Demon Dreams

by Nikki Sex

  Lust blasts us.

  Blinds us.

  Like racehorses at the gate responding to the starters pistol, we lunge. I drop Stafford’s sword, ignore the clang it makes on the stone floor. Off comes my back pack, my belt, my bra.

  The Beast Lord yanks my jeans down, rips off my panties. Grinding into each other, we explode with animal frenzy. Kissing, licking, we grab fistfuls of each other’s hair. Nipping, biting, we brand each other’s flesh with our teeth, drawing blood.

  Blood! Yes!

  I scream when Stafford’s metaphysical wolf sinks his fangs into my inner beast. He mounts her, ruts ferociously. Simultaneously, Stafford runs a hand over my ass, down between my legs.

  The instant he touches my sex, I expect to orgasm. Yet, I don’t.

  I can’t!

  My body strains for release. This building need is frustrating as hell. In the back of my mind, I’m conscious of my demon’s reasoning. For an abundance of power, sensual energy must build.

  Understanding doesn’t make it any easier or less painful.

  Erotic images of countless pack members in the process of mating flash into my brain. Pulsing heat ripples along the bonds that connect us. Many werewolves are in human form, some are beasts. Each reacts as if moonstruck—insatiable desire beats at them like hot, furious fists.

  The Beast Lord’s wolves, over six-hundred of them, tremble precariously on the edge of orgasm. Females straddle males. Males drive into their mates from behind, from the front, from the side.

  Silver, aka Goth Girl (real name Marli) has joined the party. Physically accommodating two men, she’s eagerly enjoying a ménage à trois. The friendless pack member seems to have finally made friends.

  Samara bounces on top of Quentin like a cowgirl riding a frantically bucking bull. Kalev—attractive to everyone, is apparently only interested in that girl he’s stuck on. Jaw clenched, he chooses the ‘me, myself, and I’ method as he strokes his massive dick.

  Eugene, the young pop violinist assigned to support Goth Girl when she first became a shifter, was in the lodge kitchen when lust struck. Hips thrusting, Eugene lies naked on the floor. Gazelle, the police sketch artist, rides his cock as another woman rides his face.

  All of them bite, sharing their essence. Heady blood magic adds to the mix.

  Orchestrating this huge fuck-fest, my demon sings a wondrous Song of Sex to his children. Those who sport raven’s wings join in the melody. As though answering the mythical siren’s call, my demon’s offspring must orgasm. There is no question of force. Those who aren’t interested in partnered activities, pleasure themselves.

  Sex is everywhere! Pack members rut in showers, over pool tables, on the floor, in the woods, on the street. I get a flash of my boss, the CEO of MacLeod International, and his wife in a car. On their way to babysit their grandchildren, he swerves to the side of the road. With the car in park, he pulls her into the back seat, thrilling his spouse with his vigor.

  Longing, desire, passion. Licking, sucking, rutting, stroking, fucking. Gradually, steadily, a powerhouse of sexual energy accumulates. All involved remain on the cusp of orgasm. The maestro of an erotic orchestra, my demon arranges the composition, sets the tempo, shapes each refrain.

  He doesn’t feed—not yet.

  The music is glorious! A dark melody the human ear is incapable of perceiving.

  He channels the mountain of sexual energy, amplifies it, returns it. With each transfer of power, the magic grows, becoming greater. Stronger. More and more concentrated. The pain from non-completion becomes torturous. Too much to bear.

  “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” I breathlessly moan.

  “Christ, yes!”

  My mate lifts me up as though I’m weightless. Effortlessly, he spins me around, thrusts me face first against the cavern wall. His big body presses hard against me from behind.

  God, he’s so fucking hot! He’s stronger than I am—I savor his strength. He’s so masculine. Larger than me, harder, heavier. I could climax from the feel of his crushing weight against me.

  So desperate to come, but I can’t!

  Then, he’s inside of my swollen, sensitive sex—driving balls deep. Insatiable, hungry, greedy for more, we struggle to get closer. Animal to animal, our need is unspeakable—our sex savage.

  “Mine, mine, mine,” he snarls with each bruising stroke.

  “Yes, yes, yes!”

