swipe his tongue up the length of her slit flits through his naturally sinful mind. Instead he licks his lips, and grins a wolfish grin.

All in good time.

---