You’re not reading that wrong. I am about to deliver honest-to-Gomorra word-porn directly to your screens. As far as I’ve read, WordPress allows this. If I’m wrong that’ll be my problem, and in the worst case you’ll all have to go follow my Twitter account to see any more of me.
… you should be doing that already, though. You’re only seeing me here at my most professional. Collected. Boring. I save my full gremlin aura for social media. Don’t you want to read a deranged cavalcade of tweets about me being relentlessly horny in Twitch streams and pushing the love of my life to look up vore scenarios on AI Dungeon, or insisting on being a grown woman who types “hi” in lower-case letters regardless of context?
Enough of that! Content warnings for this extremely NSFW piece: TF, mild corruption, past transphobia mention, mind-altering effects. The first half of this is a little story-heavy. I need to feel like I know a character before they can make me horny. Rest assured that the second half is just continuous hyper-indulgent sex!
I will be doing more with these characters and this as-yet unnamed setting whether you all like it or not. Hexenkessel? I’m going to name it Hexenkessel. (Translator’s note: “Hexenkessel” means “witch’s cauldron”). Erotica is, you see, rather enjoyable to write!~ All characters are, of course, over the age of 18. Specifically, Liesel is 23 and Mechtlieb is… a few hundred years minimum? Haven’t decided about her yet.
We begin below the asterisks.
You will know me as Liesel Arzat. The second is the name of my forebears. The first is the name of myself. If you believe you know me by other names, you believe falsely. I declare without shame that I am neither a channel of the gods nor a mage of the academies.
I am a witch of the old ways reclaimed.
It is my great pleasure to bridge the realms of matter and the realms of spirit. Fanatics will tell you I am a servant bound and chained. I will tell you the truth. I will tell you of the day I finally became free.
I do not refer to the nightmare which fell upon Bad Niedring. I did not cause it. I confess that I might have forestalled it. I did not. They meant to burn me. For my arts? Because they felt it their place to decide whether or not I may call myself woman?
Does it matter?
Harrying screams carried ember spirals from the forge-red darkness behind. War stories speak always of death’s stench. Carrion, offal, and blood. Bad Niedring’s towers soared haughty and tall. Teeth of a fallen giant. A throat too deep for fire’s flight. Only smoke reached me.
Ahead the cold, the dimness, and the wilds. The reek of ash and sting of soot in my eyes became the frigid knife of early autumn. Ill-fitting linens and a few iron bands. I fled with what I happened to wear for sleep.
I am relieved to escape the fears of my former home. I am afraid, for I do not know what comes next.
Even if we must define ourselves against hatred, still, it gives us a way to define ourselves. Who am I now? With such thoughts I braced myself. I dreaded fang and claw. Or barking dogs. Torchlight flickers. A sudden bolt.
Yet the wilds did not reject me. The past did not reclaim me. I walked until dawn, a pale wraith in coarse clothes on an uncertain path. Sunlight surprises me at the turn of fortune. A gangly silhouette framed against light filling an ancient tunnel’s oval: that is me.
Within, the altar of glittering black stone beneath carven facets and dust-hung effigies. Vines, blossoms: the in-rushing heat on a late-morning wind raises tingling fertility to my nose. The engravings depict blushing scenes. I would recite them in greater detail, only… only, I fear I have long forgotten them. Memory bows to the song of the spirit, and my spirit’s focus soon shifted elsewhere. I was a witch, though novice, presented with an altar. Lacking herbs, talismans, or tokens, I chose the only ritual object I still possessed.
I shed the linens.
I shivered at chills, at the prickle of the vines upon the altar against the tender flesh of my back, at the shame of exposing the prison I called flesh. I was often told that my golden hair and green eyes are lovely. I would prefer to pass over the rest.
Terror billowed like an oil-bloom from the abyss under my heart. It swallowed me. What words I said, what homage I paid… I flailed to find the surface. To meet silence from spirits in the cellar of a dingy townhouse is one thing. If they rejected me here, this sacred sanctum–I discovered that I had shut my eyes only when they began to ache, and when I felt that ache, I felt that I wept. I feel my flesh, and my war with it. I am a thousand razor tendrils clawing for salvation beneath sinew, bone, and skin.
When she answered, it was over.
“An early morning,” said the voice of silk, of a heartbeat, of the heat that cuts deeper than the blizzard it drives back. “But never too early to greet a maiden so fair. Please, child, open your eyes.”
Touch came before sight. A pulse against my skin, radiance waves and tingles. Was I pressed down, was I pulled upwards? An ache bloomed between my legs, rushing blood and a tickle like a hook. It was lust, and I could no longer hide in poetry. It occurred to me, then, to fear. I held the power to call. Now I knew I held the power to be heard. I knew that I held no powers but these. A self-glutting litany: even if some spirits were wicked, surely my yearning would beckon a kindly one when the time came. What if I had thought wrong?
