Alastor sat in his room, rigid and tense, the opulent, vintage furnishings, and the quiet ambience of the bayou doing little to soothe his agitation. His usually immaculate composure was hanging by a thread, fingers gripping his microphone until his knuckles went pale. Sweat beaded at his brow, and his ever-present grin wavered, teeth grit against the inferno simmering beneath his skin.
A low, throaty growl escaped him, more animal than human. How distasteful. He hadn't anticipated his rut hitting this hard, clawing through him with ravenous insistence. Normally, he could suppress it with sheer willpower and a touch of sadistic distraction, but this time it gnawed at him, crawling under his skin and scraping at his nerves until every breath felt too warm, too sharp.
"A gentleman," he bit out, voice dripping with frustration, "should not be reduced to this."
His fingers twitched against his mic as another shudder wracked through his body, sending molten heat curling low in his stomach. He hissed between his teeth, forcing his shoulders to relax, but the tension never left.
"Damn this infernal... predicament," he snarled, red eyes blazing.
The sudden crash of the door slamming open snapped him from his thoughts. Niffty practically bounced inside, bright-eyed and humming, holding a small brown package in her tiny hands.
"Special delivery! Just for you, boss!" she chirped, winking as she skipped closer, seemingly oblivious to the suffocating tension weighing down the room.
Alastor straightened, his posture snapping back into control despite the wild, feral hunger roiling within him. His lips pulled into a strained but polite smile, narrowed eyes betraying his irritation. He'd long made his peace with the fact that Niffty was unflappable and unafraid of his darker moods, so he managed to keep his tone controlled and even.
"A package? For me?" he asked, his tone deceptively light despite the strained edge.
Niffty nodded eagerly, eye gleaming with mischievous excitement. "Yup! Saw this cool ad and thought you might need it! Have fun!"
Before he could even reprimand her for barging in without permission, she shoved the package into his hands, practically bouncing on her toes in excitement. Alastor glanced down at the box, frowning as his fingers traced the coarse twine.
"And what exactly am I supposed to do with this... contraption?" he drawled, lifting the package and giving it a light shake. A muffled squish sounded from inside, and his smile grew even more strained.
Niffty tilted her head, looking at him like he'd missed something incredibly obvious. "Oh! It's an onahole!"
His eyebrow arched, and the corner of his mouth twitched with poorly concealed annoyance. "And that would be...?"
Niffty giggled, throwing her hands up like it was the most natural thing in the world. "It's a toy! You know, for when you're feeling... needy!" She leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. "You put your dick in it! It's supposed to feel just like the real thing!"
Alastor's face remained carefully neutral, but a faint flush crawled up his neck as he processed her words. His grin tightened, and his eyes darted between her and the package, feeling an odd mixture of curiosity and distaste.
Before he could ask where on earth did she get the idea from. Niffty vanished out the door, leaving him alone once more. Alastor eyed the package with suspicion, his deft fingers working the twine loose with practiced precision. The rough wrapping paper crinkled and fell away, revealing the object within.
His grin froze, razor-sharp teeth still bared but devoid of any mirth. Resting in the box was something soft, supple, and unmistakably vulgar. The pliant, flesh-like material gleamed faintly under the dim light, shaped in a way that left no room for misinterpretation. His crimson eyes narrowed as a surge of irritation flared, but beneath it all, something darker stirred, hot and unwelcome.
He wanted to throw it out, burn it, preferably, but his fingers betrayed him, trailing over the material. The texture was unnervingly realistic, soft enough to mold beneath his touch, and his breath hitched despite himself. A faint scent clung to it, latex and something faintly sweet which made his instincts snarl with a raw, pulsing need that he despised.
Disgusting. Yet, his body trembled, muscles taut and aching. A wicked thought slithered into his mind, unbidden and intoxicating. If he gave in, just this once, perhaps he could regain control.
With a sharp breath, he relented, leaning back against the plush armchair. His hand traced the toy's opening, and his imagination conjured something softer, warmer—someone softer, warmer. A familiar face, bright and smiling, lips parted with sweet laughter.
Charlie.
His eyes widened briefly, a spark of guilt flickering through him. He shouldn't be thinking of his business partner in this way. Yet the thought sank in, burrowing deep and igniting something darker, far more primal. Ever since he met her, that maddeningly optimistic woman with her radiant smile and stubborn kindness, something had changed. He'd grown attached, dangerously so. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, she lingered in his thoughts, slipping past his defenses like sunlight through cracked blinds.
Despite everything, he couldn't ignore the gnawing truth. The reason his rut burned hotter than usual, refusing to be quelled, wasn't just biology pushing him to seek relief. It was her. Knowing that someone so compatible, so tempting, was always nearby. His instincts screamed to claim her, to mark her as his, and it was driving him mad. The thought of leaving an unmistakable sign of ownership on her delicate skin made his hands twitch with a dangerous desire.
It wasn't as if ruts were entirely unfamiliar to him. He'd had them before—strong, undeniable urges that flared up from time to time. Inconvenient, yes, but never uncontrollable. A few simple measures, some time alone to vent his frustration, and they would pass like a fleeting storm.
But this time… This time, it was different. The realization gnawed at him relentlessly: she'd done this to him. He knew his rut shouldn't be this intense, had never been this intense. In the hundred years or so he'd spent prowling Hell as the feared and reviled Radio Demon, he'd never been brought to his knees by this kind of need. His priorities had always been simple: murdering good-for-nothings, asserting his dominance, making his presence impossible to ignore. Never before had his instincts driven him to seek out intimacy, to crave someone in this visceral, mind-numbing way.
He had accepted long ago that physical desires were a foreign concept to him. Lust had never been his vice. He'd thrived on power, fear, and bloodshed, not on the fickle whims of flesh and passion. And yet, she had changed all of that without even realizing it.
Sweet, naive Charlie—bright-eyed and hopeful, with dreams too grand and too pure for a place like Hell. She was never supposed to matter, never supposed to be anything more than an amusing distraction, a fleeting curiosity. He'd even convinced himself that her ridiculous hotel and her attempts at redemption were nothing but foolish idealism. Entertainment, even. But something about her...the way she looked at him without fear, the softness in her voice when speaking his name, the way her laughter seemed to cut through the ever-present static in his mind—had lodged itself deep within his soul and festered like a sickness.
An indulgent shiver crawled down his spine, and his hand slowly peeled away from the toy, leaving it abandoned on the armrest. Yet, despite his effort to remain controlled, his other hand betrayed him pressing the onahole against his aching length through his slacks, grinding it down just enough to send a jolt of pleasure racing up his spine.
Guilt gnawed at him. The man his mama raised should never have acted this way, thinking of a friend, of a lady, with such reckless abandon. But his mind was already drowning in vivid fantasies of the princess. Charlie sprawled beneath him, flushed and trembling, legs parting to accommodate his body. Her sweet, breathless voice begging for more, her hands clutching his shoulders as he drove into her without mercy.
His breath hitched, his hips grinding against the toy through the fabric, heat pooling low in his abdomen as desire sank its claws in too deep to ignore. He cursed under his breath, fighting the need to give in completely, but it was pointless. His thoughts were drenched in her, and the throbbing ache between his legs demanded satisfaction.
With a feral growl, Alastor unbuckled his belt, tugging his trousers down just enough to free himself. His cock sprang forth, flushed dark and achingly hard, already leaking in eager anticipation. The cool air caressing his heated skin made him shiver, and he bit down on his lip with sharp teeth, suppressing a desperate, guttural groan. His hands trembled as he gripped the toy, the slick, pliant material already warm from his touch.
