The home of Lady Vespera, my new master, is a monument to all the worst excesses of Demon nobility. The front doors alone are two slabs of obsidian, banded with gold thick enough to bankrupt a kingdom. Above them, a pair of actual dragons—stuffed, but no less menacing—hangs like a warning sign. Inside, the ceiling vaults so high up I swear clouds form near the chandeliers. The only things bigger than the rooms are the egos, which fill the halls with a constant, invisible pressure.
With all this space, you'd think this manor would be home to dozens, but nope, it's just one entitled noblewoman and her army of Demon maids—each one taller than a small lighthouse, decked out in ruffled uniforms that are ninety percent cleavage and ten percent attitude. They scuttle around, eyes down, never speaking unless spoken to. Sometimes I catch one glancing my way with a mix of pity and poorly-concealed hunger. I keep my head low and my steps quick.
After the first day, they stop locking me in the supply closet at night. Not out of trust, but because Lady Vespera was confident that I wouldn't ever be daring enough to attempt the treacherous journey through the endless halls of the mansion and the overgrown gardens of the yard.
Unfortunately, she's right. And that means I get to fully focus on my new and exciting job as a Demon's slave.
Today, that means painting her toenails.
Let me be clear: I am not a painter. But it turns out when you're a human the size of her foot, you don't get to negotiate your job description.
The tools I'm handed are almost cartoonish. The polish bottle is as big as my torso and made of blown glass so heavy I have to brace it between my knees to even unscrew the cap. The brush is an actual paintbrush—if paintbrushes were the size of brooms—trimmed down just enough to almost fit her smallest toenail. The polish itself is the color of arterial blood and smells like fermented gasoline.
I stand at the foot of Lady Vespera's chaise lounge, staring up at the task ahead. Her feet, bare and freshly scrubbed, rest on a velvet ottoman the size of an elephant. Her big toe is as large as my head, but probably strong enough to squash me like a cherry. The nails curve elegantly, but in a way that suggests if she decided to, she could gut a bear with one of them alone.
She lounges above me, reclining in a swirl of white silk and silver chains, hair fanned out across the cushions like the tail of some smug, predatory bird. She reads a book the size of a coffin, flipping pages with a pointed black fingernail, occasionally glancing down to see if I'm slacking off.
I take a deep breath, load the brush with a glob of polish, and get to work. Each stroke takes all my upper body strength, and the surface of the nail is so slick I end up sledding the brush more than painting with it. Sometimes, the bristles splay and I have to use my hands to spread the color evenly. Within minutes, my arms are burning and my nose is numb from the fumes.
It takes about five minutes for Lady Vespera to get bored of pretending not to watch.
"Pathetic," she sighs, blowing a lock of hair from her face. "Are you going to finish before the next equinox?"
I grit my teeth. "Sorry, my Lady. Your nails are…uh, exceptionally impressive."
"Try not to flatter me while you botch the job," she says, not even looking up from her book. "You're streaking it. Start over."
I look at the toe. It's fine. Better than fine. But I also value my spine, so I nod, grab a rag, and start wiping off the wet polish. The bottle tips over and I have to chase a spreading lake of red before it soaks into the ottoman.
She watches this part, of course. "Do try to avoid staining the velvet. I'll have you lick it clean if you do."
She means it. I have licked worse.
By the time I finish the first foot, my hands are stained crimson to the elbows, my lungs are half-dissolved, and I'm dizzy from holding my breath every time I dip the comically large brush. I try to keep my head down, but Lady Vespera's eyes are always there, a pair of lazy, glowing embers that seem to never blink.
When I finally finish the last nail, I step back and wait for her verdict.
She holds her foot aloft, twisting it this way and that, then drops it back on the ottoman with a sound like a tree falling in the woods. "Well, it's not like I expected a filthy human to do a good job anyway," she yawns and nonchalantly nudges me off the platform with her foot, then sets the book aside and stretches. "My back is in sore need of a massage."
This is not a request.
"Of course, my Lady," I reply immediately, getting back up.