I opened my eyes.
She did not hover. She stood on two vine-wound hooves, upon legs sprouting innumerable small leaves dappled with every shade of green and gold–shimmering like scales, soft and plush as fur. She was verdant, lush in bosom, hip, and thigh.
Glossy hair of forest greens, autumn reds and golds. Four crystal horns: two spiraled, two ran straight. Twin tails of thick iridescent vines–worth describing. Yet these were most beautiful because she chose them.
“What would you ask of me,” she said, “woman to woman?”
“I would…” I would find it very hard to speak, for she was heady as incense. Heady tingles as of pollen filled my head rather than my nose. “Spirit… I would like to know your name.” She laughed, and grinned with white fangs, and glowing wolf’s eyes. “Demon,” she corrected.
The demon propped a perfect hand, jade skin and black claws, beneath her delicate jaw and blossom lips. She shifts her hips. Wisdom insisted on meeting her eyes. My eyes insisted on drifting down, down over the heavy breasts, down to the dewy invitation of her– I looked away.
“Oh, please do look,” she laughed. “I am not a succubus because I dislike being found desirable. That would be quite backwards.” A few seconds, several breaths, a dozen heartbeats. I needed clarity, to weigh risk– “My name is Mechtlieb,” she said. “And yours, dear witch?”
babbled. She was too beautiful, and the glow in her eyes was too bright. Her scent was herbs and honey. The more I breathed it, the greater the warmth within me. I twitched with the ache below. I told her all. That I am Liesel. Why I became a witch.
Why I was alone.
As I spoke her power’s pulse lessened against me. Her lovely brow furrowed. “Oh, Liesel,” Mechtlieb said, taking my hand, “you need not have made an offering of yourself to call for succor. I apologize, dear girl. I’ve come on false pretenses. I meant to lie with you, but–”
“Please, don’t,” I said, more desperate with each word. “I’ve tried for years to call someone, anyone, it’s not t-that you’re beautiful–I mean, it’s not that you’re not b-b-beautiful, it’s just… I…” Convinced I’d destroyed my hope, I gestured at my body.
Yes, that’s what I propose to aid you in,” Mechtlieb said. “But you need not pay for it. It is your right to feel at home in your own body, and–”
“I want to!” I say, with sudden force.
The succubus tilted her head. “You’re certain?” Even now, her concern could have been false.
My dry tongue sat heavy. I had never before felt so naked. If she wished to string me forever as a puppet of lust, my consent seemed a scant barrier. Still, it was a barrier. “Yes,” I said. Her pulsing heat returned tenfold. She straddled me, licked white fangs. “Perfect.”
My dry tongue sat heavy. I had never before felt so naked. If she wished to string me forever as a puppet of lust, my consent seemed a scant barrier. Still, it was a barrier.
“Yes,” I said.
Her pulsing heat returned tenfold. She straddled me, licked white fangs.
“Now, little witch,” Mechtlieb said, the golden glow in her wolf’s eyes taking on the same rhythmic pulse as the heart-gripping heat she exuded, “lie back and think of the form you desire. If you fight me for control in anyway, this may go ill. So just…”
“Submit.” Her breath was a thousand gossamer strands in my ear. Creeping inwards as lightning, as molten ecstasy. It poured downwards through me, up along the throbbing flesh of my shaft, up into the flushing head straining to meet her as she eased downward.
The first kiss of her channel against me seared hot as fire. It did not scald or char. To boil not with torment but with pleasure–that is to lie with a succubus. Mortal words cannot capture it. I became pliable, metal on the anvil of the black-stone altar. Mechtlieb shaped me. By the strokes of her hands she spread the inferno of bliss beneath my skin. By her lips burning against mine and the liquid play of her tongue, she filled my senses. Flesh shifted, bone reshaped. Forth and back again she rode me, bouncing, moaning into my throat.
Verdant fingers, black claws, played upon my chest. With kneading squeezes, presses against nipples that cast sensuous spikes through all the nerves below, she raised up my breasts. I meant to hold it, or at least warn her, but the swell burst forth through my womanhood.
With a last descent, Mechtlieb took my length inside her down to the smallest patch of glistening skin. She gave herself to a half-vacant smile, wide-eyed, depths tightening and releasing. A second swell passed from me. I groaned, convulsed, spurted once more into her.
She eased down, breast to breast, and cupped my face with her fingers. “Sweet, silly Liesel,” she chuckled, “next time, do not try so hard to keep your semen down. Though… the side-effects are rather fetching.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded, euphoria burning away.
“Calm,” the succubus answered.
