😈Succubus Summoning Gone Wrong! I'm Supposed To Be The Top, Not the Bottom?!?! 😈

The faint tang of ozone and candle smoke still clung to the air, but it was quickly being overpowered by something else—a scent of crushed pomegranates and exotic spices that seemed to emanate directly from Astra’s bare skin. The succubus’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile, her fangs just visible behind the plush, tempting curve of her lower lip. She took a step forward, and the floorboards groaned as if bearing a weight far beyond her physical form—the weight of centuries, of desire made manifest. Ben’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, his palms slick with sweat. He had expected fear, some kind of primal terror at the sight of a demon standing between his laundry basket and his unmade bed. Instead, what flooded his veins was a dizzying, shameful heat—a kind of awe that left him speechless and rooted to the spot. Astra’s eyes, liquid gold and endlessly deep, held his with terrifying ease. He felt seen in a way he never had before, as if she were peeling back every layer of his insecurity and shyness to find the raw, trembling want underneath. “Well,” she purred, her voice low and resonant, seeming to vibrate through the very air between them. “Aren’t you a precious thing?” She didn’t wait for an answer, gliding closer until he could feel the warmth radiating from her crimson skin. Her gaze traveled over him, leisurely and appraising, from his hastily scrawled summoning circle on the floor to the half-open bag of chips on his desk, finally settling back on his wide, unblinking eyes. “You called for a night of passion. For experience.” Her laugh was a soft, mocking sound, rich with ancient amusement. “You have no idea what you’ve just invited in, do you, little mage?” Her hand rose, not in a threat, but with an unnerving gentleness. She didn’t touch him yet, simply let her fingers hover mere inches from his cheek. The air itself seemed to grow heavy, charged with a static energy that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. He could smell her more strongly now—the intoxicating sweetness, the dark, musky undertone that spoke of secrets and sinful pleasures. His mouth went dry. His carefully rehearsed commands, the words of binding and control he had practiced for weeks, dissolved into dust on his tongue. All he could do was stand there, captive not by magic, but by her overwhelming presence. She finally closed the distance, her fingertips brushing his jawline. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure sensation that shot straight down his spine. Her skin was impossibly smooth and warm, like sun-baked silk. A soft, involuntary sound escaped him, half-gasp, half-whimper. Astra’s smile widened, a flicker of genuine delight in her otherworldly eyes. “Oh, yes,” she murmured, her thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic line along his cheekbone. “There you are. All that nervous energy, all that lonely wanting… I can taste it.” She leaned in, her horns gleaming in the dim light, and her warm breath ghosted over his ear as she whispered, “Let’s see what we can make of it, shall we?” "I-I-" he stutters, slowly raising a hand, his fingers twisted in the gesture outlined in his book. "I bind thee by the Second Greater Seal, by t-the Fifth and Seventh Lesser Seals, by the Sigil of Apoc. I bind thee three times to do as I bid." The succubus... giggles, before gently pushing his hand aside to cup his chin in her manicured talons. "Sorry Sweetie, but that's not going to work. You wrote the runes wrong and the safety railings are down. This is my show." Her talons, cool and sharp against the warmth of her skin, held his chin with a possessive gentleness that made his mind go blank. "My show," she repeated, her voice dropping to a purr that resonated deep in his chest. "Which means we're going to play by my rules. And my first rule is that you listen, and you learn." Ben could only stare, his mouth slightly agape, the failed binding still echoing uselessly in his thoughts. He watched, mesmerized, as her other hand came up, her fingers tracing the line of his throat, then down his chest, over the worn cotton of his t-shirt. Her touch was light, almost teasing, but it felt like a brand, searing through the fabric. Every nerve ending beneath her path awoke, tingling with an anticipation that was equal parts terror and desperate longing. This close, the scent of her—pomegranate and spice, yes, but also something darker, like incense burning in a hidden temple—filled his lungs, dizzying him. He could feel the subtle heat radiating from her crimson skin, a warmth that seemed to sink into his own, making his heart beat a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs. "I still intend to help you lose that delightful little burden of yours," she murmured, her golden eyes holding his, reflecting his own