New Writer-Kinda-In Town! 'The Proposition' F/F And Possibly More

The Jersey Devil;4060647 said:

The Proposition

An E-Novel by your favorite unknown



The Costly Proposition at that... what the hell kind of brokered deal did he think he'd be running when he threw the plans down for a multi-million dollar restoration of that old pile of rubble?!

There was only so much leeway one could offer a project manager regarding funding before it became too much, and Morgan had just about reached her spending cap when the archaeological department (also the pharmaceutical department, researching in bio-molecular components on an organic and inorganic nature) came to her with a plausible finding that was deemed 'worth every penny'.

She was no science major, but she was a history buff... and the latest dig site (located in the furthermost part of the Czech Republic) was listed as the high point of crude petroleum which held significant molecular value to it... a value that came with the high responsibility of moving of a national monument in the meantime--moving or destroying, user's choice--to begin harvesting. What made it so valuable? The land was long since plagued by the recent-but still distant-destruction caused by the Chernobyl power plant going thermonuclear and clearing out acres of real estate for the next hundred thousand years...

So what happens to crude oil when it's exposed to small doses of radiation? That was the million dollar question, and apparently was going to cost her every single cent in the process.

The only way the deal was even remotely salvageable was that the land was stationed just outside the danger zone, and it was occupied by a more than 300-year-old structure to which there seemed to be no actual origin or history laced to it.

Morgan almost scrapped the project entirely... that was until she did a fact-finding history of her own...

You see... Morgan had her own ulterior motives, dating back to a family lineage which was forged in mistrust and a constant vying of power... Morgan Alexandria being the last heir in the Alexandrian bloodline going so far back as to the history of the Romans, the crucifixion of Jesus Christ himself. That history alone left the woman a known historian and scholar of the ages.

Yet she found no significant findings to support the just cause of calling over such a monument, but destroying it was out of the picture... yeah, it was out of the picture until I came across the Wyvrn clan name, and the undisturbed plot of land, left alone to the ages.

Another name which came up quite often in Alexandria's lineage history... yet for reasons unknown-or at least not entirely specified in full in family accounts.

So then came the task of assembling the castle back at her own homestead in the Dakota Mountains, just along the hillside of her own summer retreat home. That in itself was the cost she was brooding over... yet the idea of having the original artifact to study and piece apart-brick by brick-was too appealing to pass... especially since the lineage of the Wyvrn clan name was one that threatened to fade into history after her last appointed dead-end where the mentioning of the clan was just myth.

And so there was regret... regret of the finished project of the old Victorian style castle which had been assembled as it was many hundreds of years ago... looming over the Dakota foothills like the house on the haunted hill... and Morgan's first look at the land she spent so many millions of dollars for... a piece of land which would either make, or break certain financial commitments in the hopes of turning any kind of project return.

On this particular evening, Morgan just barely had whatever material that could be found, delivered to her homestead in her new appointed keep... almost every living record laid out in detail--some as old as the paper it was written on, practically crumbling in hand--as she took to the balcony in huffing fashion... joined only by the lone gargoyle statues littered about like menacing pieces of fine architectural beauty... they were littered about, all in perfect fashion, and each with its own intricately designed pose to add to the looming mystery...

...Yet the female seemed in high fashion... she mused, already finding a favored among them; a woman obviously, with a wild mane of hair that was slightly short around the top, yet expanded towards the back, going quite a ways on its own.

Her favorite because of all the gargoyles here, she had the most character, the most fire in her pointed but casual stare, if it could be called such.

"Full moon tonight... just the two of us girl..." she commented with a wry smirk, patting down the surface of stone over the top of the left foot as she cast the old papers down on the balcony's edge, held down by bits of rock she pulled loose from the works.




There was a state of awareness... or, not quite awareness, but a dreamlike quality of not-quite-wakeful slumber in which the turning of the sun and moon cast shadows through Demona's mind, intermingled with the half-perceived images of things all around her, and the realization of half-remembered dreams... it was strange, but also strangely soothing. It was not unpleasant; far from it. A curse was a curse, but despite the outward ferocity of her posed appearance, the affliction turned out to be a simple matter of long-term hibernation, through which her natural abilities were nevertheless made at least partly manifest: she could, conceivably, sense danger.

Of course, being abandoned, then found, and removed--all in one piece--ought to have been a traumatic experience, but it wasn't enough unto itself to shake her awake. It was, apparently, nonthreatening, or at least not overtly dangerous, and so the trapped gargoyle had half-slept... well, more like nine-tenths slept... through the crossing of two continents and a transatlantic voyage. Her body was not her own; the curse had seen to that much, and her natural sense of her surroundings, pinned to her subconscious with what was supposed to be a hair trigger, was muffled, as though she were in fact still awake and alert, but trapped within a "skin" of stone.

Oddly, this was all a part of what made Demona stand out from some of the other gargoyles, some of which were--after all--just statues, and others of which she would have felt certain, were she capable of consciously feeling anything, would never wake up again, in part because they had been broken into pieces and then reassembled upon arrival here. Wherever "here" was... but yes, Demona. Standing out. That casual gaze, despite the ferocity of her pose, the snarling, biting posture, the looming wingspan; passion and intensity were there, as was an almost oddly vacuous quality to her stare: if she had been carved by an artist, her eyes should have held more life in them, ironically enough.

Hers, rather appropriately, looked as though she were fighting off sleep, which had drawn the attention of more than one individual in the past, though not all of them were entirely aware as to why they were so enthralled. This one, for instance... Wait...

A strange sensation... teasing, at the very edge of that divide between subconscious and conscious, an urge that was transcending automated processes to entertain itself along the edge of wakefulness... fingertips, on the tops of her "naked" feet. It was the first conscious thought she had had in a very, very long time, and it was simply that: wait... though "why" or "for what" or even "what was I doing that I must now stop doing?" weren't yet ready to form. It was almost like a tickle in her mind, the feel of light, feminine fingertips stroking the top of one foot... the knowledge of what that would mean, if she were wholly aware.

Words sometimes made it through... "Just the two of us," and a light stroke to the top of her foot... Want... to wiggle... free..! And, for the first time in centuries, Demona slowly began to try and force herself to wake up, though as yet she remained curse-fogged and uncertain as to why.




Had Morgan known she might have prepared herself... even at such a young age, the woman followed her ancestry--the talk of spirits and spells like a growing mantra. She might even believe the paranormal instead of run from it. That's what power did; it gave her a sense of... well... power: the sense of fearlessness even in one's own mortality, to the point that the above-average barely did anything to shock and awe.

The same could be said now as--even in this chilling evening--Morgan found that strange warmth in the stone, amidst the ice cold ledge which even could be felt through her padded gloves. A warming stone you say? Felt the moment she touched the top of the gargoyle's foot. A strange sensation, though completely devoid of movement at the time.

It was this point that Morgan removed her glove, and once again placed her hand against the top of the right foot... feeling no pulse, nothing... but that same strange warmth? Wait, correction... What the hell is going on? She asked herself... watching the gargoyle now in her mighty, looming perch, all while the bits of rock and gravel began to give way under her palm the higher up she moved, until she felt and saw the first piece suddenly fall right about where the base of the ankle was, and revealed--to her shock--a smooth, equally warm (maybe even hot) leather surface below... she could feel the heat emanating off the thing, though once again no movement had yet to take place.

With a few bits of rock scattered across the papers she was once examining, she began to chip away more and more, revealing the right foot in full as she did what she could to analyze what she was seeing exactly... more than once, she found herself caught in an endless loop of casting her gaze skyward, only to be met with the lifeless, snarling gaze of the creature staring off into nothing.

You are more than meets the eye, aren't you? A slight smile, wry even, as she attempted to logically grasp what she had in her possession.




Consciousness was now rising, slowly, like water preparing to burst free from behind a massive concrete dam... a powerful effect, but as yet visually subtle. The woman, after a fashion, was helping, though the persistent touches about her feet left what awareness there was in Demona shuddering--like the ripples in her soft, leathery blue skin. This was visible, clearly, after her right foot was freed, the cold blush of mountain air shocking her consciousness into higher gear. Her hind toe, and the three facing forward... slender, and long, but perfectly matched to the proportion of her high-arched and slender foot... curled reflexively.

If Morgan wasn't careful, Demona would latch on to her wrist, although at this point that wasn't an agenda. That said, the reflexes were sudden and swift; those light touches left a tingly feeling that had Demona silently screaming to get free of the stone encasement which had held her for so many centuries. It was never intended to be that long; now imagine, on the verge of freedom, a light, unintended tickling coupled with the worst case of restless legs syndrome you could imagine.

The lean and sensual gargoyle was all pins and needles.

Grit and sand appeared to fall off from her body, focused largely around the joints. The actual process was more complicated; an exuding of cells, which hardened once no longer in connection to the creature's blood supply. It was, quite literally, naturally-forming organic stone, triggered generally by the kiss of sunlight, although the individual creature had some say over their transformation, and some--Demona included--had long practiced at an unusual degree of control.

Demon grew hotter as more of her stony coverings broke off and fell away, like so many discarded scales, though as she began to actually struggle to free herself it started to break off in chunks. Frustratingly enough, however, much of her self-styled sarcophagus seemed to be resisting her efforts to break it loose; was she weakened from her long confinement? Was it thicker or tougher than the usually far more temporary, nightly coverings?

Her right foot was free, up to the ankle... though poised at such an angle as to leave her tender sole exposed, right up to the base of her toes, Elsewhere, the facade was cracking. Her left arm, up to the elbow, and a bit had flaked from the small of her back, her sides, the backs of her thighs... she was getting there, but now--feeling that icy cold air on her blue skin--she was having greater trouble. In particular, she was desperate to break free the stone from around her mouth, that she might talk to this person who was handling her, and demand more particular assistance. Like, that which might be imparted by a hammer.

After that, presumably... well, there would be outraged indignity, arrogance... the usual...




