Domina Pact

Like what you see? Check out my profile for more ways to participate in my stories!

***

What happens when the people in your fantasies act on their own?

She had typed the same sentence too many times to count over the past few days, and as with all the others, this time she quickly deleted the words, shaking her head dismissively. How would one even go about asking that question? And who would respond?

It wasn't as though there were a lot of people talking about the issue; her searching online had turned up nothing at all, as if she were the only person on Earth experiencing this. And what an experience it was!

She had no shame about it; at night she would turn the lights low, strip out of her clothes and close her eyes, letting her fingers wander over expanses of soft, pale skin, always ending up between her legs. It was a pleasant enough way to end the day, subsumed in sensual daydreams as she stroked herself to orgasm, and it was during this very routine that she first felt it.

She had wanted a man. Though perfectly able to find her pleasure in women, that day, a week ago, she had desired a masculine presence; strong muscles, a hard cock pressed against her, stubble scraping against her inner thighs...

... But that wasn't what she had gotten.

Closing her eyes that night, she had begun conjuring a man, but what had walked out of her imagination had been a woman, all swinging hips and tall, lithe grace. Her eyes had refused to open, staying closed as though holding onto the fantasy, this mystery woman who stood before her and pulled her desires astray. The figment even seemed to smile when she tried, teeth like fangs glinting with pure danger.

She had wanted a man, and had gotten a woman, but that had not been the only way her plans had been deviated from that night. She had slipped into her bed dreaming of gentle love, of quiet orgasms filled with blushing heat and small, near imperceptible shudders. Instead, she had found herself... used. Taken and forced and ground beneath the heel of the mystery woman, all the while unable to just open her eyes... or to stop herself from coming.

Oh yes, her fingers hadn't stopped working the entire time, driven on by some impulse beyond her understanding and, in the end, simple addiction to the sensations she produced. Absorbed into the most devious, sexual traps she could provide, left locked in her own head with a woman who knew her every weakness and was more than willing to exploit them, she brought herself to orgasm more times than she could count. She came. Teeth gritted, she came. Her inner self kneeling and subjugated, she came.

Bound and hurt to the point of tears, she came.

By the time it had ended, when her eyes had opened and her prurient hands had come back under her own control, the sheets beneath her had been soaked, sticky with her own perplexing arousal. She had sported a blush that had remained for hours at a time, furious and hot and nearly full-body, replete with a well earned sweat. Trembling, she had made her way to the bathroom to shower away... whatever had just happened.

The next night, she learned that this was to become her new routine.

Largely experimentally, she had slipped back into her bed that next day, and closed her eyes. Her fingers had begun to move almost immediately, unbuttoning her pants with impatient speed, working on automatic as they plunged below the waistband of her panties to the sound of clacking heels, growing steadily closer in her imagination.

The same woman smirked out from the dark of her mind.

From there, things had progressed much as they had the first time; the cruel figment of her imagination had stripped her and loomed over her, taunting in a voice like black silk and making her do the most degrading things... and all the while her fingers stroked herself to orgasm again and again.

It happened the next night too. And the night after that. And every night this week.

She couldn't escape it. The woman in her mind had become the new master of her imagination, always lurking, ready to spring out from behind every unconnected thought. Whenever she returned home, the figment was waiting for her, ready to turn her nights into a sexual haze, filled with throbbing pleasure and, by the end, the ache of a body well used. She was, in every respect, the captive of her dreams, possessed of this strange secret that had her doubting her sanity at every turn, unable to tell anyone.

What would they think? What would she even say?

Please help, my imagination keeps taking sexual advantage of me!

Instead, she had turned to the internet for answers during the twilight hour before unseen pressures compelled her to her bedroom, where the phantasmal woman awaited her. But even there, her anonymity assured, she hesitated to type the words, as though actually presenting the thought to the world would confirm something sick about herself. It felt... wrong, and so she deleted the words and closed her laptop.

All that was left was the figment, demanding her presence in the bedroom.