  Huge hands circle my waist like bands of steel. Thrusting deeply, he pulls my body toward him. It feels divine. Fanning the flames of internal combustion, I want to, but can’t explode.

  Pleasure and pain. My mate pounds me. Punishes me. Purifies me until my mind is gone, my breath is ragged, my soul is stripped bare. Drenched with sweat and arousal, I have not one thought in my head. I’m incapable of thinking.

  I am all bone-deep need, greed, and desire. I’m close. So friggin’ close it hurts!

  Please, please, please, let me come!

  Chapter 57.

  The epic metaphysical battle between my demon and the angel rages on. The scary-ass angel of doom is huge, confident, and overpowering, while my demon continues the fight while running on empty.

  Sexual tension from our raven army is coiled as tight as it can go. At last, it’s finally time to climax! A blast of heat stabs low in my body, making me arch and moan uncontrollably.

  Yessss! Harder! Faster! More! More!

  Urgency rips through us like claws as we all explode at the exact same instant. Here, in this cavern, in beds, in bathrooms, in the forest, in the lodge’s public rooms, in cars, in showers.

  I see them, I hear them, I feel them all.

  Innumerable synchronized detonations intensify every release. We don’t simply climax—we experience a billion-megaton explosion! The energy generated is off the charts. My demon hums loudly in my ear. He sounds like a well-fed cat on steroids, maniacally purring with intense pleasure.

  Bucking and convulsing, I come screaming.

  Euphoria resonates through every cell in my body. My muscles clench, seize, then spasm over and over. It hurts so good!

  With deep, guttural grunts, my mate empties himself inside of me. Shuddering hard, he slams his hand against the wall to regain his balance.

  The finale to this Song of Creation is a crescendo of pounding drums, crashing cymbals, and sexual completion. Screaming, shouting, swearing, every lycanthrope in the Magic Lands—every member of our raven army, contributes to this carnal symphony.

  I’m blinded by exquisite, mind-melting ecstasy. A rainbow of fireworks colors my vision. My ears ring, my heart pounds—the taste of power rolls over my tongue and down my throat. I can barely catch my breath. My mate’s delicious animal scent covers me head to toe.

  I reek of sex.

  After this, I’ll never fear caves again.

  As soon as the enormous burst of energy comes through, my demon wins the war. At precisely the right moment, he consumes his adversary’s magic, draining him to near death.

  With so much energy to spare, he sends the overflow surging into everyone who contributed to his victory. Stafford and I get more than our share of glorious power. The fresh blast of mind-numbing magic triggers another heart stopping climax.

  Fucking hell! The fae’s ancient energy packs one hell of a punch.

  Fae, werewolf, demonic, psychic, vampire—our supernatural powers mix and grow, bubbling through us in a fiery rush. My mate and I eat the angel’s power, we drink his power, we roll and swim, and float away in his power.

  What a rush! So much magic! So much energy!

  I can’t contain it.

  Strong winds of magic blast me out of my corporal form. Now, I’m “outside-my-body-watching-from-above.” Human eyes view from a single direction. A spirit doesn’t have eyes. There’s nothing to look through, so vision has no barriers. It’s a spherical perspective.

  I see the whole shebang at once.

  I hear, smell, taste, sense, and feel everything. My perception broadens, my awar
eness deepens. Every glittering molecule seems large and highly detailed through spirit sight. Like radar vision, I view past the visual spectrum, to waves of light in infra-red and ultraviolet. To me, every atom is a unique work of art.

  This feels so good.

  So right, so familiar.

  I’m free.

  Viewed through spirit vision, the cavern isn’t a cold or dark. Conscious of life and energy all around me, I’m not entombed. Billions of microscopic sea sparkles pulse with vitality. I perceive countless primitive, eyeless insects, a myriad of land and water dwelling cave animals, blind fish, lizards, and worms.

  My inner friend fiendishly continues to strip his enemy of magic. I regard the pathetic creature before me. Reverting to human form, he’s an ancient old man, crying in the darkness that isn’t dark to me.

  Wingless, defenseless, the creature’s lost his glamoured prison clothing. Naked and dying, he curls into a ball on the cavern floor. Lips cracked, sores on his pale, emaciated body—he looks half dead.

