How To Breed Your Demon

Author's note: This story features creatures that are often called demons. 'Fallen Angel' is another term thrown out for them, as is 'jinn.' They are not especially evil, but their morals are unbound by human conventions. For example, they don't really understand the human fascination with gender distinctions. If you could manifest a cock or a pussy at will, or at least a fully functional illusion of a cock or a pussy, you might have a different take on gender and sexual differences too. Let that be a warning that not all the sex in this tale might be limited to straight, vanilla, one-penis-and-one-vagina intercourse. There may even be sexual variations and personal relationships you've never considered. But don't be alarmed: these demons feed on lust, and humanity is a huge simmering caldron of lust seasoned heavily with hetero attractions, so there will be plenty of that.

As always, all demons, humans, and any other creature involved in any adult sexual activities are legal adults, at least 18 years of age (some are several millennia old) and are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to any demon that might be whispering lustful naughtiness in your own ear is absolute coincidence. - K

How To Breed Your Demon

By Kethandra Wilde

The pleats and plaid swayed with each rapid step of retro platform sneakers. A shiny chain, silver, polished and bright, bounced off one soft hip, calling extra attention to the skirt. The chain was a birthday gift from Cameron. The boy was so sweet, knowing his best friend's taste in fashion so well. It would be okay to wear it today, even if their shared birthday was not until tomorrow.

Alex had just left the Guest Restroom for the almost empty high school hall. Ms. Dahomey and her glorious backside were waiting. So was Cam. And it wasn't obvious which one was the cause of the extra time fiddling with details in front of the mirror. The teacher was custom-order perfect: sexy fit body, feminine but powerful, piercing eyes and a vaguely predatory smile.

Then there was Cam. He wasn't a boy anymore, not with the heavy muscle that had appeared on his already-big frame. But still so sweet, attentive. It almost felt like a betrayal to be having these new thoughts about him, urges. Alex had never even considered kissing a boy's lips, long and deep, pressing bodies close, never felt thrills when the two would touch. Until, when? The last few days, a week maybe. And it wasn't just physical; this was an attraction on deep, like, mystic level.

"You're running late, Miss Alex."

Mr. Joseph, the new janitor, had quickly become a favorite in the school. He had a knack, seemed to know something important to each student, to genuinely care.

"Go on, run in the hall this one time. I'm not one to tattle when it's for a good cause. And I am sure that the volleyball game is a very good cause." His eyes had an extra twinkle as he said it. Just then a dull roar reached them from the direction of the gym.

Alex grinned, broke into an easy run, hightops squeaking on the newly cleaned floor. 'Miss Alex.' No one else called Alex that, but it seemed to fit. The thought added a little extra sway to the pleats. And there was no harm in at least imaging Mr. Joseph watching that sway retreat.

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Cam tugged at his XXL sweatshirt where the seam dug into his armpit. It hadn't been tight last week. He knew he could still be having growth spurts -- his 18th birthday wasn't until tomorrow -- but this felt different. He's always been big, like his dad, but this was like he was getting all the new muscle of an exercise movie montage without any workouts. And way too fast.

He remembered why he was here, in the bleachers at school, watching the annual faculty volleyball game for charity. It was a sudden shift, like a tug on his ear, a voice whispering "Hey, forget your sweatshirt. Check her out. She's why you're here. The hottest teacher ever. That perfect ass."

'She' was Ms. Dahomey. Kiera Dahomey. Until this year, the teachers and staff had divided the volleyball teams evenly, with men and women on both sides. This year, it was Women versus Men, simply because of her.

Damn. She was gorgeous. Dripping-with-sex-appeal gorgeous. Almost overwhelming Cam and his newly discovered teenage horniness. And it certainly didn't help that Alex, his lifelong best friend, could not stop talking about the teacher lately.

She wasn't as tall as the tallest man on the court. Close. But she was a force of nature. And the women's team were riding her to victory. (He could almost hear Alex: 'I'd ride her to victory and anywhere else she wanted to go.') Her leaps were higher. Her spikes crisper. Her errors fewer.

Just then, she launched herself upward, black ponytail whipping behind, long arms lined with clearly defined muscles stretching overhead, hands far above the net. The spike from the men's side wasn't bad, considering the wobbly set that strayed too far from the net. The spiker, a math teacher, was already cringing back instead of following through, anticipating Ms. Dahomey's perfectly timed block. Ball and math teacher dropped in a heap, both on the men's side of the net.

