"More!" Jasper bellowed, the sound a guttural shockwave in the opulent, blood-soaked chamber.
He stood in his full demonic regalia: horns curving like scythes from his skull, eyes swallowed by predatory blackness. Around his feet, the scattered, lifeless bodies of maids lay in crumpled, crimson-soaked heaps. Every last one was still, silent. Yet, he was not sated. In a room heavy with the metallic, cloying scent of fresh gore and warm, cooling flesh, Jasper was a hunger incarnate.
In the shadowy hallway, the gloom did nothing to soften the menacing, granite-hard presence of Lord Hermes. Elara, the simple maid, caught the periphery of his approach and immediately snapped into a low curtsey, her head bowed against the rough, worn wool of her uniform. The familiar, cold dread of the Prince's brutal reputation was a stone in her gut, a lead weight that whispered she might be the next to vanish.
Hermes halted. His hand, large and deliberate, rose to his brow. He didn't wipe; he merely smoothed the skin, collecting the thick, bead-like moisture of his magical exertion onto his palm, the liquid glistening like venom. He looked down at the maid, the smirk on his face less human and more a raptor's cruel, anticipatory grin. "Elara," he drawled, his voice a silk-wrapped wire, "it seems it is now your time." The words were a vile pretense.
Then, with a sickening, effortless speed, he lashed out. The open-handed slap was not merely a physical blow; it was the violent delivery mechanism of a powerful, corrosive poison.
Elara stumbled back, the rough stone wall scraping her shoulder. But the sheer shock of the impact was instantly superseded. Where the demon's hand had connected, a searing, white-hot ecstasy exploded. It was not a gentle warmth; it was a fire that bypassed her nerves, blasted straight to her core, igniting every latent, unexplored crevice of desire into a flaming inferno.
The hallway ripped apart. The world didn't blur; it vanished, replaced by an internal, unbearable roar.
The sound of the aphrodisiac taking hold was a deep, vibrating hum that resonated in her bones, screaming over every sensible, self-preserving thought. Her breath hitched, not in a gasp of pain, but a sudden, sharp shriek of pure, unsolicited pleasure as the drug violently seized and shook her body.
"The Prince is waiting," Hermes's voice hissed, a command that landed not on her mind, but directly on the raging, newly awakened filth and hunger inside her. "Go to him."
Elara's own hands flew to her body, but not to comfort or soothe the stinging bruise. They became instruments of frantic, tearing need. Her fingers clawed at the heavy, repressive cloth of her maid's habit, ripping the coarse fabric at the throat and over her chest with mindless, animal ferocity. The tear was ragged, exposing a strip of flushed, throbbing skin. She needed air; she needed release from the unbearable, escalating pressure that was turning her into a molten, writhing mess.
Hermes watched, fascinated, as his venomous cocktail did its work. She easily tore open the chest of her dress. Her ample breasts spilled out of the newly shredded material, exposing her dark, hardened nipples to the chill of the hall. If she hadn't been destined for his crowned Prince, he would have played with her. But the Prince did not share, and his appetite seemed endless.
Her knees buckled. She didn't fall gracefully; she collapsed onto the stone floor in a heap of tangled wool and limbs. Her head was thrown back, exposing the throbbing vein in her neck, her mouth wide in a silent, agonizing plea for more sensation. She began to scrape and drag herself across the ground, desperately making her way toward the Prince's chamber, a primal instinct informing her it was her only form of relief.
She was entirely alone in her mind, lost in the drug's grip. Her focus became pathologically, obsessively internal. She arched her back on the cold stone, a visceral, animalistic movement, and began to writhe slowly, pushing her lower body against the floor, seeking friction and relief from the agonizing, all-consuming heat. Her eyes were closed, not in ecstasy, but sealed shut against a world that had ceased to matter. A low, gutteral moan finally clawed its way from her throat, a sound stripped of language, belonging only to survival and consumption.
Her hands, guided by an urgency that was no longer her own, rovued down her torso. They grope-kneaded-and-squeezed her own flesh over the remaining fabric of her dress, her desperation becoming visually, physically explicit. She was a being reduced to base need, performing a solo, depraved ritual on the floor of a public hallway, completely heedless of who might see, or what danger lay ahead. The threat of the Prince was not forgotten; it was eclipsed by a thousand times more potent, immediate internal necessity.
Then, her eyes flew open, wide and bloodshot, and they locked onto the direction of the Prince's chambers. The sight of the distant, ominous doorway acted as a beacon. The demon's command had been received, and she was going to obey.
