At thirty, Joana was a striking presence. Hard to believe that when she’d told her devout mother she was going to play a succubus in a television series, the old woman had nearly fainted from pure scandal. Pious or not, one thing was undeniable: inside that costume, she looked good enough to eat.
Which was why, on the red carpet of some charity gala, poured into a blood-red dress inspired by her character, she snapped a sultry selfie that left her massive Latina tits barely contained by the neckline, nipples just barely covered. The dark ram-horn diadem resting on her black hair was the cherry on top of a cake millions of horror fans wanted to devour—starting with that outrageous ass she’d already flashed without shame in Talking Chainsaws 3. But it was Infernalice that had made her a star. That much was obvious.
“Happy Halloween, my little puppies,” she purred into her phone, filming a story for her followers, slipping into the commanding voice of her character. The Mexican accent she’d spent years sanding down since arriving in the States was almost gone. “I hope you’re not being bad… no. I hope you’re being very, very bad… so we can meet again in the second circle of Hell for season three of Infernalice. Premieres tonight.”
Shameless advertising, sure—but that was why she stuck her tongue out for the camera, distracting her admirers from the ruthless machinery of the entertainment industry with a little manufactured heat. They loved that tongue. They loved her warm brown skin. They loved when she quoted her character or “accidentally” showed more skin than necessary.
She hated it, of course. Hated the empty celebrities she air-kissed and traded viral nothings with. But there were things she loved: the money she sent home to her family, the glamorous streets of a Hollywood far removed from the fentanyl misery she’d left behind, the ridiculous car she drove on private tracks on the rare weekends her shooting schedule allowed. And, fine, the magazine spreads—her thick thighs dominating the front pages of every digital rag.
Stepping into a bathroom bigger than the room she’d grown up in, she scrolled obsessively through the comments. Fire emojis, support, praise for the new season’s early episodes… she smiled like an idiot, floating for a moment on that artificial high that came from strangers who treated her like a goddess simply because other strangers already did.
Until she hit that comment.
“Let’s see if you delete this one, sellout.”
The same accusation, wearing different masks, had followed her ever since she’d scrubbed her old posts about distant wars and police violence—posts where she’d still believed she could criticize everything wrong with the world. Then the studio had given her a quiet warning, and she’d folded in exchange for the role of a lifetime, burying her politics under the kind of empty pageant-queen answers that made interviewers smile. Hollywood was worth a black mass. And the death of her integrity.
That didn’t stop her from wanting to smash the phone against the marble wall or flush it down the toilet so the constant noise would disappear into an ordinary whirlpool.
She looked at herself in the mirror—curvy, lush, every inch a star—and felt pride. Then she felt disgust.
…
She walked along the sidewalk of her gated community, carefully avoiding the cracks between the stones, showing off her legs to the imaginary pedestrians of a neighborhood that never seemed to have any. She danced a little to the memory of a youth she wanted to keep forever, alone with the night breeze that some cosmic director had thoughtfully provided for her private Halloween.
I should’ve fucked Chris, she thought, biting her lip as she pictured the tall blond actor—his chest, those abs… but after the comments she’d been stupid enough to read on what should have been a triumphant night, her libido had packed up and left.
The towering, empty houses stared down at her, so different from the modest homes of her hometown. They made her feel small. Like an ant in a giant anthill of egos and fame.
“A millionaire ant,” she corrected herself, lifting her chin.
The night air—she couldn’t have said which direction it came from—washed over her with a strange chill, stiffening her nipples against the thin fabric of the dress. She covered them with her arms, as if some unseen presence were watching from the dark. She told herself it was just practical: she was scheduled to go topless in that raunchy Dracula reboot, and she didn’t need some sneaky photographer getting the exclusive early.
But the real fear was older and uglier than that. She clutched her arms tighter across her chest and glanced both ways, unsettled by how completely alone the street felt on a night when it should have been full of neighbors. She was already craving the pill waiting for her at home, just to quiet the—
Fuck!