She turned to her teammates for a series of high and low fives, long ponytail lashing, before settling into position for the next rally, knees flexed and weight on the balls of her feet. The pose thrust her backside out for balance.

He glanced at the empty seat next to him. Too bad. Lately Alex lived for views of the teacher's round, firm butt, especially in anything like stretchy cover-everything/hide-nothing volleyball shorts. And those shorts were starting to show a triangle of darker sweat pointing down between toned cheeks.

"Have I missed anything?" Alex's tiny form plopped down next to Cam as if prompted, a slim, graceful shoulder bumping a casual greeting into his much broader one. The contact sent a quick thrill thrumming through his own bulky frame. A feeling that had grown more common in recent days.

Since they were little, Alex had been...girly. Tough, determined, smart, confident, and clever - all those girl things and other ones. A set to the shoulder. The inward cant of elbows in that unique, smooth, slinky, and somehow appealingly gangly walk. And it was the girly side of Alex that had suddenly turned more...womanly. Or maybe it was just Cam's thoughts that had changed.

"Ooh. Thanks for picking the premium view seats." For Alex, the 'premium viewing' spot consisted of a clear view of Ms. Dahomey in general, her almost unearthly backside in particular and close enough to see beads of sweat on flawless skin.

"Oh holy mother of perpetual perversity." It was a whispered exclamation of appreciation.

The new teacher had launched upward again, this time for her own spike. Airborne, her spine arced back like a cobra ready for a strike, a spring loading, before hand-arm-back-hips-legs uncorked in a mechanically, physically flawless motion concentrating her entire powerful body's focus into the open-palmed impact. A blurred streak, the ball powered downward, rebounding high off the hardwood floor before any member of men's team could react.

Cam felt Alex's tiny hands squeeze his arm, slight form leaning close in excitement, entranced by the awe-inspiring teacher's feminine power. Adding to the image, Ms. Dahomey quickly tugged the tight stretchy fabric of her volleyball shorts, either innocently adjusting the fit or putting on a purposeful little show for hungry eyes staring from the bleachers. Cam felt the vibration of an almost pained whine as Alex leaned harder into him. Should he pull away from the contact? A large part of him wanted to lean closer, slip an arm low around a slim waist where his gift, the silver chain, hung. He compromised and froze in place, not even daring to breath. How had his best friend so suddenly become so sexy...

'Look at that fucking ass! Wouldn't you like to pin that sexy teacher down and tap her, pound that ass, feel that fucking horny hardbody squirming, impaled on your big, fat cock?'

There it was again! That voice in his ear. It completely distracted him from whatever he'd been thinking about. Alex made no reaction, showed no sign of having heard it at all. And the wording, the coarseness was not something Alex would use, not referring to Ms. Dahomey.

More and more, for the past couple weeks, maybe less, he'd heard words, that voice, sultry, seductive, sometimes crude, steering him. Now. For the last day or so the voice had grown more distinct, and associated with a blurry image, an impression of an exotic smooth-limbed beauty, just outside even his imagination's line of sight. It was much more than the voice of his conscience, even if his had always felt stronger than what most people experienced. This inner whisper was new but familiar, like if had been there all his life.

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The watching demon was impressed and proud. His awareness grew daily. And Cameron was right: her voice had been with him since before his own words had formed. She'd have to be careful today and especially tomorrow, as much as she wanted to spend all of it riding him, or at least his shoulder, until her turn. It would be Cam's day. She squirmed with anxious desire in a way she hadn't felt in centuries. Tomorrow was her day. To celebrate a success no creature had accomplished in ages, if ever.

So she was proud but nervous. Until now, he had never hinted that he knew it as anything other than his own conscious or subconscious mind whispering to him before. This was all uncharted territory. First, his recent rapid physical maturation, which wasn't surprising considering his parentage, and now his growing awareness of her guiding whispers. Troublesome. Worrisome. If he realized that he was being manipulated, guided for another's goals, at the very moment he was coming into his unpredictable power, literally no one -- ethereal or corporeal - knew what would happen.

Looking back, before Cameron's conception - it still warmed her to remember how she had managed that occasion - how many ears had she whispered into? How many shoulders had offered her the best perch in the house, the perfect point of view for witnessing and instigating drama, comedy, tragedy, romance, rage, passion in all its delicious forms -- all the very most human of entertainment. Too many to count, over too many years to recall in detail.

