Chapter 4: The Payment

Kron.

Yes, the girl was utterly inexperienced.

He looked down at her—at this young, desperately earnest apprentice kneeling before him—and deep within his ancient memory, where millennia were stored, faces surfaced. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Obsidian-skinned demonesses with eyes burning like the stars of the Abyss, who took him with the same ferocity with which they waged wars across the planes.

Mortal queens who begged for a night with a High Demon and received it—only to go mad from the memory. Priestesses, virgins, widows, warrior women, goddesses of foreign pantheons, random tavern girls who hadn’t even known his true name. He had seduced. Coerced. Conquered. Allowed himself to be conquered. And all of it had been experience, skill honed over eons.

He remembered one demoness—Irmina, perhaps—who, on their first night, had bound him with magic and loved him so fiercely that he forgot his own name. She had screamed in an ancient tongue, clawed his back to the bone, and climaxed three times before allowing him so much as a twitch. He remembered a mortal duchess who had trembled at the mere sight of him—literally shaken as he entered her—only to scream so loudly an hour later that the entire household came running. He remembered a young priestess who had dragged him into her bed herself, then gazed at him with such adoration that he had almost felt ashamed. He remembered the one who had tried to kill him mid-coitus—and nearly succeeded. The one who wept afterward. The one who laughed.

And now—this one.

Miya Lancaster. Twenty-three years old. A human mage. Daughter of a common mage and a tavern maid. Who had just declared, with defiant pride, that she was “no longer a girl”—a claim his tail, having slipped into her core, had confirmed. But even the virgins he had seduced in abundance had been far more worldly than this little one.

She knew nothing. Absolutely nothing. She sucked clumsily, timidly, trying—desperately trying—but without the faintest idea what she was doing. Her teeth occasionally grazed his sensitive skin, her tongue moved out of rhythm, her lips failed to seal tightly enough. She looked up at him, her green eyes wide with a mix of fear and arousal, and in that gaze was a storm of emotions: fear that he might punish her, pride that refused to surrender, desire she couldn’t hide, and that desperate, almost childlike need to do everything right.

And Kron found himself ... enjoying it. Not her skill—there was none. Not her experience—she had none. But this: the awkwardness, the clumsiness, the effort. A pure, proud academic witch, desperately trying to please a terrifying High Demon as if her very life depended on doing it well.

It was strange. Unusual. And impossibly alluring.

He recalled the insatiable, experienced demonesses of his home realm, who knew his body better than he did himself, and smirked. They had given him pleasure. Real. Exquisite. Professional. But this girl ... she gave him something else. Something he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. She gave him novelty. Freshness. She looked at him not as a High Demon, not as a force to be used, not as a lover to impress. She looked at him as a man—terrifying, dangerous, but a man. And that was ... pleasant.

The room smelled of dust and old paper, and the candle’s flame cast trembling shadows on the walls, as if the shadows themselves were watching them.

At one point, Kron noticed Miya trying to discreetly rub her clitoris through the tight fabric of her trousers, and a stifled, ragged moan escaped her lips. Clearly, her attempts to maintain a stoic, virginal facade had officially failed. The aphrodisiac of his essence had done its work. It was time to take control ... though, no, first he would do something else.

His tail smoothly slid out of her panties, making her gasp at the sudden, agonizing emptiness. She looked up at him—green eyes, wide, imploring—and Kron saw fear in them. Not fear of him. Fear that she was losing control. That she couldn’t handle it. That she was about to come, and he would not allow it.

He would allow it. But not like that.

Kron cupped the witch’s head with his broad palms, burying his fingers in her damp black hair, which carried the unexpected scent of lavender and ink—a fragrance he hadn’t expected from a young mage. His fingers tightened—not roughly, but firmly enough to make her understand: now he led. She froze, her lips still gripping his cock, but the movement stopped. She waited. Looked at him. Breathed through her nose—fast, frequent, with the very panic of a person who did not know what would happen next.

“Relax your throat,” he said quietly, calmly, almost tenderly. “And breathe through your nose. Everything will be fine.”

She blinked. Then again. And—she obeyed. Her shoulders dropped slightly, her throat relaxed, her breathing through her nose became deeper, more even. She trusted him. This proud, audacious, self-assured girl—trusted the Highest Demon. Kron. Him.

And then he began to move.

At first gently—just pressing against her cheek, letting her get used to his immense size. But gradually the tempo accelerated. His heavy shaft sank deeper and deeper, filling her mouth completely. He felt her throat tighten around him, her tongue try to work, her lips stretch—and it was ... incredible. Not because she was skillful. But because she was his. In this moment. In this room. With this mouth. His.

And his tail, meanwhile, returned. It slid along her thigh, rose higher, found her clit—swollen, pulsing, pleading—and began to massage it. Slowly. Rhythmically. Exactly in time with the movements of his cock. Miya moaned—muffled, because her mouth was occupied—and her fingers dug into his hips. She was close. Very close. He felt it in the way her thighs trembled, how her breathing quickened, how her body began to push forward.