Mother's Embrace: A Tale of Obsession
Prologue: The Last Normal Day
The morning sun filtered through the blinds of Ryan's bedroom, casting stripes of gold across his sleeping face. Seventeen years old, with the lanky build of a boy not quite finished growing into his frame, he slept peacefully—unaware that this would be the last ordinary day of his life.
Downstairs, Rowena moved through their suburban home with unnatural grace. At first glance, she appeared to be a stunningly beautiful woman in her mid-thirties—raven hair cascading over shoulders that had never known tension, eyes the colour of twilight holding secrets older than the town they lived in. Her beauty was almost painful to behold, a perfection that made cashiers stumble over their words and neighbors avert their gaze in something between attraction and unease.
But Rowena was no ordinary mother. She was a succubus—a being from the infernal realms who fed on life essence, sexual energy, and mortal devotion. And for seventeen years, she had done something unprecedented in the annals of Hell: she had raised a human child as her own, keeping her true nature hidden, her hunger restrained, her obsession carefully controlled.
Until now.
Ryan stirred, blinking sleep from his eyes. He stretched, his t-shirt riding up to reveal a pale strip of stomach. From the doorway where she'd been watching for the last twenty minutes, Rowena felt that familiar, dangerous warmth spread through her lower belly. Her son. Her beautiful, perfect Ryan.
"Morning, Mom," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
"Good morning, sweetheart," she purred, the sound vibrating with a frequency that made the air itself seem to thicken. "Breakfast is ready."
The kitchen smelled of bacon and pancakes—a perfectly normal Sunday morning. Ryan shuffled in, his hair sticking up in all directions. Rowena watched him from her place at the stove, her eyes drinking in every detail: the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed the orange juice she'd poured, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the sleep-softened expression in his hazel eyes.
For years, she'd told herself these feelings were maternal. That her desire to touch him, to possess him completely, was just a mother's love amplified by her demonic nature. But the truth had been whispering to her in the dark hours of the night, growing louder with each passing year.
Ryan was becoming a man. And Rowena wanted him.
Not as a son. As a mate.
"Big plans today?" she asked, turning the bacon with a precision that was almost mechanical.
"Just homework," Ryan said around a mouthful of pancake. "Maybe hang out with Josh later."
Rowena's smile didn't waver, but something dark shifted behind her twilight eyes. Josh. The friend who was starting to take up too much of Ryan's time. The friend who had joked last week about Ryan being a "momma's boy."
"You spend so much time with that boy," she said lightly, placing a plate before him. "Don't you want to stay home with your mother today? We could watch movies. Like we used to."
Ryan shrugged, not noticing the faint tremor in her hands as she poured syrup. "Maybe. I told Josh I'd maybe come over, though."
The "maybe" hung between them—a tiny rebellion, insignificant to him, catastrophic to her. Rowena felt the careful walls she'd built around her true nature begin to crack. The obsession she'd kept caged for seventeen years rattled its chains.
"Eat up," she whispered, her voice suddenly husky.
She watched, transfixed, as he took a bite. His lips. His tongue. The way his throat worked as he swallowed. Every movement was a symphony played just for her. Her skin tingled with a heat that had nothing to do with the stove. Her true form—usually so carefully contained—stirred beneath the human façade. Wings of shadow and flame yearned to unfold. Claws itched to mark him as hers.
Tonight, she decided. The thought formed with crystalline clarity. No more pretending. No more hiding. The laws of Hell were clear about possession and marriage. Matriarchal, ancient, absolute. She would claim what was hers by right of obsession.
Ryan looked up, catching her staring. "What?"
"Nothing, sweetheart," she said, the lie smooth as silk. "I just love you so much."
He smiled—that easy, trusting smile that had been her undoing from the moment the hospital had placed him in her arms seventeen years ago. "Love you too, Mom."
If only he knew what her love truly meant.
Part One: The Claiming
Chapter 1: The Last Sunset
The day passed with agonizing slowness for Rowena. She moved through her routine—laundry, cleaning, gardening—but her mind was elsewhere, preparing. Her human guise began to fray at the edges. Shadows clung to her a little too persistently. The air around her occasionally shimmered with heat haze even indoors. Her reflection in mirrors sometimes showed glimpses of her true form: eyes like burning coals, skin the colour of a stormy sky, horns curving back from her forehead.
Ryan noticed none of it. He was too absorbed in his own world—texting friends, playing video games, being a normal teenager. Each oblivious moment was a tiny knife in Rowena's heart. He didn't see her. Not really. Not the way she needed to be seen.
As evening fell, she prepared a special dinner. His favourites: lasagna, garlic bread, chocolate cake for dessert. She laced his drink with a subtle draught—a demonic concoction that would make him suggestible, pliant. Not enough to erase his will completely, but enough to soften resistance.
"Wow, Mom, you went all out," Ryan said as he took his seat.
"It's a special night," she replied, her voice humming with a resonance that made the crystal glasses sing faintly.
They ate mostly in silence. Ryan devoured his food with teenage appetite. Rowena barely touched hers. She was feasting on something else—the sight of him, the sound of his breathing, the life energy that radiated from him in golden waves only she could see.
"You're staring again," he said, not looking up from his lasagna.
"Can't a mother look at her son?" The words came out heavier than intended, laden with meaning he couldn't possibly understand.
After dinner, she suggested a movie. As they sat on the couch, she allowed herself to sit closer than usual. When his hand brushed against hers, she felt a jolt of energy so powerful it made her gasp.
"You okay, Mom?"
"Perfect," she breathed. "I've never been more perfect."
Halfway through the film, the draught began to take effect. Ryan's eyelids grew heavy. His movements slowed. When she suggested he might be more comfortable in his room, he agreed with a drowsy nod.