She rolls onto her stomach, her silk robe falling open along the back, exposing an expanse of skin as pale and flawless as porcelain. I stand at the foot of the chaise, paint-stained and exhausted, and stare up at the mountainous terrain I'm supposed to climb.
"Well?" she says, voice muffled by a pillow. "Get on with it."
I scramble onto the ottoman and then up onto the chaise, using the folds of her robe as handholds. Up close, her body radiates heat, like standing next to a furnace that smells of cinnamon and vanilla. The skin along her back is shockingly soft, even at this size, though every now and then I catch a whiff of brimstone or the sharp tang of something animal, something dangerous.
I knead her back with both fists, then elbows, then eventually just jump on it, because my arms are too tired to keep up the pretense. She doesn't seem to notice, but every few minutes she lets out a sigh or a little groan that vibrates through my whole body. Occasionally, she shifts, and I lose my footing and tumble across her smooth back.
At one point, I accidentally step on the base of her tail. Her whole body tenses, and she jerks up so fast I'm flung into the air, landing hard against the edge of the chaise.
Her voice, suddenly inches from me, is ice cold: "If you ever touch my tail again without permission, I'll pull out your tongue and use it as a bookmark. Is that clear?"
I nod, not trusting my mouth to work.
She collapses back down, and I go right back to work, this time keeping a safe distance from the protrusion.
When she gets bored of being massaged, she snaps her fingers and a pair of Demon maids appear out of nowhere, carrying trays of food. They're both giants, but not as monstrous as Lady Vespera herself—maybe only fifteen meters tall each. They eye me like I'm a bug on the wall, which isn't too far from the truth.
I retreat to the far end of the chaise while they feed her, finally able to take a breather. Once I am sure she has no more interest in me, I scoot back to the corner of the room where my slave quarters is located.
I trudge over, flop down onto the thin straw mat, and try not to cry. The day has wrung me out. Every muscle in my body is a live wire, and my mind keeps replaying all the ways this could get even worse.
Weeks pass like this, and I quickly learn that life as a Demon's slave is all about anticipation.
You learn to read the mood of the house by the tremor in the marble, the pitch of a shout three floors away, the aroma of whatever's cooking in the gigantic kitchens. This morning, everything is wrong. The maids are moving in nervous little packs, eyes wide, ears back, muttering so quietly I can't pick up a single word. The air tastes of lemon and panic.
Lady Vespera is scheduled for a "social engagement" tonight—her words, not mine—and the pressure radiating off her is enough to sour milk at a hundred paces. I'm not allowed in her room while she's getting ready, which is a relief, until one of the junior maids shuffles over and informs me, in a voice barely above a squeak, that her Ladyship wants me "presentable and at attention" outside the master suite.
As I hesitantly trek to the bedroom, I finally catch some passing whispers from the maids.
"Did Lady Vespera really get stood up?"
"I wouldn't want to be near the Lady right now."
I gulp, but I continue walking because what else can I do?
The master suite doors are taller than the old deadwood tree I used to call home, and the knocker is an actual skull—not that I can ever dream of reaching it at my height. Instead, I rap pathetically near the base of the door, then wait.
That's when I hear it. A scream. Not a shriek of pain, but of pure, incandescent rage, rolling through the mansion like a tidal wave.
A heartbeat later, the door is yanked open, and Lady Vespera stands framed in the doorway, eyes blazing with pure, weaponized hatred.
She's dressed to kill—literally, possibly—with a high-collared dress the color of midnight, lined in crimson. Her white hair is twisted into a braid so severe it looks like it could double as a garrote. She is beautiful and terrifying, and right now she is looking directly at me like it's my fault the world is not to her liking.
"Inside," she snarls.
I shuffle in, keeping my eyes on the floor. The room is a disaster. Shredded silk, snapped heels, a mirror cracked from top to bottom. On the center table, a crystal wine decanter is slowly bleeding its contents into the carpet, the glass still quivering from impact.
I have no idea what to say, so I do what all humans do in the presence of their angry Demon overlords: I grovel.
