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It's practically "Demonology 101": you always close your summoning circle. But then, you were never really good at school.

It's been weeks now that you've been preparing for this moment. Tracking down an "authentic" Satanic text on the Dark Web. Trying not to crap yourself in terror as you arranged to have the wrapped package dropped off in the bathroom of a public park near where you live. Days upon days of painstakingly translating the archaic Latin upon those withered parchment pages. After that, tossing away your life savings trying to track down shellac ritual chalk and Pope-blessed holy water and traditional Chinese incense sticks and Norwegian vibe checks or whatever the hell else the dusty tome demanded.

That's all to say: if you knew you were about to release a demon into the world, you wouldn't have guessed it would be done by accidentally scuffing some chalk with your sneaker.

Smoke erupts from the center of the circle. The fumes billow about within the confines of your summoning circle at first, but it doesn't take long before the shadowy vapor slips through the gap in the chalk line. The hellish smoke swells and presses against an invisible wall, straining the limits of its magical prison, before it breaks through. Your measly, clumsily-drawn runes shatter under the weight of this demonic force, and hellish fumes break through the circle, quickly cascading through the room.

The dark smoke rushes around you, wrapping across your figure like a cloak. Though the dark vapor covers the floor like an overactive smoke machine at a garage rock concert, it seems particularly drawn to you, swathing around you like a second skin.

You breathe in, and break down into a coughing fit. That shit is foul- like brimstone, rot, blood, and countless other things you can't even hope to identify. You double down, holding your hands in your knees as you continue to hack out your lungs. The foul vapor burns and scalds its way through your chest, leaving you praying to God you're not left with permanent damage.

The swathing fountain of smoke within the ruins of your summoning circle slows to a gurgle. Emerging from the dark fumes is a huge quadruped figure the size of a stallion. Glowing from within the depths of the darkness is an intricate pattern of infernal tattoos- or runes?- not unlike those you painstakingly traced around your summoning circle. Those glowing, bloodred tattoos are particularly prominent around the beast's shoulders and back, but trace along its limbs and head as well. Huge, swirling ivory horns jut forth from its forehead, not unlike the stereotypical depictions of demon lords. This beast, though, is far from the humanoid you were expecting.

The demon you clumsily summoned into your damn basement is clearly canine in shape. Most prominent is his muzzle- lined with gleaming ivory fangs, far beyond that of any terran canine. The largest teeth in its arsenal, the aptly-named canines, jut down like a saber-tooth tiger's, approaching a foot in length by your rough estimate. Goopy, tar-like saliva drools from its foul lips, dribbling in a steady stream into the pool of darkness below. Like the fumes around it, however, the demon's shape seems to waver and flicker in the dim light of your basement. Smoke clings to its body, shrouding finer details from sight. All you can really see beyond its muzzle are the prominent details- monstrous paws the size of dinner plates, and a narrow, spike-laced tail, gleaming and dripping with a substance you really, really hope isn't venom.

The demon loses some resemblance with the wolfish shape it approximates when it breaks out into a grin. Its muzzle splits too wide, its huge teeth occupying too much space in its maw, its thick black saliva pouring out from each side of its lips like foul fountains in a thoroughly unnatural manner... It's all just wrong.

Then, the beast speaks. It's unclear, exactly, whether it's echoing through your mind or whether it's actually audibly speaking. Its maw is twisting and contorting in a mimicry of human speech, certainly, but you have your doubts that a being so foul could form a voice so smooth.

"Ah..." The hellhound lets out a deep, groaning exhale, like he's stretching after a long nap. "You have my thanks, dear summoner. It's been too long since I had the chance to stretch my legs in this world."

You let out a few more coughs before you force yourself to swallow the sore knot in the back of your throat. Tears well up in your eyes, but you push yourself past the stinging pain of the hellish smoke around you. "Yeah... you're welcome about that..." You recoil a little bit away from the hellhound standing before you, and scramble backwards in an effort to put some distance between the two of you. "So, uh, demon lord... Are you planning on staying a while, or, are you maybe ready to head back home?"

The hellhound's smirk deepens. His tongue- bloodred in color, and far, far longer than any wolf's tongue ought to be- spills out from its open maw, curling and twisting like some tentacle-like appendage. Greyish, sticky saliva splatters forward when the tip of the red muscle flicks, dusting your leg and side in droplets of the stuff. You catch a glimpse of a few metal studs buried within the hound's tongue. Hell's piercing business seems to be flourishing. Who knew?