With a hand-flick she manifested a crystal mirror. In it I saw the face I had always desired: heart-shaped with high, elegant cheeks and pretty round eyebrows. The early nubs of two black horns came as a shock, and yet…
…yet, I liked them.
“Oh,” I said. “I will have to hide those, but…” She was so warm against me. Soothing. I meant to say, “thank you, Mechtlieb.”
I passed into slumber. Into my dreams I carried the image of two wolf’s eyes creased by laughter–and fondness. I woke to find her still atop me.
She chuckled at my surprise. “I hope you didn’t believe I would abandon you, naked and now bereft of fitting clothes, in a nameless shrine.” The succubus eased herself off me with some regret. Then, with a flourish of her hands, she presented a gown of green silk.
“My first gift to you,” she said. “I hope we shall be steady friends in the future, Liesel. There is, if memory serves, an old huntsman’s cottage in a clearing some kilometers up in the islands. Empty now. Should be easy enough.” She gestured. “Get dressed and I’ll guide you.”
Now feeling a ravenous appetite, I fought through exhaustion to stand. In this I noted one other gift of Mechtlieb’s: a pointed, pinkish mutation to the head of my penis. I touched it and could not suppress a gasp at its sensitivity.
“Enjoy that,” she said, with wry mischief.
“How am I supposed to walk?” I asked. The succubus waved a hand in dismissal. “You’re a witch. Witches are clever. You’ll discover a poultice or something to lessen its delights when you must travel.”
Feeling much the opposite of clever, I dressed myself.
The green gown hugged the new curves of my flesh with a closeness that suggested Mechtlieb had studied me in my sleep. I could not be wroth over if this even if I were not, in truth, a little pleased, for she led me to the cottage as promised. We reached the cottage by a foreboding ravine with an abandoned castle looming on the cliffs higher above. It was quaint and latticed beneath sturdy oaks with ranked pines climbing the slopes behind it.
After darker paint and the right occult flourishes, it was perfect.
“And with that I must leave you for now,” Mechtlieb said, “for you are not the only witch who consorts with me.” She winked. “I’m afraid there are no sisters near to you. Out of the more distant… the best, though not closest, lives in a castle north of the Scharnach Valley.”
This gave me pause. “A castle?”
“A castle appropriate to a witch,” the succubus laughed. “Karlotta is given too trying too hard. But she is a good friend, and a powerful ally.” She tapped her lips, turned to walk away, then turned back. “Oh, she’ll try to seduce you.”
Before I could form a retort, she disappeared. Mechtlieb took her muzzying aura with her. The strain upon the body of spending hours at the pinnacle of lust struck me seconds later. My legs gave out, leaving me to crawl into the cottage’s door.
“Damned demon,” I snarled.
Though it was hardship, I managed to latch the creaking door and haul myself to a seat at the kitchen table. I found it to have been piled high with food–bread, meat, and savory sauces still hot and fresh. I could but sigh, roll my eyes, and say,
“… thank you, Mechtlieb.”
(Author’s note: I tried writing this using my standard past-tense at first. After consideration, I decided that I liked present tense for these short-form erotic pieces. That’s why the second half of this story, which was originally two separate Twitter threads as a platform experiment, switches to present tense. As you were!)
Dreams come more easily than I am used to. The first night in the cottage brings liminal visions: shifting blue, strange heat, tendrils of color, sight, and sound too narrow to name. The second brings swelter, a sudden waking, and a wet sliding sound.
A wolf-eye winks at me.
Its glow traces the crystal horns, two straight up, two spiraling down. It catches in the slickness along my risen shaft. Before the night-blur leaves my eyes, I feel her in full–a reverse-pulse thumping down through my length, and its name is need. Its name is Mechtlieb.
The sliding comes from her plump lips, wrapped tight around me, and the sinuous lapping of her tongue behind them. I prop myself up on one arm. I draw breath to ask her what she thinks she’s doing. Her tongue’s twin forks find just the right spot and tease. I cry out, fall back.
With a liquid pop and a grin flashing white fangs, Mechtlieb draws back–but barely. My tip twitches against her mouth. I am flushed, sweating, afire already. “What do you think, dear witch?” she asks. “Have I overstepped?” Each breath wraps around my head like a silken twist.
Rising again, fighting tremors and spasms from muscle turning to drunk-muzzy jelly, I clasp her horns and pull her down towards with an urgent groan. She chuckles, husky breaths raising the swell below to the point I fear I’ll explode. I plunge upward. She twists aside, flicking her tongue out and dragging it down my length until I’ve pulled her tight against my groin. Even in the dim yellow-orange of her wolf-eyes, Mechtlieb’s mouth drips a shine like molten crystal.
I feel the trickles as hot threads tying into my skin, heightening sense and arousal.
Again I try, and again at the last instant she dodges, tongue still teasing.
