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(My creativity is at an all-time high, so it seems. I sat at my laptop for a few hours and BOOM. This is what came out. Chapter 2 of Corruption is finished and proof-read, and sets up Chapter 3 perfectly the way I wanted! So, enjoy!)

There is a sort of reaction, my lovely reader, which one has in seeing something that was nurtured and created by personal effort blossom forth and being able to watch as it makes some sort of accomplishment. It is the feeling a farmer gets when his seedlings become sprouts; the sensation a parent has when their child takes first steps; the emotion an amateur mechanic gets when he gets his first clunker up and running again. It is pride, what some call the deadliest of deadly sins.

It is how I felt when I met the new Stacy for the first time.

I had since moved cities numerous times. There's only so long one can continue to corrupt in a single town or hamlet before the proverbial jig is up. I stayed almost too long in the city where we'd first met - rumors about me were spreading, and feeds were becoming harder to come by. Had I waited another 12 hours, I'd have been followed out by torches and pitchforks. I've since learned not to overstay my welcome, but that is neither here nor there. The point is, by the time I returned to that town, they had forgotten me. My stories were dismissed as urban legend, and my appearance so exaggerated the real me was nothing like the monster they'd conjured.

It almost felt unfair that I could pass them by unnoticed. Like I was being robbed of the credit I deserved. But still... was better that way.

In a nostalgic move, Stacy had told me we would rendezvous her at the tavern where I'd first met her. As I pushed my way through the door, memories flooded back. It was like nothing at all had changed. The outside world shifted and transformed, but here time came to a stand-still. The same drunks, the same odors, the same one-eyed bartender...

The same traces of sin to evoke my hunger.

She was there by the bar. Same seat, different dress. She now sported glasses, and a slightly sheepish demeanor... wore sweaters as if trying to conceal her ample bust, yet picked tight ones so they were still quite obvious. The skirt she had on was just long enough to be an attempt at modesty. I smirked as I realized what she was doing.

She was baiting the hook.

She spotted me and gave a childish wave. We greeted each other like old friends, then she leaned in my ear and whispered that we couldn't talk here. I understood; it would blow her cover to act like anything but a mousey nerd lost in a party world. She led me upstairs, and when we were out of sight, she relaxed. Took of her glasses. Lit a smoke.

She commented with a smirk about it being good to see me, and that I was looking well. I politely and truthfully said the same was true for her, and we walked along the upstairs hallway, chatting about this and that undisturbed. As I looked her over, I couldn't help but think on things. I almost wished they could have been different.

You see, reader, Stacy was not who I believed her to be. I had thought her to be the type of woman who disgusts me; the vapid, air-headed doll with no morals and no goals besides being a trophy wife. Those kind are irritating little wastes of space, and utter drains on society. I felt that by changing them, I was making them of use to someone at long last.

I didn't notice until the next day that Stacy was different.

All my victims before her and targets after her had the same reaction; they hated what I had graciously done. They sobbed, they begged, they pleaded and threatened and screamed. They could never accept or understand I hadn't made them any different, that I had simply released what was already there. The 'good' girls who tucked wicked thought and desires away were in utter denial that they truly felt like wanton sluts who craved cock by any meanss. The bobble-headed bimbos who thought they were in control of their sex drives, however, hated themselves for being revealed as the timid and fragile little children they really were.

Stacy was neither of those. She was something else entirely. She was simply a good girl cutting loose for the first time in a while. Her inner darkness had been concealed, but she was aware of it. When I changed her, she reacted with such a grim yet graceful acceptance it positively irked me.

Stacy had been a well-adjusted, balanced, intelligent female. And changing her had brought me closer to guilt than any feed before or since.

She sensed this thought from me and waved it off, told me not to worry; she was who she was, and all I had done was allow her to accept it fully. She leaned against the wall, blew a smoke ring, and smiled at me. She'd been having fun with what I'd given her, she said; she felt free. She relished the feel, the act of corrupting, just as much as I had. And she had such stories to tell me.

Her first Turn, as she'd taken to calling them, was like mine; a victim rather than a true target. She had known I'd released her inhibitions instantly, but didn't know I'd made her like me until later. In the meantime, she'd been plagued by inexplicable cravings that she'd tried to cure with food, sleep, caffeine, and liquor. The last of those had led her sloppily to the first and only victim she ever had - some jackass named Melvin who'd noticed her half-asleep and drunk as hell at the bar, and still was hitting on her. He wasn't what she normally fancied; big, muscular air-head of a wolf with a popped collar polo. She had no idea why she'd been drawn to him, and at first blamed it on the liquor... but soon discovered there was another reason, far different.

At this point she paused, shivering. I smirked and gave her a knowing nod. Recounting the first victim was something that still gave me the pleasurable chills, too.

She described taking him home, but was rather dismissive on his technique. He was what you'd expect from someone like him, she'd explained. He was clumsy. He was rough. He was straight to the point. The type who was in such a rush to get his cock wet that the art of foreplay eluded him. He barely got her warmed up before he was bending her over and stabbing the tip of his member all over her thigh and ass trying in vain to make her hole.

She'd only forgiven it because she'd seen the size of his member. That and the strange force drawing her to him...

When he finally pulled it together and made it in, she could appreciate his only positive trait; he was satisfactory in both width and girth. He hit her cervix just right, and spread her just enough to still be pleasurable.

She remembered thinking what a shame it was such an impressive cock belonged to such a worthless beast.

With a blush, she admitted to thinking about me while they were in the throes of the rut. And as she was fantasizing about my body rather than his, she began to feel... different than usual. It was like the build-up before an orgasm, only with a strange sensation accompanying it. It was hard to describe, almost impossible to put a finger on.