"Now that's hardly a polite way to greet a guest. Especially after you went through so much effort to bring me here." The hellhound's massive, prehensile tongue flicks up as it speaks, swiping across its upper lip and fangs. "But I see you're an amateur summoner, so I'll give you a break. In fact, I'll even teach you some manners."

The demonic wolf-thing steps forward, and you swear you could hear the floor creak under its weight. Its tongue slithers back into its maw once more, licking up a few streams of hellish drool as it did. "Now, kneel."

Your eyes snap up to the demon's. Its cruel red gaze begins to glow like a pair of spotlights, trained intensely onto you. You try to look away, to break the eye contact, to do something, anything. The book told you not to meet a demon's eyes, it fucking told you, and now you can't-

Your mind wipes clean.

You feel yourself floating among the clouds. Drifting. Soaring. Without an aim or purpose. You're simply at peace. Everything is okay. You are, for once, at peace.

You ride that high for as long as you can. Willingly close your eyes, and ignore the world around you. It doesn't really matter, anyway. What could compare to the pure and honest ecstasy of drifting through the sky? What's a little pain in your lungs, compared to the damp, cool droplets of condensation pressing into your skin as you glide between the clouds?

Pain in your lungs?

Are your lungs in pain?

Why do your lungs hurt?

You come crashing back into reality. Kind of.

You're down on your knees.

The hellhound has stepped forward and now sits down on his haunches, just like a real dog. You watch dimly as his plate-sized mitt swipes through the smoke, parting the dark fog. As the vapor clears, you're given a perfect view of the wolf crotch mere inches away from your face.

The first thing you notice is the musk. It fills your nostrils, pervading into your nose, your tongue, your brain. It's burned into your memory, intense enough to leave you feeling lightheaded. It's heady, raunchy, and so purely, fiercely male that you feel your own manhood shrinking a bit in your briefs in relative shame. What's a human's "masculinity", compared to the hellish god of virility himself?

Your eyes train onto his- for this demon certainly is a "he"- package.. Canine-like, in your limited understanding. A thick, bunched-up sheath of loose, furry skin, pressed up against the demon's underbelly. Two monstrous, hairy balls, hanging heavily beneath his form. The whole of his crotch is plastered in a thin, shining film. You really don't want to know what it is, but, in the back of your mind, you have no doubt it's the leftover fluid from countless copulations. The hellhound's other exploits.

A string of smaller orbs winds around the demon's huge sheath and across his heavy balls. It takes a moment to recognize, but you soon identify it as a rosary. The prayer beads are tied through the hound's most intimate parts in a blasphemous display of sacrilege. As you look closer, you swear you see a small metal cross attached to the rosary, dangling against the backside of the demon's furry balls, likely pressed against his taint.

"Like the decoration?" The hellhound sways his hips a bit, causing the prayer beads wound around his sheath to shake. "Took it from the last man who summoned me, you know. He thought his god would keep him safe." He lets out an amused snort, causing more thick, sticky drool to scatter over you. "A waste of time. Maybe those priests are onto something, though... you humans are best on your knees."

You try to say something. Try to respond. But your mouth stays firmly shut. Then you try to move, to stand up. Your body refuses. Your heartrate quickly picks up as you try to do something, anything. Move, run, turn, punch. Something. But you're frozen in place.

The hellhound doesn't notice your newfound distress as he lowers his gaze upon you. That glowing red gaze burns into you, making your skin prickle. "Now, you know what to do." His voice dropped from a confident monologue to a deep, snide purr. " Get to work."

Your mind spins trying to catch up, but your body has no such hesitation. Before you even realize what you're doing, you've leaned forward. Your hands reach out and, without hesitation, grasp tightly onto the hellhound's massive sheath. The demon's raw body heat practically burns into your palms, but it doesn't stop you. You're leaning down, lowering your face to the beast's crotch. The raunchy musk grows even more intense, but it doesn't stop you. Your tongue shoves itself into the furry sheath, and you begin tongue-fucking the foul passage.

