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Brandishing a whip of tiger leather, Headmistress Eglid thrashes the man's backside and the entire class stoops closer, over their lecterns and spiral-bound notebooks. She smiles. A reprieve is given. The captive curls his toes in anticipation. Though the lesson has just begun, magic seeps from the enchanted punishment tool with a swirl of pearlescent vapors, to be later condensed and distilled by understudy mages and decanted into crystal vials and flutes and, sometimes, champagne glasses. When the lecture concludes a half hour later, the study hall is brimming with roiling witching clouds.

It is Cilia's first time; she's never inhaled raw magic before. The stimulant stiffens every red scale on her body. Rather than a scent, it is perceived as a personal experience, as a memory, as a dream: The heat of freshly-baked bread. Not the scent. Not the taste. Just the heartening warmth. From then on, her mouth waters in the company of magic. She is one of the lucky ones. Magic makes other disciples water too, but in different ways, different places.

At lunch in the dining hall, the new students pack the trestle tables with warm bodies but little conversation. This demonic magic college seems a bad dream, the sort of half-lucid nightmare that comes about from the consumption of too much ice cream too close to bedtime. Yesterday, the world had seemed normal. A mundane no-magic world with mundane no-magic responsibilities and mundane no-magic tournament jousts with mundane no-magic sweet wines.

The sermons do not come easy. It is the second day, a second lecture, a second captive. This time it is a bird woman who is pretty in all the ways Cilia is not. Where the bird has a gradient, the dragon has none. Where her beak contours around the gag with a seamless curve, Cilia's left-most fang is a snarled tooth that has spent years irritating her chapped lips. When Eglid straddles the woman's hips and flagellates her chest, waves roll across her bust like taut fresh dough, but Cilia's own is lumpy as putrid meat. Now the headmistress lectures again, but Cilia does not listen. It is hard to put herself in Eglid's heels, to imagine herself armed with these harsh implements. Instead, her mind wanders elsewhere.

She is the bird, the bottom, the victim, and her talons rake across the lecture room's floor as her thighs shudder in sinful bliss, as pleasure crackles up her spine. When the lesson ends, Cilia retreats to her quarters for a change of dry clothes.

By week's end, the candles of the hall dance and flicker from seemingly chatter alone, the new students silently progressing beyond the question of How did I get here? and Will I see my family again? to instead discuss new topics, such as the diminutive horns budding from their heads, the lengthening of their nails, the reddening hue of their skins; side-effects of prolonged exposure to magic. Of all the fairy-tales and legends, it seems at least one was true: Succubi exist, and they exist alone as extractors and purveyors of magic, a resource released -- instinctively, like adrenaline, Cilia would later learn -- when a sentient being experiences an intersection of pain and fear and pleasure.

And this is why she finds, on the second week, her new arsenal waiting atop the foot of her bed in her walk-in closet-sized room. Within the satchel, a wardrobe of leather stockings, a leather corset that pushes the dragon's generous bust up and on display; sable, fingerless leather elbow-length gloves; a matching leather thong; and a pair of 5" heels. Leather, leather, leather, of which Cilia decides to wear with both amused interest and utter compulsion for her personal wardrobe -- which had appeared in her new room on the first day, chipped wooden drawers and all -- vanishes just as easily. And with the new attire comes the tools: whips and paddles, zip ties and heart-shaped locks, five variations of gags, chastity cages -- mainly for use on the students of their supposed sister college -- and a strap-on with a human, dragon, and wolf attachment.

She feels as though she wears another's skin. The view is not unpleasant. In fact, Cilia is enamored with the reflection in the mirror, enamored in the way you dote on a secret crush. She would date the woman in the mirror. But she would never desire to imitate her.

