Erotica–Kiresa: Rose and Thorns

Hello and welcome, readers dear! Kairlina here. Those of you who follow us on Twitter will know me as an aspect of the Inheritrix, as your usual host-aspect Caerllyn is. The linked list excludes Vetliil and Ermina–we are fourteen now–and we now know how Silunkair looks, but it is otherwise still accurate. Those of you who do not follow us on Twitter and who have not yet read Sword of the Outsider will have no idea what I’m talking about.

Enough of that. I did not come here for a lengthy preamble. I came here to offer you all the erotica I wrote. An ancient demon, a nervous farmgirl, some nice heartwarming sadomasochism–you might almost enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!

Content Notices: body modding (new erogenous zones), blood, bondage, mind-sexpanding, painplay (touching/teasing cuts, whipping), pussy penetration


A chime sings in the column of azure crystal. Glances exchanged. A whisper, the curve of a smile. The amber glint in plump, dark red lips. Slip of a shimmering blue gown over a gleaming amber shoulder. Then, the seep by paths innumerable. The sifting of aches and tingles through the soul-flesh, the threads that drink sensation, and carry it elsewhere.

A candle-lit room that fairly reeks of incense–a cellar, old stone slabs cleaned hastily of dust to receive the white chalk of the circle. The plump field-tanned figure looks from the parchment she holds, its diagram of ordered lines and neat intersections, to the well-meaning squiggles on her floor. These are less of a circle than they are an ovoid having a very bad day. The porous floor did the chalk no favors; that’s why these patches where an anxious hand doubled back and scrubbed to solidify lines fraying apart on the bumps.

With a nervous groan and a bitten lip, the mortal pulls her hair back and leans forward. What? These two dots aren’t on the diagram. Why… oh. Oh, my heart. A smiley face. She’s drawing a smiley face in the middle of the circle.

The farmgirl’s full, perky little breasts are new and nervous-making partners to the rest of her flesh. Her soul turns tentative where it flows into their sensations: an aura of crosshatching lines in blue, white and pink running in waves towards the bud of her nipples. Their ripples mostly shy away and drift back again, seldom filling the nerves like a constellation of gemstone sparkles right around each tip.

Now, now, Kiresa. No peeking. Be responsible.

Admittedly, as the six and a half-foot shape coalescing behind this five-foot morsel of a girl, I’ve already chosen the side of mischief on so many levels.

Shining mane of scarlet hair. Rings of golden fire around the black slit pupils in blood-orange eyes. Two big, down-curving horns of opaque dark blue gemstone ringed by glowing mazework lines, framing the sculpted oval face with big rosebud lips spread to show off shining fangs. Wings of crystalline nodules and living gossamer. Wide lush hips, a pinched waist, and generous heavy breasts straining the fabric of my slit-sided gown.

Oh, and a rush of crushing sensual presence that draws my mortal summoner’s knees together and teases a needy mewling sound out of her lips. For all that, she’s so riddled with worries that she doesn’t realize I’m here.

“Gods, I’m already falling apart,” she mutters to the dusty air. Her voice is bright and frail with fright. Whatever potion or magic she sought for her transition, it’s changed her voice. The girl within remains the same: young, uncertain in herself.

My voice is sonorous, silken, lulling and layered as my realm itself.

“You know you don’t need one of those to summon me, don’t you?” I ask. My mortal client squeaks oh so delightfully and spins around. “I’m not from the Assembly. There’s no protocol ‘twixt us.”

“T-twixt?” she peeps.

I laugh. “Oh, that. I am quite the old maid by now. It creeps into my speech sometimes.”

“You, um,” she says, glancing shyly away, “y-you don’t look old.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, dear,” I answer. I drift my tail by age-long habit along the sensitive rims where the crystals grown out of my hips merge back to my gleaming amber flesh. A thrill of pleasure. “Now, sweetheart, tell me your name and what you desire. We’ll begin as soon as you’re ready.”