  Still holding the blood-covered obsidian blade, Haram, the starving old man sobs. With each drop of his stolen energy, we become stronger, while he grows older, sicker, sadder.

  “Please, please,” the creature breathlessly begs, “They’ll die.”

  I don’t know what it’s talking about. Further, I don’t care. My heart is hardened to his pleas. “Kill it, kill it, kill it!” Without the benefit of a tongue, my words are a mental chant of bloodlust.

  My inner monster has other ideas.

  In this euphoric height of power, everything is effortless. My demon doesn’t require audible speech to communicate with me. I don’t need to see or hear his words. I view no images, hear no thoughts—I just know.

  Truth strikes with spellbinding clarity. Love, hate. Right, wrong. Good, bad. Live, die. Live?

  Oh! Oh! I understand this melody!

  I’d laugh out loud, if I could. My inner demon didn’t only want to make friends with this angel. Adoring the taste of its power, he’s decided to keep it. With perfect pitch, humming each note, he sings a beautiful Song of Making.

  In effortless creation, he weaves his magic. A flash of enchanted lightning overrides the angel’s will, binding him to us. Vampire cobalt blue energy is conjured to compel attraction and affection.

  Bang—a metaphysical choker encircles the old man’s neck, a collar of compulsion. Now, the angel will obey us with joy in his heart. He has no choice in the matter. Our survival and our will has become its sole priority.

  Haram, the evil angel of death, loves us.

  Wonderful. Another weird situation to explain to my mate. It seems we’ve adopted a powerful, ancient murderer. Now that we’ve got him, what the hell do we do with him?

  Chapter 58.

  Bruised and bloody, the dying old man looks like something dragged out of hell, slamming into every sharp edge and hard rock along the way.

  My demon plans to remedy what ails him.

  Power flows through the cavern like a hot wind. A rainbow of electric demon magic, earthy animal magic, fresh air, fire, and water streams into the fae prisoner. Visibly astonished, the old man stops weeping and whimpering. He uncurls, drops the obsidian blade, becomes stock-still.

  Before our eyes, Haram’s flesh rebuilds, miraculously fills out. Cells rehydrate, bruises, blood, and wrinkles vanish. No longer gaunt, half dead, or appearing old, his sores disappear. His skin becomes healthy, glows with a golden tan. As his body regains its youthful vigor, his brittle, gray hair thickens, softens into shiny, golden locks. Fine clothes magically appear, covering the man, who now looks to be thirty.

  The fae’s brown eyes, initially round and wide with surprise—now glitter from rich, sensory pleasure. I know just how he feels. Magic and power sing through his veins, heightening his senses, increasing his strength, filling him with euphoria. Love, joy, confidence, and purpose, replace fear, hunger, and pain.

  The sweet scent of his surprise and delight perfumes the air.

  Eyes blazing, fiercely alive, Haram pushes to his feet. The man vanishes, replaced by a more muted glow of his angelic form. His snowy white wings have also changed. Visible traces of glossy blue-black gleam from the tips of each feather.

  The creature is magnificent, but I’ve become immune to his spellbinding perfection. Like our Jugulo, he is ours.

  Ownership. Slavery. A bizarre concept, but it’s better than ending his life, after all. Or is this my out-of-body, it’s-all-good power rush talking?

  Haram should have no complaints. After torturously starving to death, alone in a tiny cell for centuries, it’s tough to go anywhere but up from that existence. Out of his prison with a burger, a glass of wine, and someone to talk with, would be a vast improvement.

  Accustomed to the magic high, or perhaps having shared so much energy with the angel, I feel more myself again. Either way, I return to my body without a hitch. My mate has his arms around me, a wondrously grounding sensation.

  “You OK?” Stafford asks, unaware of the invisible drama unfolding in front of us.

  “A little dazed and lightheaded, but triumphant. Like I’ve survived something difficult. I feel magical. Alive.”

  “That’s good. Great, actually.” He frowns. “Look, I’m sorry I was rough before.” Taking my hand, he kisses my palm. “Pounded into you so hard and fast. I felt moonstruck with lust—I couldn’t stop myself. En-fucking-thralled.”