He pressed the toy against his aching tip, the faint give of the soft entrance teasing him mercilessly. A hiss escaped him, breath shuddering as he pushed forward, sinking just barely inside. The tight, slick heat swallowed him inch by agonizing inch, and if he wasn't already sitting, his knees would've threatened to buckle from the sheer intensity of it. His hips jerked forward instinctively, desperate for more, but he forced himself to take it slow, savoring the way the texture squeezed around him like a vice he could've sworn matched the throbbing of his length.
"Ah—damn it…" he gritted out, his voice strained and low, almost a growl.
Once fully sheathed, he stilled, his entire body taut with restraint, his hands gripping the toy so hard his knuckles turned white. The pulsating heat wrapped around him was almost suffocating—soft walls hugging every inch of him, pulling at his length with just the right amount of pressure, coaxing another drop of precum to leak from him, adding to the slickness already coating his length. It felt so disturbingly real. The inner walls seemed to flutter around him whenever he pushed deeper, making his body burn with need, and his mind spun, clouded by lust and frustration.
He gave in. His hips snapped forward with a rough thrust, and he couldn't hold back the guttural moan that tore from his throat. The friction was maddening—smooth, wet, and impossibly tight. He gritted his teeth, his hands trembling as he set a brutal rhythm, driving himself into the toy with increasing fervor. It was as if it had a mind of its own, instinctively tightening and loosening in response to his movements, pulsing in tandem with his own rapid heartbeat. Every squeeze sent a fresh jolt of pleasure racing up his spine, and his hips jerked forward uncontrollably, grinding into the warm, pliant heat.
His imagination spiraled out of control, and he couldn't help but picture Charlie underneath him, writhing and arching her back, crimson eyes hazy with need as her mouth hung open, gasping for breath. He wanted to see her flushed and vulnerable, pinned down with his hands on her hips, forcing her to take every inch of his cock. The thought made him snarl, his hips jerking forward with brutal force, rutting into the toy as if it could give him the satisfaction he craved.
The pleasure coursed through him in waves, hot and unrelenting, and he couldn't stop his body from chasing that high. His hips moved with brutal precision, rutting into the toy like a wild animal in heat, driven by the overwhelming ache that refused to be sated. He could feel himself getting closer, the knot in his gut tightening unbearably, and his movements grew more desperate, more reckless.
The knot of pleasure coiled tighter, a hot, merciless pressure building at the base of his spine. He gritted his teeth, sharp canines digging into his bottom lip as his cock throbbed within the tight channel. He was so close—so painfully close. He could feel it, teetering right on the edge, and his muscles tensed as he gave one last, deep thrust—
Release hit him like a tidal wave, tearing a feral groan from his chest as his head snapped back, eyes fluttering shut as his seed spilled inside the toy. His entire body trembled, thighs clenching as his hips gave a few erratic jerks, milking out every last pulse of pleasure. The sheer intensity left him dizzy, vision hazy and breathless.
But it wasn't enough. The heat roared back to life before he could even recover, and his cock remained rigid, aching with unresolved need. He let out a frustrated growl, yanking the toy off him with a wet squelch before pressing it back against his tip, sinking in with no hesitation this time. The overstimulation made his muscles tense, but he didn't care, he couldn't stop.
He fucked into the toy with brutal, unforgiving force, the wet, squelching sounds mingling with his snarls and growls. The slick heat engulfed him, sucking him in with every rough thrust, and his breath came out in ragged pants. His hands were shaky, his whole body on edge as his mind conjured fresh fantasies. Charlie on her knees, her mouth stretched wide around him, drool pooling at the corners as she struggled to take him deeper. The mere thought made him curse aloud, his pace becoming frantic as his length throbbed within the slick channel.
Another climax tore through him, just as forceful as the first, and his body shook with the intensity of it, another load spilling out, mixing with his previous release. His vision blurred, and his chest heaved as his body shuddered, but it wasn't enough. The pressure wouldn't ease, his cock still rock-hard and aching, demanding more. The toy gripping his member like a vice, pulsating like it was alive.
His body refused to relent, hips jerking even as his muscles burned with exhaustion. The toy clung to him, still snug and slick despite how many times he had already spilled inside it, and the brutal friction sent shockwaves of overstimulation searing through his nerves. It was agonizing—skin too tight, body too hot, every nerve aflame with need that refused to die down.
A strangled growl tore from his throat, and his free hand gripped the leather of the chair so tightly his claws punctured through, leaving deep gashes. His entire body trembled, caught between the pain of too much and the gnawing ache of not enough. He couldn't stop—couldn't slow down. His hips bucked wildly, forcing himself deeper into the pliant material, the squelching sound obscene and maddening.
His vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges, but the pressure in his gut refused to abate. Every inch of his skin felt like it was on fire, the constant stimulation pushing him past his limits, leaving him dizzy and gasping for breath. His thighs ached from the relentless pace, and his cock throbbed almost painfully, each brush against the toy's inner walls making him choke on a broken moan.
He could feel his body's desperation, like it was trying to wring him dry despite having nothing left to give. Yet his mind remained trapped in those filthy fantasies, refusing to let go of Charlie—her warmth, her softness, the way she'd writhe beneath him, begging for more even as tears spilled down her cheeks. He needed her. He needed to claim her, mark her, fill her until she couldn't take anymore and then force her to take just a little bit more.
The thought of her begging him to stop—too much, too sensitive, her voice cracking and shuddering with overstimulation—only made his hips snap harder. He wouldn't stop—couldn't stop—until she was sobbing his name, completely ruined and utterly his. He wanted to see her tremble, feel her body spasm around him, helpless and broken from too much pleasure.
The image alone sent a jolt of feral need straight through him, and his hips snapped forward with even more force, rutting into the pliant material like a wild animal. Slick warmth spurted out, coating his stomach and pooling on the leather beneath him. He barely noticed the mess, too far gone, too consumed by thoughts of her to give a damn.
Time became meaningless. One climax after another, his voice growing hoarse from snarling and growling her name. He was losing himself to the primal urge, his mind clouded with nothing but thoughts of marking her, claiming her, making sure she knew she belonged to him. Each release was more intense than the last, leaving him dazed and breathless, but his body remained tense, driven to keep going despite the exhaustion creeping in.
The overstimulation was brutal. Pain and pleasure mingling into a haze that left him trembling and lightheaded. His body ached, thighs burning and muscles spasming, but his hips kept up the merciless pace. He needed it—needed to imagine her wrapped around him, taking everything he had to give. He wanted to fill her—overflow her—make her feel so utterly claimed that no one would ever dare to touch her again.
His body seized up one final time, the last shuddering release spilling out with a low, guttural groan. The toy slipped from his trembling hands, falling to the floor with a wet squelch, and Alastor sagged back against the chair, chest heaving. His clothes were soaked through, streaks of thick, milky fluid dripping from his waistband and running down his thighs, but he barely registered the mess.
He collapsed back into the armchair, limbs boneless and trembling, every muscle quivering from the relentless strain. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, the aftershocks of pleasure leaving him lightheaded and weak. Sweat clung to his skin, soaking through his shirt and making the fabric stick uncomfortably to his overheated body. His hands throbbed dully, raw and aching from gripping the toy so fiercely, and his knuckles were paler where his fingers had dug into the plush leather of the chair.
For a moment, all he could do was lie there, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, as his heart hammered against his ribs like a drum. He could still feel the phantom heat wrapped around him—that suffocating tightness and maddening pulse echoing in his mind, leaving him strung out and aching even after the intensity of his release. A shiver crept down his spine as he forced himself to breathe, dragging gulps of air into his starved lungs.