“J-just like that?” she asks. “W-what about payment?”

“I take my pay in lust and love,” I answer. “We’ll speak details about coins and where to send them if you wish to make this a regular business, this you and I. First time’s free as far as you’re concerned. In your particular case, I’m afraid soul-drinking’s off the table for now. I walked the same path, once and long ago, to help my form and my femininity find harmony. I want to let the flower of your transformation bloom bright and vivid before I pluck it.”

I wink, and she quivers.

“And th-the contract?” she asks.

“Contract?” I laugh. “My dear, I’m a succubus of the deep ways, a proud daughter of abyss. A little talk and a lot of consent, that’s enough for you and I to get on with.” I reach out. Take her trembling hands in mine. Her palms are slick with sweat and quaking with as much fear as arousal. “Hey, now. The first time is whenever you’re ready for it. I can come back any day if you’re–“

“No!” she says, hazel eyes suddenly fierce. “I-I’ve been working up to this all w-w-week! I’m not going to back down now. I…” she swallows nerves. “I w-want the Rose and the Thorns.” Her heartbeat pulses in her aura. Her sweet, nervous soul gallops with it–a maelstrom of contagious pinks and reds thumping wider and wider in her chest.

The hot, raw need pouring off her… oh, she tests my control, this sweet sweet thing. Would a little drink, just a little sliver of her soul melting into my skin, be such a terrible thing?

“Aha!” I say, pressing a claw to my chin. “You’ve read about me!” I forestall the gushy sentence I see building with a gentle brush of my tail-tip on her pert pink lips. “Any appointments tomorrow? Places to be, work that must be done? How close to your breaking point do you want me to carry you?”

“N-nothing to do,” she says, shaking her head. An anxious smile. “I… I want to be jelly. I want to be jelly, like a good girl, and n-not think silly, bad thoughts.”

“Right to the edge, then?” I ask. She nods, and I allow myself the first lascivious lick of my teeth. I take my time in coiling the black, shiny-wet forks of my tongue over each fang in turn. “Good. I must confess, I’ve never been much good at finesse. I’m a creature of extremes. Give me your name, then, pet, so I can put it away for you.”

“It’s B-britta,” she says.

“Oh, now that is a pretty name,” I say. I raise a claw to her forehead. I brush blond locks aside. “But your name is pet, or good girl.” Her skin creases. Fretwork patterns of red light flow out of my claw and harden the crevices: a crystal rose grown into her forehead, and bounded in tickling, blissful-itching spectral thorns winding just inside her brow.

Ripples flow from the sigil over her sun-kissed skin. Glints trace the lovely round lines of her body inside her green linen dress and undyed shirt, the big wide hips and the soft pudgy belly. I walk a slow circle. Rasps from the rough fabric while my claws trace her shoulder girdle from end to end, splitting until dress and shirt and underclothes all fall away.

She’s quivering already. Precum glistens on the tip of her tasty little girlcock. Now, how am I to resist that? I creep low and come up under it, not looking up at her face but right at each patch of skin as I grace it with my touch: a palm-rub on her testes, a tweak of my fingers at her tip–ah! She makes such cute gasps!–and of course:

“Ahhh,” I say playfully, stretching my tongue out to wrap her soft, warm shaft. My tongue-winds spiral down, tasting heady sweat and all the tangy under-flavors of a mortal’s dear, savory flesh-form. It tugs the foreskin with it until my tip trails onto her rim and slips into the crevices. I’ve been so distracted by my own play that I missed the sudden surge in her aura. She cries out, eyes squeezing shut, and spurts into my mouth. I gulp it all down, and with spirit-tendrils of me working inside her throbbing length she gives so very, very much.

Well–waste not! Red lips wrap her and suck. More, longer, harder–keep her straining and whimpering and cumming as long as I can… there. She sinks to her knees, still shaking with ecstasy even as she looks away in shame.