It had gone unnoticed largely due to Morgan's surprise... watching before her very own eyes as the stone chipped away, and yet there was no added or reduced depth... as though the space that the stone occupied, and the skin she was now viewing were one in the same, and easily replaced, perhaps even organic.

And the same applied, all along the Gargoyle's body. Supported now by the steel beams which were embedded into the stone on either side, connecting to the other on opposing ends by bars that ran on the upper and lower half of the Gargoyle's body. These bars were attached to rings, strategically set at the waist just below the breasts, and another which had two circular attachments at the base of either arm, all holding the stone structure rigid for the long and arduous trip, despite not needing it. At the same time, it kept the statue poised in its current posture, with both feet firmly planted atop the ball of either, toes hanging just over the edge of the stone slab just at the end of the castle walls.

She had been facing outward, towards the rising sun... yet currently there had been an accumulation of clouds which cast a dark shadow over the keep, turned day into night across the entire land it would seem.

These things didn't concern Morgan in the slightest... she was-however-enthralled in why the skin--so leathery, and yet so smooth, even soft--was growing more transparent, yet stopping now that it rose above the right ankle. A sexual, sensuous thing it was... the bone structure looking so human, and yet elongated, and tipped with those dangerous claws. The arch so high and pronounced that Morgan couldn't help herself, and found deft nails, both pointed and smooth, tracing along that high arch on down to where the ball met the toes.

Was she mistaken, or did she feel movement coming from the bottom of that foot? It felt so real and animated now... and as time went on, and Morgan's nails continued their journey, she could even feel the warmth spreading rapidly, until the skin was as much on fire as her own, maybe even more-so. Such a chilling creature of vast beauty... it was hard not to become enamored...

"Maybe this is what my family legacy has been keeping a secret for so long..." she whispered softly under her own breath, dating her musings back to the lineage of the Wyvern Clan, a name that came up so frequently in historical documents of her family tree...




The organic nature of the gargoyle was... well, not entirely understood, but ancient alchemists had made some headway in coming to an educated supposition--recorded in texts that were now by and large lost, or else held in private collections, put to a small assortment of uses: generally, none at all. There was a surprising amount of accord in those that survived to the present day, however: the gargoyle's transformation was more than skin-deep, and accomplished in varying stages, with the skeleton retaining a certain hard, crystalline quality even during animation... a qualitiy that was recorded as fading only slowly when said skeletal structure was itself directly exposed to sunlight.

The gradual transmutation from stone to flesh proceeded from the inside out, and the initial, internal process resulted in a swelling of (comparatively speaking) "soft" tissues that caused the outermost layer of skin to crack and shed off, like that of a snake. It was a deceptively thin layer, but the process resulted in the appearance of "chunks" of stone breaking off, and falling away, while the underlying body seemed to lose none of its size because of the slight swelling that occurred moments before the visible transmutation--close examination was required to notice it, and the sight of stone "flesh" sloughing off typically distracted mortal observers engaged in casual observation.

*********

Demona was stirring; as more and more of her flesh transmuted, additional bloodflow began to reach her brain, and more of it started to return to conscious awareness in a carefully evolved order of progression relating to surviving the transmutation and being prepared to defend herself physically should that become a necessity. She was slowed, however, impeded... it was difficult to tell, at first, but the urge, the driving need to laugh and struggle was dreadfully, horribly muffled by the fact that her head was still very much indistinguishable from any carved chunk of stone, save for its shape. Her right foot... the sole quivered, and undulated almost, being capable of very little movement as of yet; a dull, ominous chuckle might eventually sound from the depths of her throat, coming as if from the bottom of a well, so deep as to be redirected, echoing as though from a distant location.

Demona's skin trembled, more intently, beneath the subtly agonizing stroke of those fingernails. Her four forward-facing toes wiggled slightly of their own accord, once the foot was entirely smooth, pretty blue flesh again; the wiggling happened each time those exploring nails reached the base of them. It was almost sublime; a waking Demona would have approved of the sensual technique of the one attending to her, had said attendance happened to involve someone else. Her sole wrinkled slightly, just below the ball of the foot, whenever those nails stroked her high, quivering arch... So soft, relatively speaking, like human-like skin stretched over muscles of steel cable. Here, where her foot rarely if ever touched ground; those nails stroked from tender spot, to relative thickness and insensitivity, to tender spot again.

The more of Demona's brain that became active, the more it started to drive her mad. Worse... the impression of her body and wrists being held immobile, like some twisted medieval pillory; not intended as such, of course, it was merely a means to hold a humanoid statue safe and still for a duration, but it happened to work quite well for the same person once said statue actually tried to move of its own accord.

Coupled with her posture, Demona was unable to do more than struggle... as more of her slowly became capable of doing so... while having to deliberately keep her feet still and enable her own torment, lest she risk breaking whatever it was that held her, and plummeting an unknown distance while still only partly flesh. If she could have gritted her teeth, she would have; she would also have howled, and screamed, with rage and... other, things, from the slow and subtle torment of those nails caressing her feet so... sensually.

Whoever this is... they know what they are doing... and they will come to regret it.




Well what the demon woman didn't know wouldn't hurt her, as the structure of the support system holding Demona up did so with the highest grade of steel, embedded feet into the stony surface below and encased in cement to keep the support up in the most adverse of conditions. It literally left the woman suspended by a mixture of her own weight, and evenly spaced suspension which gave her balance on two fronts.

Had Morgan known what was going on under the surface, she might even take delight. As it stood right now, more of the Gargoyle's movements were becoming heavily pronounced, yet much of the cracking along the skin had ceased, or at least reasonably slowed, maybe even grown in reverse as some cracked surfaces went smooth again... or maybe that was Morgan's mind playing tricks on her... watching a process like this enough to make anyone's head spin.

The stature of the Gargoyle's elongated arches gave her a clear foot and a half in extra height, mixed with her build which was slim and petite, but equally a little larger than Megan's own. This creature could easily tower over the woman at a slightly more than average height.

But that wasn't Morgan's problem... not when she felt the warmth spreading to the ball of the gargoyle's foot... her nails taking delight as they began sinking in deeper, feeling the skin sink beneath each nail as she carefully fluttered upward, then raked them back down to the ball of the very same foot all over again in repeated pattern.

...It wouldn't help this gargoyle any to find that she was now in the possession of a woman who enjoyed the company of other ladies... even worse, with the barrier of a 'freak' far from Morgan's mind, she might even come to respect and enjoy this creature's company, as internally she licked her lips at the thought of this creature... such perfect physique... she found her cheek nestling softly against the back of the Gargoyle's calf, the portion that had changed from stone... her lips softly caressing the tender, clean skin with its earthy but hardly unpleasant smell. All the while, those nails were just finding the base where the ball of the foot met the arch, and the high point was easily found as the deepest indent towards the center.




Gods... Fates...

The sensation was growing, now; that soft, perfect foot, cured of blemish or wound by regeneration on what had always been meant to be a nightly basis... Morgan's nails worked in a perfect rhythm to drive her captive utterly mad. It was excruciating, the way it tickled, and Demona could not give voice to cries of, however humiliating, somewhat alleviating agony; nor, by chance, could she move.

Fate was not with her on this day. She was changing back. And fighting it off, forcing the shift, was not only dangerous--it would require concentration. Something that, at present, she was in very short supply of...

Especially when those probing nails found the soft skin between her toes.

Long, narrow, and elegantly arched, tipped with formidable claws--more like saurian talons, really; like those of some vanished ancient reptile, black and shiny and perfectly shaped. She stood on her toes, ran on them, but besides the irony of her regeneration working against her here as well? The skin between them, and at the height of the arch of each toe, below its pad... it was hideously sensitive. Hideously, the word did come to mind.

The balls of her feet weren't as bad, but those nails never stayed there overlong. They would move up to the arch of the one blue-toned and fleshy foot... which wasn't changing back, damn it all..! and they would dig, and drag, and rake, and flutter...

CURSE you. Whoever you ARE... Just STOP. There was even a silent, almost pleading PLEASE!... alright, it was more than "almost" pleading; as focus shifted to try and force the change again, resuming the transformation... it had to lapse somewhere. And this... this was a nightmare the likes of which the trapped gargoyle could only marvel at. Sweat began to make the top of her vulnerable right foot gleam and glisten in the dimmer light, before...

...before... what... what is it... The cheek, brushing against the back of her calf, and then soft, tender kisses... Demona struggled to focus, in the face of wanting to howl at the moon like a lonely wolf. This wasn't Goliath... it was not likely another gargoyle; given the trouble she was having, assuming her full and fleshy form? Plus it was subtle... insidious... human, almost certainly. The word felt like a poison in her mind... and the kissing? Female... just, the way of it. It was a level of deviousness which she herself might have envied, were she fully awake and not currently suffering from it.

It also inspired a certain... warmth... which only served to infuriate her all the more; part of the gargoyle's primal awareness, being the only part fully awake now, wished that other regions of her body might transform, and catch the attention of whoever was so fond of her naked foot. She couldn't help that; the disdain she held for humanity occupied a higher level of reasoning, for better or for worse. It was waking up, but parts of her throbbed... or almost throbbed, even as her foot wiggled, forced to keep its perch, her mind aflame with cunning, cruel tickles... and the beginnings of an arousal that wanted to be but, with parts as they were, couldn't quite manage itself into existence just yet.

I will make you wail, and I will strip the flesh from your bones, and I will make you enjoy it until the very last second, and... and... damn you, damn you, DAMN you just STOP... STOP... GODS' BLOOD... BLOOD and FANGS, just... STOPPIT.. N-NOT THE ARCH..!




Had any of what was going on filtered back, Morgan might even feel more obliged in acting out this essence of corporal punishment against the Gargoyle--after all, it wasn't every day that you got a creature like this on your doorstep, and the the female, this... creature... she was the only one that made it back fully, and in one piece, as though the stone composition she was made up of was near-indestructible, not unlike a petrified tree.

