Erotica: Ermengarde and Annika

A fair day to you, readers! Today we’re returning to the world of Hexenkessel with some new characters and a new location: the succubus Ermengarde, the maid-servant Annika, and the mysterious castle of Geisttiegel–the Ghost Crucible. If you’d like a little more story about the castle, the demons of Hexenkessel, and the first appearance of one Pfalzgräfin Karin von Geisttiegel, you’ll find the events that brought Ermengarde to the castle in this post:

Now, it wouldn’t be erotica without some content warnings, so let’s get those out of the way before we dive in: femdom, internalized trans femme shame, possible mind-altering effects, power asymmetry, mistress-servant dynamic,

This tale’s sexual encounter is F/F, with Ermengarde being in her three-hundreds and Annika being 23.


The Ghost Crucible is a mammoth domain. I do not have the words for all that I see in it. First after the chamber of circles, which Karin says is a mere invitation but still feels like a place of summons to me, I pass over many long balconies. They overlook an abyss of dull orange clouds and rusty fire. I meet briefly with a many-limbed mass of bristles and lidless black eyes, a spider’s eyes, which scuttles over the vaulted ceilings above.

Many halls, many strange creatures. I begin to believe that the promised mortals do not exist. Karin has pulled me here for some game of her own invention. Or perhaps there is no Karin. Perhaps she is only a dream the castle dreams to itself, and there is only Geisttiegel.

These are my thoughts when I pass through a narrow door. All at once there are hued silhouettes seen through the dark stonework and wooden panels that give forth glowing ripples in the air, and in them I feel that pressure like fingers I did not know I had returning to feeling just as they are caught in a warm vise of flesh.

It is just in time for an echo of startling in the nearest silhouette as we round the same corner, and collide with each other.

Slow tugging and great heat close upon my groin. By mortal standards my stature is great, where that of the young human is smaller. Petite though the firmness in her cheek and jaw-bones shows her for a woman grown, with a fine oval face and large ice-blue eyes in lightly-tanned skin beneath a bob of dark brown hair. A simple dress of russet fabric with a white apron and a white collar. The fabric splits there to expose the upper curves of two bosoms, small but full.

She rounds the corner leaning far forward for some reason only she could say.

As against this, there is me. Blood-red skin and golden slitted eyes. Black hair long on my head, in tufts between my heavy breasts, shaggy upon my haunches and about my loins. Gleaming bronze horns and a tail as fit for a dragon as a succubus, with glittering black-glass spines.

I am wearing nothing. And because I wear nothing, and the maid-servant is leaning forward when we collide, my sleeping length catches fast between the soft globes on her chest. That is the great heat. The slow tugging is the maid-servant herself as she halts. Blinks at the unexpected shaft held in her breasts. She cranes her neck up, and up. Her skin brushes forward along the darker crimson bulb atop my shaft while her eyes trace my length, witness the swell of my own breasts, and meet mine.

The lady of the house warned me of the punishment should I mistreat the mortal staff. But there is the gathering flush in the maid-servant’s cheeks. Her quickening heartbeat pulses hard against my tip. Her shuddering breaths rouse my womanhood–the heat of her pouring through the places where our flesh presses together just as the yearning cling of her soul answers the hunger of mine.

The mortal woman has witnessed me in full. She does not move away. And I have better ways than words for her mouth to heed the question whose answer I already know.

Eager fingers find the silky bed of her hair and taste of the vital simmer from her scalp beneath. I am aching, and it’s been far too long. My shaft springs rigid the instant I remove it from the warming clutch of the maid’s breasts. She gives forth a gasp of shock when it slaps against her chin. I clutch the shaft, awoken to the divots of my own fingers against the swell.

I drag my cock up, leaving a glistening moist patch below her lips, and pop into the maid-servant’s ready mouth. She shivers. Cups her lips over the head. I growl and lick my fangs. She makes a delighting spectacle with her cheeks pulling inward to serve my shaft, and such pretty eyes gazing up at me in blushing submission. The slick rustling and slurps as I work my red flesh over her lapping tongue pleasures me until my hips twitch forward.

