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“I crave your presence."

Those words were whispered, then followed by a lick. A tender lick traced around the darker areola, dancing on the engorged flesh, tasting and sampling the sweat depositing around the leathery nub. There was a lick as the numerous teeth were kept afar, and yet tinkling against the doorknockers pierced through the coal-dark nipples.

They clicked with a palpable excitation, each osseous and white dagger giving a little [I]Tink [/I]against the metal before they returned to those vertically-split maws without even grazing the skin or maiming it.

Though… It would not hurt much. It would not… Break much of the trust between the two.

But no, the tongue continued. It flailed and coiled and rolled. It had a mind of its own, extending further and collecting the thinnest of white beads forming at the nipple. The taste was luscious, divine, exquisite, safe from the sulfuric aroma sticking to the burnt demon and that leathery ashen skin.

“I cannot wait."

Was this an order or a request? Nevertheless, the tongue flicked one last time a nipple before it ascended higher. It left the breasts bereft of touch, it left those heavy jugs deprived of love, it left those wonderfully round tits yearning for caresses. Instead, the jaws closed, and the teeth retracted. Followed the tongue. And without more, the jaws met with the lipless mouth.

Balanar. Lucifer. Night Stalker. Doom.

Two entities, two demons who oftentimes tangled but never shared much. They had the same mind, however, and the same desires. But it was Doom who had been branded and bound. The laws were simple.

Another kiss appeared, their mouths rushing together, though only one of the two was capable of moving. The second was dangling from constraining chains, divine ones, that hindered strength and movements. Doom would never get free unless Balanar willed it so, it was the rule and their compact. However, there was no wiggling from Doom. No attempt to pull on the chains and to escape the Night Stalker's grasp. Instead, he stayed quiet, still, and swallowed the given saliva while bestowing his partner a sample of his own.

“I can't wait."

Why would he be fighting his chains? Demons would say the Demon Lord had grown soft…. Weak. Meek. Vulgar.

That it was unbecoming for one to be tied to such lowly pact and insulting chains. That he would escape, no different from the pits, a feat he had accomplished long ago.

Demons were wrong.

“They can't wait."

Another kiss, Balanar's long tongue dwelled deeper and invaded Lucifer's throat, making it bulge for a second before he pulled away, giving allowance for a moan.

One elicited by the Night Stalker's clawed fingers gripping one nipple, of one buxom and heavy breast. A firm squeeze and milk could spray out of the oversized nipples. But no.

Balanar only stroked the flesh, stealing another moan and a tremor from the bigger Demon before his hand traced lower… Lower to the Demon's belly.

“I accept your conditions."

The skin was taut. So taut, there were stretch marks along the sides. Little kicks were already occurring, pushing the clawed fingers away but not enough as they always returned, a different place, a different spawn, a different kick.

He passed the palm against the skin, feeling the radiating warmth from inside, and then… From the skin. From the tattoo that had been inked through: bonding more through the ritual, a little more of Lucifer's soul to their compact.

“It is yours."

It had started with a test of mettle. A battle in which Lucifer was bested through one of Balanar's tricks. The second fight followed the same trend, so did the third. But rather than be angry, the timeless Doom was eager to resume the attempts even though the stakes were rising.

Until there were no reasons to hide behind pride and armor, as their fights became different. Another type of tangle where Doom was, always, bested.

“It is mine."

Doom belonged to Night Stalker. Lucifer belonged to Balanar.

The flesh had been explored, teased, adorned. Twisted, reshaped, adapted. It now bore their spawns and future, kept protected in Night Stalker's den. He would only leave it in the dead of the night and return the day to enjoy his prize.

“You are mine."

The bindings had been among the first requests. The piercings followed. So did the runes and enchantments. One by one, Balanar had stolen everything from Lucifer. It was no hunt but a play with his prey. A moment where their basest instincts could be satisfied. Domination.

“Everything is mine."

His fingers descended further on the prize. The lower belly was outstretched, too. No one could change their own nature without potentially burdening their bodies. The prostate and bladder were swollen, enraptured by a constant fight between what had been provided and what had been changed.

Still, the fingers continued their exploration as everything that remained unclaimed was dangling heavily due to the angle of the suspension.