Hedges grow in the courtyard, and trees laden with autumn's bounty droop with the swelling of fresh starfruits and mangos. Many of the students ply their trade in public study sessions, filling the air with laughter, whimpers, and snaps of softwood meeting flesh by the poolside or library, though the tomes have a habit of performing the dominant acts on the reviewers. And for this, to frequent the library is to be a submissive, a failure, to be brought within the Headmistress' personal office and never be seen again. A perimeter of trees surrounds the medieval architecture of the burgeoning campus. "You are in a realm not your own," Cilia was told during orientation. "To escape is to adopt a worse burden. The life and duty of a demon will grow on you. Embrace them as wholly as your horns."

The act of domming reminds Cilia of her past life as a blacksmith. Hammer in hand, the delicate metal is warmed, worked, warped, and tempered. How easy a task to bend an essence heated to its melting point. Yet the captives cannot merely be thrown into the fire and forced into shape. Buttons must be discovered, slammed at the right times, in the right ways, and never dumped in oil too early. Here Cilia suffers the same. She cares not for the process that begets beauty, but for the result after having discovered it.

Finals arrive with a snow shower, a hoarfrost that turns the verdant bushes into gravelly ice cubes and saps the world of its dimensions. There is only white and black, good and evil, top and bottom. An older woman named Belia gets it in her head that she's going to lead some kind of student revolution, that it's been months and she's a pacifist and the class outnumbers the faculty twenty-to-one, so surely they'll brute force an exit out of this magic pocket dimension and be released freely into their own respective worlds. Wide and glossy as a green bell pepper, she and a dozen or so of Cilia's classmates wander into the off-limits belly of the campus, the magic swamp of furnaces and distilleries and glassware and package carriers. In the morning their likenesses are seen again in the carved marble colonnades, a dozen new additions in the main foyer. If anyone still dreams of life beyond the Academy, Cilia never hears the passing thought uttered once more.

Now there is little time for hearing, or passing, or thoughts. By its final day, the class has been halved as if by the guillotine. Friends are missing. And notebooks. And pens. And enthusiasm. Their alterations are impossible to ignore. No matter their race or species, the new succubi, Cilia included, have been exposed to enough raw magic to now fully portray the demonic look: blood red skin or fur, long gnarled horns -- sometimes curved -- and delicate dark claws in place of nails.

"So class, who would like to go first?" Eglid asks. Some of the more enthusiastic demons raise their hands, eager to complete the final trial, to earn their new place in this secret society, to surprise those meddling with demonic powers and accidentally summon a succubus for a midnight rendezvous, to sniff out the reek of magic-filled vessels and suck them dry.

Cilia repeatedly draws a figure-eight with the cat-o-nine tails on Wene's lupine soles. Though the other students have already performed their exams, the class respectfully observes the display in silence. It is a perfunctory, spiritless motion, this beating of the flesh. Wene tilts her head back in bliss and sinks her fangs deep into the metal of the ring-gag. A jolt flashes across her eyes as they flutter. Magic miasma wafts off Wene's flesh like petrichor from hot cement. But her assigned partner quickly reaches the threshold of her fabrication. The moans weaken. The dripping of her thighs slows. The magic stops.

And the test is failed.

Fashioned tall and wide as a bulwark, the doors to the Headmistress' office spread open for Cilia. She ambles in barefoot. Her personal gear and training equipment had already vanished on return to her personal quarters. Eglid is there at the ornate mahogany desk carved from redwood. She was human. Once. But now she is fork-tongued, yellow-eyed, mare-hoofed, and all the same she looks like a pornstar playing a secretary in a black blouse and pencil skirt, jewelry hanging like hoop earrings from her horn. Eglid slips her hooves from the desk and stands upright with a sinister smirk.

"Somehow," she says," I always knew you'd end up here." Cilia has nothing to say. She takes a seat on the opposite side of the desk, waiting to be acted upon. "Quiet? We'll soon fix that." A soft, uncharacteristic smile spreads across Eglid's face.

