This is the second part in the I, Succubus series. Your comments and messages are welcome. Thank you for taking the time to read it.

I want to talk about punishment.

After my first challenge to the incubus, he who mastered me, I needed to be punished for my insolence. I deserved to be punished for my weakness. I ached to be punished for my failure. And he felt these feelings in turn, wanting to discipline me, to show me my limits, to exert his control. But on a primal level, the level incubi and succubi relate to one another on, the level of our unspoken challenges and desires and contests and battles, it’s so much simpler.

I wanted to be punished and so he wanted to punish me. He wanted to punish me and so I wanted to be punished.

He gave me a day, a day to acclimate, a day to rest, a day to let anticipation create and my desires to rekindle. When I awoke there was, beside the bed, slave’s raiment and collar. Prior to our combat such a thing would have been an insult. Now, it was a gift and a blessing and I took it as such. I placed the collar around my neck, the furred inner surface brushing over his runes, and garbed myself in the slave’s raiment that accompanied it.

The raiment was translucent white and shot through with tiny gems, designed to draw attention to the wearer and to her subjugated state. Loose-fit and cut low, the top fastened with knots above the shoulders for simplicity in disrobing and the sides did not fasten at all. It was like wearing a thin, skimpy sheet in front and behind that billowed and flowed with motion and the wind, revealing my naked body beneath at the slightest twitch. A slave may be stripped at any time, and the raiment served as a constant reminder of that.

I stepped forth into the corridor, felt my master’s mind calling to me and I followed the call, followed it into a large room well-suited to the task of punishment and discipline. Racks and chains and whips and all manner of fun and inventive torture implements abounded, some in standalone cases, some lying on tables. It was the kind of room designed to intimidate a prisoner, the sort of thing kings order their torturers to serve as architectural advisers on.

Gods above and demons below, it made me wet.

He stood in the center of the room, naked but for a loincloth, and the sight of him sent thrills and tingles through me. I walked to him slowly, relishing my slow progress, putting more than a little sway into my walk, letting my tail swing from side to side, curling around in a tight spiral, then uncurling, an expression of my anticipation.

I reached him, dropped to one knee, inclined my head. I hadn’t planned to, had thoughts of testing him with defiance, but those thoughts evaporated like morning mist. I felt myself kneeling and, as I did, it felt right and proper and natural. Fish swim, birds fly, suns burn, and I kneel to him and only to him.

I wordlessly tilted my head as I knelt, offering up my collared neck, and he took it, curling one finger into my collar, placing just enough pressure on my collar to make me feel it, not so much that it was a source of discomfort. The point was to remind me of the collar. The point was to remind me of my submission. The point was to fan the flames of my arousal and it worked, those embers willing to erupt.

“Rise, slave,” he said, and I did, standing before him, meeting his eyes. I wanted to stare my submission in the face. I wanted to see strength greater than my own. I wanted to be overpowered by my master’s will, and I was. His gaze held me, pinned me, pierced me, and I stood, collared and owned. More than owned, I was truly, completely seen. He looked at me, through me, walked the corridors of my mind and soul as if he knew every dark turn and twist by heart. I held his gaze, determined not to look away, and I didn’t for a long moment, a moment that stretched to the boundaries of eternity. I held his gaze until I couldn’t, until it was too much for me, and I dropped my eyes and only then did I realize I was shaking, gasping for breath, my heart racing, my body pulsing with need. Need to be bound and punished and used and fucked and more, more, more. I walked into the room aroused and anticipating. I stood now before him boiling with need.

“Raise your arms,” he said, and I did, without question, without hesitation, without even thinking. There were cuffs dangling from the room’s high ceiling, cuffs separated by a spreader bar, and he bound my wrists one at a time, the bar holding my wrists aside. The cuffs were comfortable but very, very secure. I risked a glance upwards as I wondered of testing them, got the slightest fractional nod, and I pulled hard against them, but there was no give at all. I’m strong, strong even for a succubus, but all my strength availed nothing and I ceased my exertions with a feeling of satisfaction at being well-bound, well-restrained, well-mastered.