“Why, pet!” I say, in my best fawning, praising, happy mistress-voice. “That wasn’t wrong! No, that’s just what mistress wants you to do! You promised me this when we started, remember? That was good! You’re good, silly pet! I want you to cum, and cum, and cum. Your little cock belongs to me. If you hold back one little twitch, or ache, or throb, then you’re keeping things from mistress.”

A playful pout. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?” She shakes her head. “That’s right. Because you’re a good girl, aren’t you?” She nods eagerly. “That’s right.” I kiss the rose sigil pulsing with my power on her forehead. She swoons, groaning. “Hm… having some trouble standing up again, pet? Don’t worry. Mistress will help you.”

Here it is. One of my absolute favorite parts. I snap my fingers. Four lashes of amber fire coil out of the air and snap around her limbs: each wrist, each ankle. A deft flick and she’s pulled upright, pulled off her feet, pulled taut and helpless for me–her arms and legs a little back, her chest and hips thrust forward.

A flap of my wings spreads warm, spice-scented amber inferno through the room. It alights in some of the candles, compliments blue glows pouring from the shadowed corners and the reds and oranges I call out of the natural flame. I can see every contour, every hollow and swell of my sweet submissive’s body–add her aura, and the play of colors, the raw psychic emanations of our overlapping urges…

It’s enough to get an archdemon lust-drunk. And I most assuredly am, but I don’t give myself to it yet. Oh, such travails in the life of the succubus…

“Now,” I say, stepping to her front, “to get those nasty, nasty thoughts out of you, I’m afraid mistress has to make it hurt a little. But you’ll like it, won’t you? Good girls like a little pain when it’s good for them. And you trust mistress, don’t you?” I cup her chin. She nods quickly, eyes wide and bright and begging, begging, begging. “You love mistress. She knows what’s good for you, doesn’t she?” She nods harder still. I squeeze her chin to hold her steady, and laugh in delight. “Good girl.”

I lean in and take the first kiss, tracing my tongue around the sensitive corners of her lips before pushing it into her needy mouth–dripping some of her own cum back into her. She all but unravels from it, twitching on the verge by the time I pull away. Blue silk pours out of my breath, fills out the shapes of a gag and the straps holding it to her head.

“Remember now, pet,” I say, walking backwards, “your pleasure belongs to me. I don’t want to see any silly little rebellion. Don’t try to impress. Just,” I stretch out a shapely hand, flex talons of lapis-lazuli to call a thrumming whip from the amber fires on the candles, “cum.”

The satisfying crack of the whip does the trick. It was one thing to see my tasty little pet cream herself when she was standing free, but now that she’s trussed up and those delicious twitches of her spurting cocklet are the only free movement she has… oh, yes, I’ve got quite a few trickles going, myself.

Easy, girl. Her cock goes in your pussy at the end. Thorns first, then rose.

I pull the whip taut between my hands. “Hmmmm… such a pretty canvas you offer, pet. But where shall I start?” Her eyes cross. “Ah, ah, ah. Mistress talks to herself sometimes. If I wanted you to answer questions, I would tell you so.” I tilt my head up, gazing slyly along my nose at her. “Why… you naughty, tricksome thing. You’re thinking, aren’t you, pet?”

I whirl the whip around me. “Don’t worry. Mistress will have those thoughts out right away.”

A whistle. A crack. The whip’s flickering tip drags the first fine line along the top of one breast. Near enough to trade sensation with the nerve endings of her nipple, but at no risk of harming it. She squeals. Her aura floods with pinks and reds flowing out into the amber corona of my presence. She arcs her back: rhythmic, urgent.

My aim is–can you guess?–supernatural. A centimeter might as well be a hundred feet, there’s so much of me under the good little sub’s skin. Why, it’s like touching a second self! I can hardly wait to lick the cut and the welling blood, like the one fat droplet running down her soft, kissable belly. But first… I saunter around her and slip my gown off one shoulder. Each flick of my wrist, each loop of my arm, sends more sliding loose.