The “Pride" of a Man was no different than the pride of a Demon. They, too, were not above valuing parts of their anatomies.

“I want to claim them."

The hands went on the base. The skin formed folds in there, pulling on the glabrous groin. The sulfuric stench belonging to Lucifer was also the strongest, the most pungent. But it did not deter Balanar as he stroked the folds, pulled on them slightly to uncover the warm precum and salty sweat accumulating there. Then, he ascended. He traced the veins going higher, advancing by respecting the tempo of their pulses. Higher… Higher.

They were rivers, joining and coalescing until there was a mainline he followed up to the corona… And the foreskin covered it.

It remained so, tense and pulling on the head, unless they forced on it. But tonight, it did not matter.

“Do it. Claim them! Do not make me wait!"

No, there was no point in judging Lucifer's cock. It was imperfect: too wide and large for its own good. It had slight bumps, a sulfuric stench, it had that foreskin unable to be peeled correctly. It had more. But what Balanar prized and desired was the tip. The meatus that had been opened and trained so many times, it was nothing like on a normal organ.

The outer ridges had swollen, forming little bumps along the vertical axis. At the limit, however, the flesh relaxed and formed soft wrinkles that helped should the hole have to be stretched further… Just like as Balanar's thumbs slipped inside and started to pry the entrance open. Slowly, steadily. A whimper echoed as he delved his clawed fingers deeper and had the hands going on the tip, like anchors, so he could pull more. And more… And more.

“They cannot wait!"

And more…

More until Doom's urethra was nothing unlike an orifice, claimed, and broken. Steam seemed to emanate from its depths, due to the heat. The stench there was more accurate to a manhood, with that metallic pungency mixed with sweet.

A perfume Balanar sampled with his tongue as he wanted, desired, to dart his tongue inside just to elicit a concert of moans and groans from Lucifer.

He refused. Then he gave in.

“AH!"

He lowered himself, and had his teeth clicking near the gaping entrance while his wide and long tongue delved into the depths. It delved so deep, it could sample the urine and precum… But mainly cum, his own. He savored it, savored his own semen…

Meanwhile, his fingers descended. They did not take the same path as the ascension. They descended along the underside, stroking the appendage firmly lodged inside and bulging it, before they reached where the skin folds were many… And then, the jewels.

“They need it!"

Needy, indeed. Heavy. Loud. Searing. Obnoxiously present. They dangled with each step, every movement shaking the larger Demon. How could he have fought unhindered despite those dead weights between his legs? The question would remain so, but Balanar did not care for their well-beings as he touched the taut skin, as he felt the tender flesh within… And the tender ink outside. A brand, a mark. Unrealized, compared to the womb tattoo etched on Doom's belly.

It was, however, a promise as he touched the spot that remained sore. No… As he touched those orbs that were sore and heavy… Fighting.

They were maybe slightly bigger than before, but they remained dead weights dangling between the Demon's hooved legs. But Balanar was to fix them as he slowly stood up, gripping his genitals.

Not as big. Not as large. Not as massive. But compared to his more muscular and lithe frame, his parts were of remarkable quality and outstanding attractiveness, even though he was not to mate. No… He had not been one to mate before Doom. But it had changed.

Blood throbbed in his parts like they did for Doom. The chase and constant prodding were to stop. Still, he stole a few more moans and whimpers from the larger Demon as his tongue flicked the open urethra, the long path downward, and the prostate forming a tight but already violated entrance.

He flicked them all, collecting and sampling a fair amount of fluids of all origins… Urea, salt, sugar… His refined taste buds were thrilled by the experience, always renewed and renewing.

“Please."

“A Lord never beg. But you are not one. Not anymore."

Truth.

Lucifer shut his mouth, his teeth gritting, but there was no denying he was no lord. Not in this form as he dangled like a meat sack: his entire body was held by his hooves and arms. No lord would let themselves be attached that way. No lord would let themselves be branded that way. No lord… Would be willing to bear someone else's seeds because they willed it so.

Yes. It was a compact, but at no moment Lucifer had been coerced into it. It had been his own will and volition, which made the hunter furthermore excited and intrigued as he was about to take his prize.