I wondered he’d bind my ankles the same way but instead he gestured and the floor itself rose up to bind me, rising up as if I stood in quicksand, surging up around my feet until I was ankle-deep in solid stone. I later learned that spell. It’s quite useful. And absolutely binding unless magically broken. I’d heard of it but never seen it, and it immobilized me completely. I could lean forwards and back a little, I was in no danger of injury, but there was no chance of me escaping. I was locked in place until he released me, and that knowledge stroked my mind like a tender kiss.

I was willing. Hungry. I felt myself completely in his power and it aroused me, and at the same time I could not cease that desire at every succubi’s core. I wanted to feed, wanted to feel his strength flow into me, wanted to take it even as I knew he was my master and I existed now to serve him. And he knew my desires, knew my lusts, knew my needs as well as I did and more.

With a gesture he caused a tray to float over in front of me, a tray bearing things that made my sex flood and my nipples hard and my heart race. There was a whip, long and coiled, made of the leather of some exotic beast or other, magically enchanted somehow, and just the sight of it was enough to make me want to feel it striking me, make me want to feel its painful touch again and again and again. There was a chain, a chain that looked as if it were made of some star-touched metal, glowing far brighter than the room’s dim light. It was in the shape of a Y, and at each end was a clamp and, well, I knew what those clamps can do to one who wants them, and I wanted them.

“Choose,” he said, but you and I and he all know that there was no choice to be made.

“Both,” I purred, and it was submission and challenge and temptation all at once. He’d known I’d make that choice. I’d known I’d make that choice. But still he offered and still I chose.

He picked up the whip in one hand, the chain in the other, and with a gesture sent the tray back to its table. He brought the chain down and hung it in midair, the three clamps hovering before my nipples and clit, hanging just an inch from my body, tormenting me with their proximity, toying with my mind as they rested so near and yet so far.

He brought the coiled whip up under my chin, pushing my head up with it, exposing my collared throat. That brought home how vulnerable I was, how completely I was in his power. I don’t know why, I was just as bound before, bound and helpless, but something about that gesture reminded me of all the strength I wondered I’d had before our battle, and how he’d overpowered me and taken me and how my pride and overconfidence had led me to submission and bondage, and how I’d welcomed it when it came.

“I’m going to strip you now, slave,” he said, and hearing the words made me tighten pleasantly inside. A naked succubus is a sword drawn from its sheath, a weapon made ready for use, but having another draw me forth, having another decide to unsheath me was a new experience, and one that made me tingle.

“Yes, master,” I whispered, and that made the tingles amplify. He removed the whip from beneath my chin as he walked around me, and I felt his fingers at work on the knots atop my shoulders, felt them undone in two swift motions and my garment fell to the floor in a puddle of fabric. He kicked it away and I stood, naked, bound, and utterly helpless. Before that day my position would have enraged me. Now it was a balm to my soul, a soothing feeling of being completely controlled.

At a wondered the chain drifted closer, so close that the closed clamps touched my achingly erect nipples, my throbbing, willing clit, and that was so much worse than having them actually clamped. The anticipation, the need, the desire for the pain and punishment set them to work on my mind in a way that the actual sensation would only intensify when the time came. I felt him draw the coiled whip down the center of my back, moving slowly, letting me feel the smooth texture of the leather, and the whip’s slow progress was a gentle demolition of my defenses.

I wondered I’d been prepared for punishment. I wondered I’d been prepared for anticipation. I wondered I’d been prepared for anything. And he showed me I was prepared for nothing at all.

By the time he drew the whip down to the base of my spine I was dripping wet, my back aching for the whip’s touch, venom droplets forming at my nipples and dripping down to the floor in a slow, steady rain. If I’d been unbound then I’d have dropped to my knees and begged him to bind me. If I’d been free I’d have run to his collar and chains. He was undoing me, pulling me aside from the inside out, and all I could do was stand and watch.

“Slave,” he said, “I want to punish you. Do you know why?”

“To show me that you own me,” I whispered back, tilting my head to the side and forwards, trying to catch his eye from the corner of my own. “To teach me a lesson in domination.”

“No,” he said, and I raised an eyebrow. “You know that I own you. You’ve learned that lesson.”