Nobody who enters Eglid's office is ever seen again. Are demons cannibals? Vegan? Do they impale hearts with their horns? "Will it be painful?" the dragon finally finds the willpower to ask.

"Yes," Eglid says. She reaches under the table, and now Cilia sees the demon holds her coiled whip. "It is time for another lesson. Kneel," she says.

The red glint of Cilia's cheeks burns bright. It seems already an instinct, how naturally she drops from the chair and to her knees, head tilted back, staring wide-eyed up at the demon, who now stoops downward to tap a single nail against the dragon's chin. For the first time, she is ready to learn, to follow instruction, to improve.

"Open, pretty girl." Cilia opens. "Bite." Cilia bites the ring-gag. "Raise." Cilia raises her arms, and Eglid takes them into her clutches. A leather belt bundles her wrists with material weaved between, for padding. Again, at the elbows, and then more leather around her ankles and thighs and calves. She's placed down on her belly, and her arms are pulled behind, linked with a long rope that travels between her legs. This is bundled tightly until Cilia's back arches inward. And from the dragon's sturdy horns, additional leather, with these directly latched to the bindings on her ankles. She is bent like the bottom of the bowl, mouth open and vulnerable, and Headmistress Eglid grins in a way Cilia has never seen.

She raises her pencil skirt, slips from her panties, and a faux dragon strap-on bounces into view, dripping with lube. Eglid sways her hips. The meaty member plaps against Cilia's face, just enough to sting, to draw pain. Now soft vapors roil off the dragon's flesh, and quickly the magic billows from her, audibly sizzling, and this sets Eglid off.

The Headmistress grips her horns, angles her hips downward, and drags the thick dragonhead along Cilia's pursed lips. She moans at the taste of lube, shakes with anticipation. Scantly touched, Cilia is a bucket of coals, and Eglid is cool water. The office becomes a sauna. The colorful, whirling smog thickens and obfuscates the walls of the quaint room. Magic is happening, in a way Cilia -- and also Eglid, given the shocked expression on her face, which now quickly contorts into an inspired smirk -- has never seen nor experienced.

The first six inches of the toy fills her mouth, spreads her throat. Cilia coughs in discomfort, but Eglid holds her horns tight and rams deeper, harder, smacking the base of the cock against the blacksmith's face. She relinquishes a horn, the other still used for purchase, and takes her whip from the table. She strikes Cilia's back, and the dragon squeaks, moans, and then roars, though these sounds are muffled as they rumble up along the shaft.

She's never been used like this before. This is happening. This is right. Cilia bobs along obediently, holding her breath, coughing here or there, until the fake toy yanks free with a _GLRRRP _and then paints the red dragon's face a creamy off-white. Her eyes roll toward the back of her head, and Eglid herself pants, rests a hand against the inscribed edge of the table to hold herself upright.

"This is a test," she gasps, "that you were meant to pass." Eglid rolls Cilia onto her back, straddles her face with the warmth of her derriere, and delivers a consistent, sharp stinging tightness to the woman's chest: nipple clips. The dragon rakes her bound claws against the floor and bucks her hips in need. And Eglid, the talented succubus she is, quickly coaxes her onward.

A warm pair of fingers brushes against the worm of her carnality. It works in slow rotations, the nub pinched, the delicate flesh given no reprieve while Cilia squeaks into her gag, though the muffled sound is seemingly only felt as a vibration against the heft of Eglid's cheeks. A pressure builds between her thighs like steam in a turbine. It grows hotter, denser, tighter, until the dam breaks. Cilia shudders in her bindings as pleasure crackles up her spine. By the time she comes, the pair is in a sea of swirling fumes, both panting, both looking pleased with themselves.

Cilia smells warm bread. Her eyes water. And somewhere back home, her blacksmith father sinks a steel blade into a barrel of cow tallow. The fat sizzles and shrieks. The forge stirs. A new blade is molded, gleaming with splendor and possibility. Today it will find its purpose.