"Because Vox *literally* skins his employees alive for ratings, Martha!" I snapped, hooves scraping the floor as I backed away from her. The neon glow from the street outside painted her face in shifting reds and blues, making her look even more manic. "Did you miss the whole 'executive bloodsport' episode? Or the part where he electrocutes interns for fun?"
She rolled her eyes so hard I heard them click. "Oh please, like *any* Overlord plays nice." Martha jabbed a claw at my chest. "At least Vox pays in *actual* cash—not 'exposure' or 'protection' like some bargain-bin warlord." Her tail lashed, knocking over a stack of old *Hell's Got Talent* DVDs. "You think Rosie's teatime chats don't end with someone's intestines as décor? Fuck, even *Zestial* trades favors in souls!"
The static under my skin flared, bristling my fur. "Yeah, and that's exactly why diving into bed with the first shiny contract is a *shit* plan." I grabbed the lava lamp, shaking it for emphasis. The molten swirls inside flickered like a dying TV screen. "Short-term? Sure, I could be Vox's new shiny toy. But long-term?" I bared my fangs as the lamp's heat seared my palm. "I either burn out in six months as a gimmick, or worse—he patents my appearance and turns me into fucking *action figures*."
Martha's smirk faltered. She fiddled with her fingers, avoiding my stare. "So what, then? You gonna waltz into Cannibal Town and ask Rosie for a *mentorship*?" Her laugh was brittle. "Newsflash, genius—Overlords don't *train* competition. They eat it."
I tapped my claws against the sticky floorboards, leaning in until our noses almost touched. "Who said anything about asking?" The static beneath my skin crackled, reshaping my muzzle into a perfect mirror of *her* sneer—down to the chipped canine. "Why beg for scraps when I can *build* my own damn table?" Her breath hitched as I shifted back, grinning. "All I need are a hundred dumbasses willing to sign their souls over to me. Beginner Overlord status, instant power boost—and according to the fine print, unlocks *secondary abilities*."
Martha's pupils dilated, her tail curling tight around her thigh. I watched the gears turn—half horror, half hunger—as she licked her lips. "You're batshit," she whispered, but her claws skimmed my forearm like she was pricing the pelt. "No fresh meat's got the clout to pull that off."
I leaned down, horns scraping the ceiling, and caught a whiff of her nicotine breath as I let my muzzle brush her ear. "You really think so?" My voice dropped to a growl, fingers tracing the dip of her collarbone—not quite teasing, just enough to make her pulse jump under my claws. "Because I heard hellborn make *excellent* middlemen. No soul to lose, but all the connections." Her breath hitched when I nipped her earlobe. "Imagine getting a cut of every idiot I rope in. Enough to ditch this shithole. Maybe buy that studio you're always bitching about."
Martha shoved me back with a snarl, but her pupils were blown wide—half fury, half calculation. "Fuck you," she spat, wiping her mouth like she could scrub away the shiver running down her spine. "You think this is some *Pretty Woman* bullshit? 'Oh Martha, be my manager, we'll scam Overlords together—'" Her claws dug into my shoulders hard enough to draw beads of black blood. "Newsflash, farmboy: this city *eats* optimism for breakfast. And your dick isn't *that* impressive."
I caught her wrist before she could knee me in the aforementioned equipment, twisting just enough to make her hiss. "Who said anything about *scamming*?" My tail flicked, knocking over a pile of unpaid bills. "I'm talking *vertical integration*. Start small—HellTube clips, boudoir shoots for lust demons with a *goat thing*—then scale up." Martha's scoff turned into a choked laugh as I leaned in, grinning. "Picture it: *Inferno Studios*. You handle logistics, I handle the *talent*—both on *and* off camera."
Her claws flexed against my grip, but she didn't pull away. "You're out of your fucking mind," she muttered, though her ear flicked toward the cracked window—toward the distant hum of the city's neon bloodstream. "And what, *I'm* supposed to play director while you rawdog your way through Pentagram's kink scene?"
I let my thumb trace the delicate bones of her wrist, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath her lavender skin. "Nah," I purred, shifting just enough to let her feel the *very* pressing evidence of my enthusiasm against her thigh. "I was thinking you'd be my first costar." Her breath hitched. "Unless you're scared of stealing the spotlight?"
That did it. Martha snarled and shoved me backward onto the mattress with enough force to make the bedframe shriek. The springs protested as she straddled my hips, her claws digging into my chest fur—not to pin, but to *claim*. Her thighs squeezed around me, warm even through her fishnets, and my cock twitched against her stomach like it was introducing itself.