“Then why?” I asked, my mind afire with his words as my body was at the whip’s caress.

“To reforge you,” he said. “To remake you. Before you were a weapon with no hand to guide it, deadly but purposeless. I want to turn you into something more. Punishing you is the first step on that road.”

“Perhaps,” I whispered, a tiny spark of defiance in my words, “you’ll find me harder to remake than you think.”

“Perhaps I will,” he said, his voice amused, amused and…pleased? Yes, it was very definitely pleasure at my defiance that I heard, but I wasn’t given time to puzzle over it.

His free hand came up, encircling my neck from behind, and I felt magic pulsing through my collar, magic I couldn’t identify but that was very definitely sexual. When his hand withdrew the collar seemed charged somehow.

“So long as that collar remains on your neck, slave,” he said, “you cannot cum. No matter how much you want to, no matter the heights to which you’re driven, you will be unable to. If you try, you will fail. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master,” I said, and then the chain’s clamps popped open, the rubber-coated tips guiding themselves into place but not shutting, not yet.

“Do you enjoy pain, slave?” He asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Yes, master,” I whispered, and I do. I enjoy inflicting it. I enjoy receiving it. In battles. In duels. In sexual encounters. Pain and pleasure aren’t two sides of the same coin, they’re on both sides of every coin that matters.

“Good,” he said, bringing the whip down from the base of my spine to between my legs, nudging my tail out of the way, rubbing the coiled length against my sex from below, making me draw in a sharp breath as my dripping pussy felt the leather’s cool touch. “Then you’ll enjoy yourself tonight.”

I opened my mouth to respond and the first clamp, the one around my right nipple, snapped shut and whatever words I would have spoken came out as a long, trembling moan. He kept the whip in motion, subtly moving it forwards and back, the leather sliding between my soaked pussy lips, and I moved my hips in time with it as best I could, urging it on, arousing myself further, knowing full well I was playing into his plans, knowing and not caring.

I tried again to speak, though I know not what I would have said, but it didn’t matter. The moment my mouth opened, the moment I tried to form thoughts, the second clamp closed on my left nipple and words were suddenly impossible and unnecessary.

It wasn’t just the sweet agony of the clamps on my nipples, although that was delicious. It wasn’t just the feel of the last open clamp teasing my clit, although that was magical. It wasn’t just the feel of the spell in the collar, although that buzzed against my mind with a teasing tingle. It wasn’t just the feel of the whip slipping up and down slowly, gently, smoothly, maddeningly, toying with my sex and with my mind, although that certainly wasn’t helping me focus.

It was all of those things, all at once, serving as siege engines against the fortress of my mind, battering down my defenses into rubble and then shattering the rubble into sand. Control still existed, iron-hard and unyielding, but I was being controlled, not exerting the control, and the difference was utterly liberating.

Beads of venom formed around the clamps on my nipples, my arousal showing through, and they ran slowly down the undersides of my breasts, tracing tiny streams of arousal and pleasure as they went. My venom’s effect on others is much more pronounced but I can feel it too, and feeling it while bound and helpless and aroused made it stronger, magnified a dozen times and more. I writhed, shifting my hips left and right, forwards and back, caught and held and trapped in exquisite lust and we’d barely even begun.

He withdrew the whip slowly, brushing it between my legs with a teasing flourish, pulling it back and leaving my sopping sex bereft. I wanted to be touched. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted to feed, wanted a victim helpless beneath me as I quenched that thirst we succubi all feel. It’s a manageable thirst but his presence amplified it, our contest the day before echoed, the hunger I’d felt when I first saw him, the desire to consume him, frustrated but still present, roared in my mind. He was my master and I served him wholly, but his life and soul still called out to me even as mine were in his thrall. I tried to quiet the hunger, tried to ease the thirst, tried to settle myself as best I could, to steel myself against what was to come.

That’s when the third clamp closed around my clit and all my efforts were swept apart in a tide of roiling lust and agony and ecstasy.

My mind thrilled in submission even as my body screamed for vengeance, cried out for relief and release and rebelled against the knowledge that it would be denied me. I was torn in two directions, and he knew it and he deliberately set out to make it all the worse, building up my lust as he tested my submission. He wasn’t at war with me, he set me at war with myself and watched me battle and burn.