It wasn't until his knot hit her clit and a surge of pleasure cleared her head that she understood. She'd been thinking about me... and what I had done to her. And now, her body was...

She'd pulled away from him and grinned. Turned around and shoved him a bit, telling him to lie down. It was her turn now. She all but pounced him when he did as she'd commanded; coating his neck with sweet kisses and promises it would get much better now.

She told me she was sure the evil hunger on her face was clear to him.

She hadn't cared.

As she straddled his cock and rode him, her curiosity was blended with her pleasure. What had I felt when I'd done it to her? How had I done it to her? Was there a specific technique or did it just happen... As she sought out an answer, she could feel it; the darkness inside his chest, wriggling and squirming towards her, begging her to free it.

With a broadening smirk and a twisted confidence, she'd dug her nails into his shoulder, began bouncing her hips up and down with vicious joy upon his cock, and looked him dead in the face. She didn't remember everything, but she knew orgasm was tied into it. And if she had to make the bastard cum, so be it. She loved the feel of knots, and besides...

She wanted to see the look on his face.

She was close to cumming herself, she'd told me. She couldn't help it. The thought of what she could do to him, was going to do to him, combined with the feeling of a knot forcefully banging against her clitoris... it was making her go insane. She'd giggled wildly. She'd rolled her eyes back. She'd let her tongue hang out.

When his bulb finally popped its way inside her - she hesitated for quite some time, then blushed heavily as she admitted it - she'd called out my name. Then she'd felt it - his indignation, his shame, his secret feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness. This was it. This was what she was waiting for.

This was his darkness, and she was about to unleash it.

Then, just as the mongrel beneath her was beginning to cum, she dug her nails in harder and growled. She looked into him, into his eyes, his heart, and called to what she craved the most from him with a single word;

" Mine."

The fear on his face had been delicious for her, as I knew it must have been. She was rubbing her breasts as she told me about it, letting out the cutest little moans. Oh how she'd relished it; the look on his face as he came while realizing what she was and what she was doing to him... it was so perfect. His expression was incredible. It was such an intoxicating feel of power that she'd had multiple orgasms, wiggling her hips enthusiastically and jerking his cock around as much as she could.

She could tell his darkness was this feeling of being pathetic and unworthy. And now that it was free, she fed it. She leaned close to his face, talking down at him while she continued to milk him dry. She was having her fun with his shattered pride as she asked him if that was all he had left in a demeaning little voice, teased him about how he hadn't satisfied her, and finally tweaked his nose and told him to try harder.

He'd whimpered, nodded, and obeyed. Seeing him crumble like that was such a fond memory she had to pause. She'd begun fingering herself under her skirt, and if she didn't stop soon she was going to cum. She pulled her drenched hand away and looked at me. She was now legitimately embarrassed and shy.

I licked her hand and told her to continue.

She was fresh-cherry red as she told me about how she kept degrading him, yelling at him to quit slopping around and fuck her like he meant it. She told him he wasn't a man; that he was a worthless bitch. He'd accepted it all, even apologized to her as she kept riding him.

The hapless look on his face, she whimpered out, was so good that without telling him she came at least 3 times.

When his knot finally deflated, she'd hopped of him and rolled her eyes. Told him he couldn't even tie her long enough to truly satisfy her. Walked over to the table and slapped her own ass.

She'd ordered him to lick her clean. He'd been happy to oblige.

She leaned against the wall for support now, sliding down it; she was so aroused by the memory she was pawing furiously at herself with both hands, body trembling and eyes half-closed as she diddled herself and moaned her words to me. She was rocking and wracked with pleasure, but telling the story was part of what had been keeping her body so heated.

So, she told me the rest of the story, only stopping to occasionally scream out in orgasm.

She now knew, she whimpered out, how I'd felt; the release, the taste of true power. It was so immaculate, so stimulating and beautiful, that she needed more. She pressed herself back against him, criticizing his technique even as he licked her perfectly. He suckled her clit like a nursing babe under her instruction, then with a reluctant whine and no small amount of shame, slurped his own cum from her pussy. She'd laughed then; told him he was pathetic and not worth her time, even as his long, flat tongue worked its way to the opening of her womb and lapped all around her walls, cleaning her fully to the very last drop. She came like she couldn't stop, and demanded him to rub her clit as she rode out her afterglow.

Each orgasm was better than the last, and when she had finally had enough she ordered him away from her and then slumped on the floor. She was exhausted. She was full. She could do no more. With great effort, she stood up and walked towards her bed to sleep off the shimmering pleasure in her nice, warm bed. She noticed she recovered much faster than she'd expected after all the times she'd cum; still feeling the pleasure but able to move like nothing happened. When her new pet had tried to follow her, she'd ordered him to sit, stay, and sleep where he was, and put on no clothing.

It was rather cold in her apartment that night. When she'd finally bothered to get out of bed, she delighted to see he was still lying where she'd put him.

She finally finished her story and her self-induced hell-ride of pleasure, flopping her arms to her sides and rolling her head to the side weakly. She was half passed out, and shaking her left leg as the memory alone still kept her fire flickering. But she recovered at a semi-impossible speed once again; another gift I had bestowed upon her.

She unlocked one of the rooms upstairs and told me to come in. She had to clean herself off so she didn't smell and look like freshly-had sex. There were plenty of unsuspecting targets downstairs, and she was starving. Working her cunny over really worked up her 'other' appetite.

It would be that same night, dearest reader, that I got to see her technique in action. But that is a story for later. Until next time, enjoy the tale I have spun for you... And await further lurid details.