She helped him upstairs, her arm around his waist, her body pressed against his side. His bedroom was a shrine to normalcy—band posters, a cluttered desk, clothes on the floor. Rowena guided him to the bed and helped him lie down.
"Just rest, sweetheart," she whispered, brushing hair from his forehead.
His eyes fluttered closed. The draught wouldn't keep him unconscious—that wasn't its purpose. It would zenith, when love becomes possession, the obsessed may claim the object of their desire. The matriarchy recognizes this as sacred. As marriage."
She produced a blade from nowhere—obsidian, serrated, humming with power. Ryan's eyes widened.
"Blood calls to blood," she whispered. "Even adopted blood."
With a swift, precise motion, she drew the blade across her palm. Black blood, thick as tar and glittering with minute sparks, welled up. Before Ryan could react, she did the same to his palm. He cried out—more from shock than pain, for the cut was shallow and clean.
She pressed their wounds together. Her blood was hot, almost burning. His was merely warm.
"My blood to yours," she chanted. "My life to yours. My essence to yours. From this night forward, you are mine. Body. Soul. Breath. I am your guardian, your wife, your goddess. You are my husband, my ward, my worshipper."
The room pulsed with dark energy. Ryan felt something shift inside him—a fundamental realignment of his very being. The bonds that held him dissolved into smoke. But he didn't move. Couldn't move. Her will held him more firmly than any physical restraint.
Rowena leaned down, her full breasts brushing against his chest. She kissed him—not a mother's kiss, but a claiming. Her tongue was forked, hot, tasting of spices and something metallic. Ryan stiffened, then—to his horror—responded. His body, traitorously, reacted to her nearness, to the overwhelming scent of her, to the energy that crackled between them.
When she broke the kiss, a thin strand of silver saliva connected their mouths for a moment before snapping.
"The marriage is consummated in the eyes of Hell," she breathed, her eyes burning with triumph. "You're mine now, Ryan. Forever."
Chapter 3: The New Normal
Morning came, but not as Ryan had ever known it.
He woke in his own bed, but everything was different. The room was darker, the air thicker. And Rowena—still in her true form—lay beside him, one arm draped possessively across his chest, her head on his shoulder.
Memory returned in a sickening rush. The ritual. The vows. The kiss.
He tried to move, to slip out from under her arm, but her eyes opened instantly. They glowed faintly in the dim light.
"Good morning, husband," she purred, nuzzling his neck.
"Don't call me that," he whispered, voice raw.
"But that's what you are." She propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at him. Her beauty was even more unsettling in the grey dawn light. "My beloved. My property. My everything."
"This is wrong," he said, but the words lacked conviction. Something had changed inside him. The ritual, the mixing of blood—it had done something. He could feel her presence in his mind, a warm, dark weight at the edge of his consciousness.
"Wrong by human standards," she agreed, tracing his collarbone with a claw. "But by the laws of my people, it's sacred. Beautiful." She leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear. "And irreversible."
She rose from the bed, her form shifting as she moved. By the time she reached the door, she looked human again—or nearly so. There was still an otherworldly grace to her movements, a depth to her eyes that hadn't been there before.
"Get dressed," she said. "We have much to discuss."
The discussion happened over breakfast. Or rather, Rowena talked while Ryan picked at his food.
"The binding is complete," she explained, sipping coffee that steamed despite being room temperature. "You are now under my protection according to infernal law. As my ward, your needs are my responsibility. Your nourishment, your hydration, your… everything."
Ryan pushed eggs around his plate. "What does that mean?"
"It means," she said, setting down her cup with a click that seemed too loud, "that I will provide for you. Completely."
He didn't like the way she said it. There was a finality there, an absoluteness that chilled him despite the warm kitchen.
"I have to go to school," he said, grasping for normalcy.
Rowena smiled—a slow, knowing smile. "No, my love. You don't."
"What? But—"
"School is for children. You're a married man now." Her eyes glinted. "Your education will be… different. I'll teach you everything you need to know."
Panic began to rise in Ryan's chest. "You can't keep me here. People will notice. Josh will—"
"Josh," she interrupted, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "will receive a message that you've moved away suddenly to care for a sick relative. Your teachers will receive withdrawal papers. Your entire human life…" She made a gentle puffing sound, like extinguishing a candle. "Gone."
"No." He stood up, the chair scraping loudly. "No, you can't do this!"
Rowena didn't move. She simply looked at him, and the weight of her gaze pressed him back into his seat. It wasn't physical force—it was something deeper, a pressure on his will.
"I already have," she said softly. "The paperwork is filed. The messages are sent. As far as the world is concerned, Ryan Anderson has vanished."
Tears pricked Ryan's eyes—frustration, fear, helplessness. "Why? Why are you doing this?"
The question seemed to genuinely surprise her. She tilted her head, birdlike. "Because I love you, Ryan. More than anything in this world or any other. And love like mine… it consumes. It possesses. It doesn't share."
"This isn't love!" he shouted. "This is… is…"
"It is," she said, her voice suddenly gentle. She reached across the table, taking his hand. Her touch was electric, sending shivers up his arm. "You'll understand. In time."
Chapter 4: The First Lesson
The days blurred together. Ryan's old life receded like a dream. The house became his entire world—a gilded cage with central heating and cable TV.
Rowena began his "education" slowly. The first subject was her own nature.
"Succubi don't eat like humans do," she explained one afternoon as they sat in the living room. She was in her human form, curled on the couch like a cat. "We consume energy. Life force. Sexual energy is the most potent, but devotion… devotion sustains us like nothing else."
She looked at him meaningfully. Ryan looked away, his cheeks heating.
"My body processes matter differently," she continued. "What goes in… comes out. But changed. Transformed by my essence."
Ryan shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like where this was going.
"For you," she said, her voice dropping to that intimate purr that made his stomach clench, "I will provide everything. Your food. Your drink. Your very sustenance."