Treacherously, she felt a trickle of wetness between her legs, thighs clasped tightly together at the very thought. Perhaps that was why she was reluctant to tell others of what was happening to her; perhaps she liked it too much, and feared that it might stop should she be compelled to get help?

She would go to the bedroom, she knew; her place on the bed, beneath the heel of her conceptual conqueror, held a sort of personal gravity, dragging her inexorably downward into the next humiliation. But such things could always be delayed, of course they could; there was so very much to be done, after all. What if she wanted to go clean herself up before descending into that maddening hall of pleasure once more?

Yes, that was it. She needed a shower first. That's what she would do.

She walked down the hall on light, hesitant feet, peering into every corner and shadow, an odd sense of guilt pervading her, as though she was standing up a lover who could discover her escaping at any moment. As though there was something to fear in disappointing a woman who existed only within the confines of her mind.

She almost giggled at the notion, if it wasn't so very plausible in the moment.

Turning the taps as high as they could go, she stood in the slowly warming bathroom, surrounded by cream coloured tiling, suffused by the warm light of a fading bulb. This was safe, this was comfortable...

... The woman wouldn't find her here.

Stepping out of her clothes, she felt a sudden sensation of eyes at her back, strong enough to compel her to whirl around, discovering nothing but her own pale, frightened face looking back at her from the mirror. Her hands felt out for the rim of the counter, and she stared herself full in the eye, the corners of her mouth turning down; this was ridiculous. She was better than this, better than cowering at the contents of her own mind. There was nothing to fear, not really.

There couldn't be...

Steam had begun billowing out over the top of the shower curtain, as good a signal as any to get in. Stepping under the water, she lifted her face to the stream, allowing the heat to hit her full on, blasting away the paranoia and nervousness that had pervaded her entire day up to this point. She had broken the cycle, stepped away from the routine that had come to define her week, if only in a small and momentary way. She would return to it in time, placing herself willingly back in the figment's waiting arms, but for now, her life was her own, her choices under her own control.

The water caressed her body, clinging to the peaks of her breasts, running down the curves of her hips, and even this became strangely sensual in the shadow of the figment, the waiting pleasure to come. Once she was done here, she would return to the bedroom, to debase herself for the figment's amusement; she could already feel the desire for it building in the back of her mind, unbidden and, in some respects, unwanted. She would go, and so there were parts of her- many of them between her legs- intent on recontextualizing even this act of defiance as something sexual, a kind of preparation for what was to come.

She wasn't merely taking a shower, she was making her body presentable for the figment...

'Nothing unusual here,' She said, under her breath, the words barely perceptible even to herself over the sound of running water. Nevertheless, defiance edged her words, 'Just taking a shower for nobody in particular...'

It was then that she heard it; heels, clacking against cream tiles.

She tensed immediately, ears reaching out for the sound, but it had faded before she could properly apprehend it. It could barely have been said to exist at all, potentially something akin to an auditory hallucination than a legitimate sound, but it was still enough to put a hostile slant on events. She realized, possibly for the first time, precisely how vulnerable a position she had put herself in; alone, naked, backed into a corner and surrounded by slick surfaces, with her sight blocked by curtains and walls, and her hearing dulled by the constant pound of the shower spray. Good thing...

Good thing there was nobody else in here, then.

But the sound resounded off of the walls regardless, loud enough this time to make her jump, squeaking with shock. This time she pulled back the shower curtain, eyes wide and heart pounding, fully expecting to see a figure in the room beyond, yet being met with nothing but steam and bathroom fixtures. Her reflection stared back at her through an inverse, mirror-world bathroom with its own steam fog, wide eyed and dishevelled, dripping water. Slowly, she watched herself relax.

Closing the curtain again, she took a moment to close her eyes and breathe deeply, to steady herself in the face of what were clearly hallucinations. Merely the stresses of a week on this perverse routine taking its toll on her nerves, making her jumpy and strained at every unexpected sound. She had to be hearing the house settling, the sounds turned relevant and threatening when refracted through the prism of her paranoia.

She had almost convinced herself of that by the time she opened her eyes, and saw a reflection that wasn't her own staring back at her through the glass panel ahead of her. The figment smiled.