Her phone vibrated hard against her hip, blasting the Infernalice theme—marketing never slept—and tore a sharp scream from the throat so many strangers wanted to kiss. She almost rejected the call on pure reflex, but professional survival made her look. The single letter E for Ezra forced her thumb onto the green button. You didn’t ignore your producer.
“Hello? Is everything okay?” she asked, confused. “You don’t usually call this late. Not that I mind, I’m just… curious.”
That familiar arrogant chuckle crawled through the line. She could picture his face perfectly: the bulging eyes, the sharp little nose that always looked like it was stabbing someone’s dignity.
“Everything’s fine,” he said, voice low and strange. “Better than fine. The numbers are in. The show’s still flying.”
“But this is the last season, right? You said so.”
“The last season with you, yes.”
A cold spike ran straight down her spectacular body.
“Whoa, whoa—hold on, you’re scaring me,” she said, slipping into Spanish for a second before forcing herself back to English. “What the hell does that mean? My contract says I’m the face of this show. You can’t just replace me unless…”
She couldn’t even finish the sentence. The implication was too ugly. She wasn’t merchandise. She wasn’t a consumable.
Naïve little thing.
“Oh, I know the contract, sweetheart. We signed it in sweat and… other fluids. But there are contracts that sit higher than that one.”
Her stomach turned. She looked around again, suddenly trembling. The houses seemed taller. The sky darker. Same street, but wrong—like a distorted replica designed to keep her trapped.
Los Angeles. The name didn’t fit. Not tonight. The opposite of angels.
“What are you talking about, Ezra?” She searched desperately for any sign of a neighbor. Nothing. Just this strange, half-dreaming space that wore her neighborhood like a mask. “If this is some fucked-up joke—”
“I guarantee it isn’t, Joana. Wish it were. We had fun, you and me. I’d rather remember you like this than… well. The way you’re about to look.”
“The way I’m about to look?”
“I’d rather not spoil the surprise,” he said, and for once his voice actually sounded bitter. “So long, gorgeous. Though I suspect I’ll be seeing you where you’re headed soon enough.”
He hung up, and the line went dead like a severed cord to the human world.
Joana spun around, ready to run—then froze.
Any hope that this was still one of Ezra’s mind games died the second she saw them.
Ten figures in red hoods stood in the street, heads bowed, faces lost in midnight shadow. On any other night the sight alone would have given her a heart attack, dragging up every cult-horror movie she’d ever watched. But the thing standing with them made the hoods almost irrelevant.
She screamed anyway. Screamed until her throat tore, as if volume alone could make someone hear her. It wasn’t enough to express the revulsion and terror that slammed into her at the sight of him.
Her long, gym-sculpted legs nearly gave out. No amount of core work could have prepared her for this.
He stood over eight feet tall. His eyes glowed like medieval bonfires. His elongated arms and legs were covered in faint scales and sleek black crow feathers, a cruel joke on the borders God had drawn between beasts. His horns twisted in impossible directions. He had a pig’s snout, a wolf’s fangs, elfin ears sharp enough to catch the confessions of good girls. Every finger ended in a different kind of claw.
And he had a cock that belonged in a nightmare.
That was what her eyes locked onto first—the long, heavy shaft that put every human dick she’d ever seen to shame. It swayed with arrogant softness as the demon stepped toward her, daring her to imagine it hard. His balls hung like polished black spheres, swollen with what looked like an entire army ready to ruin her from the inside out.
“Who are you?” she whispered, terror rooting her to the spot. Running would have been pointless anyway. “No… this isn’t possible. Get out. Get out of this nightmare and let me live. Please…”
Her begging only made his cock rise, swelling thicker and longer until the blunt, circumcised head pointed at her like an accusation. She was a professional actress. She’d done theater. None of it mattered. There was no way to fake calm in front of that.