Once. Twice–

Three times, I cannot abide. With hissing breath and my tail’s coil about the back of her neck, I thrust my full length into her throat. The maid-servant yelps and gags. She hangs transfixed. Her lips quiver against the flesh of my waist, her upper tickling my hair’s tufts, her lower my balls. My full length fills her. Every contraction of her moist gullet is a wave of caresses and twists against me. Her eyes water, but beneath hooded lids, and she remains where she stands.

She’s willing to continue, and I have waited more than enough. I grasp her head, one great hand palming her pretty face at each temple, and draw back with a slow, ecstatic sigh through my nostrils. The maid-servant moans while I twist her firmly side to side. I explore her throat by the wet friction along my deep-hidden cockhead with each plunge, the top and sides of the shaft and the tender flesh of my tip. She answers with many a sound that makes me harder: pleased gasps, a choke or splutter, a messy slurp.

The glowing ripples of her aura reverberate with the thunder of her heart. She is in it, and her lust with me. I drink of her–she is honey and nectar. A flower that rejoices in its plucking.

Faster, now, and fiercely. My rod plumbs the depths of her mouth with communing slaps that echo in the lonely hall. Drool and other juices trickle out to darken the plush carpet and glint dully on floorboards where its edges expose the wall. My entire length feels like forth-rushing water now, straining for release. The building pressure quickens my pace. My luxuriant snarls grow longer and more guttural. Her moans grow higher, sharper, and swifter.

The tickling fire-surge of orgasm turns hips and groin, balls and shaft into a single quaking pool of lust. The maid-servant cries out, shuts her eyes, and receives me to the hilt. I pull her tight enough that I am thrusting upward now as I fill her belly with as much seed as ten mortal shafts at once. Again I twitch, and again aching transforms itself to drunk heat.

The maid-servant answers it with pealing cries muffled by the liquid rush of sex. Each wave-crest in the storm-swells of her aura grows lightning tendrils that arc into me. I open myself to them. My peak redoubles, and hers in answer, until finally all the pressure is passed out. We pant in one-two rhythm. Flickers of pleasure-fire and faint steam flow out from our sweat-speckled bodies.

A soft sound and light fingers break the spell of release: the maid-servant now kneels before me, cupping my testes and suckling gently at my tip while she massages my shaft. She is skilled far past her innocent appearance, and diligent despite the wet-spot I see when her apron shifts enough to reveal the linen above her own waist.

Perhaps she intends to ease me down, and ensure I am fully satisfied. She will succeed in the second precisely because she fails in the first. Under her ministrations I swell as hard as ever, A throaty chuckle escapes me. Again I grasp her head, and draw my girth out of her lips with a smack and pop. Trails of salivation and semen link it with her pert lips.

“Have I offended?” she asks. I do not answer save that I step around her, stoop down, and hoist her up against the wall with my hands under her supple thighs. “M-mistress,” she says, “wait, I–” I toss her gown upward to uncover the shapely swells of her rear, and pluck aside the frilly under-clothes until her back-hole is open to me.

Whatever she meant to say cannot have mattered much. She loses it in an eager cry when I push my crimson head into the tight little tunnel. I have known many women, but this one–the fit of her is magnificent! Here I take my time, driving deeper into her with slow rises and sinking back away. She squirms back against me, again shivering.
“W-we will be seen if this continues,” she breathes. Her inner muscles tense and clutch, pulling at my length. I can conceive of nothing but to fill her again. She gives herself so utterly–such perfect submission. The fawning look in one blue eye, the upward leap of a brow in time with an especially needful cry when I drive my cock into her again, the deepest thrust yet–oh, she pleases me wonderfully!

Do not misunderstand me. I dislike having my time wasted. There is no deeper meaning to my thoughts of her.

She surrenders to my every move in such charming ways. When I thrust, she presses flat against the panels. The fingers she splays against an engraving of woodland hunts seek not to brace, but to tap and claw in swells of pleasure. Her right hand she curls under one thigh. With it she holds herself wider open to me.