But that wasn't the case now, and the weight of the stone mixed with the restraints keeping the statue upright seemed to be acting as its own trap for the woman... Morgan could tell in the way that single foot seemed to fight against the antics while maintaining its own balance. Perhaps the Gargoyle felt she might fall if she doesn't keep it just so...

What do I care? This is the perfect opportunity to get this creature to spill her secrets, and finally answer some questions about my family lineage that hundreds of years of documents could never do.

Ah, yes... the hidden agenda... Morgan couldn't forget that she did spend a small fortune on this entire expedition, all for a small slice of land that lay underneath this whole, mammoth structure. Right now she had teams working around the clock, excising the earth this castle once stood atop to discover the secrets hundreds of feet below the soil.

"That's right... your ancient land holds much more than just a dusty old castle... so what can a creature like you tell me... maybe your name? Yes, that would be a good start," she purred softly, still nestled against the calf muscle of the woman's foot just as nails gave another rake upward along the gargoyle's tender arch.

Between the toes... such a sweet spot, but it wasn't as appealing as that long, exposed, inviting arch which she seemed to always go back to dutifully. Parts of the Gargoyle seemed to constantly be shifting and turning, and maybe even reverting back to its stone surface... did this gargoyle only have so much time to turn back before it was too late? "How do you work my dear?" she queried, a fine brow raised as her teeth gave a gentle nibble of the calf muscle now... owning it, possessing it like it belonged to her all along.

"If you cooperate I might even stop tickling you... that is what's going on, right? I can feel it in your muscles... I never thought it, but I suspect you in particular are a little ticklish... oh how delicious that is!" she chirped excitedly, finding spans of flesh to dance and scratch her nails across... digging and twisting, swiping and wiggling away from the ball of the foot, right up to the heel just before the start of that fifth toe.




Maddening... in the shifting gray shadow through which Demona walked while in stone form, her foot was solidly encased, as if one with the gray, clay-like soil beneath her; she could not take a step, and something, something was scratching at her, stroking; mostly stone again, at last, she fell to the ground and pounced it with her fists in that shadowy dream-world, at least able to move as her one foot seemed to refuse to change back.

"Steee-hee-YAA-hahahaha NOT THERE!" She was enraged, at being made to feel so much the child, though some part of her had difficulty keeping to wrath through all the laughter, and for its part tried quietly in its own way to plot appropriate revenge upon whatever errant mortal dared to stroke and play at her flesh. Especially when...

"UHHH-hnnnn..." Now, with the nibbling proceeding up along her calf, Demona's own arousal wasn't protected by the facade of stone. Her awareness was here. As maddening as it was, the torment didn't seem likely to stop--there was only one way out of this, though it would mean going through the Hell of a difficult transition, with her foot being the plaything of what she could only assume was some witch-woman for the whole time. Stroking, and scratching...

In the waking world, just as Morgan dug a fingernail into the center of Demona's arch, the gargoyle's foot spasmed, her toes spread... and her skin began to flake off again. This time, there was no urge fighting to turn it back to stone: instead, the creature seemed to be struggling full to wakefulness.

Even as the firm scratching worked its way along her arch, and nails twisted there way into the quivering blue flesh, Demona struggled to howl a word out of her hollow stone throat, a single echo which, if successful, would convey what she believed was the most important message she could possibly impart for the moment: a simple command.

"DEE-CIST!"

The more her foot was played with, the more it squirmed and wriggled in obvious, ticklish suffering. You could almost swear that the mouth of the statue itself was grinning.




Maybe it wasn't easy to try and talk when one's own vocal cords were comprised almost entirely of stone. That slow shift which was originally meant to bring Demona back to her rock form now interrupted, and as the sun began to fall, so did her window--apparently--to do a full shift in more than just bits and pieces.

Morgan noted that when she saw the rock failing to form once again over imposed cracks and breaks in the stone body. This Gargoyle missed her window, and now she was trapped, unable to focus on the fundamental elements needed to make a proper transmutation of this caliber. How delicious that was!

"So then you are capable of speech..." Morgan chimed in finally, having reduced her actions to a bare minimum as nails were only carefully toying with the tops of the gargoyle's toes, just enough that she left them wiggling and twisting about still in their forced mirth. "I can hear you, there's no point in trying to hide it any longer, fair creature..." she announced, her tone rising slightly in pitch now.

Was it really the tickling that was halting these shifts? Well, she had her chance now, maybe the Gargoyle would take the very small reprieve-in between bouts of her ticklish toes being assaulted-to try and plead her case.

There was nothing in ancient text to assume what the actions of these creatures would be... though dark fantasies ruled Morgan's mind--the thought that I could strike a bargain with this beast, a code of honor, bound by her own word should I convince her to do as I please--but these thoughts were premature. Far as she knew, Morgan was as much doomed later as this Gargoyle was now, only the difference would be a little more catastrophic in the long run.

"Speak, creature... I've waited my whole life for some form of sign of my family lineage, and you're as close as I've come yet! Now speak!" she commanded, feeling empowerment which was more or less premature. Still, if all else failed, she had that trapped and poised foot to torment into oblivion, and if the creature wasn't careful, she'd be stuck here most indefinitely.

The sudden spouting of rage seemed to leave Morgan in a fit herself, and soon her teeth were biting at the side of the gargoyle's foot, navigating them along with her tongue towards the spans of the elongated arch and right at the core center of it, with just enough room that her hands were still able to find patches of flesh to tease and scratch at.




"Stop... thaaat... N-NOWWW..!" The tone was long, and low, but one could as easily imagine it to be the result of an echo from some subterranean cavern as much as the manner of speech could reflect the sensation of having one's foot tickled. As to which it was, in truth...

The spasms of the Gargoyle's soft, tender blue foot as those nails raked across it... and the tongue? Demona's feet were made to grasp, and cling, and the curvature of her muscles was a marvel. Morgan's tongue seemed to glide across curves that were made especially for it, and all the while her foot twitched, and spasmed, as rock and stone slowly fell from the creature in scraps...

But, as observed, she was stuck, unable to make a quick and smoothe transformation... and this human female seemed in no hurry to stop tickling her foot. On the contrary; she was licking, and nibbling, and stroking with her nails, and as much as Demona would have gritted her teeth--had she not already been doing so in her pose--she couldn't deny that there was something... sensuous, to this. There was an appeal. The way this woman spoke, it boiled Demona's magical blood... but she'd have made, perhaps, a fine gargoyle.

"Please... release... I will tell... of... your family!" It was a long-shot, but Hell... what did all humans want? Especially humans with tall buildings? Wealth, power, conquest... she could weave a story that would please this witch in five seconds. Once she was finally free, the woman might make an amusing slave...

If Morgan was truly that fond of women, she had yet to meet one, assuredly, with a pointed tongue, capable of extending out to two feet in length... and then there was the tail... prehensile from base to tip...

"D-Don't... uhnnn... n-not... while, I'm changinggg..!"




And there it was... that morphing shift which allowed sounds to be released, even if the lips hadn't fully changed over just yet. But given the soft cracking and crumbling Morgan overheard, she knew there was something to be said about the creature's ability to communicate... in fact she was impressed... as though those lips were moving just behind the stone, and the muffled reaction was caused by a lack of shifting over completely... encased in her own self-made tomb.

"I have no reason to stop... a creature looking as fierce as you, perhaps I'm worried that-once free-you'll exact revenge on me, and rip me to small pieces..." even as she spoke, Morgan was careful in not allowing the Gargoyle to ease up from her own torment... she was beginning to rake and drag her nails of both hands now, teasing and tantalizing any bit of flesh she could reach.

The ball of the Gargoyle's foot lacked the same sensitivity, though showing very small signs. But the rest? Right between those toes in particular, in which Morgan dug between, the structure being unable to fully clasp shut and stop her actions. "What guarantee do I have that this not be the case?" she continued, pressing the issue just as her teeth found a high, tender spot to sink into right at what was presumed to be the instep, where she felt the most quivering and quaking of thick, wiry muscle. It was the high point that seemed to quake and rattle the most when suffering the adverse effects of tickling within this region, and the woman's body was practically hugging Demona's leg, latching onto that foot from the ankle on down.

With the creature vastly changing on her, and the two of them far from the help of her own personal security, Morgan had no means of immediate defense going for her... nothing save for the lustful carnage she was inflicting on that poor, sensitive foot.

Maybe if she had enough time she could bring about other 'defenses' which were automated and used in the same fashion as Demona's current restraints, but it took the gamble of releasing her long enough and starting the machine up... not unlike a portable generator on wheels, save for the manipulating arms of which there were four, each with a thick leather padded grappler used to grab at-and hold anything steady at four points for proper transport.

It came in especially useful when posing each Gargoyle at their corresponding position. But it was a risk... for now she'd ride out the storm... allowing ideas to blossom. The claw tips of the gargoyle's feet for instance... though pointed and dangerous, they weren't as sharply laid probably due to excessive use. So only a strong downward stab would penetrate skin... she could still attempt to latch though it would appear.




"Yeee-aaahhh-HAAAA-haaa-HAAAA!" The cry was wild, free, even passionate as the first sounds of genuine torment broke from the demonic-looking woman's stone lips, as though a woman had cried out and a hunting falcon keened in exactly the same moment. The cry was soon repeated, as Morgan's nails worked over her entire foot... and, then, the moment that Demona had begun to dread: her other foot began to flake free.

Slowly... claws first... but then her heel. If the woman got her nails into both arches at once, Demona would be in the most unseemly position of... begging. For mercy. From a human.

Damn her... clever... maybe, clever enough... to be useful? Thoughts were coming sluggishly, and were further delayed by the agonizing tickling over her one bare foot.

It was her only shot...