wide-eyed, flustered expression back at him. "But we're going to do it my way." Her thumb brushed over his lower lip, a fleeting, electrifying contact that drew a shaky breath from him. "I have very... particular tastes." His voice, when it finally came, was a hoarse, strained whisper. "Wh-what do you mean?" Her smile was a slow, wicked curve. "Why don't I show you?" Before he could even process the words, before the question could fully form in his mind, she snapped the fingers of the hand that wasn't holding his chin. There was no sound, no flash of light. Only a sudden, profound sensation of dissolution. It wasn't a tearing or a ripping; it was as if the very molecules of his clothing lost their coherence all at once. The worn cotton of his t-shirt, the denim of his jeans, even the simple cotton of his briefs—they simply ceased to be solid. There was a whisper-soft sigh of air, a feeling like cool water flowing over his skin for a single, breathtaking second, and then he was utterly, completely bare. The shock was so absolute it stole the air from his lungs. He stood frozen, his mind white-hot and blank, his skin erupting in a wave of goosebumps as the cool air of his bedroom hit him all at once. His arms hung uselessly at his sides, his every instinct screaming to cover himself, to hide the pale, trembling form that was now on such humiliating, blatant display. His gaze dropped, his own nakedness a shocking revelation—the slightly pudgy arc of his stomach, the sedentary lines of his thighs, and the undeniable, traitorous evidence of his arousal already beginning to stir between his legs, just beginning to harden under the weight of her predatory, approving gaze. A hot flush of shame and exhilaration burned across his cheeks and chest. He was exposed, vulnerable, completely at her mercy. Astra released his chin, her taloned fingers drifting downward, not to touch him, but to trace a path through the air mere inches from his skin. Her gaze was a physical caress, roaming over him with unhurried, meticulous appreciation. "There," she purred, the sound vibrating in the charged space between them. "Much better. Now I can see the canvas properly." Her eyes, glowing with ancient knowledge and wicked delight, finally met his terrified, awestruck ones. "And it is a very, very pretty canvas, Benjamin. I think I can work with this. But first," She snaps her fingers and a small pink chastity cage manifests around his soft member. "Let's keep this little fellow safely tucked away for now. Wouldn't want things to go off... prematurely." Ben’s gasp was a sharp, involuntary intake of air as the cold, unyielding pink plastic settled against his most sensitive skin. It was a shock that dwarfed the disappearance of his clothes—a sudden, intimate confinement that made his previous state of nakedness feel like a distant memory of freedom. The device was seamless, fitting with an unnatural, perfect snugness that was neither painful nor comfortable, but simply… present. A tiny, gleaming lock hung from its front, a silent, undeniable proclamation of ownership. His mind reeled, trying to process the sensation of being so utterly physically claimed, while his body, betraying him utterly, twitched with a flicker of confused arousal at the absolute finality of it. Astra watched his reaction with rapt attention, her golden eyes gleaming like molten treasure in the dim light. A low, throaty chuckle escaped her, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and up into the soles of Ben’s bare feet. "Don't look so startled, little mage," she crooned, her voice a silken caress that wrapped around him. "It's for your own good. Anticipation is the sweetest part of any feast, and I intend for us to have a banquet." She stepped closer again, the heat of her body a palpable force field now that there was no fabric between them. Her scent, that intoxicating blend of fruit and forbidden spice, wrapped around him, dizzying and thick. Her taloned hand, which had snapped his world into this new, terrifying shape, now lifted again. "Let's prepare the canvas." This time, she didn't hesitate. Her fingertips, cool and impossibly smooth, brushed across his torso, leaving a shimmering trail behind that quickly vanished. He could only watch, mesmerized, as a surge of tingling warmth spread from her touch through his entire nervous system, rippling outward like a stone dropped in still water. It was a sensation not of pain, but of profound, cellular-level *alteration*. His gaze dropped from her amused, intent face to his own chest, and he watched as a faint, shimmering wave of energy washed over his skin, erasing every blemish, every mole, every old scar from a childhood scrape. The faint patch of chest hair he’d been so proud of seemed to dissolve into a soft, golden light before fading away entirely, leaving behind only flawless, unnaturally smooth skin. The change continued downward, a silent, rapid transformation that felt like being dipped in warm silk. The slight, self-conscious softness of his stomach smoothed out, his entire torso becoming a uniform, pale canvas, utterly hairless and perfect. A gasp, this one entirely different from the shocked one that had greeted the cage, caught in his throat. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated awe. He lifted his hands, turning them over to stare at his palms and the backs, watching as calluses from nervous fidgeting and the faint lines of his knuckles softened and faded. His skin was now as smooth and unblemished as polished marble, a perfect, even tone of pale cream that seemed to glow with a subtle inner light under the flickering candles. He ran a trembling finger over his forearm, and the sensation was alien; no trace of hair, no texture of pores, just an impossibly soft, continuous surface that felt more like the petal of an exotic flower than human skin. A deep, confusing cocktail of emotions churned within him—a profound, humiliating vulnerability at this violation of his very form warring with a shocking, illicit thrill at this new, beautiful body that was being crafted for him, by her. Astra watched his dawning comprehension with a predator's satisfaction, her golden eyes drinking in every minute shift in his expression. "Beautiful," she purred, her voice a low thrum that vibrated in his newly sensitive flesh. "A perfect, blank slate. So much more fitting for what is to come." Her taloned fingers, which had initiated the change, now came to rest lightly on his hip, the sharp tips a whisper of cool pressure against the incredibly soft skin there. The contrast was startling—her demonic sharpness against his new, profound softness. "Your old self was so... rough. Unfinished. All that anxiety and insecurity written right on the surface for anyone to see. I've simply tidied up." She leaned in, her breath a warm, spiced caress against his ear. "This is the real you, Benjamin. The one I've uncovered. The one who doesn't need to hide behind coarse hair or uneven skin. The one who is made to be smooth, and soft, and utterly receptive." He could only tremble under her touch and her words, his mind struggling to reconcile the person he’d been minutes ago with the creature he was becoming. The feeling of the cool air against his entirely hairless body was an entirely new experience, a constant, gentle stimulation that made him hyper-aware of every inch of himself. He could feel the slight draft from the window as a silken glide over his shoulders and back, the texture of the wooden floor beneath his feet now a detailed map of grain and slight imperfections against his soles. The snug, unyielding embrace of the pink cage felt more prominent than ever with no more hair around to hide it from sight. A stark, contrasting point of defined pressure amidst the overwhelming new softness that enveloped the rest of him. He was a creature of pure sensation, every nerve ending singing a silent, bewildered song crafted by her will. Astra’s hand slid from his hip, trailing around to the small of his back, her touch proprietary and sure. "Now," she murmured, her voice dropping into an even deeper, more intimate register. "Let's see about making the rest of you just as perfect." Her other hand came up, not to snap this time, but to gently cup the side of his face. Her thumb stroked his cheek, and he felt another, subtler wave of that warm, transformative energy. It wasn't the dramatic dissolution of hair or the evening of skin tone; this was a finer, more precise magic. He felt the slight stubble on his jawline simply melt away, leaving his face as flawlessly smooth as the rest of him. His eyebrows softened into a more delicate, arching line, framing his wide, startled eyes. Even his lips felt fuller, softer, more sensitive under her gaze. She was refining him, polishing him, turning him into a living doll crafted for her pleasure. A helpless, shuddering sigh escaped him, his body swaying slightly as a wave of dizzying submission washed over him. The fight, the fear, the shock—it was all being smoothed away as effectively as his body hair, leaving behind only a raw, trembling acceptance. He was hers. This beautiful, alien, smooth-skinned body was hers. The proof was locked firmly in place, a cold pink promise between his thighs. He looked into her burning gold eyes and saw his reflection: a pale, wide-eyed, utterly transformed boy, being remade by a demon’s desire. And the most terrifying, exhilarating part was the part of him that never wanted her to stop. Her smile widened into a beatific, predatory curve as she absorbed his silent surrender, her thumb tracing the now-smooth line of his jaw. "Good boy," she breathed, the words honeyed and warm, sinking into his soul. "Now, the real artistry begins. A canvas needs its attire." She raised her hand, the elegant talons poised for