Episode 1: Initiation
The House stirred only after midnight, as it always did. It breathed to life in wicked silence, where shadows stretched long and slow, curling like grasping fingers around every corner, eager and insatiable. Within its walls, the covenant of eternal hunger and dark ecstasy prepared for yet another lavish, sinful feast.
By day, the Crimson Pact rested hidden, their desires muted beneath layers of silk, bone, and secrecy. Deep within the decadent halls of the manor where pleasure reigned and submission bled seamlessly into survival, they waited, coiled tight in lustful slumber. The grand estate sat imperiously on the city’s forgotten edge, surrounded by iron gates wrapped in thorn and ivy. Its visage suggested abandonment, decay, death — but those who truly knew understood better. All illusions melted like fragile dreams when the sun’s dying breath kissed the horizon.
The House awakened. And when it did, no desire was safe from its grasp.
When twilight surrendered and true darkness blanketed the city, restraint faded. Within the manor’s walls, the line between hunger and brutality blurred until only one commandment remained: pleasure through power. They came alive—hungrier than beasts, crueler than queens, merciless in their pursuit of domination. Desire did not temper them. It defined them. Flesh and surrender were their currency, their sacrament.
Tonight, they waited for him.
Lio stood naked beneath the merciless glow of enchanted braziers, placed precisely so shadows danced over his vulnerable, trembling body. Muscles taut, his veins hummed with fear and anticipation. His cock, shamed and defiant, throbbed with confused need — a prisoner of the moment as much as he was. The oppressive air clung to him, thick with incense steeped in musk and sex. Every corner, every curtain, every sculpture seemed to watch him, whispering darkly in languages of longing.
Velvet curtains rustled as though breathing, the draft carrying intoxicating heat. Above, the ceiling stretched like a cathedral of sin, its surface carved in ancient sigils pulsating faintly crimson. Those arcane runes did more than glow—they whispered promises, curses, carnal yearnings.
They murmured as though the manor itself craved what was to come.
Mother Selene appeared — no, emerged — from the depths beyond, moving like a vision conjured from collective yearning. She did not simply walk; she glided with deliberate, devastating grace. Her gown, woven from threads of living night, clung to her body like an obedient lover, caressing every divine curve. With every step, dark energy rippled from her, demanding reverence. Her lips, painted the color of spilled wine and heartache, curved into a cruel and knowing smile.
“You tremble, little one,” Selene spoke, her voice a blade honed by centuries of ruling and taking. Her words slid through the chamber, wrapping Lio in invisible chains that tightened with each syllable. “You should.”
Though softly uttered, they crashed into him like thunder. Lio shuddered, and his knees nearly buckled beneath the weight of that proclamation. He belonged to her — even if he did not yet know it fully.
From the encroaching shadows, the Matriarchs materialized. They came one by one, graceful and devastating, goddesses of indulgent ruin. Their lips were painted in luscious reds, and their eyes were glowing like distant suns devouring everything in their gaze. They carried themselves not with arrogance but birthright. Hunger radiated from them, far deeper than carnal—they desired worship through degradation and ruled by turning surrender into an art form.
Their whispers began—promises like poisoned honey and threats as sweet as kisses. Invisible hands of want stroked his skin, igniting his nerves. Lio swallowed hard, instinctively parting his legs wider, offering more of himself to the circling predators. They eyed him like artists studying a blank canvas—some licking their lips, others lazily caressing their bodies in languid anticipation.
Selene ascended her rightful throne—the Feeding Throne—an obsidian marvel wrapped in woven silk that shimmered unnervingly like breathing flesh. The throne’s arms spread wide like thighs parted in invitation. She reclined gracefully, radiating cruel divinity, draping herself across the seat of ultimate authority.
She crooked a single finger. Slow. Purposeful. Irresistible.
“Kneel. Present.”
Lio obeyed without hesitation. Compulsion drove him deeper than thought. He fell gracefully to his knees, thighs spread, head bowed. His cock stood shamelessly proud and desperate, throbbing as though it, too, begged for acceptance and approval. The chamber seemed to hum in quiet, knowing approval.
Selene’s feet slid beneath his chin, guiding his face upward with deceptive tenderness. Her touch crackled with dominance, leaving his skin burning with need.
“Tonight, you are nothing. You exist to be consumed,” she decreed. “A vessel to be filled, emptied, and then filled again until you scream for release. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes, Mother Selene,” Lio whispered, voice frayed with terror and awe. Each word tasted of submission.
“Good boy,” she purred — those words tighten his soul like a vice. His cock twitched violently, dripping from mere praise.
The first to approach was Vessa, predator incarnate. Tall and dangerously serene, her cruel smile announced wicked promises before she even spoke. Without ceremony, she straddled Lio’s face, pressing her slick, heated core against his eager lips.
“Feed me,” Vessa commanded darkly, voice low and merciless, thighs locking his head in place.
Lio complied as if born for this purpose. He worshiped with tongue and lips, tasting her essence, drinking in her pleasure as though it could save his soul. Vessa moaned deeply, riding his face with greedy abandon. With each tremor and shiver of delight, Lio felt his strength drain, replaced by an ever-deepening void of need. Her climax, when it came, left him dizzy, head spinning with overstimulation and deprivation.
The circle tightened. Matriarch after Matriarch advanced, their hands exploring his body as if claiming parts of a sacred artifact. Fingers toyed with his nipples, lips whispered dark encouragement along his throat, and nails raked teasingly down his stomach. His cock was stroked, denied, edged, teased to the precipice but never permitted to fall. Their combined cruelty pushed him beyond sanity, reducing him to trembling whimpers.
Selene reclined further, her own fingers sliding through slick folds, spreading herself as she watched. Her moans became the metronome of the chamber, guiding the sensual torment.
“Not yet,” she murmured silkily when his hips thrust helplessly, desperate for release. “You will not climax until you are claimed.”
Time fragmented. Minutes became hours, hours melted into eternity. The ritual continued relentlessly. They passed him amongst themselves like a coveted chalice, draining his will and savoring his surrender. Lio existed only as an offering, a ragged symbol of their insatiable hunger. His cries became wordless, and his mind cracked open to the raw ache of denial.
Finally, Selene rose. The chamber, soaked in sex and magic, hushed. Lio trembled, teetering on collapse.
“Please… please take me…” he begged, voice hollow, body broken and desperate beyond pride.
Selene descended with terrifying grace, straddling his lap with slow, deliberate hunger. She impaled herself on his cock, locking them into the final act. Lio’s scream shattered through the chamber as his orgasm was wrenched from him — brutal, violent, endless. His essence poured into Selene, feeding her, empowering her, claiming him utterly.
Her rhythm was merciless. She rode him with regal savagery, milking every drop until his soul felt as though it had melted into hers. Waves of orgasm tore through him in rapid succession until he could no longer cry out — only tremble and break beneath her.
At the edge of unconsciousness, Selene cradled him. Her lips brushed his temple, tender yet triumphant.
“You belong to the Crimson Pact now,” she whispered softly, sealing his fate.
Around them, Matriarchs applauded — soft, eager, insatiable. Their hunger remained endless. Each gaze promised more trials, more pleasures, more exquisite ruin.
His initiation was far from over.
Tomorrow, the real training would begin. No mercy, no reprieve — only hunger, only brutal pleasure, and the promise of eternal surrender.