"You, moved me-hee-HEE-hee-HAAA-HAAA-HAAAW! BWAAA-haaa-HAAA-hahahahahaha..." and the first deep, lusty, sultry giggle, as though from the throat of a young human woman from strange and distant lands. It was sensuous, swirling, appealing all on its own... "S-something... c-capable of... holding... m-meee-hee-HEEE! F-find a... f-f-f-aahaaa-HAAA!"

Demona burst out in peals of laughter... Gods... ancestors' blood and bones... Hellspawn! The arch! SAVE me! "I-I-hee... w-will... s-swea-hee-HAA-any v-vow you wii-HIIISH! FA-HAAA-HIIND ONNNNE! THIS CA-HAAAGE WILL HOLD ME 'TIL YOU DOO-HOOO!! OHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA..."

Strips of stone fell away from the lids of Demona's eyes. There were tears already staining fresh new skin that had never before seen the moon. And the toes of her other foot were now free...

Wherever, and when-ever she was... there was only left to hope that some of the old books had survived.




And there was another problem that Demona would soon be facing though... as with her prior thoughts, the budding arousal which was slow to blossom, not unlike the sunflower taking forever itself before producing one of a hundred seeds. And now we had the same in a resisting gargoyle, not seeing the grand design in her own plight; she was here because the fates sealed her there.

So what else did that leave?

And what kind of Gargoyle dresses in such revealing fashion? She asked herself, noting the loincloth that barely covered the front, now broken free--interesting how her body morphs fabric as well--and wafting in the breeze, even if other parts were still encased.

What was once just a smooth piece of stone was growing definition now... definition and shape... and with that flimsy little cloth leaving the Gargoyle woman exposed... "That's not much of a fair deal... I have no idea what your vow is worth, or even if I can trust you to keep yours... so what say you Gargoyle... dare to try and convince me why I should trust a creature such as you? I've shown incredible restraint, since by standards you might as well be facing a group of rowdy and scared villagers looking to burn you alive..."

Even worse was the fact that she was growing fond of this little gargoyle... a soft tingle which rippled up and down the length of her spine in delight. Having a creature like this in her possession...

...Fingers reached up just between those strong, powerful stone thighs, brushing against what was once a simple slab, but now she could feel along the slightly warmer surface between the gargoyle's thighs, having reached up high to accomplish this feat. "Give me something that I can believe, or I have no reason to assume your words to be truth."

Added confrontation, but you could hardly blame Morgan for being skeptical... more of the gargoyle's body had changed again, leaving both feet just as nimble and free, though stuck stead-fast due to Demona's posture and those clamps holding her body. Did she even see faint signs of the other foot already quivering.

"Tell me Gargoyle... you mean to say your kind is actually ticklish?" She added with a smirk, a soft chuckle. Nobody said she couldn't verbally taunt the thing while it was still under her control after all... "Another foot for me to play with... is it as sensitive as the right foot? Here it comes..." she cooed, barely tickling at the air before that exposed, trapped sole.




Hsssss...

The experience of having her scantily concealed mound stroked and teased as it slowly transformed into its smooth, warm self was indescribable; Demona's blue, aquiline features would be "reborn" with a hot, violet flush already in place. A human woman could best come to an understanding surrounding the experience by imagining that she had been born aroused, but literally unable to do anything about it until she turned thirteen or fourteen. Demona had been stone for centuries; this mortal's touch was making her itch in ways that desperately demanded scratching.

"Y-you... uhhnnn... ghhhuh... h-ha-HAAAVE..." The gargoyle was starting to feel like a worm on a hook... but, at the same time, there was circumstance involved, and Demona knew her own capabilities--more than could be said of most, human or otherwise. As such, despite the outraged and indignant notion of wreaking bloody violence upon this upstart, there was a certain begrudging respect--however relucant.

...also, if the woman finished what she'd started, it wouldn't be the worst way to wake up. The gargoyle found herself flexing her feet, and spreading her toes, almost invitingly... it seemed to egg the mortal on, and the two spine-tingling sensations almost complemented each other in some unfathomable way. It was like a whirling dance of electricity running 'round and 'round up one leg, and a dance of icy blades whirling about the other... but it was a harvest festival where the two met.

Right in the middle, as it were... where she was still changing, and those fingers were stroking. Demona closed her eyes, once they were available to her, and willed the change to continue, trembling, her skin shuddering in a way that wasn't unlike the flanks of a wild beast shaking off an annoying insect. "Y-you have... uhhh... S-some knowledge... of, the past... don't know, how long, but... connections? Resources? Hssssss... This... your, castle?" One delicate, dark eyebrow was raised. "An... Al-luh-li-heee-hee-AAAIEEE-HAAASTOP! DAMN YOU! STOP! WE..."

The taunting, teasing persistence, the playful banter... it was more than she could take. Demona whipped her head from side, to side, frantic, teeth gritting... "I... we... I... w-wee-hee-hee-YAAAHH-HAAAHH!" There was still something of a hunting raptor's cry in her anguished, ticklish shrieks, as her foot quivered beneath the woman's assault... but, finally aware of just how secure she was in her restraining device, Demona raised her toes from their perch, free to twist and curl her foot in whatever direction, though still bound--as much by her remaining stony flesh as anything else--to only moving from the ankle on down, regardless of which side Morgan assaulted. "I... I don't know... this world, I... p-pp-PLEASE..."

The word came unbidden to mind; sweat was trickling from her brow, the dual assault upon her senses leaving her both passionately aroused and increasingly panicked in her "cage" of steel and stone. "Please... I swear... Need... allies... help... al-luh-luh-liaaance! Join... each, other..."

Here it comes...

"MERCY, WITCH! MERCYYY!"




Well if there was anything to be said about Gargoyles, they were very much the tenderfoot species... unless of course this was a fluke of her in particular... overlooked because of the obvious nature of what she was in comparison with people not daring to come this close. When you do happen to reach out and touch a Gargoyle, was there more behind them than the ferocious nature, their cunning looks and agile abilities of both flight and combat? Looking now at the muscles portrayed in Demona's arms-even through the stone-it was enough to leave someone breathless...

...Mix that with the creature actually coming to life and Morgan had herself one nasty cocktail she wouldn't like to remember.

More of the Gargoyle's movements were becoming apparent though, and Morgan wasn't about to let an opportunity like this go to waste... she opted for the latter of the situation, and as Demona reached the next cycle in her transformation, the whir of the engine filled the night sky, the manipulating waldoes unfurling from their four-point perch as the easy-to-use touch screen allowed Morgan to zero in on the woman's limbs, and adjust accordingly with just a tap of the screen, while an internal infrared camera lens matched the exact height and angle of its targets... even rising up from the ground with a hefty counter-weight matching more than six times Demona's own weight in stone was used as the anchoring point on the opposing end.

"We do have much to discuss, but I don't know much about your species to take kindly to your free roaming... you understand of course," Morgan added, and allowed for each of the mechanical waldoes to find their purchase--two at each ankle, and two for each wrist--before clamping down in a firm but adjustable rubber and metal clamp. One could tell from the mechanics alone that Morgan went to great, costly lengths to try and preserve much of this castle to its former glory... and now it would seem that same methodology was now being used against one of the creatures.

It hadn't moved beyond Demona's posture though, not while she was still in transformation... with her wings slightly folded and draped across her backside, it made her limbs easy targets. It also meant that Morgan had to watch her head lest she wanted to bash it on a mechanical arm now as WELL as that damnable winged cape.

"From the sounds of it, you've met your own in the occasional squabble. So you'll understand if I take added precaution here, naturally..." she added with a slight smirk... and with a simple adjustment of the left lower clamp... "Tell me, is your left foot as ticklish as your right? Always good to know, plus I must say--for a six hundred year old stone creature (she was guessing at the age) you taste absolutely fantastic... had I known I would've collected more of your kind while I had a chance."




Tenderfoot... Demona was fortunately incapable of reading minds... though it looked as though that was merely fortunate for herself, and any sense of dignity she had remaining. Restraint and immobility always make it worse... and you try being tickled out of a centuries-long sleep, mid-transformation! Not that humans, transform... and there was a certain justification to presuming that Demona was slightly more sensitive... well-cared-for... than other gargoyles. Or, so she would have said.

At times, it felt much like tiny little bolts of lightning were crawling too slowly over her skin. The human witch's curiosity; it was evident in the exploratory way she probed, as though she spoke with her fingers as well as her lips. Demona was beside herself--well, or still within herself, that actually worked a little better--but, even though she didn't entirely grasp what was happening when the servos first sounded...

...Mechanisms like this were an entirely new experience; Morgan's guestimate was a couple of centuries off, as it happened. Still, the blue-skinned woman's eyes widened, as she took to it, amusingly, much like any mortal woman would to a statement about her age: "Sih-hi-hiix hu-hundred..! And wha-HAA-haha-herr, puh-pray tell, did thahat come from? You're... yu-hee-hee-HEE! Ya-HEEEE-HEE-YAAAHAAAHAAAWFULLY p-p-prez... presump--WHAT?!"

The astonishment was genuine, as the mechanical arms clamped securely about her wrists and ankles. "W-whahat sorcery is this?"

She struggled against the machine's grip for a few moments. giggling... and offering up the occasional screech... it was easier to bear the incessant tickling now that there was a distraction, and with most of her being soft blue flesh again. A certain heightened sense of things was gone, its inherent purpose of warning of danger no longer being necessary.

There was a slight give, in those strange metal arms, but it was resisted, each time--as though there were some infernal, uncaring intelligence controlling the muscles of whatever this bizarre creature was that held her. So, she was right about the witchcraft thing; there was an odd reassurance there. At least it wasn't some ignorant, half-witted peasant fool, because as loathe as she was to admit it, she was in a position to require allegiance. "I... u-huhn... unnderstand," she grunted, doing her best to recapture some dignity through a cool acceptance of the more unavoidable side of her present experience. "A-and... you... are, right..." Let... me... out... "We have... much, to di-di-dit... di-discussss..."