She rose and glided to the kitchen. When she returned, she held a glass of clear liquid. It shimmered with a faint, pearlescent light.
"Drink," she said, offering it to him.
Ryan stared at the glass. "What is it?"
"My gift to you." Her eyes held his. "Your first taste of what I am."
He hesitated. Every instinct screamed not to drink it. But another part of him—the part that had responded to her kiss, the part that felt her presence in his mind—was curious. What would it taste like? What would it do?
He took the glass. The liquid was cool but seemed to radiate warmth. He brought it to his lips.
The taste was indescribable. Sweet but not cloying. Rich but not heavy. It carried hints of everything he'd ever loved—the vanilla scent of his childhood blanket, the taste of birthday cake, the memory of summer rain. But underneath it all was her—Rowena's essence, dark and complex and utterly addictive.
He drained the glass without realizing it. When it was empty, he felt… whole. Satisfied in a way food had never made him feel. Energized. Clear-headed.
"Good?" Rowena asked, her smile knowing.
He could only nod, staring at the empty glass as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
"That," she whispered, taking the glass from his trembling hand, "was my nectar. The essence of my pleasure. My squirt, as humans might crudely call it."
Understanding dawned, horrible and fascinating. Ryan's stomach turned even as his mouth remembered the incredible taste.
"From now on," Rowena continued, stroking his hair, "this will be your drink. My nectar for your thirst. My milk for your hunger." She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear. "And when you need something more substantial… I'll provide that too."
Chapter 5: The Feeding
Ryan tried to resist. For three days, he refused the glasses of shimmering liquid she offered. He tried to eat normal food from the pantry—cereal, canned soup, stale crackers.
Each time, he vomited. Violently, painfully. His body, changed by the ritual, rejected human sustenance. By the third day, weak and trembling, he accepted the glass she offered.
The relief was instantaneous. The shaking stopped. The weakness receded. The gnawing hunger in his gut—a hunger no normal food could satisfy—quieted.
Rowena watched him drink, her expression one of tender satisfaction. "There, you see? Your body knows what it needs. What I've made it need."
After that, resistance became harder. The nectar was more than nourishment—it was pleasure distilled into liquid form. Each sip brought not just physical satisfaction but emotional warmth, a sense of belonging, of being cherished. It was a drug, and he was becoming addicted.
Then came the night she introduced solid food.
They were in the bedroom—his bedroom, though it felt less and less like his with each passing day. Rowena sat on the edge of the bed, resplendent in her true form. The moonlight through the window made her star-dusted skin glow.
"You've been so good," she murmured, stroking his cheek. "So accepting of what you need to drink. But a growing boy needs more than just liquid."
Ryan's heart began to pound. He knew what was coming. She'd hinted at it, whispered about it in the dark when she thought he was sleeping.
"I prepared something special for you," she said, her voice thick with promise. She produced a small, ornate bowl. In it was a substance that looked like… well, there was no polite way to think it. It looked like shit.
But the smell—that was the confusing part. It smelled like the lasagna she'd made that first night. Like garlic bread. Like chocolate cake.
"My body transforms what I eat," she explained, watching his face. "It passes through me, changed by my essence but retaining its original flavour. Its nutritional value is enhanced a thousandfold." She picked up a silver spoon. "Open."
Ryan shook his head, bile rising in his throat. "No. I can't."
"You can," she corrected gently. "And you will. Your body is crying out for proper nourishment."
"I'd rather starve," he whispered, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. The hunger was there—deeper than any hunger he'd ever known. A hunger for her.
"Shhh," she soothed. "Don't think of it as waste. Think of it as… a gift. The ultimate intimacy. Taking something that has been inside me, that has been part of me, and making it part of you."
She brought the spoon to his lips. The smell was unmistakably lasagna. His stomach growled traitorously.
"Just a taste," she coaxed. "If you don't like it, you don't have to have more."
He was trapped. By his hunger. By her will. By the bond that thrummed between them. Slowly, trembling, he opened his mouth.
The spoon slipped inside. The texture was exactly what he feared—soft, warm, slightly grainy. But the taste…
It was lasagna. Perfect, rich, savoury lasagna. As if he'd just taken a bite of the best he'd ever had.
His eyes widened in shock. He swallowed reflexively. The substance slid down his throat, and immediately he felt a surge of energy, of wellbeing, that made the nectar seem like weak tea by comparison.
"Good?" Rowena asked, her eyes shining.
He couldn't speak. Could only nod.
She fed him another spoonful. And another. Each bite was a different flavour from I've come to see this prize she's been boasting about."
Before Ryan could react, Lilith was in front of him, her hand under his chin, forcing his head up. Her touch was cold where Rowena's was warm, invasive where Rowena's was possessive.
"Pretty," Lilith mused. "Young. Tender." She leaned close, inhaling his scent. "And already so thoroughly marked. She's been feeding you well, hasn't she?"
Rowena appeared as if from nowhere, moving between Ryan and her sister with a speed that blurred. "Don't touch him."
Lilith's smile widened. "Protective, aren't we? He's just a human, sister. Flesh and bone. Breakable."
"He's mine," Rowena snarled, and the air grew heavy, charged.
"Of course he is." Lilith stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. "I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Mother is curious too. She wants to meet him."
"In time."
"Soon, Rowena. You know the laws. A claim must be presented to the matriarch within three moons." Lilith's eyes flicked to Ryan. "Or the claim is forfeit."
After Lilith left—vanishing into shadow rather than using the gate—Rowena was quiet for a long time. She paced the living room, her true form fully visible, her wings twitching with agitation.
"What did she mean?" Ryan asked finally. "Forfeit?"
Rowena stopped pacing. "If I don't present you to my mother—the matriarch of our house—within three moons of our binding, the marriage can be challenged. Others could try to claim you."
