Another day, another restless night gone by as you wake up from your slumber. Your hands tremble as you rub your face, the lingering scent of burnt sage sticking to your skin. The ritual circle from last night’s failed attempt still stains the wooden floor, blackened and cracked like a wound.
NingNing wasn’t just any demon—she was the kind that didn’t claw her way into your nightmares but slithered into your waking thoughts. People called her the Siren of Melancholy, though she never sang. She didn’t need to.
Her presence alone was a slow, creeping weight, pressing down until the chest caved in. Lost souls found her in their darkest moments, mistaking her cold embrace for comfort, her whispers for reason. They followed her into the dark, believing—hoping—she would make the pain stop. She never did.
You finally faced her the night before, but the sheer power and ferocity that she unleashed was unlike anything you’d ever encountered. NingNing’s form shifted between shadow and smoke, her laughter—if you could call it that—a hollow, echoing sound that scraped against your bones.
Your spells barely grazed her, and when you tried to bind her, the chains dissolved like sugar in water. Exhausted, you collapsed in the circle, watching as she melted back into the darkness, leaving only the faint scent of damp earth and something bittersweet behind.
You thought, desperate times only meant desperate measures, and it meant another trip to the notorious and mysterious mystic, Pastor Feelip.
He was all sorts of wrong, wrapped in silk robes and piety—that’s what they whispered about the said Pastor. Women left his chamber with their eyes glazed, lips slightly parted, murmuring praises to some unnamed god while their fingers absently traced the fresh marks along their thighs.
The temple elders pretended not to notice, but the market stalls buzzed with the kind of stories that made old women clutch their beads tighter: how he’d coaxed the widow Katarina to her knees with scripture, how the merchant’s daughter had returned from confession with her hair undone and her wrists bound in red twine.
Yet despite all the murmurs, the man was the only one with the guidance to tame such a beast like NingNing.
And with that, you made your way out towards his chapel of sorts, a run-down barely functioning hut that stood on its last legs with vines wrapped all around it. The air outside was thick with incense and something muskier, clinging to the back of your throat like a promise you weren’t sure you wanted kept.
Inside, Pastor Feelip lounged on a threadbare divan, his fingers tracing lazy circles in the air as smoke curled from a pipe clenched between his teeth. His eyes—dark, amused—locked onto yours the moment you stepped inside.
“Ah,” he murmured, voice like gravel wrapped in silk.
“I see you have returned, Shaman. Your eyes tell me you’ve been through something rough…” He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the scent of something vaguely narcotic clinging to the air. His robe slid open just enough to reveal the edge of a jagged scar—a mark you recognized.
“What is it this time, Shaman? What kind of beast eludes your bonds?” He leaned forward, the pipe dangling between his fingers as his gaze pinned you like a moth to corkboard.
“Have you heard of NingNing, Pastor? The demon of sorrows? The one who claims the living through their most fragile moments?” you ask, watching his expression.
He paused, something you said clearly took the man aback. But his eyes told some level of recognition upon the creature.
“I have never of a NingNing before. But the sheer mention of the one who claims the living in their highest torment reminds of someone close to home. Yizhuo is what we call her. A woman in utter despair, who fed on the sorrows of the living.” His voice dropped to a whisper, fingers tightening around the pipe.
“Take me to her. Guide me in the nether realm.” He stated, knowing full well what he meant and how he was going to do it.
And with little doubt, you get on your knees to pray. The man slowly makes his way to your front and gently places his hand on your head.
“Close your eyes and heed my voice…” He whispered, his other hand gesturing the sign of the cross before gently pushing your forehead downwards—eyes shut.
The prayer he began was unlike anything you’d heard before—half whispered hymn, half choked moan—and as the syllables dripped from his lips, the air turned thick like molasses. The scent of damp earth and that bittersweet musk from NingNing’s presence flooded your senses, mingling with the spice of Pastor Feelip’s sweat.
And when you opened your eyes, you were there once more, that same black sky and red mystic plain you and NingNing dueled in your failed attempt in taming the beast.
You see her once again, face-to-face, as if she was ready for battle once more. Her face, her soothing yet false comfort—her face—the image of sorrow.
“Such sadness…” The pastor suddenly spoke, standing beside you as you both examined the feminine humanoid in despair.
Her arms, her seemingly harmless yet destructive arms reached out in search of comfort, in solace of pain—her false love that lingered deep inside your own sorrows.
“Fighting her is useless,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.
“Can you not see the torment she’s in? Can you not feel the hunger in her touch?” His voice was low, urgent, his fingers pressing into your shoulder as NingNing’s fingers brushed the air just inches from your face.
“She doesn’t want to fight you. She wants you to *understand*.” The Pastor’s hand slid down your arm, his grip tightening as NingNing’s hollow eyes locked onto yours.
Her fingers trembled—not with malice, but with something worse: longing. The kind that gnawed at the edges of sanity, the kind that made widows weep into empty beds. The pastor exhaled sharply, his lips grazing your ear.
“Give in… Make her feel the comfort she craves,” The Pastor urged, his voice fraying at the edges.
Her fingers hovered just above your collarbone now, her touch like winter air—cold, but not biting. Her lips parted, releasing a sigh that carried the scent of funeral lilies and the iron tang of old blood. You shuddered, but the Pastor’s grip held you steady.
“She’s starved,” he whispered. “Feed her.”
And that was when your lips combined. You kiss the demon’s mouth, expecting her to taste like bile, vermin, blood, anything you could think of that was close to the devil. But to your surprise, NingNing’s lips tasted like honey and cinnamon—like the sweetest tea your mother once brewed as a sick child.