She squeezed her eyes shut, Demona's natural gall being kept under wraps only with great difficulty. The sense of burning shame was palpable. "I d-don't know... b-but presumably, m-my left foot is... j-just as... ticklish... wait..."

Her eyes snapped wide open, and it wasn't from the sudden resurgence of a stroke along her arch, though with their present confinement her feet were both wiggling every-which-way, including a lot of curling. Her narrow blue soles wrinkled like a brow, a few deep lines as opposed to the usual pattern. "W-while you had... w-what... w-where are... the others?" Her tail twitched from side to side with sudden agitation; the woman's words were a matter for grave concern, and the thought of dangling her over her own balcony by her ankle suddenly returned...




A slight more cooperation than Morgan was expecting, but given the circumstances, she wasn't surprised by it--well, maybe she was surprised, but so did she accept the reason why. This creature was in a whole new world, watching from a perch as she came about, and listening to the different sights and sounds of something that was centuries younger than her. An essence of spell-binding shock and maybe even a small tingle of fear.

Still it wasn't about to make her stop what she was doing... "Wait, what am I waiting for?" she asked, a brow raised as the mechanical arm finished its undulating turn, and the left foot was now dangling, facing backwards with toes granted the freedom to wiggle and clench. It left her standing literally on one foot. "Should I be concerned, or is this ticklish Gargoyle planning on behaving instead of attempting to rip me apart with those toes of yours?" she queried, using the tip of her pen to stroke between two of the toes left poised. Demona wouldn't be left with much movement, but what she could do was substantially dangerous for Morgan if she wasn't careful now.

Back to the point at hand though... "I gathered your stone body from a collection of thirteen originals... though since the passing of time, of those thirteen statues, only four remained, and two of those four were left to crumble... barely half of what they once were: you and the final ones were all that was left in tact. But between you two, only you seemed to wake from this stone slumber."

While the mood in the air was much more playful, perhaps even banter-like in its original context, Morgan understood the implications now of multiple statues... and if they were all like Morgan once, that meant that their disappearance and crumbling meant that not all would survive. How Demona was powerful enough to last through the harsh mistress of time was a bit... spellbinding itself.

"Not to cut things short of course... but I do like to finish what I started," Morgan added as she began her leisure walk towards the outstretched foot, the manipulating arms all poised at four corners of Demona's body, providing ample coverage against that possibly threatening tail of hers. Time would tell if this Gargoyle was plotting to be the end of Morgan... for now though, the woman was presumably safe. "So are we going to behave ourselves?" she chided, stepping just to one side of that obviously massive--yet slender in comparison to the others--foot so that a single finger could playfully stroke along the same high arch, now left slightly wrinkled from the curling of those long toes.

"We can discuss more about our future together once I know we have some kind of pact agreement which will keep me from becoming a victim... that is assuming that your kind honors their agreements?" A different time, a different era... Demona might've lived in a world where one's word was their bond, once upon a time... but Morgan lived in the reality of now... where a man's word was as good as the knife in his hand, ready to rob you blind as much as he was to shake your hand and agree to anything you said.




Demona, at least, wasn't particularly inclined towards mugging the woman--or anyone else, though neither was she above simply taking if she had a need for something: presently, however, the more nefarious instincts were bent more towards murder. She grunted with exertion, struggling in renewed fashion as the machine bent her into an obvious position--but left her with little ability to affect any change. All she could do was watch... the woman doubtless being on her guard.

Rest assured, she would be on the watch for any lapses therein.

"All... but me." It was a hollow feeling, though not as much as one might have expected. For most, the loss of... companions? Comrades? That would have been shocking unto itself, but in Demona's case the pride and vanity conspired to simply leave her feeling very much alone in the face of the loss of those whose company, had they been present, and in a more familiar world, she would have just as soon avoided. Demona had always been the proverbial north tower gargoyle, standing solitary watch away from the others: she resolved, regardless, to explore the possibility of rousing the other intact member of her troop from their sleep, at the very least.

Maybe she'd be able to figure out how to command this witch's infernal creature...

"So... I n-nnn-nnn..." Demona hissed, and closed her eyes; the fingertip being drawn along her wrinkled arch was... a problem. She shook, involuntarily, within her confinement, tremors running along the entirety of her exposed body as her toes spread, ,wriggled, and curled. The rear-facing fifth toe was somewhat less flexible than the others, but it also curled inward, though she didn't go so far as to grasp. Not yet... an alliance was, regrettably, needed, and besides--that would just trap that hand against her soft sole. Though, if I were to break the bones of her littlest finger... that seems to work well with mortals, without being overly inconvenient to actual function...

"I... n-need to... t-t-tee-hee-HAA..! T-To swear, b-but you'll take... m-mmy word... that the v-vow has m-mme-he-he-HEE-hee-hee-HAA-hahahaha..." With her throat, and her mouth, fully flesh once again, her laughter took on a far more feminine chuckling, losing all sense of distant echo... though just as sleek and sultry as it had been. "T-that it... m-means sssss-s-somethee-hee-HEENG? W-what if I... g-give you my word... t-tttchhhh... tcchhhh... th-that I won't... t-try-hee-hehehehehehehahaha, oh Gods... w-won't try to k-kill youuu-eee-HEEE?!"

The gargoyle shook her shaggy mane of hair wildly from one side to the other, abruptly, finding the nails along her tender arch unbearable... and the pen, though she didn't recognize the implement, almost as much so as it felt its way between her toes, which wriggled and flexed around it obligingly. Killing the witch, however, was truly well and gone from Demona's mind, even as she quietly snaked her tale out, low, seeking one of Morgan's legs. If she could get one of the witch's feet to where she might be able to reach it, however... that would put a different spin on things.

Why settle for a partner, when one could have a servant? Servants were so much easier to deal with.



​
The issue of trust was hardly something Morgan was concerned with... she was a realist though, and trust had to be earned in some aspects. So perhaps this was a time when vows needed to be made, and Morgan would just take it in stride. It was a gamble, but then again so was allowing Demona to live in the first place, and not just doing what she could and throwing this creature over the abyss to crumble and shatter, or whatever the hell her kind did when faced with death.

In that moment she stopped what she was doing, even taking a step back--as much to avoid that tail as it was to consider the alternative. "Alright, now's a good time to speak," she added, the first time Demona was left unmolested upon her own body. "You said something of a Vow... so if you were to vow any kind of deal with me, you would be forced to honor it?" she queried with a raised brow. "And stop that with your tail woman, or else I will find a way to deal with it!" She snapped, suddenly and cruelly raking her nails down the length of Demona's left foot starting at the heel. With that tough skin, it would be near-impossible to break it short of something sharp and with great stabbing strength... but that didn't mean nails raking wouldn't be unbearably excruciating on the underside of the same soft, sensitive flesh either.

"I want your vow," she finally said, after giving Demona ample time to talk and explain herself about what she just said... "Your vow of subservience to me until such a time that trust is earned, and that we might become partners. But until that time, your loyalty..." she paused, a hand softly cupping under her own chin, "And your body belong to me; mine to command and do as I wish... and should you honor that, we can discuss the second half of that vow."

"Now... is that something the ticklish little Gargoyle can handle, or do I need to remind you what hundreds of years of longing can do?" she added, though at this point she had only been guessing the latter... the Gargoyle's flesh and blood mound, and the hand which tantilized it from below... that assertive, cruel rub which left nails idly scratching across the surface... though to reach, it also left her in the precarious reach of the Gargoyle's tail. Now was the time to test if her word was her bond...​




Being allowed the chance to breathe, unmolested, was a welcome change, and one that Demona took in stride. She didn't make an immediate effort to free herself, or to turn upon the witch; instead, she softly panted, an almost sensual action, as she slowly caught her breath. It wasn't that a gargoyle couldn't sweat; she'd been doing her fair share of that as her feet were attended to, let alone when the woman decided to explore her sex... but heaving her chest in and out for breath like some human tavern harlot? That was simply beneath her.

"You have... my word," Demona spoke slowly, and deliberately, "that I will consent to being... partners." The word came out with a slight hiss of air escaping from between clenched teeth."I was trying to give you a chance to go and find a binding spell or vow of your own--you obviously have some of the older texts available to you?" In retrospect, actually, that wasn't so obvious as it was an assumption: in the world which Demona remembered, anyone who managed to capture her in such a position almost certainly would have had access to knowledge of the less-than-sanctified variety.

Also, as far as Demona knew, the woman had summoned a demon of iron to hold her fast... so, sure, spells were a thing. So maybe it was obvious... at least from her point of view. "I know of no binding Vow off the top of my head, I'm afraid, though I'd be happy to give you my word as a Watcher." One could almost hear the capitalization.

"In any event, I am nobody's servant... certainly not a mortal's." A low growl resonated from her throat, but it was choked off as Morgan raked her nails along the gargoyle's hapless, upturned arch. With her foretoes curled, her sole was lined with deep wrinkles, and the nails that caught them... the blue-skinned "demon woman" tilted her head back and hollered, flexing and curling her fingers in their restraints. "Whaa-HAA-hahahaha alright... ALRIGHT! E-hee-HEE-NOUGH! I YIELD!"

More panting... catching her breath, even as the woman berated her. But, then, there came the moment... when she leaned in close, in order to reach up and stroke at Demona's long-denied lover's mound...

Demona rippled, shuddering along the length of her body, but allowing a soft moan of pleasure as she raised the tip of her tail. There was no longer any effort to simply wrap it around Morgan's leg--instead, she casually, and without trying to be stealthy, tried to worm the tip of it into the woman's footwear. "As for... my, body..."

Well, at least it wasn't going to be a total chore.

"I'm sure we can come to something a little more... mutual there, as well?"

Guesses had once been made as to just where Demona got her nature. There was some debate that the shape of a gargoyle's original carving determined much of the individual they ultimately turned out to be. Demona, at any rate, was certainly the succubus of this "demonic" lot: sensual, sleek-bodied, and sultry, but more than that--her needs had always exceeded those of her fellow guardians, and she was ever appreciative of that which some, like the great ape Goliath, seemed all but oblivious to. It made dealing with mortalkind that much easier... Even, in its own way, fun.