With a weary flick of his fingers, he cleaned himself and the mess he'd made, the remnants of his climax vanishing as if it had never been there. His mind still reeled, thoughts tangled and chaotic, unable to fully process what had just happened. The vivid images of Charlie refused to leave him—her flushed face, parted lips, that saccharine voice calling his name with desperate longing. The fantasy clung to him like a fever, and even now, his cock twitched faintly at the mere memory.
Dragging a shaky hand through his disheveled hair, he let out a low, breathless laugh—somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement. His lips curled into a crooked grin, sharp teeth glinting in the low light as he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so thoroughly unraveled—so utterly consumed by desire that he'd lost control of himself.
But despite the brief relief, he could still feel it—like a simmering fire under his skin, demanding more. His rut hadn't passed; he knew that much. The onahole might have taken the edge off, leaving him somewhat clearer, but he wasn't foolish enough to think he'd actually gotten it out of his system. At best, he had a few hours of clarity—maybe less—before the ache flared up again, raw and brutal, dragging him back to that maddening need.
"Damn it, Niffty," he muttered, both cursing and begrudgingly thanking the little demon for whatever this device was that had driven him to this point. He knew this wouldn't be over until he had the real thing—until he sank his teeth into the princess' throat and marked her as his, until he buried himself inside her and left her dripping with his claim. Nothing less would satisfy him, not when his instincts were screaming to take her, to claim her, to make her so thoroughly his that no one would ever question it.
For now, this toy would have to do—temporary relief at best, a mere placeholder for what his body truly craved.
Charlie sat cross-legged on her bed, back propped against the headboard, the warm glow of the fairy lights decorating her bed setting a calm ambience. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages as she thumbed through her book. It was peaceful—one of those rare moments where the chaos of the hotel faded away, and she could just sink into a story without distraction.
But then—out of nowhere—a strange, liquid heat blossomed low in her belly, unfurling like molten honey spreading through her veins. Her body went rigid, and her breath caught, lips parting with a startled gasp.
"Hh?!?"
She glanced around the room, confusion flaring in her wide, crimson eyes. Nothing seemed out of place. But the warmth didn't fade. If anything, it deepened, sinking lower until it pooled between her legs, pulsing with a rhythm that made her thighs tense as something hard pressed itself against her clit making a shiver race up her spine, and her grip on the book slipped, letting it drop unceremoniously onto the mattress.
What was happening? Her hands fumbled to clutch the waistband of her shorts, heart pounding erratically, every nerve alight as she tried to investigate the sudden intrusion. She tried to shift, thinking movement might help—but the simple friction only made it worse. A faint, involuntary whimper escaped her lips as something hot and thick started to press itself deep inside her— no, not something. It felt like—like someone—
A blush blazed across her cheeks as her mind struggled to comprehend the impossibility of it. There was nothing there—no one. And yet the pressure was relentless, stretching her walls so completely that it left her gasping for breath, her body trembling from the intensity. Her feet curled, and her thighs squeezed together as if trying to contain the sensation, but it just grew stronger, thicker, fuller.
A choked moan burst from her lips, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, shocked by the raw sound she made. The invisible force was relentless, throbbing with a ruthless rhythm that sent waves of heat coiling tight in her guts. Suddenly, it started moving inside her, jolting her with its abrupt motion. She clenched around the invasive presence, instinctively drawing it deeper. The phantom intrusion both thrilling and terrifying, a mysterious force that filled her with an intense stretch that burned slightly, reminding her of how long it had been since she'd been that intimate.
She couldn't stop herself from arching sharply off the bed, her back forming a trembling curve as the sensation intensified, shifting deeper and harder. It felt relentless, as though an unseen force pinned her down and fucked into her with primal, brutal intent, robbing her of breath and clarity. The overwhelming pressure stretched her painfully wide and she whimpered, gripping the sheets tightly as her vision blurred with tears.
The phantom intrusion didn't ease; instead, it quickened into a merciless rhythm, and Charlie could do nothing but sob helplessly into her pillow. Her cunt clenched involuntarily, soaking her underwear as the first orgasm crashed into her without warning, leaving her trembling and gasping for air. She hadn't been touched like this in so long that each stroke burned hotly as her tight pussy struggled to accommodate the invisible cock that fucked relentlessly into her aching channel.
Her demon form surfaced without conscious intent, instinct overtaking restraint. Her crimson eyes flickered to a feral yellow glow, staring blindly toward the ceiling as twin horns curved prominently from her scalp. Her tail whipped violently, smacking the mattress repeatedly with each brutal thrust she couldn't see but felt intimately. She couldn't escape it; her thighs splayed open wide and inviting, body twitching uncontrollably under the forceful assault.
Lewd noises spilled continuously from her lips, a symphony of filthy moans and desperate sobs muffled only slightly by the pillow she clutched. Each unseen thrust drove her deeper into overstimulation, sending relentless jolts of pleasure and pain through her channel until she felt raw and bruised inside. Her sensitive nipples rubbed painfully against her damp shirt, heightening every nerve and dragging another broken moan from her throat.
It wasn't gentle or loving—nothing sweet or tender. It was rough, nasty, and brutal—like being forced to take everything at once, with no care for whether she could handle it. Her pussy was being pounded open, stretched wide, filled so deeply she could feel every relentless slam against her cervix. The force of it rocked her entire body, making the bed creak beneath her as her legs trembled violently, spreading further apart as if she could somehow take more. It was merciless, unforgiving, pushing her to the brink over and over, leaving her shaking and sobbing in a haze of raw, unfiltered lust. Her back arched sharply as her entire body clenched, another powerful orgasm ripped from her without warning. Her walls spasmed wildly around the unseen cock, milking it as if it were real, her cunt drooling slick down to the sheets, soaking her skin in the evidence of her ruin.
At some point, she lost all sense of time. Orgasms ripped through her one after another, each climax melting into the next without pause. She had no idea how many times she'd come, only aware of the relentless pounding, the slick, wet sounds her soaked folds made as it clenched desperately around the thick presence hammering into her core.
When the force briefly relented, she collapsed limply, twitching and gasping, pussy leaking obscenely onto her sheets. She could barely breathe, nerves scorched raw, too sensitive to handle any more stimulation. But just as she started to regain her senses, it began again—faster, harder, deeper—and a broken wail erupted from her chest.
"No—please! It's too much!" she begged, thrashing weakly against nothing, nails clawing into the sheets. But the unseen cock didn't care; it fucked into her ruthlessly, pounding her tight cunt until she saw stars. Her muscles locked up, hips shaking uncontrollably as yet another climax tore violently through her, milking the invisible cock with greedy contractions.
Even then, it didn't stop. She felt used, taken so thoroughly she could barely recognize herself—cum soaking her thighs, staining her bedding. Her exhausted body continued bucking instinctively, hips lifting to meet the brutal, relentless rhythm, betraying her resistance with shameless need.
She was wrecked, completely shattered by the merciless fucking, her overstimulated pussy throbbing painfully yet craving more. Another orgasm surged violently, and she screamed, voice hoarse and raw, her mind snapping under the intensity.
As the final, brutal wave of ecstasy crashed through her, Charlie's body gave out completely—limbs twitching weakly as the overwhelming force finally relented, leaving her sprawled in a soaked, ruined mess on the bed. Her breaths came out in shallow, broken gasps, eyes half-lidded and glazed, too dazed and shattered to even register the lingering throbs that wracked her overstimulated body.
Her thoughts were nonexistent—just a fog of raw, filthy pleasure and exhaustion that left her boneless and pliant. Slowly, awareness crept back in, and a shaky, breathless sob slipped from her lips as she registered the mess beneath her—slick, sticky, and absolutely drenched, the sheets and her clothes clinging to her heated skin. A faint, embarrassing squelch accompanied her slightest movement, and her face burned with shame despite the lingering ache of satisfaction thrumming through her.