Her knees scraped and bumped against the cold ground as she reached his door—a terrifying, unnatural surge of energy replacing her earlier weakness. The maid's uniform was now a shredded, disheveled hindrance, her hair already tumbling out of its tidy knot. Elara moved, not with grace or seduction, but with a predatory, frantic speed.
Hermes pushed open the door to Jasper's bedroom, allowing her to continue her desperate crawl. She didn't pause or wait. Her dress became saturated with blood as she dragged herself to the Prince. The skirt of her dress pooled around her hips as she gripped the Prince's thighs, her slick entrance rubbing feverishly against the roughness of his boot. Jasper simply stared down at her with his black, bottomless eyes and his horns fully extended.
"Just one?" Jasper asked, a flicker of anger narrowing his eyes on Hermes. He was wondering if his subordinate intended to keep the other maids for himself.
"I am sorry, Crown Prince. I have been instructed that you are no longer allowed any more maids. This will be the last one." Hermes's head bowed in shame as he hoped that his Prince would not simply kill him for delivering news that was not his choice.
"Bring me my Princess!" Jasper's hands reached like talons into the maid's hair, tossing her away from him with a violent, disgusted heave. Her head cracked against the stone wall. A bloody trail began to weep down the once-clean stone. The maid slowly succumbed to the darkness.
Hermes scrambled from the room as his Prince began to rage. Jasper slammed his fist into the walls and kicked anything in sight. He even began to beat the already dead corpses on the floor, releasing a torrent of frustrated, consuming power.
Hermes flew to the Princess's chamber in no time. He threw open the door. Some of the princesses were still awake, gaping in shock at his presence. But he paid none of them any mind. He knew exactly who Prince Jasper wanted. He found Daniela sprawled in the middle of the room on her bed. She was snoring, her arms spread wide. She did not look like the sophisticated temptress she was during the day. He could smell the unmistakable scent of alcohol surrounding her.
"Wake up!" Hermes said in a harsh voice as he tapped her shoulder.
Daniela opened her blurry eyes. Her mouth was dry, and she felt disoriented. But the fog of her mind was quickly erased by the unfamiliar man leaning over her. She struck out her fist, aiming for his face, only for the man to step back, easily avoiding her arm. Daniela sat up, noticing it was Hermes. She was unsure of why he would be bothering her in the middle of the night.
"Put on a robe and follow me."
Daniela frowned but obeyed, placing a silk robe around her shoulders. She followed after Hermes, who seemed a bit more frazzled than usual.
"What is happening?"
"Where are we going?"
"Is something wrong?"
"Is something wrong with Jasper?"
She peppered him with questions. But Hermes refused to answer a single one. The only thing that gave her the most mild of indications was when she asked her final question: his steps faltered. Whatever this was about, it had to do with Jasper.
Just as they reached the West Wing Hall, she noticed Hermes wiping the sweat from his brow, only to flick it in her direction.
She frowned in disgust. The protection Jasper gave her also worked on unwanted bodily fluids. A weak but obvious hum could be felt from her pendant as it created a thin barrier that stopped his sweat from touching her.
"Did you really try to flick your sweat at me?" she asked, completely astonished by his horrendous behavior.
"No, no, Princess. Forgive me, I did not notice. I'm extremely apologetic." He said, feeling utterly awkward. He noticed how Daniela's barrier looked exactly like his Prince's magic. He'd obviously given her something to protect herself. If he had known, he wouldn't have tried to make her more compliant to the Prince's whims.
Hermes pushed open the Prince's door, before indicating for Daniela to enter.
The smell in the room hit Daniela before she even noticed the bodies. It was thick with copper, a scent so well-established with blood she didn't even need to use her eyes to know that she would be walking into a literal bloodbath. The moment she entered his bedroom, Jasper had already pulled her violently into his arms, hoisting her until her legs wrapped around his waist. His bloody face crashed against her own, his lips devouring hers, meeting in a passion and hunger that could not easily be satiated.
"Ja—Jas—" He wouldn't break the kiss long enough for her to speak a single syllable. She was trying to get her bearings and understand what was going on.
Daniela was still a little buzzed from the earlier evening's activity. As he swung her around, her vision swam, making her have the distinct feeling that she might vomit.
While still in the air, he reached one hand between the two of them, palming her pussy. Her protests were peppered with moans as she tried to stop him.
As her back was slammed into his bed, her whole body froze. The surface wasn't just wet; it was wet, cold, and sticky. And at that moment, her patience shattered.
"Jasper, is that blood?" she hissed, her voice coming out as an angry snarl.
She could almost swear his black eyes seemed to soften at her words, but he began to nod yes.