That much could be seen... Demona's tail as it went about its own nature. But Morgan was still allowing herself a moment of slight trust, enough that she felt the tail curling softly along her leg. Was her trust dumbfounded and all too soon though? "My arrangement seems adequate until such a time that I find I can trust you... you understand of course--what, being a creature that could undoubtedly tear me limb-from-limb without a second thought?" she added, fighting off the nervous apprehension she felt wanting to rise in her tone as that tail continued curling about her leg.

Her retaliation, her only action to defend herself came in the same sensuous rub between Demona's thighs now... her nails continuing their work against that pulsing section of flesh as one even found its way to penetrate the creature. "Unless of course you think my original offer is unkind and unfair... I'm sure you can do as you wish, once you find a way to actually set yourself free from my mechanical beast... and long before the sun comes up again?" she added on the side of hopeful as well as advantageous. She was already under the beast's control to easily throw her off the side of the building; her rigid posture and the manacles binding Demona making it impossible for that tail to do anything short of crushing Morgan to death, or the latter. But that didn't mean she didn't err on the side of caution, as she stepped dangerously into the risk side of the equation.

"We both seem to be of the same ilk, and yet we each have an advantage over the other. Should the time come that loyalty is earned, I'm willing to see you as a partner... but I must see that incentive first... lest I be taken for a fool--do I seem like a fool?" she cooed, her tone taking on more than that mild hint of sultry. Yet instead of going back to Demona's obvious pleasure... well, she went for the alternative: in fact she basked in it as fingers curled about the Gargoyle's slender ankle, and a warm cheek was felt nestled against that deep arch just before playful teeth found their purchase, and nibbled tenderly at the skin along that deep arch.

Despite the difference in height, Demona's foot wasn't entirely larger than Morgan's... at least not in contrast. The woman could easily fit her whole hand on the underside of the arch were her fingers clenched, and the elongated toes were enough that they could easily wrap around one shoulder. But in staunch comparison they could even be seen as lithe and petite. And now they were getting the warm reception of an eager nibbler... someone who didn't-at all-seem disgusted or afraid of those claws, but rather embraced them, and the ticklish torment they could cause Demona in turn.

"Who knows... you might even have fun with the position..." she added, as though none of this was unfair for Demona... a name which only existed on one side of the spectrum.

What was this Gargoyle's name?

"If it makes you feel better about things, you can even call me Morgan instead of Master..." she topped off, that nice little cherry which was punctuated with a tender giggle just before the girl lapped at the long arch in a single, broad stroke.




The tip of Demona's tail wormed its way into the woman's apparel, with a very specific effort being made to avoid coiling it too many times about her calf, or to actually pull at the woman's leg... no: she simply wanted the firm, probing tip of her tail--like a blunted claw-tip, in its own right--to find its way to the instep of the woman's foot, and softly, tenderly caress, dragging itself along her skin, hidden within her footwear. It was hardly retaliation: Demona was in a terrible position were it to come to tit-for-tat.

She trusted, however, that this human witch would recognize that.

"Uhhnnn, I... I don't..." Under the light stroke of nails, the teasing penetration, the gargoyle was feeling her resolve weakening; it had been so long. So very long. Empires had literally risen, teetered dramatically on the brink for generations, and then fallen, all while Demona lurked on the castle's minarets, cold and unsatisfied. With her mound feeling the all-too-light caress... it was actually making her legs tremble.

The woman had a point. She was in no position to argue. She could hang there in the arms of this metal creature for another eight hundred years, for all she knew... though, through all her struggles and indecision, she didn't let up on her efforts to, almost playfully, tease Morgan's own foot with the tip of her tail. Truth be told, it wasn't that uncommon a focus among gargoyles.

The ones who thought about sex at all, anyway...

"So I... serve, you... you, help me... learn, your... uhh-hnnn... w-world... and..." Demona's lips curled, as the stroke between her thighs was added to, by the feeling of a warm cheek on the sole of her helplessly caught foot. There was a certain... kinkiness, to the whole situation... and, with her body no longer trapped in stone and helpless, Demona was feeling the appeal of it, the playfulness... and the almost searing sensuality. Even as Morgan's little teeth nibbled gently along her sleek, sensitive blue arch, and Demona started chuckling...

"A-hah-hand... w-wee-hee-hehehe... buh-both have, some... fuh-fun?"

She splayed her toes out, her foot wiggling, as she tilted her head back and let her own giggling wash down over her body like a refreshing shower, as the ticklish sensations in her foot mingled with the pleasure radiating out from her sex, and the tingly, giggly sort of warmth that came from the woman's mouth gracing her arch.

"I... I could s-swear to that... as we buh-buh-build... trusssst!" Something about where the woman's teeth bit home, in that moment, left Demona's head and shoulders shaking, as she vented a monologue of cackling, shrill giggles, trailing off into a breathless loss of voice. "M-my name... Morgan... issss Demona," she hissed, adding unintended sinister ambiance in the act of simply trying to get the words out in an intelligible fashion.

What she wouldn't have given for two tails, just then; the woman, presumably, had other areas to explore as well...




Oh, but the Gargoyle would have to work exceptionally hard at slithering that tail past Morgan's boot, locked tight as it was. Given the adverse conditions up on the hill, and the thick padding of Morgan's coat, it was safe to assume the night's were long and chilling, enough so that added layers were required when atop the stone perch.

But it left the peculiar sensation running rampant across her calf though, where Demona's tail seemed to worm its way to after slinking under the hem of her jeans... sending a slight chill across her skin where the cold winds were allowed to pass through... now ceasing, just as the tip of her tail began to dig and prod along the closed lip of the boot.

The whole situation was tantalizing, causing the woman to titter softly under her own breath, her foot slightly dancing about now as if attempting to shake off that tail. "We-he have an agreement thehehen..." she chimed in her titillating giggle. "Your body belongs to me... I think I like that arrangement," coming under control of her own feelings, soon she was attempting to tug at Demona's tail just as it continued its pursuits... only to later find this distraction wasn't working. That tail was like stone when it wanted to be!

...So go for the latter! A calm little smirk on her face, and the woman was rising up on tip-toe as her lips, her tongue found its purchase along Demona's inner thigh, the same one whose knee was bent, and foot left upturned and exposed. "You know, I can't concentrate on finishing when you do that..." she purred, just as her teeth nibbled at that same thigh again, strands of hair already close enough to be felt on that wild black mane, brushing and teasing at Demona's mound in turn.

The Gargoyle was left unattended for so long after all, wasn't she? And what chance would she have at acceptance in this brave new world anyway? Certainly nothing even close to what Morgan had to offer as her own lust for power seemed to be as powerful as Demona's. Or maybe Morgan just thrilled after the unexpected and the unknown... her own sexy little Gargoyle in her bed... oh what the two of them could accomplish together...

"So are we going to let me finish... or do I have to go back to raking my nails back along those ticklish clawed feet of yours? I plan to do that anyway, but only one method has a happy ending for you..." she purred against Demona's powerful but slender thigh, planting another kiss against the blue tinted flesh before she sank her teeth in a happy little love bite.




Demona griped, internally, her face twisting into a grimace as her tail failed to make purchase. Though, given that, there was certainly something sensual in the way the tip of it felt its way up beneath the hem of the woman's strange britches; the material wasn't familiar. Less tough than leather, but it yielded significantly more, while still feeling somewhat durable. Being one who enjoyed the feeling of durable things yielding before her, there was a certain measure of satisfaction to be had there, especially when Morgan tittered in response to the--initially--unintended caress of her smooth calf.

"Your body belongs to me..." The woman was treading in shark-chummed waters, but there was a secret genius to her timing of which she couldn't have been aware--or, maybe she was, in that strange way that women seemed to have of understanding each other. And Demona was all woman, right to her very core--that was much of what lay behind her current predicament, as the way Morgan's tongue migrated to her inner thighs had her sucking in air in a gasp that she completely forgot to be embarrassed about. It was simply too... too...

"N-no..." It wasn't a denial. "Oh-ohhh..." It was the last gasp of resistance to the notion; Morgan had inadvertently--or advertently--claimed vocal possession of Demona at exactly the right moment. Now, with the humiliation of bowing her head to a human Master past, all Demona could focus on was the way that tongue was playing about some of the most sensitive flesh she had on offer... and, once again at the perfect moment, there was the sudden addition of teeth. Nibbles... Oh, Gods' blood... The gargoyle felt herself going weak and limp in those restraining arms, giving herself over to whatever use this mortal wished to heap upon her body.

No... not 'mortal.' Master. That... somehow made it easier to bear...

"You... y-you will... m-may... f-f-i-hinnishhh..." The words were halting... but they came. "M-Master..." And the way her hair brushed Demona's mound, as those teeth found sensitive purchase... a throaty purr emerged from the gargoyle's lips next.

"As... as it... p-please, you..."




Well, if timing wasn't everything...

...Shame Morgan didn't know this right away though. She only suspected much of the subservient undertone was for show... but that hadn't stopped her from enjoying the moment, or the feel of those quivering thighs against her cheeks as she continued to nestle and nibble along the right, leaving trails of saliva in her wake while nails raked softly along the back of the same thigh, close to the crook of the knee.

It wouldn't be the end of this tender, caring moment... but Morgan did make other obligations prior, and the last thing she wanted was to be known as a liar. "Now are we ready for some attention to our big, ticklish feet again?" Morgan had asked with the same throaty growl that she was vastly starting to become known for.

