>>5138462>>5138451>>5138048>>5137826>>5137811>>5137775You will listen to Felman in a moment, but first, you have… Needs. Well, Irinnile ahs needs, which you share. Your dream comes to mind again—just a flash, but enough that you can feel Irinnile squirm at your own recollections and your misgivings about the parallel…
But no. Irinnile serves you, not the other way around, and you serve The Grand Design. This entire enterprise is just to acquire fuel for the ectoplasmic parasites that will allow you to piously enact your masters’ will, and to thus advance the cause of the Reptilian Master Race!
Whatever the truth of the matter, you drag Myahew into another room. You shove the hapless, fresh-faced young mage against a wall and, trying not to think too much about your motivations or the sensations your empathic link elicits, you drop to your knees and give the chaste young virgin a first time to remember…
<WANT: 18>
And then, infuriatingly unsatisfied and sopping with a thrill you cannot deny, you see him off with a bang.
<WANT: 16>
You take you time, truly savoring the sensation of his previously-pure soul being sullied, and his mana—his very self!—pouring into you. With your hands, Irinnile gropes your chest; when you bite your lips, it is as if Irinnile is doing it. You can practically see her, a hovering spectre of red energy before your minds eye, and you can feel her caresses with every push of your hips back against Mayhew’s helpless thrusts. Her whispered encouragements drown out his more tangible whimpers and whines as you execute him in a manner so blissful it wraps back around to agony. It gets to the point that your mental control of him breaks under the strain of his own self-preservation…
But you are too strong with his stolen mana. He is too little, and too late. Before long, Mayhew is no more.
‘See?’ Irinnile says softly, a warm presence snuggled against your inner-self. ‘We’re so good together… Doing your job, serving your gods, feeding, fucking… There’s no need ta’ get all bent outta’ shape, amirite?’
Your anxiety is dulled by the afterglow of the morbid experience, the grim reality of what your succubus-affected self has become briefly blotted out by lust and bloodlust alike. Besides, she raises a good point, you suppose. This is… Work-related debauchery. No different than your cover identity as Kamunu.
You take a moment to adjust your clothing, to regain your composure, and then to stride back into the room where Federigo and Felman wait. Felman looks… Fascinated, but in a horrified way, the fascination of an alchemist discovering a new means to poison and destroy. Federigo’s bearded, wizened face is scrunched up, eye squinted, as if trying to will himself away from this place—from you. You pat the Magus Acutor’s face kindly. He, too, is too late…