She didn't know how long she lay there—minutes, hours, maybe longer—unable to move or think, just existing in the aftermath of whatever force had taken her so thoroughly. When her mind finally began to clear, guilt and confusion set in, heating her cheeks as she struggled to process what had just happened. She felt filthy, humiliated, and so thoroughly used up that even shifting an inch made her wince.
Yet even through the fear and mortification, a dark, traitorous part of her mind whispered that some twisted piece of her had liked it—had craved that intensity, that ruthless, relentless pleasure that left her sobbing and shattered.
That horrifying realization made fresh tears spill over as she finally succumbed to unconsciousness, body still twitching faintly with the aftershocks of whatever wicked force had ravaged her.
Charlie was trying—truly, desperately trying—to keep it together.
It had been two days since the initial onslaught, and there was no pattern, no warning. The inconsistency was driving her mad. It could hit her at any time, in any place, with no regard for what she was doing. The only thing that remained constant was the feeling—that deep, relentless pounding, like something thick and hot was buried inside her, stretching her open and ruining her with merciless, unrelenting thrusts. The phantom pressure left her trembling, flushed, and aching with oversensitivity, and she had no explanation for why it was happening.
She stood stiffly at the front of the lounge, hands clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles were white, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. Across from her, a small group of new guests listened attentively as she went through the hotel's rules and schedule. Beside her, Vaggie stood tall, arms crossed, a comforting but ever-watchful presence.
Charlie forced a bright, welcoming smile. "And—ah—w-we hope your stay here will be pleasant and... fulfilling," she managed, but her voice wavered.
Another sharp, hot pulse shot through her core, sinking deep, and she had to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from whimpering. Her fingers twitched where they were clasped, nails digging into her palm as she fought the instinct to double over. The sudden shift in her posture didn't go unnoticed.
One of the guests raised a hand, and Charlie latched onto the distraction like a lifeline. "Y-yes! You have a question?"
"Are you feeling alright, princess?" the guest asked, brow furrowing in concern. "You look a bit... feverish."
Her heart pounded wildly, and she let out a quick, nervous laugh, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh! I-I'm fine! Just—uh—under the weather! Nothing to worry about!"
The guest looked unconvinced, but before they could press further, Vaggie stepped in smoothly, subtly guiding them toward the rest of the tour while giving Charlie a pointed look. Charlie tried to nod in thanks, but before she could respond, another hard pulse slammed into her.
Her breath hitched.
She froze as the heat coiled deep inside her, an invisible force pressing against that sensitive spot over and over again. Her thighs clenched together, knees weak as she tried so hard to stay upright, her face burning with barely concealed mortification.
Not now. Not here. Please, not here.
Her thoughts were a mess, scrambling for control even as her body betrayed her, throbbing and clenching around nothing, desperate for more, desperate for release.
The moment the last guest disappeared into the next room, leaving her alone in the lobby, Charlie turned and bolted, barely keeping her steps steady as she rushed toward the hallway.
She passed the bar in a blur, eyes locked ahead, but she could feel Husk's sharp, suspicious gaze trailing after her. "You look like you're about to pass out," he muttered, half-lidded eyes tracking her as he nursed a drink.
She didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Niffty appeared suddenly at her side, bright and chipper as ever. "Miss Charlie! You okay? You look all sweaty!"
"I'm fine!" Charlie practically squeaked, waving her off and quickening her pace. She could not afford to be stopped.
The moment she spotted an empty side room, Charlie practically hurled herself inside, slamming the door shut and jamming the lock into place. Her eyes snapped shut as she sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, but it did nothing to quell the building storm inside her. Her inner walls clenched down on nothing, yet the sensation of being brutally filled—no, pounded into—overwhelmed her, thick, deep, merciless. A strangled moan escaped her, and in a frantic attempt to stifle the sound, she bit down hard on her hand, her scream muffled against her flesh as her knees buckled under the force.
Her thighs squeezed together in a desperate bid for relief, but the added friction only intensified the sensation. A sharp jolt of pleasure rocketed up her spine, making her breath hitch, hips jerking involuntarily as another savage phantom thrust slammed into her, stretching her so wide it burned like hell. Each brutal impact seemed to reach deeper, hammering mercilessly against her cervix, sending waves of both pain and pleasure radiating through her.
The pressure inside her coiled tighter, hotter, spiraling wildly out of control. "No—please—" She didn't even know who she was begging—herself? The relentless invisible force savaging her from the inside? It didn't matter. Her pleas went unheard, and before she could brace herself, something inside her snapped.
A scream tore from her throat, raw and broken, as her entire body convulsed. Her legs collapsed, shaking violently as a white-hot wave of pleasure tore through her. Her climax crashed over her like a ruthless tidal wave, scorching and unstoppable. Wet heat gushed between her thighs, soaking through her underwear, slick and filthy.
Charlie's head lolled back against the door, her vision blurring at the edges, mouth falling open on a breathless sob as the aftershocks ripped through her. Her fingers clawed uselessly at the doorframe, nails scraping against wood as she tried—failed—to ground herself.
Her thighs twitched, oversensitive, every nerve screaming from the intensity of it. She could still feel it—her walls fluttering helplessly, gripping around a phantom cock that wasn't even there. Her clit throbbed, achingly raw, begging for reprieve but denied even that.
And then it was gone.
Just like that, the pressure vanished, leaving her a trembling, wrecked mess slumped against the door.
She couldn't move. Could barely breathe.
The only thing she could register was the unbearable heat still smoldering between her legs—the slick, sticky mess clinging to her soaked panties, the way her muscles trembled from exhaustion. She was raw, aching, used—and she still had no idea why.
Shaking, she sucked in a slow, ragged breath, trying—desperately—to regain control, to shove down the rising panic clawing at her chest. No one could see her like that. No one.
With great effort, she forced herself to stand, her legs still unsteady, and did her best to adjust her appearance. She wiped her palms on her clothes, trying to smooth her disheveled look, though the effort felt in vain as the heat within her still burned.
After a moment of self-composure, she unlocked the door, the sound of the mechanism turning echoing in the silent room. With one last sigh, she stepped out, her every step an uncomfortable reminder of the turmoil inside her. As she walked down the hallway, her gait was stiff and awkward, and it was clear—though she kept her face neutral—that it was taking all she had just to make it back to her room.
For the next week, Charlie was trapped in a cycle of relentless torment, caught between desperation and mortification. She had tried to ignore it, pretend it wasn't happening, but it was impossible. It struck in the middle of the night, forcing her awake as her hips jerked against the mattress, clenching around nothing as the feeling built to a relentless crescendo that left her soaked and shaking. It hit when she was in the shower, the hot water cascading down her body as she doubled over, fingers clutching the tiled wall as her thighs trembled. It happened when she was alone, and it happened when she was surrounded by people. She had to keep herself composed, clenching her jaw and hiding her trembling hands, but it was getting harder to hold on to her sanity.
One evening during dinner, surrounded by friends and hotel residents, Charlie stared blankly at her plate, barely touching her food. Angel was talking animatedly about his latest escapade, waving his hands theatrically, but his words blurred into meaningless noise as Charlie fought to keep herself grounded.
Angel suddenly leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice slightly. "Speakin' of weird shit lately, anyone else notice Smiles' actin' kinda off? He's been holed up more than usual. Either he's plannin' somethin' big or he's finally found somethin' more entertainin' than annoyin' us."
