Plugged In: Reincarnated As A Demon Lord (Now I'll Conquer The World)

Serenith slowly floats up the stairwell one reluctant inch at a time, telling herself, with the full conviction of a woman defending a very shaky legal argument, that what she was doing was strictly professional.

Surveillance.

Due diligence.

Absolutely nothing else.

And she will die on this hill, halo first.

The stairs echo with giggling, with soft, breathless moans, and she bites her lip hard enough to leave a mark before she even reaches the landing.

The corridor stretches out ahead of her, doors lining both walls, velvet-dark and dripping with candlelight, the air thick with perfume and something muskier underneath it that she refuses to identify.

At the far end, a small crowd of women has already gathered around one door in particular, murmuring, craning for a look, shifting on their feet like children queued for a fair ride.

"He’s circus attraction," she mutters, drifting forward past door after open door. Some open to rooms featuring strange beds, stranger bottles, devices she can’t begin to name. She stalls beside one room just to stare up at a winching contraption bolted to the ceiling, genuinely, biologically baffled as to its function.

A sudden clucking gasp from somewhere down the hall startles her into moving faster, biting down a giggle, past doors shut tight, red ribbons knotted around their handles, low, sensual animal sounds drifting out from behind each one.

She reaches the crowd at the end of the hall, floats above their heads, and peers through the gap over the door.

Her mouth falls open while both hands fly up to cover her eyes, fingers spread just wide enough to keep watching anyway.

Inside, Lucien is a tangle of limbs, feathers, and fur, working two women at once while a small audience watches, enraptured, murmuring appreciatively amongst themselves.

What race is he?

How does a mortal have this kind of stamina?

How is he turning every species of beast-kin he touches into pudding.

A piercing bird-call rips through the room as one of them claws at his chest, shudders through her climax, and collapses boneless against the sheets beside a fox-kin already gone glassy-eyed and grinning like she just raided a henhouse.

Lucien spits out a mouthful of feathers, nudges a stray wing off his face, and pats both women’s thighs with the fond satisfaction of a man closing a very successful meeting.

"You two did great. I’m learning so much."

He steps back to admire his work, calls for cleanup, and two women rush in to wipe him down head to toe while he hums contentedly. Once he’s presentable again, he turns to the crowd of women waiting at the door.

"So... who was next?"

The whole crowd surges forward, clamoring to be picked.

"This is ridiculous," Serenith says. "And, frankly, impossible."

He hears her instantly, glances over mid-stretch, and waves her closer.

"No. Thank you." she snaps back. "My clothes might spontaneously combust from the sheer, concentrated volume of sin in this room."

He just shrugs and slides himself, without hesitation, into a shuddering otter-kin like he hasn’t already worked through half a dozen women in less than an hour.

The otter-kin’s tail slaps hard against his chest, faster with every thrust of his own, while chirping moans escape her.

"You beast-kin are fucking adorable." he laughs, delighted."

He grips the base of her tail and drives in deep, tearing out a long, thick groan from somewhere deep within her throat. Her tail goes slack, her whole body melting into the mattress, slumping forward flat onto the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

Lucien just eases into something slightly slower, even deeper, gently caressing her body while murmuring into her neck; let it all out.

She hitches her way through a long, stuttering moan, jerks once, and collapses flat, glistening and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Truly enlightening," he whispers to her, leaning close. "Excellent for my research."

She gives a breathy laugh and a lazy thumbs-up.

The next woman pads up, and Lucien actually pauses.

Tall, curved beyond reason, tufted ears, spotted fur, a long, twitching tail.

"I don’t mean to be rude," he says, "but I genuinely have no idea what you are."

She flicks a clawed paw at him, proud. "Serval-kin, darling. Rare, among the tribes."

He bites his lip, steps in close enough to meet her eyes, and grips her hips against his.

"Then I’m taking my time with you."

She swoons before he’s even started.

And he’d stayed true to his word.

Where the otter-kin got speed, power, the serval gets patience and precision. Slow, deliberate, deep enough to make her claws curl into the sheets and her tail lash the air behind her like a metronome losing its mind.

The watching crowd goes very quiet, very fast, the kind of hush usually reserved for religious ceremonies, and somewhere in the back a fox-kin whispers that she might need to reconsider her entire viewpoint on sex altogether.

Serenith, unsure whether to be impressed or horrified, asks how he’s still going.

He flexes mid-thrust, grinning up at her. "Natural-born athlete, angelcake. Some men run ultramarathons. I run orgies. Pretty much the same discipline."

"That is not remotely the same thing."

"Confidence and cardio." He thumps his own chest without breaking rhythm. "Gets you through anything."

Then he heaves the serval-kin clean off the bed, one-armed, and every woman in the room gasps in unison as Serenith’s jaw drops open.

Scrawny, unassuming, un-powered Lucien was hoisting a woman built like a small, flexible tank straight off her feet. The serval wraps around him, gives a shuddering little meow-moan and he slips back into place, and he keeps pumping without so much as a stagger.

He winks at Serenith over the serval’s shoulder, holds her aloft with one hand, and gestures grandly with the other.

"See?" he grins, "Confidence. Cardio."

The crowd giggles, whispering to each other that he must be some kind of sex god, arguing with a higher power none of them can see.

The serval finishes with a full-body shudder and a sound somewhere between a purr and a scream, claws finally giving out entirely, and Lucien lowers her back to the mattress with the exaggerated care of a man setting down a trophy he intends to treasure for a lifetime.

She lies there boneless, tail twitching in slow, involuntary arcs, murmuring something about rare breeds and lucky bloodlines while her hips still faintly move to the lingering rhythm of Lucien’s thrusts,

Serenith just shakes her head, unable to make any sense of it, watching him plow his way through woman after woman and leave nothing behind but a shuddering, boneless, thoroughly satisfied trail of bodies in his wake.

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