"Lift me up!" she demanded, still wrapped around him. "What the fuck, Jasper!" This was not what she needed when she was still between hungover and drunk.
"Hermes!" The servant still stood in the doorway, his eyes focused on the two of them.
Daniela turned her head to look at him, her lower half still invaded by his thick fingers. Her body was shattering under his touch, but she tried to ignore its reaction to her predicament.
"The Prince needs a new bed, mattress, the whole thing."
Hermes looked at his Prince. But the only thing his Prince would look at was the Princess, which left him in a hard position. He didn't intend to take orders from a mere concubine, especially without the express consent of his master.
"Are you ignoring my words?" She couldn't believe that this was Jasper's servant: so willful and rude.
"I don't serve you."
Daniela turned to face Jasper once again. "Do you care if he dies?" Daniela asked him. He shook his head no, his expression utterly neutral.
"I don't think you have the capacity to kill me, Princess." The smug look on his face was quickly wiped away with Daniela's next words.
"Jasper!" Her voice softened, so delicate it slithered through Jasper's beast form, soothing him. "Break his neck."
The power around Jasper began to surge as a coalescence of inky black smoke started to form and swirl around Hermes's throat.
"I misspoke! I will follow your orders!" He spoke frantically, desperate for the girl to call Jasper off.
"Let him go." Daniela kissed Jasper's lips softly, then looked at Hermes. "Go!" She watched as the servant dashed away to fulfill her orders.
"We need to get rid of all of these bodies as well," she said more so to herself than anyone else. But Jasper's low growl was clear: he didn't want any of the bodies to move.
Her back arched as Jasper's fingers began to move inside of her, pumping away in her sopping wet, tight cunt. Her back bowed as she tried to cling to him, her breath coming in ragged, sharp pants. Her legs wrapped around his waist, tightening as she interlocked them, desperate to keep the friction.
"Fuck!" she moaned, pressing her face against his chest, her breath fanning across his sweaty skin. Her own nightgown began to cling to her as she rode his fingers.
The fact that he didn't say a word and all he did was stare down at her as his fingers plunged in and out of her slick, hidden depths brought a level of extra ecstasy she had not expected. She came hard on his fingers, her juices completely coating his hand.
He slowly pulled his fingers from her wet cunt. His wet digits were soon plunged into his own mouth as he sucked off her juices, tasting every bit of the flavor. Daniela watched in fascination as his wings unfurled behind him. Dark, obsidian shadow wings, feeling as if they had absorbed all the light in the room. His power seemed to pulse around him, obsidian smoke beginning to swirl out of his very pores.
His colossal, obsidian wings shuddered once, then settled, absorbing all the light around them. Jasper's powerful body remained hunched over her, the steam of his exertion rising in the bloody air. He slowly leaned down, his focus never leaving her face, until his forehead rested against hers. The contrast was stark: her flushed, soft skin against the hard, slightly damp plate of his brow.
In the tense, subtle silence, their eyes connected. Daniela's green eyes were wide and slightly stunned from the orgasm, staring into Jasper's black, bottomless gaze that was still consuming with power. It was a silence filled only with the ragged sound of their shared breathing, a brief, fragile pocket in the room's violent chaos.
Daniela reached up, her fingers trembling only slightly, drawn to the most dangerous part of him. She stretched her hand toward the base of one horn, then traced its curve upward. The texture was rough, like aged volcanic rock under her fingertips. As she followed a sharp, ridged spiral, one of the razor-keen edges nicked the pad of her index finger.
A tiny bead of crimson sprang to the surface.
Jasper's eyes shot open in an instant, the sudden movement as fast as a striking viper. He seized her hand with surprising gentleness, his large, clawed fingers dwarfing her own. He brought her small injury close to his face, his gaze locked intensely on the welling wound.
Before she could protest, his tongue swiped out—a thick, warm, and disconcertingly soft muscle. It lapped once over the tiny cut, its warmth encouraging the natural clotting factors in her blood. The bleeding ceased immediately.
Daniela watched the rapid, impossible response, and in that unguarded moment, she noticed the shift. He was still lusty, still a creature of sheer violence and danger in this demonic guise, just as he was in his human form. But here, beneath the black smoke and razor edges, lay an unexpected undertone of tender, raw protectiveness. He had reacted not with a demon's indifference, but with a lover's instinct.
She felt herself soften, the tension in her jaw easing just a fraction. It was a terrifying, tiny concession to the beast that held her.
Jasper held her gaze for a final, heavy moment, then slowly dipped his head again. This time, his blood-slicked lips found hers, not in a demanding crush of hunger, but in a soft, sweet, and profoundly tender kiss—a gentle promise amid the gore.