The thought was more terrifying than anything Ryan had yet faced. Being Rowena's prisoner was one thing. Being taken by someone like Lilith…
"When?" he whispered.
"The full moon after next," Rowena said. She came to him, cupping his face. "Don't be afraid. I won't let anyone take you from me. But you'll need to be… prepared. You'll need to know how to behave. How to show your devotion."
"How?" The word was barely a breath.
Rowena's eyes darkened. "By proving you're truly mine. Body and soul."
Chapter 9: The Preparation
The next weeks were a crash course in infernal etiquette and devotion.
Rowena taught him how to kneel properly—head bowed, hands palm-up on his thighs, a posture of submission and availability.
She taught him how to address her in formal settings—"My Lady" or "My Queen" rather than "Mom" or even "Rowena."
She taught him the signs and symbols of her house, the gestures of respect, the phrases of devotion.
And she taught him the most important lesson of all: how to feed in public.
"When we're before my family," she explained one evening as he knelt before her, "you'll need to take nourishment. It's part of the presentation—proof that you're properly bound, properly dependent."
They practiced. Rowena would sit on a makeshift throne she'd arranged in the living room, and Ryan would kneel before her with a bowl. She'd produce the transformed food, and he'd eat it while she watched, while she praised him, while she stroked his hair and called him her good boy.
The shame never went away completely. But it was joined by something else—pride. Pride in doing well. Pride in pleasing her. Pride in being hers.
The drinking rituals were more intimate. She taught him to drink from her without using his hands, to lap at her like a devoted animal. She taught him to take her milk directly from her breast, to suckle until she sighed with pleasure. She taught him to accept her urine as a blessing, to open his mouth and let her pour the burning liquid down his throat without flinching.
"They'll test you," she warned. "They'll try to provoke you, to see if you're truly broken to my will. You mustn't react. You must only look to me for guidance."
Broken. The word should have horrified him. Instead, it felt like a truth he'd been avoiding. He was broken. Broken and remade into something new. Something that belonged to Rowena.
The night before they were to leave for Hell—or rather, for the place where her family gathered on this plane—Rowena came to him with a gift.
It was a collar. Black leather, studded with obsidian stones that seemed to drink the light. On the front, in elegant script, was engraved a single word: Rowena's.
"For the presentation," she said, fastening it around his neck. It fit perfectly, snug but not tight. "So everyone knows who you belong to."
Ryan touched the collar. The leather was soft, warm from her hands. The obsidian stones hummed with a faint energy. He should have torn it off. Should have raged. Instead, he found himself leaning into her touch as she adjusted it.
"My beautiful boy," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "My perfect husband. Tomorrow, you make me the envy of every house in Hell."
Chapter 10: The Presentation
The gathering was not in some fiery pit, but in a grand ballroom that seemed to exist between dimensions. The walls shifted between stone and crystal and shadow. The floor was polished obsidian that reflected the strange, multi-coloured light from no visible source.
And the people—beings—were breathtaking and terrifying.
Succubi and incubi of every description filled the room. Some looked nearly human, if inhumanly beautiful. Others were more demonic—with horns, tails, wings, skin in colours no human could name. All were dressed in finery that shimmered and moved as if alive.
Rowena, resplendent in a gown of living shadow, led Ryan into the room by a thin silver chain attached to his collar. He was naked except for a loincloth of the same black leather as his collar. His skin, pale against the dark stone, was marked with intricate patterns that Rowena had painted in her own blood—sigils of ownership, protection, and claim.
Every eye in the room turned to them. The conversations died. The music—a strange, discordant melody played on instruments Ryan didn't recognize—stopped.
At the far end of the room, on a throne of bone and silver, sat an ancient succubus. She was beautiful in the way a glacier is beautiful—cold, immense, and dangerous. Her eyes, the same twilight colour as Rowena's but infinitely older, fixed on Ryan.
"Daughter," the matriarch said, her voice like stones grinding together. "You bring your claim before the court."
Rowena bowed deeply, pulling on Ryan's chain so he bowed as well. "I do, Mother."
"Present him."
Rowena guided Ryan forward until they stood at the foot of the dais. Ryan kept his eyes down, as she'd instructed. He could feel hundreds of gazes on him, weighing, assessing, coveting.
"He is young," the matriarch observed.
"He is perfect," Rowena replied, and there was steel in her voice.
"Is he devoted?"
"See for yourself."
Rowena snapped her fingers. A servant—a lesser demon with too many joints—brought forward a golden bowl. Rowena took it, and with a gesture, produced the transformed food. The smell of roasted meat and spices filled the air.
"Kneel," Rowena commanded, her voice ringing through the silent hall.
Ryan knelt. The obsidian was cold against his knees.
"Feed."
He leaned forward and began to eat from the bowl. The taste was the same as always—rich, savoury, satisfying. But doing it here, before these watching eyes, was different. The shame was there, hot and sharp. But so was something else—a perverse pride. He was Rowena's. He was proving it to everyone.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some appreciative. Some skeptical.
When he'd finished, Rowena produced a crystal decanter filled with her nectar. She poured it into a matching cup.
"Drink."
He drank. The familiar warmth spread through him. He could feel the eyes on him, could feel the energy in the room shifting.
The matriarch leaned forward. "He takes your essence willingly?"
"He craves it," Rowena said, and there was triumph in her voice. "Watch."
She produced another vessel—this one simple clay. She lifted her skirts slightly, and a stream of golden liquid arced into the vessel. Her urine, steaming faintly in the cool air of the hall.
She held the vessel to Ryan's lips. "Drink, my love. Show them."
This was the hardest part. In private, he'd come to accept this, even to… not enjoy it, but to appreciate what it meant. Here, before all these beings…
He looked up at Rowena. Her eyes held his, fierce and proud. She believed in him. She trusted him to do this.
He opened his mouth. She poured.