And how many had really heard her like this? Discerned her suggestions from their own? None.

None at all until now. She still wasn't sure it was possible. Maybe Cam was hallucinating, cracking under this unique maturation of a hybrid being. Maybe his thought that there was a whisperer in his ear was entirely distinct from the fact that she did sit on his shoulder and had spent much of the past 18 years whispering to him, directing, steering him to this place. She would be careful, staying at a distance, as much as she could stand. Staying in her adopted home, the ancient bronze statue on his shelf. It also took less energy for her to stay there; and reserves of energy might be needed if anything else unanticipated might show.

She had planned and prepared so well -- and patient, organized planning was never close to being her kind's strongest suit -- that her direct guidance was not needed nearly as much now anyhow. Dahomey knew what to do and there were few as good at that as she. The bitch just oozed sexuality in an absolutely feminine but powerful way. And she had Cam's attention now, and it didn't hurt that the little twink was so obviously in lust, incidentally offering another voice fueling Cam's channeled desire. Dahomey's adopted form was gorgeous as always, mouth-wateringly attractive. It wasn't hard to keep her project's newfound lusts on the so-hot teacher and away from his tiny sidekick. Any inclinations otherwise could be redirected, shoved into one of the compartments she had created in Cameron's mind years ago, locked up with keys only she knew existed.

Twink? Alex had become something else lately, something that danced bewitchingly between polar genders without ever acquiescing in the least to this or that, to black or white. Maybe that was a source of her distaste and, yes, jealousy. Demons can appear and act female or male, some managing male and female at once. They tended towards exaggerated versions of both, with 'male and female at once' meaning adding an oversized cock to an otherwise overly feminine appearance. But originality, creativity is not a strong suit. The in-between, the infinities of grey are tough for them. Hence, jealousy at someone who effortlessly cavorted in those in-between realms.

She focused back on Dahomey's responsibility in this project: introducing Cameron to lust in its most delightful, delicious forms, and the doors it should open in every one of his hybrid, unique and special cells. It made her squirm in anticipation of her own turn with him, his third and final lesson tomorrow. She would broaden his horizons, showing him sides of love, or lust, like she had with a certain queen and the ancient Egyptian beauty's Roman lovers. A queen of mixed blood, the best of both her ancient olive-skinned Seleucid royal ancestors and of Alexander's bold and beautiful boy-kings who conquered and held Egypt in his name long after his too-brief flame had been snuffed.

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"Can you imagine her with a big sword, little bits of scale mail and leather armor, soft suede boots laced up to her knees, that pony tail streaming behind her...?" Alex was bouncing with excitement, leaning in, brushing close to Cam as they steered toward the exit with the rest of the audience.

"I can now." Cam grinned. They spilled out into the school's central hallway. Ms. Dahomey and the women's team had finished their annihilation of the men. "But I can also imagine some wily warrior foolish enough to be her foe..."

"Ooh. The wily warrior is a foolish foe, huh? Gonna unleash the latent lash of alliteration?" Alex's shoulder nudged him playfully just above the elbow. The way the slight, slim frame rebounded emphasized Cam's recent growth.

"No, but they might just grab that spectacular ponytail and use it against her."

"Ahh. I see. But a swordswoman of her skill and dedication has spent more long hours drilling with sword and armor, wearing her hair gathered and tied in numerous ways, than you have even thinking about it.

Cam shrugged. "Of course, I just thought about it for the first time."

Alex held up a finger. "Still, she's practiced just this thing, anticipating and preparing for every possible conflict and threat, including the possibility that she faces a threat she hasn't anticipated or prepared for."

"I like that. Prepared for the unforeseen. My kind of woman."

Alex skipped ahead, turned to face him with a glare. "Watch it, Buster. That woman is my goddess. Don't you go and defile her. Your kind of woman indeed. Oh. Shitty shitty bang bang."

Big green eyes widened before the exclamation, looking back behind Cam. "She's coming this way. She's still sweaty."

Tiny knuckles pressed to Alex's teeth with a faint squeak. And. She's still wearing those shorts."