The demon’s mouth stretched into a smile that looked like it had never learned how to be anything but cruel. One massive hand reached out and carefully settled on her head.
Rough, hoof-like fingers stroked through her black hair. Her skin went the color of a hen about to have its neck wrung. Those fingers moved to her cheeks, pinching hard enough to leave marks that had nothing to do with shame or arousal—only contact with something fundamentally poisonous to human flesh.
“W-wait—I don’t know what he told you, but I never signed anything like this. You can’t just—”
The way he laughed was obscene. One huge hand clamped onto her left ass cheek and lifted, testing the weight. Then the other hand joined, mauling both cheeks with brutal appreciation. Disgust and humiliation rolled through her from the soles of her feet to her scalp.
A sudden flare of fire erupted beside him. She flinched away until the sulfur stink faded and a single sheet of paper floated in the air. Her contract. The Infernalice contract she’d barely skimmed in her hunger for the role.
A black line of ink drew itself across the page, underlining one clause with deliberate care:
…the actress shall offer her body and soul to the demon Sadrakk four years after the date of signing.
Her mouth opened on a plea for mercy. The contract crumbled into greasy ash, accompanied by laughter that belonged in a crypt. She understood then that begging was useless. She had already been sold.
Still, survival made her sob as Sadrakk’s hands mapped every curve. She begged him silently to let her go, even though she was the one who had damned herself. The demon had never heard of compassion.
He also had no patience.
One violent yank and the neckline of her dress tore open with a sound like ripping muscle. Shreds of red fabric fluttered to the pavement. Her heavy tits bounced free in front of their new owner—freer than they would ever be for the Dracula cameras she’d been so eager to bare them for. The shock of being stripped like that hit harder than the impossibility of the creature itself.
“No… no, no—”
He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Her legs kicked uselessly at empty air. One shoe flew off. Tears followed it.
He brought one breast to his mouth. Filthy saliva soaked her skin an instant before he sucked hard enough that she was sure, if she ever became a mother, those tits would never give milk. She would never be a mother. Never a grandmother. Never even human again. This disgusting animal biting into the most intimate part of her had already taken everything.
His tongue dragged up and down the soft flesh with vicious thoroughness. She wanted to shove him away, but her arms hung limp, rag-doll useless against a strength that could snap her in half without effort. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for any other place, any other reality. The fallen angel only bit harder for the insolence.
Teeth sank deep enough to draw bright beads of blood. She moaned—pain and total surrender—while her free breast waited in terrified anticipation.
It didn’t wait long. He claimed the second one with almost gentle fingers this time, as if rewarding her submission, pinching the nipple and owning the dark areola while wet, pleased sounds rumbled in his throat. And against every screaming instinct, she felt it: the sick, helpless pleasure of the already-damned, the knowledge that her soul was forfeit and the only thing left was to feel whatever this world still offered.
She shook her head hard. No. There was nothing to enjoy here, no matter how many centuries this unchanging tyrant had spent breaking women. She bit her own lip until she tasted copper, flagellating herself with prayer to the God her mother still begged every night, eyes bloodshot, nipples stiff and traitorous.
“P-please, Lord, help—ah—ah—help me—”
But this lieutenant of lustful Asmodeus knew his work. Her prayers dissolved into broken, rising cries. Her lush body began to move on instinct, rolling and offering itself to a male this overwhelming. Ego and arrogance briefly distracted her from the catastrophe rushing toward her, and a treacherous thought slipped through: how many women could say they’d been fucked by a real demon?
No. That was blasphemy. Heresy. And still the sweet, sweaty musk of him was seducing her, making her cunt clench with involuntary delight. Her nipples, hard enough to cut glass, surrendered completely to the smooth, powerful stroke of that magnificent tongue.