Charlie's attention snapped briefly into focus at the mention of Alastor. A pang of guilt tugged at her chest—had she really been so absorbed in her own ordeal that she'd completely overlooked his unusual absence? Normally, she'd have checked in on him, offered conversation or company, but lately, she'd been too distracted by the humiliating sensations overtaking her.
Before she could dwell further, another wave of heat slammed into her without mercy, making her fork clatter loudly against her plate. Her whole body tensed, thighs squeezing together tightly beneath the table as she barely swallowed down a moan. She quickly hid her trembling hands beneath the edge of the table, gripping her own legs in a desperate attempt to control herself.
"Hey, princess," Husk muttered softly from across the table, concern softening his usually gruff voice. "You alright?"
Charlie forced a strained smile, heart hammering in her chest. "Y-yeah, just… thinking about some hotel plans! Sorry, distracted."
Vaggie frowned, leaning forward slightly. "You look flushed, Charlie. Are you sure you're not coming down with something?"
Charlie shook her head rapidly, offering a weak laugh. "No, no! I'm fine—really! Just a bit tired."
But she wasn't fine. Beneath the table, she felt it again—that thick, relentless cock hammering into her needy cunt, stretching her aching walls, thrusting brutally against her sweet spot with each phantom stroke. Her hooves curled tightly within her shoes, her breaths short and shallow. She struggled desperately to maintain a neutral expression, her inner muscles twitching hungrily around something she couldn't see.
Niffty darted past carrying a pitcher, pausing briefly to pat Charlie's shoulder sympathetically. "Miss Charlie, you're so tense! Maybe take a relaxing bath later?"
Charlie gave a weak nod, barely hearing the words over the roar of blood in her ears. Her body shook uncontrollably, a humiliating, sticky heat pooling between her thighs. She felt raw, vulnerable, and utterly exposed—fighting back tears of frustration and shame.
Angel gave her a long, knowing look, raising an eyebrow skeptically. "You sure you're okay, dollface? You're sweatin' like a sinner in church."
Charlie flushed even deeper, managing a shaky smile. "Y-yeah! I'm fine, Angel. Um, what were you saying again?"
Angel shrugged lightly, clearly unconvinced, but returned to his animated storytelling. Vaggie shot Charlie a worried glance from across the table, but Charlie couldn't even muster the energy to reassure her friend. She was too focused on the ruthless pounding still ravaging her cunt, intensifying until her legs quivered violently beneath the table. She bit down hard on her lip, tasting blood as her nails dug painfully into her thighs.
The moment dinner ended, Charlie hastily excused herself, practically bolting from the dining room. She stumbled down the hall to her bedroom, slammed the door behind her, and collapsed onto the bed, gasping and trembling.
Face pressed against the sheets as she tried to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding, her body still trembling from the overwhelming sensations that had attacked her during dinner. She couldn't believe she had managed to hold herself together long enough to make it upstairs without collapsing.
The ache between her legs pulsed persistently. Her underwear was soaked through, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to her skin, and she knew she needed to change—but moving felt impossible. Her whole body was still buzzing, tingling with residual heat, and every time she shifted even slightly, it sent a jolt of sensitivity through her.
"F-fuck…" she whispered shakily, forcing herself to sit up as she managed to kick off her shoes and peel off her jacket, leaving her in just her white button-up shirt and pants. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Charlie took a few deep, shaky breaths, trying to will the ache away. But the moment she finally calmed down, a spark ignited inside her, and she fell back onto the bed, a quiet whimper escaping her lips.
Charlie bit down on her lip, trying to suppress the needy noises threatening to slip out. She couldn't make sense of it. There was nothing touching her—nothing she could see—yet that feeling returned, slow and rhythmic, like something thick and heavy fucking her from the inside. She squeezed her thighs together, but it only made it worse, amplifying the sensation as her cunt tightened around nothing and her breathing grew erratic.
The odd, heavy fullness inside her seemed to throb, stretching her walls taut and making her feel like she was being split apart. Her muscles trembled and clenched around it, trying and failing to accommodate the relentless intrusion. She could feel the wetness pooling beneath her, her inner thighs slick and trembling as the relentless thrusts continued to force its way into her cervix. The heat and pressure made it hard to breathe, her lungs burning from the strain as her head fell limply to the side, lips parted in silent gasps. Her body ached—sore and raw from the endless onslaught—and yet it didn't stop, didn't give her a moment to recover.
Her muscles twitched, and her legs spread wider on their own, as if her body had surrendered to the brutal force ravaging her from the inside, desperate to reach the deepest parts of her. She couldn't fight it anymore—couldn't even think past the haze of exhaustion and pleasure drowning her senses.
The room was filled with the wet, lewd sounds of her body being taken—over and over—each thrust met with a weak, helpless whimper.
"Stop... I can't... please..." she mumbled incoherently, voice thick with exhaustion and raw from crying. But nothing listened—nothing stopped. The brutal pace didn't falter, each thrust sending shockwaves through her overstimulated body. Her thighs quaked, her back arched off the bed, and her hands fisted the sheets, desperate to ground herself as the overwhelming heat coiled tighter and tighter inside her.
Another climax tore through her, and she couldn't even muster the strength to scream—just a choked, breathless sob as liquid heat spilled from her again, soaking through her clothes and dampening the sheets beneath her.
Finally—mercifully—the brutal pace began to slow, each thrust growing languid and drawn out, as if savoring the last remnants of her resistance. Charlie's eyelids fluttered, heavy and aching as exhaustion crept in, her body limp and pliant against the mattress. The invisible force gave a few more slow, punishing thrusts before stilling deep inside her, leaving her overstimulated and shaking.
The oppressive, stuffed feeling didn't dissipate, even as the force finally seemed to subside. She could still feel it—full and pulsing inside her—like it had claimed every inch of her body and left her hollowed out and aching. As the heat gradually ebbed, exhaustion overtook her completely, and her trembling breaths evened out, lips parted in a weak sigh. The relentless force seemed to fade, and she barely registered her warm, sticky mess coating her thighs and soaking the sheets.
With shaky hands, she wiped at her damp cheeks, feeling a mix of shame and confusion as she lay sprawled on the bed. Even after it was over, her core still ached with need, and the remnants of pleasure hummed through her veins.
She didn't understand what was happening—why her body felt like it was being wrung out over and over again by something hot and relentless. It wasn't normal. It wasn't right. Her mind raced through possibilities—a curse? A prank gone wrong? But nothing made sense. Nothing added up.
Except...
She swallowed hard, fighting through the wave of dizziness, and forced herself to finish her thought process. Despite the haze of arousal and exhaustion clouding her mind, one thought cut through the noise: Alastor.
It wasn't a coincidence that every time it happened, he was conveniently missing. Whenever the torment hit, he was nowhere to be found. It had been a week—a fucking week—of biting her tongue, squeezing her thighs together, digging her nails into whatever she could reach just to keep from breaking in front of people. And yet, he never saw any of it.
A frustrated growl burned in her throat, but she shoved it down. No. That's ridiculous.
Alastor was an annoying, self-important bastard, but he wasn't that kind of demon. He always played by his own twisted sense of honor, sneering at the depravity of others while flaunting his so-called gentlemanly conduct. He wouldn't—couldn't—do something like this. Right?
Then why did it all make sense?
Her stomach twisted, her fists clenching. He was the only one with that kind of magic, the only one who could play with aspects of reality himself and get away with it. If anyone could pull this off without leaving a trace, it was him.
A dark, seething heat curled in her gut.
If Alastor was behind this—if he had done something to her—she was going to fucking kill him.