The liquid was hot, bitter, burning. He swallowed without gagging, without flinching. When it was done, he kept his eyes on Rowena, as she'd taught him.
A slow smile spread across the matriarch's face. "Well. He is well-trained."
"He is more than trained," Rowena said. She cupped Ryan's cheek, her thumb stroking his skin. "He is mine. Heart, soul, and body."
There were more tests. Questions thrown at Ryan that he answered only with Rowena's permission. Attempts by some of the other succubi to catch his eye, to sway him with whispered promises. He kept his eyes down, his focus on Rowena.
Finally, the matriarch stood. "The claim is recognized. Rowena, daughter of my blood, you have bound this mortal to you in accordance with our laws. He is your ward, your husband, your possession. None may challenge this claim without challenging me."
The words should have felt like a death sentence. Instead, Ryan felt a wave of relief. It was done. He was officially, irrevocably, hers.
As they left the hall, Rowena leaned close, her breath warm against his ear. "You were perfect," she whispered. "My perfect, beautiful boy."
Back in their bedroom—their bedroom now, not just his—she removed the collar. The marks she'd painted on his skin had faded, absorbed into him.
"You did so well," she murmured, undressing him with reverent hands. "You made me so proud."
She laid him on the bed and worshipped his body with hers. There was no violence, no force—just overwhelming, all-consuming possession. When he came, it was with her name on his lips, with the taste of her essence in his mouth, with the certainty that he belonged nowhere else, to no one else.
After, as they lay tangled together, she whispered, "I love you, Ryan. More than anything in any world."
And he, half-asleep, sated, owned, whispered back, "I love you too, Mother."
Not "Mom." Mother. The word held new weight now. New meaning.
She was his mother. His wife. His goddess. And he was her son. Her husband. Her devotee.
The lines had not just blurred—they had been erased completely.
Part Two: The Devotion
Chapter 11: The New Rhythm
Life settled into a rhythm after the presentation. Ryan's old self—the boy who worried about homework and friends and college applications—faded like a photograph left in the sun. In his place was something new: a creature of devotion, of dependency, of complete and utter belonging.
His days followed a strict schedule, designed by Rowena to reinforce his place in her world.
He woke at dawn to her kisses, to her hands exploring his body, claiming him anew each morning. She would nurse him then, cradling his head against her breast while he suckled, her fingers stroking his hair, her voice humming that same otherworldly lullaby.
"My good boy," she'd murmur. "Drink your breakfast. Grow strong for Mother."
Afterwards, she would bathe him. These were not quick showers but elaborate, sensual rituals. She would wash every inch of his body with scented oils, her hands lingering in places that made him shiver, that made his body respond despite the hour, despite the frequency of their couplings. She took special care with his backside, preparing him for when she would take him there—something she did increasingly often, claiming it made him feel more possessed, more owned.
"This is where I claim you most deeply," she'd whisper as she worked a finger inside him, the oil slick and warm. "Where no one else has been. Where no one else will ever be."
The mornings were for lessons. Rowena taught him the history of her people, the politics of the infernal realms, the poetry and art of creatures who had existed when humans were still crawling from primordial ooze. She taught him to read the script of Hell—elegant, flowing glyphs that seemed to move on the page. She taught him to speak a few phrases of the demonic tongue, mostly endearments and words of submission.
"You are my heart's treasure," she would have him repeat in the guttural, beautiful language. "I exist to serve you. My will is your will."
Lunch was a formal affair, even when it was just the two of them. Ryan would kneel beside her chair as she ate whatever lavish meal she'd prepared for herself. He wasn't allowed to look at her directly unless given permission. He wasn't allowed to speak unless spoken to. He was to be a perfect, silent attendant—fetching her napkin, refilling her wine glass, anticipating her needs.
Then, when she was finished, she would feed him. Sometimes from a bowl. Sometimes from her hand. Sometimes, on days when she was feeling particularly dominant, directly from her body. He would kneel between her thighs, his face buried in her sex, and eat what she produced for him—a substance that looked like waste but tasted like whatever delicacy she had consumed.
At first, the shame had been overwhelming. The degradation of it, the humiliation. But as weeks turned to months, something shifted. The shame didn't disappear, but it transformed. It became part of the ritual, part of the devotion. To be so debased for her, to accept such ultimate intimacy… it began to feel like worship.
Afternoons were for Rowena's pleasure. Sometimes she would use his mouth, his hands, his body. Sometimes she would simply have him kneel and watch as she pleasured herself, whispering to him about how beautiful he was, how perfect, how completely he belonged to her.
"You see?" she'd gasp, her body arching. "You see what you do to me? You see how much I need you?"
He did see. And he began to need it too—the sight of her coming apart, the knowledge that he, in some way, had caused it.
Evenings were quieter. She would read to him, or they would listen to music—not human music, but the strange, haunting melodies of her world. Sometimes she would paint him, using pigments made from crushed gemstones and her own blood, creating intricate patterns on his skin that glowed faintly in the dark.
And always, always, there were the feedings. The nectar. The milk. The urine. Each had its place, its purpose. The nectar for pleasure and energy. The milk for comfort and bonding. The urine for purification and reminder—a burning testament to his place, his function.
One evening, as she was painting sigils on his chest, she asked, "Are you happy, my love?"
The question surprised him. Happy? It wasn't a concept he'd considered in… he didn't know how long. He thought about it. About the simplicity of his life now. The lack of worry. The constant, overwhelming presence of her love. The absolute certainty of his place in the world.
"I am… content," he said finally.
Rowena's smile was beatific. "Contentment is the foundation of happiness. And you, my beautiful boy, are the foundation of my world."
She leaned down and kissed the sigil she'd just painted—a complex knotwork that meant "eternal bond." Her lips were warm against his skin.