I am aching again already. Her scents are cinnamon and grains, and some heady herb with a faint spice-tang that I cannot name. I kiss the back of her neck for the sensual flare of her skin’s heat on my lips, and the taste of her sweat on my tongue. I up the tempo more swiftly this time. She bounces on my shaft with limp abandon, crying out and rolling her eyes back.
“You’ll break me like this!” she cries. It is not a cry for escape.

I lean closer against her until each breath is full of her. The old woodwork rattles with the force of our meetings. Swifter still, and her tender body vibrates with my lancing jabs, and we catch again and again on the balance point with halting breath and urgent groans.

One last gathering thrust, and for the second time I bury my womanhood within the maid-servant’s willing depths. So bewildering is our shared ecstasy that I moan into her ear, and the thoughtless woman thinks it appropriate to turn her head back and kiss me. I return it for the taste of her tongue on mine, and the traces of my seed still mixed with her saliva, and the hot breaths she breathes into me in trade for the seed I pour into her below.

Another climax ebbs. But I find the mortal woman’s heat too pleasing to withdraw just yet, and she makes too fine a sight with her light-gold skin against the dark red-brown wood for me to lower her off the wall. So I continue thrusting slowly into her. She shifts, eyelids fluttering with lustful sighs while she bites her lip.
“Tell me, mortal,” I say, rubbing one soft thigh beneath her gown, “where are the other castle staff? I have met your liege, this witch Karin. She spoke as though she keeps many servants.”

She blinks, confused. “Forgive me, mistress, but we are not the Pfalzgräfin’s servants.” Her pretty brow creases as she looks at me over her shoulder, then sideways along the wall in careful thought. “She was very adamant about this, and precious little else. She is very kind, and I do not speak from ingratitude. We eat very well, we are always paid more than enough to pay for other needs and luxuries both, and our rooms are comfortable, only… well, she says that we are to keep the castle’s halls clean as we would our own home, and look to serve her guests in what ways we are willing to. I…”

I feel no impatience. It is natural that she would struggle to gather her thoughts after our revels. Do not mistake this for kindness. I am simply willing to reward mortals who pay proper homage to the pleasures I bestow upon them. For this reason, I listen while the maid-servant grasps for the words she needs.

“I suppose I had expected firmer direction,” the maid-servant finally says.
I understand, and in this I grin. “So, though the witch gives you rooms to stay in, and the castle belongs to her, you are not truly her servants. What you do is for community, not duty.”
The maid-servant seems further confused. “That is true, I think… yes. Yes, that sounds right.”
“Then,” I say, leaning close into one dainty ear and speaking with a husky whisper, “you will not be shirking your duties if you swear service to another?”

Her breath quickens. Again her blood carries the faint tap of her heartbeats to my fingertips where they cradle her thighs.
“W-what are you suggesting, m-mistress?” she asks.
“Give yourself to me,” I answer. “I have had much enjoyment of you, pretty girl. I am not well-pleased by sharing–except, perhaps, on my own terms. I want you to myself.”
“Oh,” she says, and her breaths grow long. Trembling. The jitter of nerves grows so fierce that I feel it as well. Of course her answer is no more to me than a matter of pride, but sometimes a mortal with emotions so unbridled as hers can blur the lines between their desires and mine.

I am not hanging on her words. A denial will not destroy me.

“I did vow when I came here that I would see to the guests of Geisttiegel as best I can,” the lovely maid answers. “I swear that I will serve you well and loyally, mistress. I will be honored to be of use to you in whatever ways you desire.”
“Then first you will tell me–where is the nearest unclaimed bedroom?”
She points down the hall. “It is down the hall, one right corner and then another. I will happily show the way if you set me down, and allow me a few minutes to–“

“There is no need for that,” I say. I step away from the wall and walk. Each step jostles my maid-servant in my grasp, and causes countless little shifts of her tunnel around my shaft. Sperm splatters out and down. She squeaks and gasps, little sounds of scandal and arousal that excite me to no end.
“Mistress,” she groans, falling back against me with the back of her head cradled between my breasts, “m-mistress, we’re making a mess… I’ll have to… have to clean it later…”

“I will attend to that, just this once, as a reward for your obedience,” I say. “You will serve me in a higher calling today.” By the time we reach the promised bedroom and step inside, I am throbbing to throw her down and use her to exhaustion. Why should I not? I am a guest in this castle. I was promised that I might stay as long as I wish, and have as much joy of it as I like.