"Hey. Seriously, Alley Cat." As soon as Cam spoke, using the long-standing nickname only he was allowed to use, the green eyes were back on him. Another thrill zinged through him, that he could draw Alex's attention back from the sexy teacher so quickly. "I wanted to hear about the doctor's appointment. How'd it go?"

His own eyes went to the top of his friend's head, where a more spiked, messy hair style hid the two bumps that had begun to grow. It gave Cam something to focus on.

"Weird. That's how it went. He was incompetent. Like he couldn't see anything. But my goddess and her sweaty booty shorts call me. Meet tomorrow early? I'll give you more deets then."

"Sure thing." His eyes followed Ms. Dahomey's snugged up shorts. The darker black triangle of sweat was much bigger now, pointing farther down into the vertical crevice separating two perfect, powerful hemispheres.

"And get your defiling eyes off my goddess." Alex was off with a scolding finger wag.

The acolyte's pious path of carnal worship left Cam a view of school's finest asses. This second one, Alex's, was more covered than Dahomey's, simultaneously hidden under and emphasized by a swaying pleated skirt. A loop of chain swinging from the waist. He saw an image, phantom vague, his mind opening a sturdy mental door, prepared to shove his unspoken, lustful thoughts for his friend behind it. No! Something, an unseen force halted the door, slammed it shut without a captive.

That was really weird.

"Oof!" Books dropped; papers spilled out across the floor.

"I'm so sorry." Cam dropped to his knees, hands scrambling to pick up the mess. He had been bumping into more things -- and people -- recently. His growth spurt had left him misjudging how much space his new body needed, though this time he could only blame distracted eyes and thoughts for the collision.

"It's okay. I didn't see you." The voice was soft, caressing even, and unfamiliar. An equally unfamiliar scent, soothing, subtle and on the very edge of detection reached him just as he looked up.

Before his eyes rose enough to find the face of his collision victim, they halted, stunned. He was looking directly down into the shadows where a button down shirt hung forward, offering two full, rounded curves, two thin strips of exposed bra, and a valley between them spritzed with light pink-brown freckles on pale, flawlessly smooth skin.

A giggle carried that same massaging, comforting tone, seductive but not overtly sexual, but added the slightest of shakes, causing the twin globes to shimmy not unlike Santa's bowl full of jelly. Jelly? They must not have had Jello back then.

That random thought was a savior, dragging his attention from drifting further past the oxford cloth shirt's open placket, deeper into wordless promises beyond.

"Hi there." Her eyes were soft, blue, and smiling. "I'm Sandy. Nice to...run into you."

Without looking down, she took the rough pile of papers he'd grabbed from his hands. He was befuddled, off balance, between scent and sight and sound. Her hands made a neat pile out of the mess, slipping books and the rest into the crook of one arm.

"I'm Cameron Brion Claymore. Er..Cam." Idiot babbler! She giggled again and the glimpse of shimmying, freckled breasts in his head was immediate, clear, as distinctly communicative as those whispers he'd been 'hearing' recently. "Claymore? Claidheamh-mor?"

It was almost a physical blow.

She said the Scots Gaelic word effortlessly, flowing, with the odd consonant sounds second nature, like she used the tongue every day. Blue eyes brightened, high round cheeks glowed flushes of heat. 'Great Sword.' Another, more potent waft of her scent reached him. Soft, smiling lips stretched into a wide and delighted grin. "Now that is a power name to be proud of, Cameron Brion Claidheamh-mor."

Her free hand fidgeted at her shirt's placket, the last unbuttoned hole. Near the tantalizing freckles he'd glimpsed. Fingers moved with the easy dexterity of a magician's "off" hand -- the one distracting the attention from the real action. Exposing nothing themselves, they invited him back to an earlier exposure, the same shirt hanging open. The flush was on his cheeks now, hot with shame at being caught. Caught at what? He wasn't sure.

A small rectangle of paper, one corner caught under her low heel, was a welcome distraction. He bent low, dropping to one knee. "Is this yours?"

The heel rose to release what turned out to be a ticket. It required her knee, bare below her skirt's hem, to bend forward, allowed it to brush against his arm.

Did even her knees smell good? That wasn't fair. What was wrong with him lately? This was the third body part, on three different bodies, to send him into a whirl of outright desire, all in the last five minutes. Was it related to his increasing muscle, this growth spurt? How about the whispers he heard, so clear it was as if insistent lips tugged at his ear?