Stumbling down the hall, Charlie gritted her teeth and wiped the sweat from her brow. She could barely think straight. Her thoughts were hazy, scattered, every step punctuated by a tightening knot of heat low in her belly that refused to ease. It pulsed hot between her thighs, making her legs tremble. She clenched them together just to steady herself and cursed under her breath, frustration mounting with every step.
By the time she reached his door, her heart was hammering so hard in her chest it drowned out everything else. She didn't bother knocking.
She kicked the door open with a loud bang, voice raised and sharp with fury.
"ALASTOR, I SWEAR—"
Her words died instantly.
The scene inside hit her like a punch to the chest.
Alastor was slouched in his favorite armchair, legs spread wide, shirt rumpled and unbuttoned, his tie dangling limply around his neck like he'd tried to tear it off in the middle of a fever. His usually polished appearance was in complete disarray. His chest rose and fell in deep, ragged gasps, sweat beading along his hairline. He looked wrecked—flushed, desperate, caught mid-spiral.
And he was jerking off.
Not just with his hand—buried in an onahole. It was slick, flushed pink, clinging tightly to the base of his thick cock, stretched wide and obscene around him. He was pumping into it in slow, hungry thrusts that made a wet, suctioning sound in the quiet of the room, every stroke loud, messy, lewd. His hips rolled with each motion, like he couldn't stop himself, lost in rhythm, in need.
And worse—so much worse—Charlie felt it.
He'd been using her.
Every thrust into that toy was a thrust into her.
Every grind of his cock inside the slick channel of the onahole sent phantom pressure slamming into her pussy, stretching her, stroking her insides like he was really there—like she was already bent over his lap, taking every inch of him.
The overwhelming sensations—every touch, every pulse, every blinding spark of pleasure—were connected to him. Seeing him there, in the middle of his sordid act, confirmed it beyond any doubt.
Alastor noticed her and stilled his hips, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
Charlie's grip on the doorframe tightened as she took in the scene before her. Her face burned hotter than ever, and her entire body felt like it was thrumming with electricity. Alastor remained frozen, his hand still loosely holding the glistening toy, his red eyes wide with shock. A shaky, forced grin twitched on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Charlie's breath came in shallow gasps, her legs trembling under her. Her pupils were blown wide, her lips slightly parted. Her eyes darted down—to the toy, to his cock still glistening with slick, twitching from where he'd just been thrusting into it.
Her mouth dropped open. Her body throbbed.
Alastor scrambled upright, flustered and uncharacteristically clumsy. His hands fumbled at the zipper of his pants, trying to close them even as his cock remained hard and slick, twitching against his stomach. His tie hung askew, and his voice cracked slightly as he forced out the only thing he could think to say:
"Ah—my dear… you could have knocked."
Charlie didn't know whether to scream, cry, or launch a chair at his fucking face.
Her legs nearly buckled as she staggered a few unsteady steps into the room and slamming the door behind her, still reeling from the relentless, molten pulse between her thighs. Her whole body was shaking, drenched in sweat, flushed with a heat she couldn't contain. She felt strung out—like a live wire sparking with every movement, every breath. Her hand rose in accusation, but her voice faltered, cracked and raw with disbelief.
"You—" she croaked, pointing at him with a trembling hand. "You did this to me?!"
Alastor looked like a man standing in the epicenter of a lightning strike—caught, stunned, frozen mid-sin. His chest rose and fell in shallow, erratic breaths, his usually unshakeable composure completely gone. Hair tousled, shirt half-open, cock still hard and slick where it jutted proudly from his undone pants, he was a picture of desperate, sweating rut—and now, horror. He couldn't look away from her—flushed, shaking, wrecked in a way that made his cock twitch again, even as he had no idea what she was talking about.
Charlie was red all the way to her chest, her eyes blazing, pupils blown wide with a cocktail of rage and raw, repressed arousal. Her breathing came in ragged, shallow gasps, chest rising and falling in jerks. She looked seconds from combusting.
"I can't believe you!" she snapped, fists curling tight at her sides. Her whole body trembled with the effort of keeping it together. "You've been using that fucking thing for days, and I've been losing my mind wondering what the hell was wrong with me—why I kept getting wet every second of the day, why I couldn't even sit still without grinding against my own chair!"
She let out a shaky, half-hysterical laugh and raked her fingers down her face, voice cracking as she continued. "Do you have any idea what it's like to feel yourself getting fucked when no one's touching you? I thought I was going crazy. I thought I was sick or cursed or—"
Her eyes fell.
She didn't mean to look, but they dropped anyway—down to the slick, still-warm onahole lying crooked on the edge of his chair, glistening, obscene, twitching where he'd dropped it mid-thrust. The very sight of it made her stomach twist, made her clit throb painfully.
And it wasn't just the realization that stunned her—it was the wave of white-hot need that slammed into her again, her pussy clenching at the reminder that he was inside her just a second ago, soaking through her panties all over again. Her thighs pressed together as she staggered, hating that it felt good.
Across from her, Alastor looked like he'd swallowed a live bullet.
His gaze followed hers—slowly, hesitantly—and landed on the toy. And in that moment, every half-noticed oddity from the last few days clicked into place with horrifying clarity.
The warmth. The responsiveness. The way the toy squeezed him back, perfectly timed, perfectly tight—too perfect. The way it reacted to every thrust, how it pulsed when he pounded into it, how it trembled when he came.
It hadn't been just a toy.
It had been her.
He had been inside her.
And now she was here, shaking, drenched in sweat, legs barely holding her up, eyes wild and wounded. Her body touched, used, ruined—and she hadn't even known why. The scent of her arousal flooded his nose with startling intensity. It was thick in the air now that she'd stepped closer, no longer dulled by distance or the hallway's stale neutrality. It clung to her skin, warm and sweet and slick, seeping from between her thighs.
His stomach twisted.
"W-Wait—just a moment," he stammered, his usual composure shattered beyond repair. His hands hastily fumbled with the buttons of his shirt as if covering himself would somehow fix the damage. His tie hung lopsided, his cock still semi-hard, sticky and red and twitching as he tried—and failed—to shove it back into his pants. "This—this isn't what it looks like. I didn't know, Charlie. I swear to you—I didn't know it was you."
He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. "I would never have… I'm not that kind of man." His voice dropped, almost pleading. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't know."
Seeing her so visibly overwhelmed and trembling stirred something deep in Alastor—something far more primal than he was used to letting surface. Her flushed face, disheveled hair, the way she swayed on unsteady legs—it sent another jolt of heat straight through his gut. But he forced himself to breathe, to speak, to cling to the last shreds of composure.
He cleared his throat roughly, trying to dispel the haze clouding his thoughts. "I suppose… I'll destroy the wretched thing immediately," he muttered, reaching to grab the slick, offending toy.
Charlie groaned and threw her hands up in the air, pacing as best she could with her shaky, still-trembling legs. "Yeah—do that! God, you are so unbelievably irresponsible sometimes! You can't just go sticking your dick into cursed objects without even checking what they do!"
Alastor's ears flattened, his scowl deepening, his task of getting rid of the toy forgotten. "Well, forgive me for not assuming that a sex toy would come with a magical tether to someone else's genitals!" he snapped. "It was a gift from Niffty, meant to help with my… unfortunate state. And as far as I could tell, it was doing its job—remarkably well, actually!"
Charlie stopped mid-step, wheeling on him, eyes burning. Her hands were shaking again, this time from fury more than anything else. "Yeah, ON ME!" she shouted. "I've been losing my damn mind, Alastor! I thought I was sick! Or cursed! I couldn't sleep, couldn't function, because I've been feeling you inside me for days!" Her voice cracked on the last word, and she grabbed the nearest bookshelf to steady herself.