His cock was stiff, the end flat and wide. Blood rushed to the spongy flesh, engorging it, making it point and arch onward and forward. The scent of sex and fluids was heavy, stronger than the blood and fear sticking to Night Stalker.

Then, the cocktip was at the entrance. Against Balanar's flared cocktip, against the typically equine shape, against the humongous width… Lucifer had no resistance.

The larger Demon's cock had been reshaped to be another hole for Balanar, and without waiting for approval, not that he needed it, Balanar thrust in.

His entire width. His entire length. His entire mast slipped through and already had the tip hammering Doom's prostate. A quiver echoed through the large Demon, making his tally-marks-covered thighs bulge with potency. So many breeding. So many times, Balanar had ejaculated into those orbs. But it would be the last one. They could feel it.

“Claim… Them. Leave them barren!"

Balanar chuckled at the plea. Doom's mouth was open, saliva sticking to those teeth and that extending tongue. Agape. It remained so from the mere ecstasy of his cock being split open and stretched until the underside bulged.

Doom smiled, too, though it was hardly visible due to his half-melted face. But he smiled, grinned, enjoyed every ounce of it as his cock quivered with joy and sprayed Balanar with precum.

“MORE!"

“MORE!"

Balanar echoed. Balanar shouted. Balanar relished the instant as his hips started to pump, and his testicles, firm and egg-like, swung against Lucifer's cocktip. The “lips" around the urethra were getting smacked, brutally abused until they were furthermore swollen and redder.

And the prostate? Balanar battered it, using his cock as a ram. He did it so regularly, he assumed the organ would have finally accepted its rightful role as another hole.

Yet, it tentatively tried to remain close, to bare Balanar from his rightful claim.

Above, Doom cried.

He cried as he came. Not through his pathetic jewels, sending the profuse semen swirling inside them. But through the teats, erect and engorged, finally releasing their prize. White milk, as pure as from any mortal, sprayed free from those round and sagging jugs. With each of his tremors, with each thrust, Doom's direction shifted so slightly, and their milky trails drew lines pointing in different directions. Luckily, none hit the Night Stalker or his spread wings.

“I FEEL IT!"

He felt it, too. Balanar felt his orgasm rising through his loins. He did not fight it. He did not push against the steady wave. He was not afraid of it or of ruining the moment. It wasn't an endless rut he had to partake in. But a kill. A claim.

His scrotum was tighter, ascending just for a second before the flow escaped his groin and ascended his shaft, pushing against gravity… And then, Doom's fluids… Organs.

Balanar felt as if he was inside, as if he was the perpetrator of that act instead of the fluids. He sensed the prostate seared by the scalding hot cum seeping into every crevice, staining the organ and corrupting its purpose further. It did not resist, nor did it clench to stop the path followed by Balanar's seed. Seed that swept further, following the same path Doom's did long ago but no longer. It did, but in reverse. It claimed. It burned. It broke.

He broke. Lucifer broke in a stupid expression, his tits spraying and his cock holding tightly onto Balanar as the Night Stalker's cum finally reached those testicles.

Then, Balanar added another shot.

More poured inside the Demon's orbs, his precious testicles. Like predators, Balanar's seed would prey and cull Lucifer's. It would swarm and break to infinitesimal components what had been Lucifer's pride.

Each little droplet of fluids, each little untouched reach, was to be swarmed by Balanar's potent cum. It would sear the orbs, it would leave an indelible brand. Night Stalker's heart pounded faster as he felt the hunt inside, as he sensed the culling down of Doom's testicles as they were growing in volume and fluids.

The last parcel of Demonhood that had been kept, Balanar was… Claiming it.

It was the last bastion.

The weak and unsightly seed was broken, conquered, destroyed. Remained only his. Balanar's semen laid waste on the organs, making sure they would never produce anything that wasn't following Balanar's desires.

All the hormones, all the cum, all the needs that had been pulsating through Doom's testicles.

It was undone.

Doom had been undone, utterly devoured, and conquered by Balanar until remained only a Broodwhore for his spawn, for another generation of Night Stalkers.

Yet, the larger Demon smiled weakly as the brand on his right testicle, a crossed-out masculinity symbol, glimmered with power and pain, utterly marking him as a broken individual.

And he nodded.

“Thank you… Master."