One thing she did understand about Demona was the will to not be subservient to anyone... so as those words left the Gargoyle's lips, she knew in some part that she had gotten what she wanted. It was for the best anyway--Demona's timing to wake from her slumber might've been one that ushered her into submission in small part, but she could have picked worse purchases to be stuck in the hands of; like the demon hunters that forced her into her century-long nap in the first place... the blasted curse which left her--and many like her--stuck in the hands of time, possibly to crack and crumble away as siblings were lost to old age, to lack of power and vigor.

And now here she was... stuck in the hands of a mortal who seemed to accept this Gargoyle for what she really was; a woman... a sensual woman at that.

Honestly, there were worse places to be right now.

Even if that current place had Demona being spoken to as though she were a child about to be tickled under the weight of someone bigger and stronger... the same gargoyle feet which possibly even Demona had no clue were so ticklish. The circumstances were stacking, and they just grew worse as Morgan spoke again... "I'm sorry, what was that my lovely Demona? Such a fitting name for a sexy creature like you..." she added, her upper body wrapped about Demona's thigh muscle like a loved, treasured possession.




Demona hung, almost limp, in her bondage, her soft blue skin slick with a coating of sweat as fiendishly insidious tickling gave way to a sensual arousal the likes of which she hadn't enjoyed in centuries. Previous flings with gargoyles were... well. Let's just say that male gargoyles were surprisingly quick when they weren't being bedrock, and humans? Her arrogant demeanor had always kept her aloof from them, before. There was a man or two that had impressed her enough to be momentarily taken advantage of, prior to being discarded like a limp rag--literally, as neither one had survived the process.

She'd never been caught at such a profound disadvantage by a human, before... and some never-explored side of her personality, having something to do with the latent submissiveness of being designed, ultimately, as a subservient guardian and protector, was starting to enjoy it, from more than one angle. She would never admit it, of course.

Well... not without... 'torture'...

"Ohhh..." The gargoyle moaned again, limp and trembling in the strange creature's arms that held her so steadfast, and without tiring. "Ohh-hohhh... n-no, please... Master... please don't tickle my feet... I... I can't..." How strange, the way that made her feel so much more turned on... and every time she felt a wave of pleasure from being forced into submission, like this? Morgan's tongue, or teeth, or nails... or even a stray tuft of hair... seemed to find a particularly sensitive cluster of nerves along Demona's inner thigh. The leg on which the human witch was focusing was trembling far more than the rest of her, accompanied by the occasional, bucking jolt from Demona's midsection.

"I'm sorry, what was that..."

Master asked you a question...

So weak, after centuries of confinement... weak, stupid. Pathetic. She deserved this... until you grow stronger, Demona told herself.

"I..." She paused, her throat dry with terrified anticipation. "I... p-please, Master... huh-have your way with my big, t-ticklish feet... they, then be... belong, t-to you..."

And she wiggled all of her toes for emphasis. "I hope... they, please you..."




It was a good thing that the bondage structure was holding Demona up so, otherwise the woman would fall under her own weight it would seem... but Morgan did feel a pang of empathy--a creature having long since been left asleep, and now this drastic new world being thrown at her, and worst of all; she was being exploited in a way that was leaving her in utter ruin.

But the part which made that empathy seem like nothing more than a passing fad was the tone in which Demona now spoke, apparently left in equal ruin at the tender, loving touch to that powerful, quivering thigh.

Both feet weren't left poised, as one was still hanging on to the edge of the ledge, despite the obvious wiggling of her toes. So when the same mechanical arm began its manipulation once again, the whole of Demona's weight was hefted on the steel rods adjacent to both sides of her body, connected to either underarm and about her waist and shoulders in criss-cross pipes that were bent in strategic locations to favor said parts of Demona's once-stone body. Had that not been there still, the only thing left were the clamps about her wrists, her original pose having them at her sides and bared to resemble her power and strength.

So both ankles were now left dangling, and back-to-back at that... perhaps punctuation to Demona's current turmoil. "In time you might even come to enjoy this," Morgan added to the woman's already tickle-addled brain. "For now though, we mustn't forget the reward at the end of the tunnel."

The reward... was Demona so defeated as to put up a fight anymore? Probably not, but it would be important to remember that the key to Demona's heart was her craving for physical attention, and while her ticklish feet seemed to be a zone of a slowly triggered desire, there were 'faster' ways to accomplish Morgan's goals... ways which left Demona a little less than her former self.

And so, with this new power wielded, Morgan tested the ropes as she playfully ran her nails along both feet at once... one focused on the high point of the fifth toe, carefully scribbling its way down... and the other pinpointed at those wiggling toes, and the soft, cushion surface between them before raking upward in the opposing direction, always focused on those high, tender, sensitive arches.




Demona hung, limp and listless, her skin slick with sweat: in some half-forgotten corner of her mind, one that still clung to vaguely remembered images of soaring, wild and free, above the clouds of a crisp autumn evening, she hoped that the added lubrication might amount to her being able to slip her wrists and ankles free from the restraining arms of the iron beast that contained her. Something about the feel of them suggested a roughness, a coarse sort of crude manipulation that was meant for holding firm, stone objects in place, not pliable creatures of flesh and blood.

Morgan... she conjured it up, thinking that I would remain caught in my stone effigy by the same power that held me fast for these past long centuries...

She pulled, gently, not having the endurance left to struggle. The tingling pleasure that was slowly flooding her groin had stacked itself upon the appalling sensitivity of her feet... she had not known of that, had not expected it. How many poor, frail, fleshy men have died between my talons? The thought that all any of them would have had to do to ensure their freedom was to turn their heads and nibble at her toes... on some level, Demona was honestly disgusted, and it renewed her vigor to resist her impending captivity, as sure a thing as it now appeared to be.

Her vigor was renewed, but not her strength... the tickling had worn her down, so unbearable in her state of utter imprisonment. Also, centuries of sleep had required great resilience to resist: if Morgan was speaking the truth--and the thought triggered a renewed sense of hate at the humans who had trapped her--others from her troop had literally been worn down by the simple weathering of the elements, while she remained largely untouched. She was weak, and had been caught out in the open.

There was nothing left to do, but resist...

She pulled at her wrists. The creature's grasp tightened; it seemed to react to her movements with incredible reflexes, which she found herself grimly envying. A pull at her ankles--first her left, slowly, and then a quick and sudden yank at her right--resulted in the same. The metal demon's clamp-like mandibles seemed to somehow reshape themselves to fit her limbs, holding fast despite the sudden slickness of her skin.

Demona heaved a sigh... recognizing her drained state of exhaustion, the tiredness of one who has slept for far, far too long.

There was nothing left to do... but endure. And, the more she played along...

"I... uhh-hnnn... guh-hhh..."

What Morgan was doing, to her thighs... the sensual touching, the way her teeth seemed to find every last cluster of nerves, and play with it, like a cat toying with a ball of yarn until it twitched of its own accord. Demona found it difficult to resist; it was so much what she needed, needed, in that moment, that she ultimately decided to simply relax... and allow it to happen.

"I..." her tongue felt dry; dusty, as though the words were fighting against their own utterance. Demona faced herself--her own resistance, her pride--and fought it, just as she had fought everything else over her long centuries of life: tooth and nail, dragging what she wanted from someone else, ripping... tearing. Taking. "I... my, body... is yours, M... Master."

It felt bitter. Crackling. Sick. And, as those fingertips toyed with her pale blue mound, flushing it to a deep, richly royal blue beneath her flimsy loincloth, it felt...

Incredible.

"I hope that... m-my feet... my toes... the taste of my skin..." A little bit of a purr crept into Demona's voice, and she felt her body throbbing, all at once, in so many tender places. "I hope it... pleases you..."

Her toes spread apart, and then began to wiggle, each of them moving independently of the others. Even her hind-facing fifth toes wiggled, showing surprising grace and dexterity--a grip that could hold a tall, muscular being perched high on a balcony for hours on end. They were pretty, in their own way: lean, strong, tapering, and perfectly shaped, a slender big toe facing the "wrong" way, but it looked just fine on Demona.

Morgan's fingernails caressed her hind-toe, on her right foot, causing it to curl... that one seemed more inclined to curl, and extend, rather than wiggling from side to side. The others moved as any human's toes would, with each long, powerful toe showing great individual control. And, as Morgan explored them, Demona threw back her head, shaking it wildly from side, to side, and laughed, howling her quaking, trembling, ticklish torment into the uncaring night sky that now seemed like a long-lost lover.

"I--I-hee-HEE-hee-YAAA-HA-HAAA! M-MA-HAA-HA-HASTERRRR!"

That's right, you weak, spent, pathetic little thing. Give in... this is your punishment for being weak. Bide your time. And endure.

"WAA-HAA-HAAA! I-I luh-lll-LIVE to PLE-HEEE-HE-HEASE! BWAAA-HAA-HAHAHAHAHAHA!" Demona's mouth gaped wide, and her cheeks glistened with tears, as her soft, ticklish feet betrayed her... even as she fought herself, forced herself to hold them still, side by side, for Morgan's eager pleasure.




If only Morgan could hear the innermost thoughts rolling around Demona's head... she would feel that flush of excitement all over again. Being a woman of her word, when the day came, it would be hard to let this one go... but Demona--despite her broad attitude--she had a streak of integrity. Morgan could only imagine what this Gargoyle was like back in her day; claiming the sky as her own, and reigning thunder down on all who would oppose.

Yes... Given the opportunity I would have this creature's allegiance instead of her disdain... Morgan was no fool, even if caught up in her own lust... Demona knew not of this world, and much of the old tides were now long since washed out to sea. She was a creature of old in a brand new world not of her design; she could only imagine the wonders the new ways held. And as time went on, and Morgan broke and crumbled that resolve--piece by piece... then it would be Morgan who Demona turned to... perhaps lovers, perhaps something more.

For now though... she would make do with a broken-willed creature who thought of her as Master... lavish in the luxury that was a subservient Gargoyle.

Draped across my bed, the demon Gargoyle that she was... all mine...