another snap. The sound was crisp and final, like the breaking of a tiny bone. And instantly, a band of intense, cool pressure cinched around his waist, just above the hips. Ben’s eyes flew wide, his gaze darting downward to see a strip of flawless, obsidian-black latex materializing from nothingness. It was narrower than any belt he’d ever worn, perhaps two fingers wide, and it clung to his newly smoothed skin with an intimate, unyielding grip. The sensation was shocking—a tight, constant embrace that felt both alien and inexplicably right. The glossy surface caught the candlelight, shimmering with a liquid depth that seemed to swallow the light and promise darker pleasures. Before he could even process the waistband, a second, more intimate pressure bloomed against his skin. A gasp, thin and reedy, escaped his lips as he felt the material surge downward and inward, conforming to the cleft of his buttocks with a slick, whispering firmness. He instinctively tried to clench, but the latex held him fast, a thin strip of the same impossibly smooth, shiny blackness tracing a path that left him feeling more exposed than when he was completely naked. It was a thong, but unlike anything from any mundane store. This was a second skin, a deliberate, stark framing of his most private self. He could feel the cool air on the vast, exposed planes of his rear, a shocking contrast to the tight, possessive grip of the latex against his sensitive crease. His attention was violently yanked forward as the material tightened further, manifesting its final, most confronting feature. The front panel of the thong stretched taut, cupping his genitals with an engineer’s precision. The snug pink cage was now encased in a tight, glossy black pouch that lifted and presented his confined bulge with undeniable prominence. The pressure was immense, cradling and compressing him, making him acutely aware of every millimeter of the cage’s presence. The combination of the rigid plastic within and the clinging, slick latex without created a symphony of sensation—a constant, inescapable reminder of his state. He was no longer just a naked man; he was a man deliberately and artfully dressed for a specific, submissive purpose. The feminine cut of the garment, the way it accentuated rather than concealed, sent another hot-cold wave of shame and arousal coursing through him. He felt his face flush, the heat a stark contrast to the cool latex now bonded to his skin. Astra circled him slowly, her heels clicking a soft, deliberate rhythm on the floorboards. Her gaze was that of a master sculptor inspecting a freshly cast form. "Exquisite," she purred, the sound seeming to vibrate through the latex itself. Her taloned finger reached out and lightly traced the top edge of the waistband, the sharp tip a whisper away from his skin. He flinched at the touch, a full-body shudder running through him. "Obsidian against alabaster. A perfect contrast. And the fit…" She paused behind him, and he felt the temperature drop slightly with her proximity. He could almost feel her gaze burning into the exposed skin of his back and the thin strip of latex bisecting it. "...is perfection. It highlights every new curve I've given you. It showcases my property." She completed her circuit, coming to stand before him again, her eyes dropping to the prominent, glossy bulge the thong created. A slow, deeply satisfied smile spread across her lips. "And this," she said, her voice dropping to a husky, intimate murmur. She didn't touch him there, not yet. Instead, she simply looked, her golden eyes feasting on the sight. "This is the masterpiece. A promise. A beautiful, shiny little package, all wrapped up and waiting." Her gaze lifted to meet his, and the raw ownership in them stole the last of his breath. "How does it feel, Benjamin? To be so perfectly… dressed?" He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting sensations. The unrelenting tightness of the latex was a constant pressure, a physical claim that was both confining and, horrifyingly, arousing. The slick, cool material whispered against his hyper-sensitive skin with every slight shift of his muscles, a maddening, constant stimulation. The feeling of being so exposed in the back and so tightly packaged in the front was a dichotomy that short-circuited his thoughts. He felt utterly objectified, turned into a living display for her pleasure, and a treacherous part of him, the part that had shuddered with acceptance moments before, thrilled at the precision of it all. This was no clumsy, awkward encounter; this was intentional, artistic domination. "Overwhelming," he finally whispered, the word a brittle confession. He looked down at himself, at the stark black garment against his flawlessly pale skin, at the way it sculpted and presented a body he no longer recognized as his own. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching with the ghost of an impulse to cover himself, an impulse that felt pathetically futile now. The clothing was a more effective barrier than any modesty, locking him into this role more firmly than any cage ever could. Astra’s laugh was a soft, delighted sound. "Good," she said, stepping close enough that the heat from her body washed over his latex-clad skin. Her scent, that intoxicating blend of spice and sin, was now mingling with the faint, clean smell of the new material. "Overwhelming is just the beginning. We have so much more to add. But for now," she reached out and gently took one of his trembling hands, lifting it. "I want you to feel it. Really feel it." She guided his own fingertips to the latex waistband. "This is you now. This smoothness. This shine. This… readiness." His touch was hesitant, almost fearful. But as his fingers made contact with the cool, slick surface of the latex, a jolt shot through him. It was so smooth, so perfectly seamless. He let his fingers trail downward, over the taut front panel, feeling the distinct shape of the cage beneath, a secret hardness encased in soft, gleaming black. A soft, desperate moan escaped him. It was the most degrading, most erotically charged thing he had ever experienced. He was touching himself, yet it felt like he was touching a beautiful, anonymous object that belonged to her. He looked up at Astra, his eyes wide with a dazed, helpless need, completely and utterly lost in the sensation of being her creation. Astra's smile was a slash of crimson triumph as she watched his fingers explore the new reality of his body. "Such a quick learner," she murmured, her voice a silken caress that seemed to stroke his very soul. "You're beginning to appreciate the aesthetics. But a single piece is merely a suggestion. A full ensemble… that is a statement." She didn't snap her fingers this time. Instead, she simply breathed out a soft sigh, and the air around Ben’s legs began to shimmer. He watched, heart hammering, as a new sensation bloomed on his skin—a slow, creeping coolness that started at his ankles and began to climb. It was like being dipped in liquid shadow. The material manifested not in a sudden burst, but in a deliberate, sensual ascent, clinging to his calves, his knees, his thighs with a possessive, second-skin grip. These were stockings, but they were unlike any hosiery he had ever imagined. They were a deep, opaque black, so glossy they reflected the candlelight like polished obsidian, and they rose all the way to the middle of his thighs, where they terminated in a flawless, sharp line against his pale skin. A delicate, intricate pattern of vines and thorns, woven from the finest threads of shimmering silver, snaked up the outside of each stocking, catching the light with every tiny movement. The sensation was maddeningly detailed. He could feel the slight, raised texture of the silver embroidery against the slick smoothness of the latex beneath his trembling fingertips as he instinctively reached down to touch. The stockings were held in place by a gossamer-thin silver garter belt that materialized next, its straps connecting to the top of the stockings with tiny, heart-shaped silver clasps. The belt itself was a slender band of the same black latex as his thong, sitting just above it, a second, parallel line of tightness around his waist that made him feel trussed and presented. Every inch of his lower body was now encased in a symphony of tight, cool black and brilliant silver, the stockings rendering his legs into long, sleek columns of gleaming darkness. The way they made his legs look—smoother, longer, more elegant—sent another confusing thrill through him. He took a hesitant step, and the latex whispered seductively against itself, a soft, secret sound that seemed to echo in the quiet room. "Lovely," Astra judged, her head tilting as she admired the view. "It gives you such a graceful line. But you're still too… upright. Too tense." Her eyes glinted with mischief. "A princess should have a foundation. A reminder of her posture." Another soft exhalation, and a new pressure manifested at his feet. He looked down to see a pair of impossibly high-heeled shoes forming around his bare soles. They were a striking, vibrant pink, a shocking splash of color against the black and silver. The heels were a lethal-looking six inches, thin as stilettos, forcing his feet into a painful, arching curve. The moment they solidified, his balance shifted violently. He stumbled forward with a gasp, his arms flailing, only to be caught firmly by Astra's steadying hands on his shoulders. "Easy now," she chuckled, her grip firm. "You'll need to learn a new way to stand. A new way to move. It's part of the lesson." The shoes were, like everything else, made of latex, hugging his feet and arches with a vice-like grip. The narrow, pointed toes elongated his feet, and the steep incline pitched his weight forward,