I seized the door’s handle with my tail in passing, drive it to, and lock it. Down on the bed with my pretty little servant. She bounces, eyes popping with excitement and lust. I catch her by the hips and turn her over, belly-up to face me. Again I reach for the hem of her gown.
“Wait, mistress, forgive me–” she starts.
I toss it forward, unveiling her groin. There is no mistaking the ample bulge straining at her lace underclothes, or the semen pooled on her belly from two previous climaxes beneath her clothes. She averts her eyes.

“There must be none of that,” I say, clasping her chin between thumb and forefinger. “You are a beautiful woman. It is preposterous for you to be ashamed of that, and good maids do not create labor for their mistresses. So by your own vow, you will believe that you are beautiful so I do not have to keep reminding you.”

I drift fingers along the bulge. She looses a sharp gasp and arches her back against the bed while I step away, work loose her underclothes, and return my shaft to the waiting warmth of her tunnel. Her own womanhood, shapely and surprisingly large, pleases me well. I coil my tail forward, twining it first around my shaft and then around hers with its black-glass spines gentled to ribbing and fine bumps.

“Serve well,” I say, tweaking the soft flesh around her cock’s head with my fingers, “and perhaps I will take this into my mouth one day. When you have proven you will not misunderstand me.”
“Y-yes, mistress,” she says. The soft blue eyes flick from my fingers to my rod. I plunge the tail-entwined length into her. I hiss in ecstasy. So many senses–the frictive clasp of the tail’s coils, the heated wetness of the seed I left within her minutes earlier, and her tunnel clutching and catching at me.

I lean forward, pressing her legs back until her feet bob near her head and our faces are scarcely apart. Of course, I desire only greater depth of penetration and to ensure she does not writhe loose in the latest fucking. That our lips brush together when I press my shuddering dick up to the balls inside her is an unintended coincidence. Still, her breath’s steaming brush against my cheeks pleases me, and she presents her tongue in such total submission that I am willing to reward her by twining mine against it.

“Oh, please,” she sighs when we break apart briefly, “please use me, mistress! Use me forever!”
I answer by pushing forward to brace myself with my hands on either side of her head. The bed creaks and bounces with our rush. She reaches out to grasp my waist and back with her slender arms; I allow it, holding her away only long enough to pull her dress away from her shoulders to fully expose her small, full breasts. They brush against mine nipple to nipple.

“Good,” I groan, “good… you please me well–” I hammer long, hard thrusts, withdrawing each time until my crimson tip is nearly free of her backside before plunging back in again. She receives me with eager cries and yearning eyes empty of everything save affectionate delight.
Of course it is unconscious that I grin at her–a coincidence of the expressions of arousal, and approval, and so much need that I cannot bear even to think of something but my good servant’s embrace.

She cries out a moment before I do. She shakes, spattering us both on our bellies and breasts with her seed. I kiss her and embed my shaft to its utmost within her. She cries out into my mouth, and I into hers, and for each spurt of semen that leaves her I leave two more in her depths. She whimpers happily against me. I do not chastise her when we draw slowly away from the kiss, heaving for breath with her seed hanging from my nipples as well as hers. There is nothing wrong with a servant showing affection to her mistress.

I do not withdraw fully, but ease onto the bed beside her and lift her up and around to rest atop me with my arms around her shoulders.
“Mistress?” she asks, sleepy.
“Do not misunderstand. I wish you to learn that my touch is natural. Your days will begin and end with it, for that is the service you have sworn yourself to,” I say. I stroke her hair only because it is so soft, and pleasant to feel. I am not sure what to call this muzzy, bubbling emotion in my head and belly, but I am sure it means nothing. “I am Ermengarde,” I say. “You will tell me your name.”
“It is Annika,” she says, resting her head on my breasts. “It will be my pleasure to serve you, Mistress Ermengarde. Always.”


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