'You're standing me up,' The reflection looked down her nose, her image knobbed and warped by the tiled texture of the glass, but immediately recognizable as the woman who had spent the week... It didn't bear thinking about. 'That's not smart.'

Screaming, she flailed backward, jamming the hot tap into her back, the pain dulled and inconsequential next to the shock that rippled through her. The reflection stepped forward, pulling itself out of the two-dimensional space inch by inch, the glass offering resistance, as if attempting to suck her back in. Nevertheless, the figment advanced, accruing reality moment by moment, dark eyes levelled ahead, exuding confidence.

'I like my human girls wet, though. That's thoughtful of you,' The figment said, her voice a low sensual hum. 'Never done this in a shower before... are you sure there's enough room?'

Under normal circumstances it would have been ill-advised, but faced with a very real creature from her imagination, standing face to face, their breasts actually touching in the close quarters of the shower, panic made her both flighty and reckless. She threw herself through the shower curtain, feet skidding on the wet floor in her desperation to escape what was surely a clear sign of an ensuing mental breakdown. A laugh sounded from behind her as she cleared the bathroom door and made it out into the hallway, the plastic purr of the curtain parting as she took her first thudding steps forward, nude and dripping, crimson hair trailing behind her as she ran...

... The bathroom door clicked closed as her feet left the ground, a heavy weight encircling her waist as it hefted her up, effortlessly.

'Oh, you want to do it in the bedroom? I'm game,' The figment's voice was suddenly behind her and below her, as the thing lifting her into the air elevated her above head height. The soft, wet pressure of a tongue started at the small of her back and moved, lapping up a rivulet of water as it ran down her skin. She shivered, and the figment continued, 'Do let me lead the way.'

Stepping ahead of her, the figment finally afforded her a view of what had happened; the woman herself was naked too, making it easy to see the tentacle extending from her back to ensnare her prey, forcing her to follow behind the figment as she languidly headed for the bedroom, hips swaying in a way that, in another context, could be described as "luscious."

Entering the room and conscientiously closing the door behind her, the figment deposited her prey onto the ground, the dark, pulsing tentacle adding an insistent downward pressure that forced the girl to her knees, almost bending double under the weight of it. Looking down at her, the intruder smiled.

'There now, isn't that better?' The figment crooned, running one hand through her captive's hair, fingers subsumed in the fiery red therein. Looking up, she regarded the creature truly for the first time, cataloguing as many distinct features as she could. What she saw was not human; though it took the shape of a beautiful woman, devoid of clothes, there were features on her that could not belong to a person.

Her skin, most obviously, was the lightest shade of blue, the colour almost imperceptible but certainly there. At her limbs it became darker, her arms from the elbows down the crushed velvet blue of a midnight sky, as were her legs up to the middle of the thigh. Like naturally occurring gloves and stockings, she thought, the idea almost making her giggle, only the lingering pressure of the tentacle around her waist reminding her of the gravity of her situation.

Oh yes, there were tentacles too, four of them that she could see, extending from the figment's back; thick strands of muscle clad in the same deep, dark blue, their length allowing them to stretch to the far corners of the room, their tapered tips idly exploring, as if independent of their mistress' whims.

And then there were the horns.

They curved around the contour of her head, rising to the surface of her deep black hair like ancient serpents rising from the sea. Like polished bones of purest ebony, they glinted in the light, the tips wickedly sharp but, ultimately, worthless as a form of weaponry; they terminated almost at the back of her head.

Even so, they gave a particular hint as to the nature of the creature before her.

'Who are you?' She asked of her captor in a tremulous voice, near breathlessly as the tentacle around her midriff squeezed, making it hard to draw a full breath. She felt herself shaking, head to toe, in the presence of an entity that radiated a strange kind of pressure, an aura of alien oddity, as though her very being stung at the forces of reality, made the world draw back from her infinitesimally.