  “You were under an enchantment,” I send. “Me too. My demon needed power, you know he feeds on sensual energy. He used us to get what he needed. That’s why the United Packs fucked themselves silly. Are they OK?”

  “I’ve reassured them,” he pauses, shrugs. “Magic. We acted under the moon’s influence, without the moon. There were some interesting couplings today. They’ll be long talks, drinking, and laughs tonight.”

  “Fucking magic.” I lift both shoulders in a shrug, as if those two words explain everything. “We owe the packs big time.” I lift a teasing brow. “My demon used their energy in his battle against the angel.”

  “Oh, yeah?” His brows rise with interest. “So who won?”

  I grin. “We did.”

  When the corner of Stafford’s mouth lifts, my breath catches. I’m stunned by the astonishing beauty of my mate’s smile. Running a careless hand through his disheveled hair, he looks like sex on a stick. I fight an overpowering urge to grab fistfuls of those brown locks, dragging his lips to mine.

  Something’s different about him. I can’t put my finger on the change. Stafford’s always been hot, hot, hot, but now, he’s practically on fire—more attractive than ever.

  Wait. What? Uh-oh.

  I stretch, noticing how much stronger, more supple, fit and curvy I am. Damn, I’m built! I look and feel gooood. I briefly wonder if all my inner monster’s helpers have physically become more attractive. If so, we must be the sexiest, most attractive bunch of rave-winged, demon-minions out there.

  This must be the result of an influx of fae magic. “Magic” and “fae,” two things I don’t trust. There’s always a downside.

  The angel, head tilted forward, looks through long eyelashes. Indirectly, he stares at me as though I’m his whole world. Dressed in a flowing robe, he waits patiently. For what? Orders? To be released? For permission to speak? To be introduced?

  “My name is Janice St. John,” I say to the dazzling creature before me. “You may call me My Lady.” I gesture to Stafford. “This is the Werewolf King of the Magic Lands. You may call him my Lord, or Beast Lord.”

  He politely nods to me. “My Lady.” Then to Stafford. “My Lord.”

  “You belong to us.” My simple statement is a declaration.

  “Yes,” he agrees equably. “I am yours.”

  Sheesh. Well, that was easy.

  Perhaps on Faery, slavery is common. Exactly like when I collared Leonidas, the struggle is over. The creature’s life, his future—everything is in our hands. He’s totally fine with that, go figure. Magically comp
elled, there’s nothing he can do about it in any case.

  A stunning smile bursts from the angel’s face.

  Still buzzed, I automatically grin back. Why not? He’s mine, after all.

  Through his collar, I sense not one iota of resistance. He’s not bitter, guilty, or contemptuous. I know there’s profound joy to be found in the act of letting go—but this seems ridiculous.

  Whatever happens next is not his decision, or his problem. Lucky him.

  Stafford turns toward me, his face carefully expressionless. Like an undertow in a seemingly calm sea, I feel dark fury boiling beneath the surface. The last he knew, ‘Let’s go kill him’ was our plan.

  “Jan,” he says in a deceptively mild voice. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Chapter 59.

  “What the hell is going on?” I give my mate a wry smile. “My dear Beast lord, that’s a very good question. Haram, please change to your human form.”

  Before I say another word, he immediately complies. When the cavern plunges into darkness from the loss of his glow, Stafford and I grab our headlamps. We put them on, switch them on. I can’t wait to get out of this damned cavern.

  “Thank you, Haram. Please explain to my mate what happened, and why you are now our servant.”

  “As you wish.” He nods deferentially to the Beast Lord. Cold-blooded killer or not, he has gracious manners.

  “My Lord,” he says calmly. “Not long ago, I became aware of a demon entering my dreams. As demons are foul, destructive creatures, my objective was to kill it. I chose several avenues to draw the demon’s host, your mate, here to me. When the creature revealed itself, we fought to the death. The demon won, but chose not to end my life. Instead, like your Jugulo, I have been magically collared, leashed to you and your mate’s will. Accordingly, I am your slave.”

  Stafford frowns. “How do you feel about that?”

  “The demon elected to make love, not war.” At his reference to the recent werewolf fuck festival, he laughs—a wondrous, melodic sound, reminiscent of tubular bells.