My Wives are Beautiful Demons

Itharine’s trembling moan when she felt Vergil’s tongue against her nipple seemed to snap the last thread of restraint hanging in the air.

The sound, mingled with Qliphoth’s soft and satisfied snoring as she slept, created a symphony of temptation impossible to ignore.

Vergil tasted the salt on Itharine’s skin and felt desire bubbling anew through his veins, still unsatisfied despite the animal fury with which he had taken Qliphoth.

This was different.

Itharine offered herself with a mixture of determined submission and awkward urgency that, in its own way, was just as intoxicating as the Tree’s ravenous hunger.

He gently pulled away from her breast and held her face between his hands. Her violet eyes were glassy, her pupils dilated as they reflected the shifting lights of the Bifröst above.

"Are you certain?" His voice came out rougher than he intended, still carrying the remnants of what had happened before.

Itharine answered not with words, but with action.

She pushed him backward, making him recline against the soft black grass.

Her hands, once so delicate while serving tea, trembled slightly as they undid the rest of his trousers and pulled them down along with his underwear.

His erection, still hard and wet with Qliphoth’s fluids, was exposed to the energy-filled air.

Itharine stared at it and swallowed before climbing over his hips.

Her hesitation lasted only a second.

With a deep sigh drawn from the depths of her repressed soul, she positioned herself and began to descend.

The first contact was an explosion of sensation for both of them.

For Vergil, it was the feeling of a different tightness—more restrained, but incredibly hot and wet.

For Itharine, it was a fullness that made her hold her breath and widen her eyes. She lowered herself slowly, inch by inch, until he was completely inside her.

A long, trembling moan escaped her lips.

"Ah... Master..." she whispered, her hands braced against his chest for balance.

She began to move, awkwardly at first as she searched for the right angle. Vergil helped by placing his hands on her narrow hips and guiding her.

The sounds between them were wet and soft, a striking contrast to the brutal impacts and screams that had filled the air only minutes earlier. It was intimate, almost private, yet echoed dangerously through the silent clearing.

Itharine closed her eyes and focused on the sensation. Every upward movement was an agonizing withdrawal, every descent a wave of pleasure that rose from where their bodies joined and spread through her.

She was sensitive.

Incredibly sensitive.

Every small adjustment to his position inside her made her shudder and release a short, breathless gasp.

"More... slowly... like that..." she guided him, her voice barely more than a thread.

Vergil watched her.

The expression of ecstatic concentration on her face. The way her small, firm breasts moved lightly with her rhythm. The strands of white hair clinging to her damp temples.

There was a vulnerable beauty in her, a complete surrender unlike anything else.

He began moving his hips upward to meet her rhythm.

The soft, wet sound of their bodies became faster and more distinct.

"Ah! There... that is... good..." Itharine moaned, her head falling back.

He could feel her inner walls contracting around him, trying to adjust and grow accustomed to the sensation.

She was resilient, just as she had claimed.

She endured the deep, steady rhythm he set, her internal muscles tightening and relaxing in a dance learned in the moment.

But her sensitivity was her downfall.

When Vergil changed the angle and brushed a specific point inside her, Itharine screamed.

A surprisingly powerful burst of hot fluid sprayed from her, soaking his abdomen and the place where their bodies met.

She froze, her eyes widening in shock.

"W-what...?" she gasped, blushing furiously.

Vergil stopped, surprised.

"Itharine?"

"I... I did not know that..." She drew her shoulders inward, mortified, though pleasure still burned brightly in her eyes. "Do not stop."

He did not stop.

He resumed moving, now more curious and attentive.

And he discovered it.

Itharine possessed incredible control and enough endurance to sustain a deep, consistent rhythm for long periods.

But when pleasure completely overwhelmed her, when she reached her climax, her body did more than release the usual fluids.

She squirted.

And not a little.

Several minutes later, Vergil pulled her down and rolled them over until he was above her.

The change in position made Itharine moan loudly, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist.

Now he controlled the rhythm completely.

He penetrated her with long, deep thrusts, each one drawing a different sound from her: a hoarse moan, a broken gasp, his name whispered like a prayer.

"Vergil... Master... it is... so... ah! There! THERE!"

He found the point again and focused on it.

Itharine’s body stiffened. Her fingers dug into his back.

A tremor traveled through her from head to toe before another burst of hot fluid exploded from her, stronger this time, striking his chest and dripping onto the ground between them.

The sound was a distinct, wet splash.

"Another... already?" she cried, confused and ecstatic. "It cannot... it is too much..."