"Think you're *funny*?" she hissed, but her breath hitched when she pressed down, grinding against the thick length trapped between us. The friction made my balls tighten. Her smirk faltered for half a second—just long enough to register the sheer *girth* she was working with—before her eyes narrowed with pure, competitive spite. "Fuck you. I could take this *standing up*."
I grinned up at her, tail lashing against the sheets. "Prove it." My claws slid up her thighs, catching on fishnet holes, and her pulse jumped under my fingertips. "Unless you're *scared*—"
Martha snarled a laugh and lunged for the nightstand, yanking open the drawer so hard the wood splintered. She emerged with a battered camcorder, its cracked screen flickering to life with a demonic hum. The lens focused on my dick like it was a fucking landmark. "First porno starts *now*, farmboy," she panted, thumbing the record button with a click that echoed like a gunshot. Her free hand fumbled with her belt, buckles clinking—then *snap*, the leather hit the floor. "Hope you're ready to be *inferno-famous*."
The angle was brutal—clinical, almost. The camcorder teetered on the edge of a stack of overdue rent notices, tilted just enough to catch every twitch of my cock as she sank down onto it with a wet, shuddering gasp. Her thighs trembled against my hips, but her grin was pure fucking venom. "Say hi to your *fans*," she growled, grinding her hips in a slow circle that made my vision blur. The camcorder's red light blinked like a warning siren.
I bucked up hard enough to make her claws dig into my chest, my tail thrashing against the sheets. "*Our* fans," I corrected, voice ragged as her pussy clenched around me like a vice. The static under my skin crackled—not shifting, just *reacting*—and Martha's moan hitched when my fur bristled against her inner thighs. The camcorder wobbled precariously. "Better give 'em a show worth selling their souls for."
Martha's laugh came out breathless as she rode me in short, brutal strokes. "Thank fuck sinners can't knock anyone up," she gasped, nails scraping down my sternum. "Or I'd be *real* worried about letting you rawdog me with this fucking battering ram." Her hips stuttered when I grabbed her waist and thrust up hard—once, twice—until her sneer dissolved into a whine. The camera caught her eyeliner smearing in real time.
"Too late for regrets now," I growled, watching her throat bob as she swallowed a moan. The sheer *heat* of her around me was making my brain short-circuit, every snap of her hips dragging me closer to the edge. My claws dug into her hips, leaving crescent moons in lavender skin as I pulled her down harder. "Fuck—*god*—I'd love to fill you up right now." The admission tumbled out between gritted teeth, filthy and honest.
Martha laughed—half choked—as she rolled her hips in slow, filthy circles. "Shut up," she panted, slapping a claw weakly against my chest. "You're ruining my—*ah*—cinematic vision—" She yelped when I flipped us, mattress springs screeching in protest. The camcorder wobbled, capturing the exact moment I pinned her thighs to her chest, my cock buried to the hilt. Her tail thrashed, the tip flicking against the lens. "Fucking *cheater*—"
My tail snatched the camcorder midair before it could topple, adjusting the angle to frame her wrecked expression—flushed, sweaty, lips parted around a moan. The lens didn't lie: the way her pussy stretched around me, how her claws scrabbled at the sheets when I pulled out just enough to see her clench around nothing before slamming back in. Martha's back arched off the bed, a cry tearing from her throat as I pistoned into her, the slap of skin-on-skin lost under the camcorder's tinny whirr.
I ducked my head, tongue dragging up the sweat-slick valley between her breasts before latching onto a nipple—sharp fangs careful, but not *too* careful. She yelped, her thighs clamping around my waist as I sucked hard, the peak stiffening against my tongue. "Fuck—*yes*—" Her voice cracked, hips bucking to meet every thrust. The salty-sweet taste of her skin flooded my mouth, mixing with the ozone crackle of my own power buzzing under my fur.
"Who's daddy's cumdump?" I growled against her collarbone, the words vibrating through her ribs. My claws flexed on her hips, dragging her down onto me with a wet *slap* that sent her fishnets ripping at the seams. The camcorder caught the exact moment her pupils swallowed the gold of her irises, her lips parting around a silent scream as I slammed home again—deeper, meaner—until the headboard punched holes in the drywall.