She watches me, entranced, drinking in the sight of each curve. I time the next swing for the instant when blue silk drifts down off one big, dark red nipple–the instant when her eyes widen, falling into its inviting shine. The whip carves a mirror to the first cut. A keening cry through the gag. More little beads of blood.

Now I up the tempo: quick steps in time with quick lashes, pausing just long enough to let the blissful agony of the last stroke wash through her. I click my foot-talons loudly on the cellar floor just before each strike–I want her to remember the joy of this pain every time she hears me take a step, each time I clack my finger-claws together.

Sometimes she cries loud and long. Sometimes she can only muster one little moan after another, straining up against the bindings, arching her head and neck and back and making her little round breasts bounce. Finally, I pause right behind her. Another lick of my fangs, enjoying the subtle line where the small of her back drops toward the thickness of her rear, where symmetrical slashes await my touch.

A feint: a full stroke to the left, sending the whip’s tip back into her sight. Now to the right. She twitches, groans, begs. Oh, she’s so good at begging!

“Yes, you are a good girl,” I say. “You can have another treat.” Of course, what I’m planning is outrageously dangerous and no one should ever do it. Arteries aside, there’s a serious risk of lasting nerve damage. Anyway, I drive the whip’s tip right into the small of her back near the base, digging out a last red notch. The crescendo of her yearning cries into the telltale keening of an “Ohhhhhh!” muffled–humans will always be some of my favorite people.

To be fair, I can heal mortal wounds and return scar tissue to normal flesh. It’s alright for me to risk these things… but thinking about that beforehand isn’t as sexy, is it?

A dancing step. I raise a talon to the red divide and trace it down. Its amber wake fills out, blue-metal trim weaving into my pet’s back flesh and filling with a single glittering orange gem–a long hexagon suturing most of the wound. Not all, of course: I want to leave her a little pain around the edges. I test the new sweet-spot with a slight brush of my finger.

She bursts, swift quaking breaths through her nose and all her body a-tremble. I giggle into the nape of her neck, hugging her from behind and wrapping my fingers around her spurting girldick. I tease her tip with my thumb. Squeeze gently to make sure I get every drop out. Then, kissing her behind one ear, I step away and lick her juices up.

How can it be fair for mortals to taste this good? It’s outrageous. I’m pent-up enough that the wafting energies of her orgasm overcome my control, if only slightly. I muffle my own gasp in the crook of an elbow and my eyes roll back in a sudden microorgasm. It wets the inside of my gown, sends torturous streamers of heat over my thighs.

I quietly recompose myself before I saunter around to her front again. A step back, a tilt of the head, a sly smile as I admire my handiwork. “Let’s have a little fun now that you’re all opened up.”

I pirouette and bend over backwards until I’m looking at my sweet little sub from upside down. Drape one palm on my cheek. Drape the other on my collar and drift it down, up, around the swell of one glorious breast. It’s a sin to make a mortal squirm so nicely–and I do love to sin. “Now, pet, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to spread my wings, and you’re going to fall into the sight of them.”

Spin upright, coil my hands around me, now down the silky blue fabric on my waist–and here we are, the promised snap of my wings to their full span. Her eyes pop. Then the rush of wind hits Britta. She groans, strains, moans desperately. “That’s a good girl. See the colors, pet?” Another spread. Another gust. “I am in them, and every flap sends my colors on the wind to you.” I take a catwalk step closer, and my gown finally falls to the floor around my feet. Again the beat of my wings, the rustle of air, the erotic panting of my good little sub.

I am relentless now, drawing closer, speaking into her trance, pushing teasing breezes into her cuts. “I want you to think about all those fingers of me playing in your cuts. Every sting, every chill, every heated flush–those are mistress having her fun. You’re a good girl, aren’t you, dear? You’re going to feel every. Single. One.”