Alastor's temper flared to match hers, rut burning through his veins and sharpening his voice. "Oh, forgive me," he snapped, crimson eyes narrowing, "for trying to get through the most maddening part of a rut without crawling all over anyone like a disgusting damned animal!" he growled. "I thought I was being considerate! It wasn't my intention to violate your—your person, Charlie!"
His voice wavered slightly near the end, and the desperate, fraying look in his eyes betrayed just how much effort it was taking to not close the space between them.
"Considerate?" Charlie shrieked, leaving the bookshelf and throwing her arms out, incredulous. "Your idea of 'considerate' left me feeling like I was being fucked senseless by some invisible ghost cock for a week!" Her voice cracked again, breath ragged, her whole body flushed and twitching with leftover arousal and frustration.
She spun to face him fully now, shaking with adrenaline and heat. "Maybe—just maybe—if you're so desperate to get off, you should make sure your magical sex toy isn't linked to an actual person! Or better yet, don't fucking use one at all!"
Alastor's eyes narrowed, his tongue flicking briefly over one fang, something dark and sharp gleaming in his expression. "Oh? And how, exactly, should I have handled it then, Charlie?" His voice dropped, velvet-wrapped and dangerous, his eyes trailing down her still-burning form with slow intensity.
She opened her mouth impulsively, heat of the argument overriding common sense. "If you were so desperate to get off, maybe you could've just fucked me yourself instead of tormenting me from across the goddamn hotel!"
Her hands immediately flew to her mouth, eyes wide in horror at her own words as her face flushed a deep, burning crimson. Alastor went completely still, his shocked gaze fixed on her as he processed what she'd just said. His crimson eyes darkened, pupils expanding as realization set in, and he slowly rose from his chair, posture going predatory.
"What was that, my dear?" he murmured, voice dangerously low.
His hands twitched at his sides, fingers clenching and unclenching as another wave of heat rushed through him, hotter and more overwhelming than before. A shiver coursed through his spine, and his pupils dilated, a wild, almost feral look overtaking his expression.
She barely had time to gasp before he yanked her forward with alarming force. Her body slammed into his with a startled yelp, her hands flying up to his shoulders, trying to catch herself, steady herself—but she was already pinned against him.
Hard.
Chest to chest. Hip to hip.
And lower—pressing right against her stomach, thick and unmistakable beneath the soft fabric of his open trousers, his cock heavy and leaking, barely contained. It throbbed against her with every breath he took, pulsing like it had a mind of its own.
"W-Wait—" she stammered, trying to twist away, but his grip only tightened. His arm wrapped around her waist like a vice, holding her in place, keeping her right there—right against the evidence of just how badly he wanted her.
"What did you just say, darling?" he asked, voice dropping into a deep, velvet purr that rolled through her bones. There was a sharp edge beneath the smoothness, a dangerous glint in his crimson eyes as he looked down at her, hunger and amusement crackling behind every syllable. "Care to repeat that?"
Charlie's eyes went wide, her heart slamming in her chest. She tried to shove at his shoulders, tried to create space between them, but he didn't budge. His body was solid, burning-hot and unrelenting, and her own kept betraying her—clenching, aching, throbbing with every brush of his cock against her belly.
"I—I didn't mean it like that," she managed, voice catching, flushed with embarrassment and frustration. "I was just angry—I didn't mean for it to sound like—like—"
"Like you were offering yourself up?" he finished smoothly, his lips brushing her ear as he leaned in. The sound of his voice there, so close, so low, sent a sharp jolt of heat straight to her core.
Charlie flinched, her cheeks blazing. "You're twisting my words!"
"Am I?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, that smirk spreading like wildfire across his face. "Because it certainly sounded like a confession to me."
She shoved at him again, her palm pressing into his chest—but he only chuckled, the sound rich and dark. "You're the one who said I should've used you. And now look at you," he whispered, his hand sliding lower on her back, pulling her hips even tighter against him. "Flushed, trembling, heart racing… and dripping, if my nose doesn't deceive me."
Charlie let out a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a gasp. "I am not—this is not—You're just—"
"What?" His grin widened, cock twitching against her stomach. "Just what, Charlie?"
She bared her teeth at him, furious with him, with herself, with the fact that her legs were shaking and her skin was on fire. "Just being a smug, self-absorbed bastard!"
He laughed, full-bodied and unrepentant, and his eyes never left hers. "That may be true," he said, voice husky, breath hot on her cheek, "but you're still not pulling away."
"I'm trying!" she snapped, though it lacked conviction—and they both knew it.
Alastor's gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes, and something in his expression shifted—something darker, deeper, far more feral.
His fingers curled slightly at her waist, claws scraping lightly against the fabric of her clothes. "As entertaining as our little magical mishap was…" he murmured, eyes now locked on hers with unnerving intensity, "nothing compares to this."
He pressed his hips forward, just enough to grind the full, heavy length of himself against her soft belly. Charlie gasped, nails digging into his coat.
His voice dropped lower, nearly a growl. "Feeling you through that toy… knowing your body was reacting to every thrust. If I had known it was you—" his lips grazed the corner of her mouth, just shy of a kiss—"I wouldn't have wasted a single stroke."
Her breath mingled tantalizingly with his, their lips only a whisper apart, the heat of his exhale weaving an almost visible tension between them. Charlie's body tensed in anticipation, bracing for the inevitable as his intense stare bored into her own.
But suddenly, Alastor stilled.
His grip on her waist tightened, his entire body trembling with the need to close that last bit of distance. Every imagined version of her: on her knees, beneath him, over his lap, soaked and sobbing as she milked him dry. He'd pictured it all. Every gasp, every cry, every tremble.
But as he looked into her wide doe eyes he realized something. This was real.
She was real, here in his arms, warm and soft, her scent sinking into his skin like a drug. Her body pressed flush against his, pliant and pulsing with heat. He could feel her curves through the thin layers separating them, and—God help him—he could feel his cock throbbing against her stomach, still straining against the open fly of his pants. She was so close. She felt perfect.
Yet, there was a gnawing recognition in the back of his mind—a sharp sting of guilt. For all his teasing, for all his games, he'd already taken something from her. Unknowingly, yes—but no less invasive. The onahole had been connected to her, synced to her body in ways he hadn't known. And he'd used it. Again and again. Hands fisting into the toy, rutting into it like an animal. Thinking of her, moaning for her, coming inside to the feel of her.
The primal urge inside him was relentless—screaming to finish what had already been started. His cock was aching, hard enough to hurt, straining between them as it throbbed for her. The beast in him didn't care about consent or guilt. It just wanted. It wanted to pin her down and fuck her until she couldn't walk straight. To leave her dripping and full, ruined in a way no one else could ever undo.
And it would be so easy.
All it would take was a slight shift, a little pressure. Tilt his head, and he could taste her lips. Push her down, and she'd be under him—soft, spread, helpless, ready. His rut howled at him, promised him she'd like it, that her body would welcome him like it always had.
But his godforsaken soul knew better.
Because if he gave in now—knowing everything—this wouldn't be some mindless mistake. It would be a choice. A deliberate act. An admission that her trust didn't matter, that his need was more important than the girl standing in front of him, shaking but unafraid.
Alastor stood motionless, a man caught between his darkest desires and the dawning realization of their potential destructiveness. He recognized that this moment was about more than physical gratification—it was about respecting the person who had seen something worth trusting in him, despite the shadows that clung to his nature.
That was what cut deepest.