Martha's answer was a strangled moan, her claws raking down my back hard enough to draw beads of black blood. "Fuck you," she gasped, but her thighs trembled when I pinned her wrists above her head, my cock twitching inside her as her cunt clenched like a fist. The camera wobbled in my tail's grip, zooming in on the way her throat worked around another whine. "I'm—*ah*—*directing* this fucking scene—"
I nipped along her jawline, fangs scraping the delicate skin under her ear as my hips snapped forward again. "Uh-huh," I rumbled, rolling my pelvis in a slow circle that made her toes curl. The camcorder caught the exact moment her sneer melted into slack-mouthed desperation, her tail lashing against my thigh. "Then tell me—" Another brutal thrust, and her breath hitched. "*Who's* taking this dick like a good little hellspawn?"
Martha's claws raked down my back in retaliation, her thighs quivering as she tried—and failed—to buck me off. "Fuck—*you*," she spat, but the effect was ruined by the way her cunt clamped down on me like a velvet noose. The camcorder's red light blinked accusingly as my tail adjusted the angle, framing the obscene stretch of her around me. Her lavender skin glowed under the neon bleeding through the blinds, sweat-slick and marked where my teeth had left angry crescents.
Then I froze. Dead still. The sudden absence of friction made Martha whimper—a high, desperate sound—before her eyes flew open, pupils blown wide with confusion and frustration. "*What the fuck*," she hissed, squirming against me, her pussy fluttering uselessly around my cock. Her tail lashed against the sheets like a whip. "Don't you *dare* blueball me now, farmboy—"
I crushed my mouth to hers before she could finish, swallowing her yelp. The kiss was all teeth—sharp, claiming—and Martha groaned into it, her claws scraping down my shoulders like she wanted to crawl inside my ribcage. When I finally pulled back, her lips were slick with spit and the faint copper tang of blood where my fangs had nicked her. "*Say it*," I growled against her mouth, rolling my hips just enough to make her gasp. "Tell me you're mine. That you'll take every fucking drop."
Her breath hitched, thighs squeezing around me as I stayed stubbornly still, denying her the friction she craved. The camcorder's red light blinked, capturing the way her eyeliner smeared when she squeezed her eyes shut—half in frustration, half in surrender. "*Fine*," she hissed, her voice raw. "I'm your—*fuck*—your dumb fucking cumdump, happy?" Her hips jerked up, desperate, but I pinned her wrists harder, my tail tightening around the camcorder's strap. The lens fogged with our mingled breath.
Then I moved—no teasing, no mercy—just a brutal, piston-like rhythm that hammered into her cervix with every snap of my hips. The bedframe screeched in protest, the sound lost under Martha's choked cry as her body bowed off the mattress. "*Louder*," I snarled, my claws digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. "Tell the whole fucking Pentagram who owns this tight little cunt." The camcorder zoomed in automatically as her mouth fell open, her throat working around a guttural moan.
Martha's claws tore at the sheets, her tail thrashing like a live wire as I pounded into her with single-minded intensity. "*You*—*fuck*—you do!" she wailed, her voice breaking on a sob as her pussy clenched around me in erratic pulses. The neon glow from the window painted her sweat-slicked chest in streaks of pink and red, her nipples stiff and aching where they brushed against my fur. The camcorder's lens fogged further, but not before capturing the way her eyes rolled back when my cock twitched inside her, swollen and throbbing.
I leaned down, my muzzle scraping against her throat as my hips pistoned relentlessly. "*Louder*," I growled, punctuating each syllable with a brutal thrust that made her squeal. Her thighs quivered around me, the muscles twitching erratically as her orgasm built—too fast, too much—her cunt fluttering like a heartbeat around my shaft. "*Tell them*," I snarled, my tail tightening around the camcorder strap until the plastic creaked. Martha's breath hitched, her body arching off the bed as my fangs grazed her collarbone.
The slap of skin against skin drowned out her ragged moans, her claws digging into my forearms as I hammered into her with reckless abandon. Her pussy was so fucking tight, clenching around me in wet, rhythmic pulses that threatened to drag me over the edge with her. "Daddy's—*ah*—Daddy's fucking cumdump!" she wailed, the words dissolving into a broken sob as I bottomed out inside her, my cock throbbing against her cervix. The camcorder caught every shudder, every desperate twitch of her thighs as she came undone beneath me.
Her cunt spasmed violently, a strangled scream tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. The sudden vice-like grip of her walls milked me mercilessly, dragging my release from me in thick, ropey spurts that painted her insides white. Heat flooded her womb in pulsing waves, my hips stuttering erratically as I pumped her full, my claws sinking deeper into her hips with each guttural groan that ripped from my chest. Her tail thrashed wildly, knocking over a lava lamp with a dull *thud*, but neither of us cared—not when her pussy was still fluttering around my cock, milking out every last drop.