“Fuck… fuck… fuck, fuck—”
He stopped the second he heard her pleasure, as if it offended him. For one wild second she hoped the torment was over. Reality had other plans. One hand left her breast while the other kept her effortlessly aloft; thick fingers slid between her thighs.
They climbed with surprising delicacy, brushing every sensitive inch until they reached the thin barrier of black panties. Claws traced the shape of her pussy through the soaked fabric, threatening to shred it. She tried to stay perfectly still so those weapons wouldn’t ruin her. Every expert touch made stillness impossible. She was gasping with fear, ankles twisting, when he finally hooked the waistband and tore the panties away.
They dropped to the ground, as wet and defenseless as she was.
Without pause—though he had all of eternity—he gripped her ass in both hands again and lifted her higher. No strain showed on him at all. He settled her cunt directly over his open mouth, tipped his head back, and held her entire weight with the brutal muscles of his neck alone. Then that black, wicked tongue went to work.
The vertigo of being suspended like that should have been pure terror. It turned into the most intense pleasure of her life almost immediately. She tried to stay dignified, tendons standing out in her throat, breath carefully controlled. She fooled no one—least of all a creature that had spent eternity lying, deceiving, and successfully corrupting girls far more innocent than her.
Orgasmic tremors hit her harder than any human man had ever managed. Shivers that had nothing to do with temperature. This was a male, in the most absolute sense, and every previous partner shrank to nothing beside him. She hated him. She feared him. And precisely because of that, some deep, animal part of her acknowledged his total superiority over every living thing that had ever shared her oxygen on this miserable planet.
His tongue split into multiple thick tendrils, stroking every fold, pushing through the shameless wetness pouring down her thighs. Demonic saliva mixed with her own juices, with piss, with the faint blood from earlier bites—preparing her for the final climax of her short existence.
“Ay, puta madre… you fucking bastard, that feels so—ah—”
The tongue thrust inside her, firm and conquering, nothing improvisational about the way it worked despite the raw heat of the moment. Rhythm, pressure, depth—all of it aimed at one goal: to claim not just her body but the last corners of her soul, to make every part of her surrender to the ecstasy this monster forced on her. Coarse black hairs brushed her clit like a living brush. She started grinding down onto his mouth on purpose, grabbing his twisted horns for leverage, riding him, defying gravity with a filthy, satanic roll of her hips.
The edge of climax dragged foam to the corners of her mouth. She cried harder because she knew she was selling herself to an owner who would never release her. The horns burned her palms. The tongue set her cunt on fire—her cunt and every inch of skin pressed against him. In that moment her entire body felt like nothing more than an extension of her throbbing, desperate pussy.
The orgasm hit like a bus, like a warship, like a meteor striking the only part of her that still mattered.
She screamed until her lungs and throat were raw, the final signature the monster needed to take full ownership of her soul. Too late she understood that those screams were permission. In the moment she didn’t care. She howled, ecstatic under the relentless tongue of a creature that had stepped out of nowhere just to give her the strangest night of her life. Her hips snapped against his chin; her firm ass flexed in his hands. Every nerve fired at once in a deafening, supernatural symphony that gathered every orgasm she had ever had and detonated them together.
When it finally ended, after minutes of inhuman shrieking, she went limp, eyes closed, ready to surrender to unconsciousness.
Her new owner had other ideas.
She came back to herself as he lifted her off his soaked face and turned her in the air. From this angle he looked exactly like the abomination he was—an insult to every principle anyone had ever tried to teach her. And when he lined her dripping, empty cunt up with that raging cock, he became a direct threat to her physical integrity. The massive shaft moved on its own, guided by his nauseating will, already leaking fluids she had no name for.
“No…” she whispered, sanity returning far too late. “No, it’s… it’s too big. It won’t fit. Please—we already had our fun, but—”
She stopped herself. No amount of begging would matter.
When the thick, blunt head began to push inside her, all she could do was scream. This time there was not a single trace of pleasure in the sound.