Taste blossoms upon your tongue: sheath fluid and sweat and sex in its more distilled form. Your hands sink into the folds of furry skin, tangling among the weave of rosary beads as you begin jerking off the sheath like it's a human dick. You immediately feel the hellhound's cock through his skin, emerging in several quick, abrupt jerks under your fingers, before it breaks out into the air, against your mouth. You immediately begin suckling and lapping at the warm, musky tip of his canine cock, running your tongue over the metal ring pierced into his slit before sinking the whole tip of his bestial member between your lips.

Dimly, in the back of your mind, you're a mess. The demon's hold upon your body, your movement, your actions, is iron. What he desires, your body executes. Your brain is not consulted in the matter.

And yet... Can you really say you hate it? You devour the hellhound's tapered tip, sinking the damp rod as deep in your mouth as you possibly can, until you feel his piercing scraping against the back of your throat. His scent swathes your form. His taste reshapes your palette. Where exactly does his will end and yours begins?

The hellhound's cock continues to unsheathe from his depths, several inches with each pulse. First you're sucking on the thick tip of an eight-inch monster. Then, ten inches. A foot. You lose track as it just keeps coming. Your hands transition from groping his sheath to instead begin to stroke along his red shaft, squeezing eagerly into his damp, spongy skin. You find more piercings, a series of parallel rods- a ladder- along the underside of his canid shaft, running from a few inches below his tip down to his sheath. Your tonguework grows more feverish, and you find yourself swiping along his pierced slit, desperate for every drop of viscous pre-cum that spills between your lips.

The hellhound's sheath spreads open as his knot rises, before popping out of its furry confines. The bulb of raw, inflated flesh is easily beyond the size of two fists side by side, and its surface shines and gleams with the reflective, dried film of countless previous loads.

You abandon the tapered tip for a moment to instead begin worshipping that thick knot. You shamelessly languish your tongue along its surface and dip into the forbidden space between the beast's knot and his furry sheath. Your hands desperately squeeze and stroke along the protrusion, wrapping as wide as you can around its base in an attempt to simulate the sensation of tying, of a tight hole squeezing around his most intimate parts.

The hellhound above you lets out a ferocious snarl, and you feel his powerful hips hump forward against your hands. Yet, you remain obstinate, squeezing his knot as tightly as your hands can possibly muster.

You are rewarded handsomely for your efforts.

The demon's canine cock erupts. The first several jets of foul cum are sticky and viscous, splattering onto your back, shoulders, and hair. You eagerly lift your head to the tip of that tapered shaft in time for the next powerful spurt, easily puffing out your cheeks with its sheer quantity. You struggle to swallow, but cough at the sensation of demonic cum in your windpipe, and pull away. Your hands continue working at his knot, however, teasing and milking every drop of cum from his depths.

The hellhound's orgasm keeps going. As the initial momentum of climax disperses, his emissions become thinner and clearer. Though you know you can't swallow it all, you still eagerly suck and lap up at the doggy tip, worshipping the load this foul master bestowed upon you.

Eventually, the orgasm begins to subside. The jets of hellhound cum shrink down to squirts. Each one of them easily surpasses the volume your own orgasm could produce, a thought that sends pangs of shame through the back of your mind. The concern is easily dismissed, however, as the next rope of cum paints along your cheek, and you go back to work, lapping up every drop of seed you can, even as more of that cherished fluid runs down your chin.

Just like that, it's over. The hellhound's iron grip upon your mind lightens, though it doesn't disappear. Exhausted, you slump backwards, absentmindedly licking your lips for a few more remnants of salty, virile seed. Your hands, thoroughly soaked in the demon's expulsion, release. You spread your fingers, admiring the sticky webs of cum that string between them. Your gaze returns to the massive wolf cock standing at attention before you, soaked with cum yet nowhere near satisfied. Strands of sticky semen connect between your mouth and the tip of the hellhound's cock. You think your briefs are damp, and sticking to your sore, yet flaccid, shaft. You don't want to think about what that means.

Gradually, your attention drifts back up to the hound's face. His tongue slithers out of his mouth once more, running along his monstrous fangs, as if he's savoring the sight of you so thoroughly debauched.

"Hope you didn't enjoy yourself too much, little summoner. The day's far from over."

His massive, hot paw presses against the back of your head, guiding your face back towards his crotch. His control over your mind may be over, but you still don't resist kneeling between your legs once more.

You hear the demon's thunderous chuckle above you. "Good boy."