Because Alastor had come to care for her—more than he ever meant to. More than he knew how to say. What started as amusement, fascination, even lust, had evolved into something else—something painful in its depth. She wasn't just someone he desired anymore. She was someone he admired, someone who challenged him, who believed in him in ways he couldn't understand, let alone deserve.
She was warmth, softness, defiance, and kindness all tangled into one maddeningly radiant package. And for the first time in his afterlife, Alastor found something he wanted more than entertainment. More than control.
He wanted her to stay. So he'll give her a choice.
Charlie saw it all, the chaotic storm raging inside Alastor, visible through the turbulent shift in his deep crimson eyes. For the first time, those enigmatic eyes betrayed a tempest of raw emotion, a revelation that drew her in, irresistibly, into his inner turmoil.
Internally, she was a mess, her emotions a tangled knot that twisted tighter before snapping violently. Initially, her anger had burned hot and fierce. She was fucking livid, infuriated by the discovery of how that toy had manipulated their bodies' connection without her—their—consent. But the sheer audacity of his actions, the invasive intimacy he'd forced upon her, had sent her blood boiling. She had wanted to harness that fury, to let it fuel her outrage and drown out the other, more complicated feelings scrabbling for dominance inside her.
But no matter how fiercely she clung to her rage, it crumbled—eroded by a deeper, more instinctual understanding.
She understood the nature of a rut wasn't just about mindless lust—it was an overwhelming need, a primal force that stripped someone down to nothing but base instincts and desperate hunger. She had seen what it did to sinners, how it reduced them to their most primitive states, driven by an urgency that was raw and relentless.
Yet, despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to take her, to fucking claim her and make her his in every dark, twisted way he had fantasized, Alastor was holding back. His restraint wasn't just noteworthy; it was fucking monumental. He was fighting with every shred of his being, not to push, not to frighten her, desperately trying to preserve the shreds of whatever fragile thing they still had between them.
And fuck, that hit her harder than anything else.
He'd already crossed a line, even if he hadn't fully understood it at the time. He'd been desperate, rut-drunk, jerking off into a toy that was linked directly to her without her consent. He'd gotten off to her body, used her without asking, without knowing what it might do to her.
And yet, even now, with every inch of his body begging him to push her down and fuck her until she forgot her own name—he was still hesitating.
Still giving her the chance to choose.
Her hands tightened on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, nails digging just enough to feel the tension thrumming beneath. He was solid under her touch, taut and trembling like a dam about to burst. Every muscle in his body was pulled tight with restraint, every inch of him screaming to move, to act, to take. She could feel it—the way his claws twitched at her waist, the shudder in his breath, the deep, burning heat rolling off him in waves.
He was holding himself back, and it was killing him.
She should say something. That was what her instincts told her. She should speak. Say it was okay. Reassure him. Ease the tension, coax him away from the edge he was so clearly teetering on. Tell him she understood, that he didn't need to be afraid, that she trusted him. That they should stop.
But even as the words tried to form in her mouth they were stuck. They rang hollow.
Why was she supposed to be the one to soothe him, to stop him from giving in, when every nerve in her own body was already on fire? Why did she feel like she was meant to tell him to stand down, when all she wanted was for him to finally fucking break?
The heat pressed between them was unbearable now, the hard line of his cock throbbing against her stomach, his breathing ragged and uneven as he trembled with the effort not to lose control.
And that was when it hit her. Sudden and overwhelming. She wanted him.
Not just now. Not just in this breathless, dangerous moment where his rut had stripped him bare, where he stood trembling on the edge of ruin for her.
She had always wanted him.
It wasn't just physical—it never had been. Yes, he was gorgeous in a terrifying, untouchable way. Yes, she had imagined what it would feel like to be under him, pinned, gasping, begging. But it was more than that.
She had wanted him when he was being smug and impossible. She had wanted him when he made her laugh at the worst possible times. She had wanted him in quiet, unspoken moments, when his mask slipped just enough to let her see something real underneath.
And she'd buried it. Deep.
Because it was easier to pretend it wasn't there. Because she was with Vaggie. Because she was committed to someone else when they met. Because she didn't want to confront what it meant to want someone like Alastor—someone so dark, so dangerous, so uncontrollably her opposite.
But now, with him shaking in her hands, with his rut screaming at him to take her and yet his body refusing to move without her permission—
She couldn't pretend anymore. This wasn't about his need. This wasn't about comforting him. This wasn't pity or guilt or duty.
She wanted him. Badly.
She wanted the way he looked at her like he'd die if he couldn't have her. She wanted him panting, growling against her skin. She wanted to feel that cock—not against her stomach, not through that stupid onahole—but inside her, filling her, stretching her, his warmth making her forget where she ended and he began.
She didn't want to be protected from the fire anymore. She wanted to burn in it. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was messy and fucked up and long overdue. But Charlie didn't want to stop him. She wanted to give him permission to lose control. Because she wasn't afraid of being ruined by him.
Standing there, pressed up against him, feeling the way his body shook with restraint, how his breath hitched every time she moved even slightly—Charlie knew.
And fuck it, she wasn't going to fight it anymore.
No more thinking. No more hesitation.
Her hands moved before her mind could catch up—one sliding up to cradle his jaw, her thumb brushing against his skin. The other gripped the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, yanking him down.
And then—
Her lips crashed against his like a storm hitting land—fierce, unrelenting, and utterly consuming. It wasn't delicate or tentative. It was a declaration, a challenge, a punishment. Her tongue forced its way past his lips without ceremony, bold and merciless as it tangled with his, tasting him, taking him.
The kiss was filthy—wet, raw, dripping with all the frustration, confusion, and pent-up desire she'd been choking down for days. Their mouths moved in a brutal rhythm, messy and relentless, saliva smearing between them in glistening strings whenever she pulled back just far enough to suck in a shaky breath—only to slam her mouth against his again, hungrier each time.
Alastor's entire body reacted like a live wire.
A deep, guttural growl tore free from his chest, vibrating against her lips as his hands snapped to her body—grabbing anything he could reach. Her hips, her ass, her waist—he gripped her like he was trying to fuse them together. Fingers dug through the fabric of her clothes, bruising, possessive, claiming her with every rough squeeze.
The part of him that had been shackled for too long—the dark, ravenous thing born of his rut—was howling in triumph now. She was pressed against him, not running, not resisting. Giving in. Feeding that need that had gnawed at him, driven him mad while he panted and fucked a cursed toy.
He pulled back just enough to speak, panting, his lips swollen and wet from the kiss. He was grinning now—wild, feral, flushed with heat and disbelief. His voice came out as a low, dangerous chuckle, full of something on the verge of breaking loose.
"Careful, darling…" he rasped, his grin stretching wider. "You keep kissing me like that, and I won't be able to stop. You understand that, don't you?"
His eyes burned into hers—dilated, hungry, waiting for any sign of hesitation. But Charlie just scoffed, breathless and flushed, her lips bruised and slick from their kiss.
"Oh, please," she snapped, voice full of bitter sarcasm and raw desire. "You've already fucked me six ways from Sunday the past week, whether you knew it or not."
She pushed against him, grinding her body against his rigid length, leaking and throbbing, between their bodies, and Alastor groaned—a low, broken sound that shook through both of them.
"Might as well let me feel the real thing."
That was it. The last thread of his restraint snapped clean in two.
He laughed—really laughed—but there was no mirth in it. It was cracked, wicked, breathless. Half delight, half something so primal it barely sounded human.
"Well, then," he purred, his hands gripping her ass hard enough to make her jolt, "you've no one to blame for what comes next, my dear."
And with that, he spun them around, slamming her back against the nearest surface. His mouth crashed down onto hers again, rougher, hungrier, final.
She'd given him permission.
And he was going to ruin her with it.