Martha's breath came in ragged, hiccuping gasps, her body limp beneath mine save for the occasional twitch of her overstimulated muscles. The camcorder—still dutifully recording—caught the way her eyelids fluttered weakly, her lips parted around silent, panting moans as my cum seeped out around my softening shaft. Neon light glistened off the mess between her thighs, the sticky trails painting her torn fishnets in obscene streaks. I dragged my tongue along her collarbone, savoring the salty tang of her sweat and the musk of our coupling clinging to her skin.
The next morning, I bent her over the kitchen counter while she scrambled eggs one-handed, her free arm braced against the fridge as I fucked into her from behind. The eggs burned—charred and forgotten—as her claws gouged grooves into the stainless steel, her tail lashing wildly against my thighs with every thrust. "Fucking—*morning person*," she snarled between gritted teeth, but the way her cunt clenched around me betrayed her irritation. The smell of scorched eggs and sex hung thick in the air, mingling with the sulfur-tinged breeze from the open window.
We filmed three more scenes that week—each one more depraved than the last—until Martha's voice grew hoarse from screaming and her fishnets were more hole than fabric. The pentagram-shaped rug in the living room was permanently stained with bodily fluids, and the neighbors had started banging on the walls with increasing fervor. We ignored them. Business was booming.
Our Inferno Studios channel hit 10,000 subscribers after the third upload, thanks partly to Martha's genius marketing (read: spamming every NSFW subreddit with GIFs of me lifting her off the ground mid-thrust). The comments section was a mix of awe ("Is that a real fucking demon tail?") and thinly veiled job offers from Overlord-owned production companies. VoxTek's legal team sent their fourth cease-and-desist letter; Martha framed it above the bed.
The twins arrived first—identical down to the way their crimson eyes narrowed when they spotted the stains on the couch. "You didn't mention the workplace hazard," the one with the snake tattoo muttered, nudging a discarded condom wrapper with her boot. Her sister snorted, already peeling off her jacket to reveal arms corded with Hell-forged muscle. "Relax. We've seen worse in Bee's afterparties."
Then the hellhound girl sauntered in, her tail flicking against the doorframe with enough force to crack the plaster. "Brought my own gear," she announced, dropping a duffel bag that clanked ominously. Martha barely glanced up from editing our latest video, her claws clicking against the keyboard. "Great. Just don't chew through the restraints like last time." The hound's grin widened, fangs glinting. "No promises."
Emma—or was it Tina?—snorted, cracking her knuckles. The snake tattoo coiled around her forearm seemed to ripple. "So, farmboy. Heard you're the one signing checks now." She leaned in, close enough for me to catch the scent of brimstone and gunpowder clinging to her leather corset. "Hope you're not *bucking* under pressure." Her twin groaned, elbowing her sharply. "Fuck's sake, Em. That was *baaad*."
Sarah the hellhound wasted no time, stalking toward me with the lazy confidence of a predator eyeing fresh meat. Her claws clicked against the floorboards as she circled, nostrils flaring when she caught my scent—musky and still thick with Martha's pheromones. "Mm. You *reek* of her," she purred, dragging a claws down my chest hard enough to leave pink trails in the fur. Her tail lashed, smacking the camcorder tripod. "Good. Means you know how to handle teeth."
I grinned, catching her wrist before she could draw blood. "Careful, pup. Last hound who bit me *begged* for a muzzle by round two." Sarah's ears pinned back, but her thighs pressed together reflexively, the damp patch on her shorts betraying her. The twins whistled—low and appreciative—as I yanked Sarah forward by her belt loops, her claws scrambling against my shoulders. "Speaking of begging..." I hooked a thumb under her waistband, savoring her sharp inhale. "How's that interview footage looking, Martha?"
Martha sipped her coffee—black and lethal, just like her—with all the grace of a cat who'd not only gotten the cream but set the dairy on fire. The mug read *"I Survived Another Apocalypse"* in peeling letters. "Mm. Needs more *oomph*," she drawled, kicking her feet up on the editing desk. The monitor showed Sarah mid-snarl, my claws buried in her scruff as her tail thumped against the floor like a metronome gone feral. Martha smirked over the rim. "Maybe add subtitles: 'Bitch Tamed (CC Available).'"