That thought... cold chills running up and down the woman's spine as she caught the sight of those quaking, trembling feet at her mercy. "Would you betray me, given the chance?" she queried suddenly, allowing deft nails to trace and trail along the tips of those spread toes, starting from the top of either foot, and working between, along the balls of her feet, and back up towards those delicious arches for what must have been the umpteenth time.

With both feet together-side by side-it was easy to nestle her cheek back against the woman's sole... her tongue gracefully dragging along the outskirts between both of them--or one at a time... it didn't matter... just the sheer taste of the woman's flesh... something about it which was so intoxicating, as though the aroma of perspiration alone was enough to kindle the flames between her own legs.

Would she betray me? That echoing thought rolling around her precious head.




Would I betray her?

Demona quaked beneath the gently raking touch of those nails, as each stroke across the broad blue expanse of her tender, ticklish soles was sweeping free another secret room in the temple that was her psyche, clearing out entire hoards of that which Demona had never quite taken for granted... hidden reserves of independence, stubborn pride, calm reserve, and cold arrogance, all of them laid as bare beneath Morgan's clever fingers as were the soft, elegantly curved, and wonderfully smooth arches by which means the powerful businesswoman gained access to them.

If Demona's feet were the secret rooms in which she housed her vanities, her wriggling, tender little toes were the keyholes, at which Morgan "picked" to gain access... sometimes quite literally: if Demona curled her toes, one had only to tickle them until they splayed of their own accord. Locks, with built-in lockpicks. The lithe blue gargoyle was utterly helpless; all she could do was laugh, and so she did. She laughed, and screamed, and wailed, and sometimes she lost her nerve, and kicked her feet up and down... but all Morgan had to do was wait that out. It never lasted long.

Would, I... betray... In the back of her mind, that inky black undercurrent of who she was lay regenerating... weak... but it uttered a soft In a heartbeat. The female gargoyle's rational mind, however, fought back: allies were necessary. Use her, but keep her around. Keep her happy. Turn the tables, when you can, but don't get rid of her.

And then, of course, there was that other voice... little, and loud, somehow at the same time.

I must not betray Master. That one was new... but it was growing, growing by the moment, the subservience of the gargoyles' enchantment taking hold in response to what was partly a coincidence of fortunes, and partly a master-stroke of sensual manipulation. Manipulation that was still happening, as Demona struggled to focus despite the onslaught of tickling on the soles of her feet. God forbid the woman venture elsewhere...

Fuck... it's bound to happen, eventually... think of how much she's discovered already... but, how to answer?

"M-MASTERRR!" Demona let loose with a shrill series of cackling howls, twisting her body to the left, and to the right, her torso always moving opposite from her hips. This resulted in a delightful series of succulent fetish-poses; chances were that Morgan knew people who would have paid a great deal of money to bear witness to this, even if her victim weren't a rare, impossible creature. "I-Ihehehehehehe! I thieehehehehaahahahahaha, I thihahahahahahahaha! I think I mi-HIIIGHT! HEHEHEHEHEHEHE, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA! I... OHHHH, UHHH-HNNNNN..."

Don't tell me... that I'm enjoying this... but the reaction was there: sudden, intense, and impossible to ignore; her eyes went wide, even as her mouth hung open in an endless peal of hysterical, agonized laughter, and her whole body jerked with the sudden pulse of the event. which left her almost astonished. In that moment, that sudden, lingering moment of blissful suffering, Demona knew the answer to her Master's question.

Anything that felt like this, was worth exploring further.

Demona twisted about, and cast a look over her shoulder... a sultry, smoldering look. There was rage in those eyes, gleaming a crimson hue in the dim light, but the rage was all in the demand, now: the need for more. More of everything... Morgan's touch. Her controlling, domineering presence. The wresting of Demona's power away from her.

I need this.

"I-I neehee-HEED to be puh-PUN-IIIISHED! UHH-HUHH-HNNNNGGGHH... I'VE... B-BEEN A BAD... S-SSLA-HAAAVE!"

The stylized drama was part of the point... or the problem, Demona wasn't sure of that. Not right now. Maybe it was all part of the fun... or else a last vestige of trying to assert control over her situation, one which needed to be taken away from her. It was certainly true that no-one, mortal or otherwise, had ever held her in such a position as this before, had so much leverage and leeway, and dared to take such advantage of her... but Morgan had, and it was...

It was...

Gods... That cheek... so warm, and the woman's tongue; the gargoyle's violet nipples were firm, erect, and throbbing after even the smallest little lick... nor did Morgan stop at one, and with each stroke up that soft, slick blue sole, Demona felt every part of her growing hotter. A vision hung before her eyes, of her body being violently forced down onto the castle rooftops, held in place by those uncaring metal arms, and ravaged, utterly, as she screamed and suffered from the tickling that never seemed to stop... and the sensual female suddenly wanted this to happen. Needed it to happen...

It had been so long since anything had happened...

Her final response, before falling into hoarse, sultry, silent laughter of a noticeably throatier pitch, was a forced, hard-fought sentence... short, and to the point. Sweat dripped from the sides of Demona's head, as she fought everything down for long enough to hiss, virtually spitting out the words from between clenched teeth:

"Take... me, make... me... yours..."

With that, the gargoyle went limp in her restraints, hanging solely by the strength of that cold metal beast, shaking with the throaty, sultry laughter of a half-vanished voice.




Well there were always ways to get a kindred soul back up and running about again... but this--all of this--was just the throes of the beginning. Demona needed to go through an ordeal because had Morgan stopped now, she might lose everything in between... her hard work, the Gargoyle's pact to me... everything. But this wasn't the place to do it... nothing so cold and full of malice.

She proved her point by leaving Demona on display to the whole valley--her cackling shrieks literally basking the towns people below in a storm that they would never fully hear... so utterly alone, and yet seemingly viewed by all, the way her perspiring body was left hanging and limp, facing out and away as though she were still on watch.

Humiliation can be a humbling thing... Morgan reminded herself... but too much would leave Demona broken, possibly even resentful all over again.

"So... we're to finish things then?" she cooed, and that was the first time Morgan was standing on the ledge before the gargoyle, fingers running through that wild, but silky smooth hair of Morgan's as she looked back into those seemingly defeated eyes. The Gargoyle, the woman... she was absolutely gorgeous... and if nothing else, there was no prejudice in Morgan's eyes... although there was something both she and Demona could relate to; the pursuit of power.

Even if she lusted after Demona now, developed feelings for the Gargoyle... it would never change how she got here to begin with--because like the Gargoyle, she had a vendetta, and every means at her disposal to carry it out.

So maybe the two were a match?

"So if I let you go, will you join me inside? There is still so much to be done to that glorious body of yours, but the first step is trust," she added, her forehead pressed against the gold crown Demona always wore.

Not to forget why the two were here, at this exact moment though... "We still have much to discuss, you and I."




Demona shrieked her torment out over the valley, her laughter becoming increasingly sultry, deep, and throaty, even once her voice had eventually returned. Morgan's sensibilities matched the gargoyle's own: she felt a profound sense of exposure, of vulnerability; her face, neck, and sex flushed violet with the humiliation of being so dramatically put on display for all to see--even if nobody actually saw, it was utterly humiliating and debasing.

And, somehow, it all worked, the twisted parody of her entire purpose for existing, as far as most of even those few to be aware of her at all were concerned: on watch. On guard, looking out over the town... but instead of frozen, still and silent, she was free to twist, to writhe, and to shriek within her bondage. Sweat poured down her face, her body, and her legs, and dripped over the side of the castle wall to fall to the ground far, far below, as all the while Demona's long, slender blue feet were mercilessly tickled, licked, and nibbled upon by the mortal witch who...

...had gotten the better of her.

Everything that Demona was was still inside of her, but that aspect of the gargoyle's psyche which was enjoying being powerless, helpless... and content, having nothing to worry about, being wholly someone else's responsibility... was growing by the moment. Maybe it was simply the strange sense of arousal which, coupled with the torture being inflicted upon her ticklish flesh, was mounting by the moment. Every time that tongue, or those nails, touched skin, it was like a bolt of cold lightning, and it seemed to reinforce everything she was already feeling... her own mind taunting her, in between bouts of hysterical, agonized laughter, about how this was what she wanted, what she deserved...

...she'd been bad.

Maybe it was time she let someone else take control, for a change...

"K-kkkeee-hee-YEE-HAAAA-HAHAHAHAHAHA-HAA-HAAAYEEEEAAAIIIIIGGHHH! UHHH-HNNNNNN!"

She shook her head, wildly, every bit the trapped wild animal as those teeth played at the soft skin of her arches...

She couldn't even keep her eyes open, now: it was simply too much. The tickling had her entire nervous system in flames, and the arousal was hitting that point where it needed to lead somewhere... or it would simply lead to agonized screaming that was all its own.

Demona recalled some of what she had inflicted upon her own victims in centuries past... forcing them to speak as to how they might best be punished... and silently hoped, fervently, that Morgan really wasn't as perfect a match to her own personality as she seemed to be... though it was right at that moment that the ceaseless suffering did in fact cease. Her Master had clumbed up onto her ledge, and was wrapped about the gargoyle in what felt, for all the world, like a genuine and loving embrace...

Demona purred. It felt good. She felt good, even crooning to the feel of those fingertips working through her hair, angling her head into the touch, that tingling, tickling feeling slowly fading... the arousal, however, sticking around. That, at this point, wasn't about to go anywhere.

"As you wish... Master..." the words were uttered softly, throatily; Demona's sultry tone slowly re-asserted herself, but the rest of her, of who she was...

That would take some rebuilding.

"I think..." and she smiled, meeting Morgan's gaze with that lingering edge of bestial ferocity tempered by the delight of a child being offered a long-desired reward; "I... would like that, very much. There is..."

Her chest pressed against Morgan's as she thrust it slightly outward, firm and pert, her nipples hard with the treatment she had been receiving; "...so much to talk about..."

Obviously, not everything changed so quickly.

Click to expand...