That's right.

Pure, premium-grade, one-hundred-percent fuck, distilled into a conveniently demon-shaped package and drizzled down into your pentacle like sweet, sweet sauce from the hands of the Mayor of Flavortown himself.

I bet you were betting on an incubus, right? One of those charming fellows, all curled horns and forked tongues and such? Surprisingly good with the erotic poetry and lascivious limericks? Common misconception that they've got any game going on downstairs, though - couplets over coupling, they always say, and I'm pretty sure more than a few of them are more into the lads getting it on than a high-school-girl discovering fanfiction for the first time.

Or maybe a succubus - of course, I hate to assume which way you swing, save for the fact that, very shortly, there'll be some swinging back and forth and some perhaps-regrettable damage to any bedframes you've got handy. Because, I'm afraid to inform you, as a properly-licensed fuccubus, I'm obligated to have one hell of an evening with you, complete with puns. It's a package deal.

Fancy getting speared and squished into the bed while hands grip your hips and the world seems to go a bit fuzzy around you? Up for wandering fingers and hard, heavy thrusts? I'm so glad that was a yes you just squeaked out, because I'm contractually required to leave you shaking at the knees and thoroughly filled with warmth and wonder, miss.

Mistakes in spelling your spells aside, well, here you are, and here I am, and we're both charmingly unclothed; isn't that fun? It's amazing what you can do with magic these days.

Shall we begin?

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