My poor, sweet pet can’t bear it any longer. Her hips buck and her eyes roll back as streams of clear girlcum dribble out of her cute little cocklet. The streams raise shines in the curly golden hairs on her groin. They trickle down over her full, aching balls. The echo of that ache swells in my head. I want to feed it until there’s nothing left in her but squirming and heaving and begging for mistress’s touch.

“Hm,” I say, tossing scarlet locks forward over one shoulder, “you’ve been a good girl. And I think we’ve got the worst of your naughty thoughts out, haven’t we?” She nods. “That’s right, pet, we have. So I think I’ll give you one last treat–since you earned it.” I snap my fingers. The coils on her wrists pull them back further. Those on her feet draw her to the ground. And behind me, a plush blue couch hardens out of the ether.

I lie back, spread my legs, and beckon her with one hand while I stroke my clit with the other. “Come here, pet. It’s time for the Rose. Mistress wants your cock inside her.”

Mouth still gagged, arms still bound, she rushes to me so quickly she stumbles and overbalances. I could make her cock truly hard, but I don’t need or want it to be. I fill it with just enough of mistress’s tickling, bubbly amber fire to get it just plump and firm enough, just a little bit longer, so that as she thrusts frantically at my pussy it slips inside.

It’s a girlcock, after all, and it’s part of such a good, sweet, eager sub. It deserves special treatment–deserves the hundred tiny needles of pleasure that pulse into it from every brush past the shiny blue speckles of gemstone around the dripping orange folds of my pussy. It deserves the vibrations and kisses of heat, and… oh… oh, now I can finally lose control! It’s so full and warm inside me! Here in my form its pleasure echoes into my pleasure that echoes back into it, ripples of each other’s arousal pouring up from our sex to our psyches and washing us both into lust-drunk.

“That’s it,” I gasp, smiling, panting, and so very possessive. I lock my legs behind her, pulling and pushing to guide the rhythm of her thrusts. I fondle, squeeze, knead her breasts and trace my claws in the cuts. I kiss them, lick the blood, drag my tongue-tips in the sharp pleasure-pain of her wounds. We are melting into a sea of each other’s desire, and after all this teasing it won’t be long before I overflow. I wrap my tail up behind her, pull her head back just a bit to keep her at that lovely arched angle. “Fuck me! Fuck mistress! I know you’re on the edge, pet, I can feel you, so be a good girl and just–“

When she cums, the aftershock of her ecstasy overwhelms me. Arching back, rolling eyes, crying long and loud and high. Tail grinding against her balls, against the pleasure-gem set into her back, getting coated at the base in all the cum pouring out. Cum, cum, cum, so much hot clear dribbly girlcum spurting into my womb, and I’m squirting my own, hugging her tight, groaning and whimpering kisses into her neck and no more in control than she is.

“Ahh,” I sigh, collapsing back and pulling her with me. “Good girl… that’s a good girl…” I wave the bindings away. We cuddle, panting and delirious, for… however long it is. A good rule of thumb: if you can still tell time after an orgasm, you need another orgasm. I kiss her now and then, stroking her sweat-damped hair.

“Come on, you.” I peck her cheek. “You’re Britta again, but I’m still mistress until I go. Let’s get you a hot bath and hot food, and I’ll heal these cuts myself so they don’t scar.”

“I… I want the cuts,” she says, “if that’s okay. The scars, I mean, this time.”

“And the gem?” I ask, propping myself on one elbow. “That’s going to be a hellacious thing to have in fieldwork. You’ll feel your linens on it every time you bend over.”

“Oh,” Britta says, blushing and looking aside, but no longer from anxiousness. She smiles softly. “I think I want to. It sounds,” the smile widens, “naughty.”

I laugh, tousle her hair, and bundle her up to wait while I get her bath ready. “That’s a good girl.”


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