“You…” I force the words out, “are awful!”
“I am a succ–” Mechtlieb starts. She grows distracted in her preening, and at last I bury my cock between her perfect lips. I feel triumph… for a breath.
It occurs to me that shoving my womanhood exactly where Mechtlieb wanted it is not outwitting her. The succubus proves as much by a luxuriant slurp. The fawning tones of her voice, deep within her throat, arrive in me as string-song vibrations. Every nerve answers. Each long suck fills me with static waves. All the while the wolf-eyes hood themselves in the dark–lust or smugness?
Of course it’s both.
The bed catches me as I plummet again, pulling her with me, bucking my hips. I beg with wordless sighs. I quake with need for release. My fingers clutch at her horns, but any pretense of control has gone. It’s the demon who leads, every twist of her head and tense of her fingers against my balls leaving me further under her sway. My breath begins to catch, gasping louder, longer. I drop a hand, clench sheets–
And Mechtlieb, sensing her moment, demonstrates how carefully she’s avoided my shaft’s mutant peak. She demonstrates by lifting back and wrapping her lips right around it, coiling her tongue against the unbearably sensitive pinkish flesh.
With a peeling cry far higher than I knew I could give, I throw my head back and succumb. Gout after gout tears up the channel within me. The succubus moans in delight at each, holding her rhythm. Her hot-oven pulse is within me, and the climax is endless.
Each plunge by the demon meets a thrust of my abandon in countertime. I cannot find my breath, and I do not care, for all is ache and relief and ache again. I offer so much that some squelches from Mechtlieb’s mouth, glistens on her chin and throat. At last she relents, plucking her lips away. I am exhausted. Steamy, breathless mush with no will to move. And I wish she’d kept going.
“That’s why I like you, Liesel,” she says, pulling herself off the floor and onto the bed with me. “So full of feeling.”
“I’m not full of feeling…” I pant. “You would have that effect on ANYONE.”
“Don’t compliment me at your expense,” she says, pecking my cheek. “That was a wonderful first round.” I preen too much over “wonderful”. I’m quiet while she rolls upright. Poises.
“Eh?” I ask too late.
She takes me within her a heartbeat later. Two days was just long enough to forget her channel’s heated kiss. I remember very quickly, and the ache from my first orgasm only heightens the joy of her depths. Mechtlieb lands her masterstroke.
“That’s it,” she sighs, “good girl.”
I have been called many things. Occasionally good. But this… If every hateful lie ever whispered of demons were true, in this moment I would still give her my soul. She needs but to ask. “You’re a good girl, and you deserve to be happy,” she sighs. “Let me make you happy!”
I could claim that I am dignified, insist that I am a grown woman and a witch, that I should be treated as a peer.
“Oh, please,” I groan, cupping her hips with my hands and driving desperately against her. “Please…” Mechtlieb accepts with zeal, and a bracing hand on my chest.
“Foolish me, overlooking these last time,” she groans, rotating her hips while leaning forward to lavish my nipples with licks. I start and cry out at gentle nips of the white fangs on my teats. I am delirious with raw ecstasy, swimming in the herbal scent of the demon.
Her tongue’s forks reach depths no mortal cousin ever could, touching me in ways I never dreamed of being touched. I heed her words from our first tryst. I do not try to hold back the smoldering force in my loins, but pull her tight against me and soak her womb with my seed. Mechtlieb shares the climax with me, glistening from emerald drew-drops to match the sweat shining all over me. She does not halt.
“One more, sweet Liesel,” she sighs, her twin tails wrapping over my arms, over my shaft, joining it as it plunges into her anew.
My senses fracture. Too much desire, too much wonder for a mortal mind to hold it all. Her breaths and mine, my thundering heart, the staccato clap of our meeting flesh–only touch is constant. Wetness, warmth, gentle coils tensing around my member. I squirm against her. All that I am cries out to be with her, to be within her–perhaps to be her.
“Mechtlieb,” I breathe, and convulse up against her. She bends down, tight against me, kissing and cooing into my mouth with the shared shout of climax.
t pours up through me and out from her, on and on until I am more drunk with delight than I could ever be from wine. At last and also too soon, it ends. We come to rest on the bed.
“I thought you consorted with other witches,” I say, stroking her hair of all-season leaves.
“Two lust only for men, two are in a monogamous marriage with each other, and number five is Karlotta, who…” Mechtlieb clears her throat. “That is a, erm… risky decision, shall we say.”
I am not displeased. “So, in the night you are mine?” I ask, with a smug little smile.
“In the night I am yours,” Mechtlieb agrees, “if you are mine also. A contract must benefit both parties, dear witch.” I am left with the choice between a full night’s sleep, and the demon whose head now rests on my shoulder.
“Then I suppose, in the night, I am yours,” I say.