David no longer bothered fixing the windows.
He had them replaced twice. Both times the glass exploded again at 3 a.m. sharp. Now he left the jagged holes open to the city, sixty-six floors above the streets that used to own him. Wind screamed through the penthouse like a living thing, whipping the shredded curtains into frantic ghosts.
He hadn't worn clothes in two days.
Silk tore too easily under claws. Cotton burned when demonic fluids hit it. Naked felt honest.
His cock (permanently fourteen inches, thick as a wrist, veins glowing dull ember-red even in daylight) jutted from his groin like a weapon that refused to be sheathed. The head wept a slow, constant stream of molten gold that pooled on the marble and hardened into brittle coins no bank would ever accept.
He spent the hours between dusk and the fatal minute pacing, fists clenched, trying to summon rage or prayer or anything that wasn't anticipation.
At 2:59 a.m. the wind died.
The city lights outside flickered once and went dark for three full seconds (long enough for every hair on his body to stand up).
At 3:00:00 a.m. the shadows in the room thickened, pooled, rose.
A new demon unfolded from the darkness like a nightmare learning how to walk.
Nyxaria was darkness made flesh.
Skin not pale, not black, but the absolute absence of light (a living silhouette that hurt to look at directly, as though his eyes were being sucked into voids). Only her curves existed in three dimensions: impossibly full breasts, waist carved inward like an hourglass running out, hips and ass so lush they seemed to pull the shadows into orbit. Four long, jointed arms unfolded from her back like a spider testing the air. Curved horns of polished obsidian spiraled upward. No wings (just writhing tendrils of living night that dripped from her shoulders like ink in water). Her eyes were twin galaxies of swirling violet and starless black.
And between her thighs, where a normal woman would have slick folds, Nyxaria had a mouth.
A vertical, lipless mouth lined with soft, wet, black petals that opened and closed hungrily, drooling thick strands of liquid shadow.
David's breath caught. His cursed cock jerked so hard it slapped his abs with a wet sound.
Nyxaria's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, layered, feminine, ancient.
"Third night, little king. Third debt."
She flowed forward (no footsteps, just gliding) until the cold of deep space radiated from her skin. Four hands touched him at once: two on his shoulders, two sliding down his chest, claws tracing the glowing runes without breaking skin.
David tried to step back and found the shadows had already wrapped his ankles like manacles.
Nyxaria smiled with a mouth that had too many rows of soft, needle-sharp teeth.
"Tonight I don't ride you with a cunt, soul-slut. Tonight I feed."
The tendrils at her back lashed out, slamming him to his knees. Shadows thickened into slick, living restraints (wrists pinned behind his back, thighs forced wide). His monstrous cock pointed straight at her like a divining rod.
The vertical mouth between her legs opened wider. Petals peeled back, revealing a throat of pure night that pulsed and dripped.
David's heart hammered so hard he felt it in his teeth.
Nyxaria stepped over him, straddling his hips without touching. The mouth lowered until the wet petals kissed the head of his cock.
The sensation was instant, overwhelming, wrong.
It wasn't heat (it was cold so absolute it burned). The petals sucked at him like a thousand tiny mouths, pulling, stroking, drinking. When she sank down, the throat of living shadow swallowed all fourteen inches in one slow, endless glide.
David screamed.
There was no friction, no warmth (only the crushing, velvet pressure of absolute darkness milking him from root to crown). Every vein on his shaft lit up crimson as the shadows fed on the hellfire in his blood.
Nyxaria's four hands roamed his body: two pinching his nipples until they bled black, two stroking his swollen balls like she was weighing them. Her tendrils forced his head back, made him watch as that impossible mouth took him again and again, rising until only the head remained trapped between dripping petals, then dropping until her thighs met his and the outline of his cock bulged obscenely in the void of her lower belly.
She didn't bounce. She flowed. Up. Down. Endless. Perfect.
His first orgasm detonated without warning (molten gold erupting straight into the starless throat). The shadows drank it greedily, swelling, growing darker, heavier. Nyxaria moaned, a sound like galaxies collapsing, and the suction intensified until his balls turned inside out.
Second climax. Third. Fourth. Each one torn from him faster than the last, until he was dry-sobbing, hips jerking helplessly into the void that never stopped swallowing.
At some point the shadows crawled into his mouth, down his throat, filling his lungs with cold night. He felt himself being fucked from the inside out (every cell screaming in ecstasy and terror).
Nyxaria leaned forward, all four arms cradling his face with impossible tenderness.
"Look at me," she whispered, and her galaxy eyes swallowed the world.
He came again (harder than ever), vision going black at the edges as the last of his humanity poured into the endless dark between her legs.
When awareness returned, the clock read 5:57 a.m.
Nyxaria was rising off him, shadows peeling away from his cock with a sound like tearing silk. His shaft glistened with liquid night that evaporated into violet mist. A thick river of gold and black poured from the vertical mouth, pooling on the floor and hardening into obsidian glass.
She crouched, pressed a soft, cold kiss to his forehead (the only gentle thing she had done all night).
"Three nights down, pretty king," she murmured. "An eternity to go. And every night we take a little more of what makes you human."
Then she dissolved into the shadows she'd come from, leaving only the faint scent of frozen stars.
David collapsed onto his side in the puddle of his own cursed release.
His cock (still rock-hard, still dripping) twitched against the cold floor.
Three nights.
He was starting to understand the true price.
And the worst part (the part that made him curl into a ball and bite his own fist until it bled) was how desperately he already wanted tomorrow.