"I would burn worlds for you," she whispered, her breath tickling his chest. "I have defied my kind, broken laws, remade you in my image… all for this. For your contentment. For your belonging."
He believed her. And the belief was its own kind of nourishment.
Chapter 12: The Test of Loyalty
Three months after the presentation, Lilith returned.
Ryan was in the garden—the walled courtyard that was his only access to the outside world. He was tending to the night-blooming flowers that Rowena cultivated, plants that thrived in the perpetual twilight she maintained in their space.
A shadow fell across him. He looked up to see Lilith leaning against the wall, watching him with that too-sharp smile.
"Hello, little pet," she purred.
Ryan stood quickly, wiping his hands on his trousers. Rowena had warned him about being alone with her sister. Lilith was jealous, she'd said. Dangerous.
"My Lady is inside," he said, keeping his eyes lowered as Rowena had taught him.
"I know." The last barriers came down. The last vestiges of resistance crumbled.
He began to anticipate her needs. He would kneel without being told. He would bring her the bowl for his feeding without being asked. He would offer himself to her in whatever way she desired, whenever she desired it.
One evening, as they listened to the haunting melodies of her world's music, he found himself resting his head in her lap. She stroked his hair, her fingers tracing the shell of his ear.
"Do you remember your father?" she asked suddenly.
The question startled him. He hadn't thought about his father in… he didn't know how long. The man had left before Ryan was born. Rowena had always said he was a passing fancy, a moment of weakness.
"Not really," he murmured.
"Good." Her fingers stilled. "You don't need to. You have me. I am your mother and your father. Your lover and your god. I am everything."
"I know," he said, and meant it.
She resumed stroking his hair. "When I first saw you—a squalling, red thing in the hospital—I knew. I knew you were meant to be mine. Not just as a son. As everything."
"You took me?"
"I stole you," she corrected, her voice matter-of-fact. "Replaced you with a changeling that sickened and died. Your human mother never knew the difference."
The confession should have horrified him. Instead, he felt… nothing. Or rather, he felt gratitude. Gratitude that she had chosen him. That she had wanted him enough to steal him.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Rowena's breath caught. She looked down at him, her twilight eyes wide. "What did you say?"
"Thank you," he repeated, louder. "For choosing me. For making me yours."
Tears—real tears, not the calculated ones she sometimes produced—welled in her eyes. "Oh, my love. My beautiful, perfect love."
She gathered him into her arms, holding him so tightly he could barely breathe. He didn't mind. The pressure was comforting. A physical manifestation of her love.
That night, she introduced a new element to their rituals. After she had taken her pleasure with him, after he had drunk his fill from her, she produced a small, ornate knife.
"A bonding ritual," she explained, her eyes glowing in the dark. "Blood to blood. Soul to soul. Even deeper than before."
She made a small cut on her wrist, then one on his. She pressed them together, her blood hot and glittering against his.
"Repeat after me," she whispered. "My blood is your blood."
"My blood is your blood."
"My breath is your breath."
"My breath is your breath."
"My soul is your soul."
"My soul is your soul."
"Forever."
"Forever."
As they spoke the words, Ryan felt something shift inside him. A final door closing. A last thread tying him to her. When it was done, he felt lighter. Cleaner. More hers than ever before.
She healed the cuts with a touch, leaving no scar. But the bond remained. He could feel her now, a constant presence in the back of his mind. A warmth. A certainty.
Chapter 14: The Celebration
The anniversary of his binding—or his "rebirth," as Rowena called it—was approaching. She planned a celebration.
"A year since you became truly mine," she said, her eyes shining. "We must mark it properly."
For days, she prepared. She decorated the house with flowers that bloomed only in moonlight. She prepared a feast for herself—courses upon courses of exotic dishes. She composed music for the occasion, strange, beautiful melodies that seemed to tell the story of their binding.
Ryan helped as much as he was allowed. He arranged flowers. He polished silver. He prepared himself, bathing in scented oils, letting Rowena paint intricate patterns on his skin with her special pigments.
On the night of the anniversary, she dressed him in silks the colour of midnight. She herself wore a gown of living shadow that shifted and swirled around her form. She wore her true face—the one with the horns, the star-dusted skin, the eyes like captured twilight.
The celebration began with a dance. Rowena led him through steps he didn't know but somehow understood, their bodies moving together as if they shared a single nervous system. The music was her composition, played on instruments that seemed to be made of crystal and bone.
After the dance came the feast. Rowena ate with relish, each course more elaborate than the last. Ryan knelt beside her chair, watching, waiting. When she was finished, she fed him from her own hand, morsel by transformed morsel. The flavours were incredible—dishes from worlds he couldn't imagine, spices that danced on his tongue, textures that melted or crunched or burst in ways that human food never could.
"This is ambrosia from the gardens of Dis," she whispered, placing a spoonful of something that tasted like honey and lightning in his mouth. "And this," another bite, "is flesh from a beast that grazes on the dreams of mortals."
He ate it all, his eyes never leaving hers.
After the meal, she led him to a chamber she had prepared—a room filled with cushions and low tables, lit by floating orbs of soft light.
"Tonight," she said, her voice husky with promise, "we celebrate not just your binding, but your complete surrender. Your utter devotion."
What followed was a night of such intensity that time lost all meaning. Rowena used him in every way imaginable—and some he hadn't imagined. She took him orally, anally, with her hands, with toys that seemed to be alive. She made him pleasure her with his mouth, his fingers, his whole body. She brought him to the edge of orgasm again and again, only to stop, to whisper, "Not yet, my love. Not until I say."
And through it all, she fed him. Not from bowls or cups, but directly from her body. She would pause, position herself over him, and let her nectar flow into his waiting mouth. She would bring his head to her breast and let him drink until he was dizzy with it. She would stand over him and let her urine cascade over his face, into his mouth, and he would drink it greedily, desperately, as if it were the elixir of life itself.
