Father Damien’s palms slapped flat against the cold oak of the rectory desk. His cassock was rucked up to his waist, ass presented high, knees spread on the edge of the surface. The chalk circle on the floor had long since smudged into meaningless smears beneath the incubus’s bare feet.
The demon stood behind him, towering, dark-skinned, c**k still rigid and glistening from Damien’s throat. The ridged shaft throbbed visibly, veins pulsing under the twisted texture, the flared head weeping thick, luminous pre-c*m that dripped in slow, sizzling strings to the stone.
“You resist so prettily,” the incubus purred, tail coiling once more around Damien’s throat like a living collar, tight enough to remind, loose enough to breathe. “But your hole is already twitching for me. Look at it.”
A claw