But it was.

And Vergil was determined to explore it completely.

He redoubled his effort, his hips striking hers in a relentless rhythm.

The air filled with the sound of skin striking skin, Itharine’s continuous broken moans, the wet sounds of penetration, and the sporadic, uncontrollable splashes that followed each of her orgasms.

He brought her to the limit again and again.

Every time she climaxed, her body released another stream, becoming even more slippery and heated around him and intensifying his own sensations.

It was a vicious and delicious cycle.

He watched her endurance diminish with every peak. Her moans became higher, her movements more uncoordinated.

She clung to him like someone drowning, her fingers tangled in his silver hair and her legs trembling around him.

"I... cannot take any more..." she pleaded after what seemed like the fifth or sixth climax, her body covered in a thin layer of sweat and her own fluids.

"You can," he growled near her ear, feeling his own pressure rising. "You told me you wanted everything."

And he gave it to her.

With a final series of brutal, precise thrusts, he drove her into a cataclysmic climax.

Itharine did not scream.

The sound caught in her throat and emerged as a hoarse, breathless rasp.

Her body arched violently, every muscle tightening to its limit before releasing a stream so powerful it resembled a small jet.

The sound was clearly audible, soaking both of them completely and forming a visible pool on the black grass beneath them.

Itharine collapsed, her eyes rolling back before closing.

She had lost consciousness not from exhaustion, but from absolute sensory overload.

One final tremor passed through her legs before she became still, breathing weakly, a drunken and satisfied smile resting on her swollen lips.

Vergil collapsed beside her, panting.

The scent of sex, sweat, and Itharine’s unique fluids filled his nose.

He stood at the edge of his own limit, but held himself back.

Something at the edge of his attention called to him.

He turned his head.

Across the clearing, Nivara and Crymsaria were still seated at the tea table.

But the scene had changed completely.

Neither woman was looking at Vergil or Itharine anymore.

They stared intensely at one another, and the tension between them was palpable—a force field of repressed desire and anger directed at themselves.

Crymsaria was trembling, her fists clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had turned white. A deep flush covered her face and spread down her neck toward the neckline of her dress.

But what was beneath the table captured Vergil’s attention.

From beneath the long hem of Crymsaria’s black dress, a clear, shining trail ran down her leg and formed a small pool on the black energy ground beside her foot.

The pool grew slowly, a silent and humiliating testament to her uncontrollable arousal.

Nivara was no better.

The Ice Dragon, always so composed, breathed through her mouth, her thin lips slightly parted. Her eyes remained fixed on Crymsaria, burning with a heat capable of melting any ice.

Beside Nivara’s rigid chair, another identical pool had formed.

Her light-blue dress could not hide the wet trail running down her inner thigh.

They had become so wet, so consumed by the scene of pure carnal surrender they had witnessed, that their own bodies had completely betrayed them.

The scent of sex in the air.

The moans.

The wet sounds.

The sight of Itharine being driven repeatedly into ecstasy.

All of it had eroded their defenses until nothing remained but raw desire.

Their eyes met again.

This time, there was no judgment and no silent competition.

There was only a deep, animal understanding of their shared need.

Crymsaria opened her mouth to speak, but her voice emerged rough and broken.

She cleared her throat, her golden eyes blazing with a mixture of shame and fierce determination.

Nivara spoke first, her voice an icy whisper that contrasted violently with the heat in her eyes.

"Fuck it."

Crymsaria finished at the same instant, her voice a low growl.

"We want it too."

The words echoed across the clearing, more definitive than any scream.

They were not a request.

They were a declaration.

A demand.

Both women stood at the same time, their chairs scraping across the ground.

The movement was synchronized and predatory.

Crymsaria seized the edge of the tea table and overturned it with one sharp motion, sending cups and the teapot crashing onto the ground in a burst of shattered porcelain.

The sound seemed to release something inside them.

Without another word, they began walking toward Vergil.

Not with Itharine’s awkward shyness or Qliphoth’s possessive fury.

But with the slow, inevitable determination of two predators who had finally decided to satisfy their hunger.

Vergil, still lying beside the unconscious Itharine, felt a new kind of tension take hold of the air.

He opened his eyes fully when he saw the two dragonesses standing before him.

Both lifted the skirts of their dresses, revealing how desperately their bodies craved affection.

"We are going to mate," Nivara said coldly, though her face was flushed. "My body is burning."

"I am in heat," Crymsaria said, then completed the demand in an absolute tone.

"Impregnate me."