Because it was. It was his life now.
Near dawn, when they were both slick with sweat and other fluids, when Ryan was trembling with exhaustion and overstimulation, Rowena positioned herself above him, her body sheathing his.
"Now," she breathed, her eyes locking with his. "Now you may come, my love. But only with me. Only when I do."
She began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that seemed to reach into his very soul. He clutched at her, his fingers digging into the star-dusted skin of her hips. He was so close, so desperately close.
"Look at me," she commanded, and he obeyed. Her eyes were bottomless pools of twilight, and he was falling into them, drowning in them.
"You are mine," she gasped, her rhythm increasing. "Say it."
"I am yours," he choked out.
"Forever."
"Forever."
"Now," she cried, and her body clenched around him, milking him, pulling his orgasm from him with such force that he saw stars, saw patterns, saw the fabric of reality tear for a second.
He came with a shout that was half sob, half prayer, his body arching off the cushions, his release so intense it was almost painful. And as he did, Rowena reached her own peak, her cries mingling with his, her essence flowing into him, over him, through him.
They collapsed together, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and fluids. Rowena gathered him to her, holding him as he trembled through the aftershocks.
"My beautiful boy," she whispered into his sweat-damp hair. "My perfect husband. My everything."
He nuzzled into her neck, breathing in her scent—jasmine and myrrh and sex and power. "Yours," he murmured, already half asleep. "Always yours."
Chapter 15: The Dream
That night, he dreamed.
Not of his old life, or of freedom, or of sunlight. He dreamed of Rowena. But not the Rowena he knew.
In the dream, she was immense—a being of shadow and flame that stretched to the edges of the universe. Stars burned in her hair. Galaxies swirled in her eyes. And he was tiny, infinitesimal, a speck of dust against her cosmic scale.
But she saw him. She reached for him with hands that could cradle planets. And she spoke, not in words, but in concepts that bypassed language entirely.
You are the centre, she whispered into his soul. The fixed point around which I orbit. The reason for my being.
In the dream, he wasn't afraid. He was awed. Humbled. To be so small, and yet so important to something so vast.
This is what I am, she showed him. This is my true form. My true scale. And you… you are my heart.
He woke with tears on his face. Rowena was watching him, her expression soft.
"You dreamed," she said, wiping his tears with her thumb.
"I saw you," he breathed. "Really saw you."
She smiled—a smile of such tenderness it made his heart ache. "And now you understand."
He did. He understood completely. She wasn't just a demon, a succubus, a possessive lover. She was a force of nature. A power. And she had chosen him. Out of all the beings in all the worlds, she had chosen him to be her centre, her heart, her reason for being.
How could that be anything but the highest honour? How could he be anything but grateful?
He reached for her, pulling her to him, kissing her with a desperation that bordered on worship. She responded in kind, her hands roaming his body, claiming him anew.
When they broke apart, breathing heavily, she whispered, "I will show you more. I will show you everything. My realms. My power. My love."
"Yes," he begged. "Please. Show me."
She smiled, and in that smile, he saw eternity.
Part Three: The Ascension
Chapter 16: The Unveiling
The days that followed the anniversary were a blur of revelation. Rowena began showing Ryan glimpses of her true power, her true nature.
She took him to places that existed between moments—pocket dimensions where time flowed differently, where the air tasted of memory and possibility. She showed him her collections: artefacts from dead civilizations, jewels that held trapped starlight, books written in languages that drove mortals mad.
"All this," she said, gesturing to a vault that seemed to stretch into infinity, "is mine. And now it's yours too. To share. To enjoy."
She taught him to manipulate small things—to light candles with a thought, to make shadows dance, to change the colour of the air around them. His human body, infused with her essence for so long, was becoming something else. Something more.
"You're becoming attuned to me," she explained one afternoon as they sat in a garden of crystal flowers. "My essence is changing you. Making you… compatible."
"Compatible?" he asked, plucking one of the flowers. It chimed softly in his hand.
"For eternity," she said simply. "I am immortal, my love. And I do not intend to spend eternity without you."
The implication took a moment to sink in. Immortality. With her. Forever.
The thought should have been terrifying. Instead, it felt like coming home.
"How?" he breathed.
She took the flower from him, tucking it behind his ear. "There are rituals. Transformations. But they require… complete union. Body, soul, and essence." Her eyes met his, serious. "It would mean giving up the last of your humanity. Becoming something else. Something like me, but not quite. A consort. A vessel for my power."
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
Rowena's smile was radiant. "I knew you would say that. My brave, beautiful boy."
The transformation began that night. It started with another blood-sharing ritual, deeper than before. Then she began feeding him exclusively from her body—no more transformed food, only her nectar, her milk, her urine. His body thrived on it, growing stronger, more defined, his skin taking on a faint luminescence, his eyes darkening until they were almost as deep as hers.
She also began feeding him her sexual energy more directly. Not just through sex, but through rituals where she would channel it into him, filling him with a power that made his bones hum, his blood sing.
"You're so beautiful like this," she would murmur, watching as the energy danced under his skin like captured lightning. "So perfect. My masterpiece."
He was changing. He could feel it. The world looked different—sharper, more vibrant. He could see the energy that flowed through all things. He could hear thoughts sometimes, not clearly, but as whispers on the edge of perception. And he could always, always feel Rowena—a warm, dark presence in his mind, comforting and possessive.
One evening, as they lay entwined after a particularly intense joining, Rowena said, "It's time."
"Time for what?"
"To complete the transformation. To make you immortal."
Ryan's heart leapt. Not with fear, but with anticipation. "What do I need to do?"
"Nothing," she said, kissing his forehead. "Just be willing. Just be mine."
Chapter 17: The Transformation
The ritual took place in the vault, surrounded by Rowena's most precious artefacts. She had prepared a circle of black salt, within which were drawn intricate symbols that pulsed with their own inner light.