I heard him uncoiling the whip, heard it whistle through the air, braced myself for its impact, but instead it cracked off to the side, and that was worse. Pain would have been an anchor, a focus, and instead I was denied it and my desire roamed free.

In my human life I’d all the time prized control, and in my new life I’d found it mattered even more. Control even in moments of passion, control even in moments of danger, control even in moments of absolute chaos, and in this moment of pure passion and danger and chaos my control was cast apart and naked hunger and lust and need were all that was left to me.

I roared in frustration, hoping that he would take it for defiance that needed to be punished, hoping that he would give me something, pain or pleasure or both, anything to focus my lust upon, but he denied me. The clamps stung, the bonds flexed as I pulled against them, the collar tingled and I was lost, trapped in sexual purgatory until, after far too long, I slumped against my bonds, letting them hold me up, exhausted.

That was when the whip struck home for the first time.

I’d given up hoping for it, given up needing it, given up praying for it to all the dark gods in all the hell dimensions, and then it arrived without warning or notice and the pain shocked me. The blow itself wasn’t hard, a wicked, teasing slap of the tip of the whip against my left shoulder, but my reaction to it shook me.

I was grateful. Grateful for the pain, grateful for the punishment, grateful for something that, two days before, I’d have scorned and threatened him with. My body shook in joy, craved more, more punishment, more pain, and he gave it to me. The lash landed again and again, sometimes high, sometimes low, sometimes in the same spot repeatedly, sometimes in different spots from my shoulders to my thighs and back again, and I threw my head back and laughed in delight. Every blow made my back arch, drew the chain taut, made the clamps bite harder, and it thrilled me. I wasn’t being led down a path, I was leaping from a cliff into the unknown.

And then it got so much worse.

He can use the whip to inflict pleasure as well as pain. I know it now, but I did not then. I was just getting used to the pain, just beginning to settle my mind and body, just beginning to rebuild my fragmented control, when the whip’s tip landed square in the center of my back and instead of pain it delivered a thunderbolt of pleasure, of raw, pulsing desire. I’d been prepared for the pain, was building up a bulwark in my mind against it, and that bulwark was ambushed from within and taken without a fight. The pleasure coursed through me and I howled in agony, for the pleasure was painful just as the pain had become pleasurable.

The pain helped me to tamp down on my body’s rebellion, helped acclimate me to slavery, and the pleasure reawoke my body’s knowledge of what and who I was. I am a succubus. I live to fuck and fight and conquer and feast, and my body knew it even as I struggled to hold myself back, struggled and failed as the whip struck again and again and again, sometimes delivering pleasure and sometimes pain and in no recognizable pattern. I was cast adrift between pleasure and pain, battered by both and welcomed by neither, and so I was and so I suffered.

I felt it taking its toll, felt my pleasure rising, my climax hovering near, and then he stepped forwards, reached around me with his free hand, covered my sex with his fingers and stroked and my master’s touch sent a shock of pleasure through me. It tore through my body, making every part of me shiver with need, making my clamped nipples and clit scream out in delight and despair, making every part of me touched by his whip tingle anew.

And I didn’t cum.

I tried, at first passively welcoming it, then actively seeking for my pleasure, but the collar’s spell wouldn’t let me, as he promised. Every time I almost came the collar tingled and drew away that last little bit of pleasure that would have pushed me over into bliss and completion and fulfillment, and instead left me in that aching state of needing to cum but not being able to. I wondered I could overpower his spell, wondered the sheer weight of my need would short-circuit it, but no. His collar held and prevented my climax.

I lost myself for a time, screaming in frustration, my hips churning as I rocked them back and forth, my tail whipping about, encircling his leg to try to pull him closer, then uncoiling and reaching up to thrust into my sex. He stood unmoved, his fingers stroking my pussy, and as my tail thrust up he parted my pussy lips, as if he was helping me when he was actually casting me deeper into the fires of my lust. My tail felt wonderful, my sex welcoming the intrusion, delivering a fresh spasm of pleasure to my mind, but it was a spasm of pleasure that fell just short of what I so desperately needed.