He fed the enormous cock into her with a slow, deliberate patience that had nothing to do with care. He was simply prolonging the agony. The outline of that monstrous shaft distorted her belly from the inside, stretching her cunt walls past any sane limit. It felt like the worst labor pains imaginable, except the only purpose was the lust of the damned creature using her. She would never be a mother because of this cock. Never a grandmother because of this cock. And once it was buried to the root, the demon abandoned all pretense of gentleness and started fucking her with pure animal violence.
It hurt worse than un-anesthetized surgery, worse than any migraine, worse than anything she had ever felt. Her mouth opened to complain and produced only choked gasps. That unnatural cock kept violating her without resistance, turning her body into a toy for a demonic child who was no more mature or virtuous than she was—only infinitely more powerful. This is how the world works, you stupid bitch, his growls and earth-shaking thrusts seemed to say. On Earth and in Hell alike.
She looked up at the stars and the heavenly clouds and found only a black, indifferent sky. Shadows gathered, hungry for the soul that still animated her muscles—a life that felt like it was being sucked straight out through the demon’s urethra as he leaked corrosive, semi-clear fluid inside her.
Please just kill me already, she thought, while his claws dug deep into her ass and drew fresh crimson tribute.
The wet, obscene sounds of the fucking—chop-chop-chop-chop, argh-argh-argh—only grew louder. A filthy pool spread beneath Sadrakk’s cloven feet: cunt juice, pre-cum, piss, blood—a cocktail offered up to the great dukes of Hell, living proof of how far their newest toy had fallen.
The destroying cock kept pounding without mercy, slamming so deep she was sure it was cracking her tailbone, erasing language and coherent thought under pure pain. She wanted to faint. The raw agony of the coupling refused to let her. And worse than the physical torment was the terror of what came next: those massive, vein-ridged balls slapping her ass with every thrust, growing tighter, heavier, visibly churning with the load they were about to dump.
They made good on the threat.
The first thick ropes blasted into her with enough force to punch through her cervix. Then more. Then more. The demonic cum flooded her bloodstream, her lungs, every unclaimed millimeter of her body. Joana’s limbs seized and twisted as the white cascade unmade her from the inside—no ritual, no ceremony, just the casual disposal of a used-up doll.
Two pearly drops leaked from her nostrils. More filled her ears and sealed them against the demon’s final roar. Still more forced their way out of her eyes, replacing tears with viscous pale slime and robbing her of even the dignity of a clean death. She opened her mouth for one last breath and vomited a thick geyser of semen that splattered into the already-fouled puddle below.
The red-hooded figures watched the murder in silent resignation. Then they began to strip, pressing naked and eager against their master’s muscles—his calves, his powerful ass. There was the beautiful curly-haired junkie who’d been used up by a ruthless director and dead before thirty. There was the stunning sword-and-sorcery muse murdered by a producer. And there, with her single beauty mark and eternally sad eyes, was the immortal blonde.
Her face was the last thing Joana saw before the demon grew bored and simply dropped her.
All of Sadrakk’s slaves recognized themselves in the fallen would-be diva. They crouched around the body, stroked it, welcomed it into their number. Then they lifted her in a silent, almost respectful procession.
Or it would have been respectful, if not for the demon’s laughter echoing over them.
They carried her away, weeping with the shame of the already-claimed.
Silence returned.
Then, of course, the noise began again.
Articles about Joana’s overdose. Think-pieces about her career. Tragic star dead at thirty. The quiet announcement of her replacement on the show. The young actress who stepped into the role would never know how lucky she was that the stars hadn’t demanded fresh meat that particular season—that a blood sacrifice had already been made so recently. She inherited the success that had been promised to Joana: the awards, the money, the cover shoots.
And Joana inherited an early grave.
Her family prayed for her soul through their tears.
It did no good.
Her soul no longer belonged to them, or to the white doves of Heaven.
It belonged to something far less merciful.
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