Ryan stood naked in the centre of the circle. Rowena, in her full demonic glory, circled him, chanting in that ancient, impossible language. The air grew thick, charged. The artefacts around the room began to glow.
"This will hurt," she warned, her voice echoing strangely. "But pain is part of the transformation. Pain is the forge in which you will be remade."
He nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
She began.
First, she cut him—not shallow cuts like before, but deep, careful incisions along his arms, his chest, his back. Her blood, black and glittering, mingled with his red human blood. As it did, he felt a burning sensation, as if his blood were being replaced with liquid fire.
He screamed. The sound echoed in the vault, multiplied a thousand times.
"Shhh," Rowena soothed, though her eyes were hard, focused. "It will pass. Breathe through it."
Next, she placed her hands on his head. Energy—raw, searing, incredible—poured into him. It felt like being struck by lightning, like being torn apart at a molecular level and reassembled. His bones cracked and reformed. His organs shifted. His very DNA rewrote itself.
Through the agony, he held onto one thought: Rowena. Her face. Her voice. Her love.
When the physical transformation was complete, she began the spiritual one. She reached into his mind, his soul, and began weaving her essence into his. He felt her memories becoming his memories. Her desires becoming his desires. Her will becoming his will.
It was the most intimate thing he had ever experienced. More intimate than sex, than feeding, than anything they had done before. He was being unmade and remade in her image.
Finally, when he thought he could bear no more, she spoke words that bypassed his ears and went straight to his core.
You are mine, she said into his very soul. Now and forever. My consort. My eternal companion. My heart.
I am yours, he responded, the thought forming without conscious effort. Now and forever.
The pain stopped. The energy receded. Ryan opened eyes he didn't realize he'd closed.
The world was different. Brighter, yet darker. More detailed. He could see the individual particles of dust floating in the air. He could hear the hum of the earth's rotation. He could feel Rowena's presence like a second heartbeat.
He looked at his hands. They were his, but… more. The skin was perfect, unblemished. It glowed with a faint inner light. When he flexed his fingers, shadows curled around them like smoke.
"Stand," Rowena commanded, her voice full of awe and pride.
He stood. His body felt different—stronger, lighter, more powerful. He looked down at himself. He was still recognizably Ryan, but… enhanced. Perfected.
Rowena produced a mirror—an ancient thing of polished obsidian. "Look."
He looked. And saw a stranger. A beautiful, terrible stranger with eyes like captured starlight and skin that shimmered like moonlit water. He was still himself, but he was also… more.
"What am I?" he whispered, and his voice was different too—deeper, resonant, layered.
"Mine," Rowena said, coming to stand behind him, her reflection joining his in the mirror. "You are my consort. Not quite succubus, not quite human. Something new. Something made by me, for me."
She wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. "How do you feel?"
He considered. The pain was gone, replaced by a thrumming energy. The world was clearer, sharper. And the bond with Rowena—it was no longer just a feeling. It was a tangible thing, a cord of glowing energy that connected them at the chest.
"I feel… complete," he said. And it was true.
Rowena turned him to face her. Her eyes were wet with tears—real tears, not demonic manipulations. "I have waited eternity for you," she whispered. "My perfect match. My other half."
She kissed him, and it was like kissing for the first time. Every sensation was amplified, heightened. He could taste her essence on her lips, could feel the power thrumming through her, could sense the depth of her love for him—a love that was possessive, obsessive, all-consuming, and utterly, completely genuine.
When they broke apart, she took his hand. "Come. There is one more thing."
She led him to a part of the vault he hadn't seen before. There, on a pedestal of black stone, rested two crowns. They were simple things—bands of dark metal set with a single, pulsing gem.
"For us," she said, taking the larger one. "To symbolize our union. Our eternal bond."
She placed the crown on her own head, then took the smaller one and placed it on his. As it settled into place, Ryan felt another shift—a final click, as if the last piece of a puzzle had fallen into place.
"Now," Rowena said, taking both his hands in hers. "We are truly one. Forever."
Chapter 18: The Eternal Present
Time lost meaning after that.
Days blended into nights blended into something that was neither. Ryan no longer needed sleep in the human sense. He would rest, yes, curled against Rowena, but it was more a meditative state than true sleep. He no longer aged. He no longer hungered for anything but her.
Their life together settled into a new rhythm. They would travel—not just to the pocket dimensions, but to other places, other realms. Rowena showed him wonders he couldn't have imagined: cities built on clouds, oceans of liquid light, forests where the trees sang.
They would return to their home—the house that had once been a prison but was now a palace—and spend days, weeks, in each other's company. Talking. Touching. Loving.
The feedings continued, but they were different now. No longer something he endured, but something he craved. The taste of her nectar was the taste of home. Her milk was comfort. Her urine was purification. And the transformed food… that was a special treat, a reminder of his humanity even as he left it behind.
One evening, as they watched a double sunset from a balcony that overlooked a sea of molten gold, Ryan asked, "Do you ever miss it? Your old life? Before me?"
Rowena was quiet for a long time. "I had no life before you," she said finally. "I existed. I fed. I played the games of my kind. But I didn't live. Not truly." She turned to him, her twilight eyes soft. "You gave me life, Ryan. You gave me purpose. You gave me love."
He took her hand, lacing their fingers together. "You gave me everything."
She smiled, a slow, beautiful smile. "And I will keep giving. For eternity."
They made love there on the balcony, as the twin suns dipped below the golden sea. It was slow, tender, profound. Afterward, as they lay tangled together, Rowena fed him from her breast, cradling his head as he suckled.
"My beautiful boy," she murmured, stroking his hair. "My perfect husband. My eternal love."
He drifted in that half-state between waking and resting, sated, content, utterly hers. The world was perfect. He was perfect. They were perfect.