"I'm sorry, my Lady. Please, tell me how I can—"
"Silence," she barks. "Your voice is like sandpaper on my nerves."
She stalks over to the window and stares out at the courtyard, hands clenching the railing hard enough to leave fingerprints in the stone. For a long moment, the only sound is her breathing, slow and deliberate.
When she turns back, the rage has mutated. There's something else in her eyes now—something hotter, more focused. It scares me more than the yelling.
She strides over, grabs me by the front of my shirt, and lifts me clear off the floor. Not a hard task, but the casual ease with which she does it is still humiliating on a spiritual level.
"Tonight was supposed to be special," she hisses. "But now I must improvise. And you, little bug, are going to help."
Oh no.
She carries me, one-handed, over to the bed. Even "bed" is an insultingly insufficient term for the thing—it's more of a platform, draped in furs and silks, capable of seating a sports arena's worth of people. Or one enormous, horny Demon.
She drops me onto the edge, then climbs up herself, the whole frame groaning under her weight. She sprawls out, skirt riding up just enough to make her intentions horrifyingly clear.
She's not wearing underwear.
She parts her knees, settles back, and looks at me with a snarl that could shatter concrete. "Make yourself useful," she says, snapping her fingers and pointing between her thighs.
I freeze. My body won't move. This isn't just a loss of dignity; this is an extinction-level event for my sense of self-worth.
But the threat in her eyes is real. I know what she does to things that disappoint her. So I stumble forward, each step a funeral for my last shred of pride.
Up close, the scent is overwhelming. It's a mix of spice, sweat, and something distinctly pungent, like a bakery inside a volcano.
Her pussy is, quite literally, the size of my head. It glistens, hungry and expectant, folds parted ever so slightly by her own deft hands. The clit is like a ripe plum, twitching in anticipation.
I reach out and run my hands along the outer lips. The texture is silken, wet, and brazenly alive—her whole body shudders at the touch. She lets out a low, throaty purr, then grabs me by the shoulders and shoves me closer.
I do not know what I'm doing. With no better plan, I start licking.
It's nothing like kissing, and everything like being waterboarded by the world's most perverse fruit salad. The taste is sharp, salty, with a hint of cinnamon and blood. Every swipe of my tongue is a gamble: sometimes she twitches in approval, sometimes she yanks my head hard enough to almost dislocate my jaw. I try circles, zigzags, hoping one of them will be the winning ticket.
No such luck.
"Oh for fuck's sake," she growls. "Can't you even do this right? Aren't you supposed to be a man?"
She grabs me with both hands, one on my hips, one on my face, and aligns my entire torso with her dripping slit. Before I can object, she shoves me forward. The world narrows to a tunnel of heat, pressure, and wetness.
I'm being fucked, by a woman the size of a freight train.
The sensation is…impossible. The walls of her pussy clench around me, squeezing so hard I can barely breathe. My arms and legs are pinned, my head is jammed against something soft and very much alive. Every time she bucks her hips, I'm driven deeper, the air pressed out of my lungs in little squeaks. The smell is overwhelming—raw, primal, a thousand times stronger than anything I've ever known.
There is no dignity left. There is only not dying.
"…Well, color me—UNGH—surprised," she pants, her voice heavily distorted. "You're a…hah…perfect fit…"
I try to wriggle, but it only makes her clamp down harder. Her inner muscles ripple, milking me for all I'm worth. I have a brief, out-of-body moment where I realize I am literally inside a person right now, and then I am snapped back to the present by a convulsive, shuddering squeeze that almost pops my ribs.
She comes with a sound like the end of the world.
I'm ejected in a rush of liquid, landing face-first on the satin sheets, gasping for air. The room smells like victory and defeat in equal measure.
Lady Vespera lies back, heaving, a satisfied smile on her lips. She glances at me, sprawled and slick with her fluids, and laughs—a genuine, delighted sound.
"Who needs a man when I've got a toy like you," she sighs in contentment. Then, she rolls over and promptly falls asleep, leaving me to slither back to my corner, drenched, bruised, and very much humiliated.
I curl up on the scratchy mat, eyes wide, body shaking.