'Mmm, names are a difficult concept, my dear,' The figment tapped its chin with a finger, and her captive could see the claws that tipped her nails. Eyes like midnight stared down at her, like tunnels into the sky, 'True names are powerful things, for Succubi like me. They confer altogether too much control to those that hear them for me to just give mine out heedlessly, no matter how much I'm attracted to you.'

'Fake names are good, though. Just call me Crona,' She knelt beside the trapped woman then, running one of those claws down the terrified girl's cheek. Biting her lip, Crona leaned in, putting her face beside her captive's, blowing a stream of cool air into her ear, 'I know your true name though, Taylor...'

She said another word then, breathed it so that it hung in the air, a little glowing glyph in deep, forest green, the lines of it waving and curling in on themselves. Taylor didn't recognize the language, but the meaning of the word punched through her like a comet, known so deep in her being that the moment of hearing it stretched on into an eternity, endless time for her to comprehend the word, understand every inch of it, every pulsing node and thread of its history. The word became her, stamped over her soul.

Despite her bondage, Taylor's body arched back, a shiver racing up her spine, embedding itself all the way through her. Her skin screamed with sensation, reaching out to every minute contact, the air against her, the carpet beneath her, her own hair as it brushed her back. Every muscle she had clenched.

In an instant, with the hearing of the word, Taylor went from zero to orgasm in a sixth of a second, body gripped with pleasure. Ecstasy ripped into her, tore out every cogent thought, left only Crona's singular syllable lingering on her clit. Her pussy pulsed with it, wet walls closing on nothing, as her nipples hardened and her mouth opened in a wordless, mindless moan, a sound like pure sexuality. There was no stimulation, no fantasies, or fetishes, or kinks; Crona had just purred into her ear and turned her on, like flipping a switch. But there was no satisfaction to be found in it either, in this false climax, just a heightening of arousal that had been steadily building as her date with the figment, previously presumed to be merely another masturbation session, drew closer. Now her need spiked, her desire skyrocketed as her body shuddered and twitched through its empty orgasm.

She came down shaking, unexpectedly in Crona's arms, the creature sighing with deep, full-body contentedness, as though drawing something truly edifying from her captive's weird pleasure. When she let Taylor go, there was a distinct note of reluctance in her, that faded quickly as she got to her feet in a manner she had denied to Taylor herself, still pinned low by the unnatural strength of the binding tentacle.

'Aren't true names interesting?' Crona stretched, lithe body moving like a marble sculpture come to life, though Taylor was unable to truly appreciate this, possessed as she was by echoes of what had just happened to her, aftershocks of pleasure that only made her want more. 'The intention one has when they speak one very much determines the effect... and I'm sure you can tell from what happened to you how much I want you. Since I always get what I want, here we are. Now then...'

Her tentacles moved with purpose now, wrapping around Taylor's arms and the insides of her knees, holding her still despite her growing need to struggle. Her arms were held straight out behind her back, pinioned there by a pair of tentacles working over one another in a complex network of overlapping strands, seemingly solely for Crona's amusement alone. Escape would be impossible, though it didn't stop Taylor from trying, muscles straining against the far greater strength of the Succubus; every inch of progress toward freedom she gained was quickly reversed by the dextrous lengths, heretofore unknown loops reaching out to grasp at her and pull her back into line. There were no weak points along the length of them, no place where the muscles ceased or thinned, no joints or bones to strike out at. Just pure, supernatural strength, penning her in.

Taylor's knees were pulled apart as she knelt by yet more tentacles, spread nearly as wide as they could go by the unyielding pressure of Crona's appendages, leaving the most delicate, sensitive parts of her exposed and vulnerable. The tentacle about her waist finally released her, but at the moment, that was no comfort.

Crona herself loomed above her, staring down with undisguised prurient interest, and Taylor found herself flinching away from the attention. Of course, if the being in her fantasies had always been Crona, her own independent entity, then she had clearly been spending a lot of time admiring Taylor's body in the past, but that had always been from within the safe confines of her imagination. But now the Succubus was here in person, in the flesh, her deep, black eyes filled with the simplest of desires and levelled right at Taylor; the experience was totally different.