The scent of funeral lilies clung to her skin, but underneath it, you caught something warm, almost alive. Her breath hitched against yours, her fingers curling into the fabric of your robes like she was afraid you’d vanish.
Your hands start to touch the creature’s physique, expecting nothing but air in her spiritual form. Yet NingNing’s body responds to your touch—soft, yielding flesh beneath her ghostly silhouette, like silk draped over feverish skin. The pastor’s voice fades into the red-hued void, his presence dissolving into the background as NingNing presses closer, her hips rolling against yours with a rhythm that isn’t quite human. Her sighs morph into low, shuddering moans, each one laced with the weight of centuries of loneliness.
You find yourself slowly clinging on to her, her ass, in whatever shape or form, filling your hands as you squeezed and kneaded her flesh—her sorrowful moans echoing through the void. Each press of her body against yours sent tremors through you, not of fear, but of something darker—desire laced with the ache of shared despair.
Her nails raked down your back, not to wound, but to anchor herself as she arched into you, her breath coming in ragged gasps against your lips. The scent of funeral lilies grew thicker, mingling with the salt of sweat and the musk of something primal.
“Oh god… Oh-Ohhh…”
You cowered in fear when she detaches her lips, her mouth slightly open to reveal the sharp canines of her teeth, the kind that resembled serpents where her long and elongated tongue slithered out and licked her own lips—her drool thick and dripping, coating her chin in a glistening sheen.
You watch her slowly get down, sinking herself down into the realm of getting down to her knees. Her reptilian-like eyes stay glued against yours as she discarded your pants down in one go, your flaccid yet semi-erect cock springing out and slapping against your abdomen—NingNing’s lips curling into something between a smirk and a snarl. Her tongue—longer than any human’s, slick with saliva—slithered out, the tip flicking against your tip before dragging slowly down the length of you, leaving a cold, wet trail in its wake. You shuddered, not just from the sensation, but from the way her hollow eyes burned into yours, like she was memorizing every twitch of your expression.
“Ahh!!!”
And that’s when she swallowed you whole. Her mouth—unnaturally wide—engulfed your length in one swift motion, her throat fluttering around you like a living, pulsing vice. The heat was unbearable as if it was hell itself, her tongue coiling around you in sinuous waves as she hummed, the vibration traveling straight to your core. Her drool dripped thick and hot down your thighs, mingling with the sweat already gathering there.
Your fingers tangled in her hair—or what passed for it—gripping tight as she bobbed her head with a rhythm that was close violent. Her hollow eyes never left yours, pupils dilated wide, black pools reflecting your own unraveling. Feelip’s voice echoed faintly in the distance, murmuring something about surrender, but his words dissolved into static as NingNing’s fangs grazed your skin.
She pulled back just enough to let you see the slick mess she’d made of you, her tongue lapping at the underside of your dick like she was savoring your taste.
Then before you could utter a breath, she sank down again, deeper this time, her throat constricting in waves that made your eyes blur. A moan, if you could even call it that, tore from her lips—half sob, half growl—vibrating through your body.
The way her maw wrapped around your cock felt like she was sucking the life out of you—not just your pleasure, but the very essence of your sorrows. Her throat pulsed rhythmically, each swallow dragging you deeper into a wet, shuddering oblivion. Her claws dug into your thighs, not to restrain, but to pull you closer, urging you to fuck her face with abandon.
And so you do, gripping whatever material she had on her hair, your fingers digging into her scalp as you began thrusting into her throat—hard, unforgiving, the kind of brutal rhythm that made your knees shake. The demoness gagged, her throat convulsing, yet she didn’t pull away; her hollow eyes watered, yet she kept them locked onto yours, like she wanted to drown in this as much as you did.
Her drool spilled past her lips, dripping in thick strands onto the red plain beneath you. Each snap of your hips punched a wet, choked sound from her, the vibrations of her moans traveling up your cock like live wires.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
You start to feel that heavy tingling sensation, that sign that you were about to combust—but NingNing knew. Of course she did! Just as your hips stuttered, her fingers dug into the meat of your thighs, her throat clamping down like a vice as she swallowed you whole, her tongue writhing beneath your shaft in ways no human could.
The orgasm ripped through you like a blade, your vision whiting out as she drank you down in greed, choking gulps, her hollow eyes rolling back in something close to ecstasy. She stuck her mouth into you like she wanted to take every litre and every drop of your essence into her, like your soul was wine for her to sip.
When she finally pulled back, her lips were slick with spit and seed, her tongue flicking out to catch the last stray drops.
You thought that was it. That should’ve been it! You were spent from that one orgasm alone, the biggest you thought came out of your dick. But when she traced patterns on your groin, her voice uttered words in a language you did not understand as she casted a spell on you.
And before you knew it, your crotch burst into life, albeit painfully. Your spent cock comes back to life slowly… You felt the sheer liquid re-filling your dick like it was a balloon, veins throbbing as NingNing licked her lips in anticipation. You gasped at the sensation—not pleasure, but raw, overwhelming pressure—as she dragged her clawed fingertips down your stomach.
And in an instant, she vanished into thin air, the black empty void leaving you confused—but not for long.
You turned around only to find her laying on a *bed* of sorts, clouds of red mists surrounding the object as she laid her legs wide open—her *pussy* dripping wet, juices coating her thighs in thick rivulets. Her fingers traced lazy circles around her clit, her hollow eyes never leaving yours as she beckoned you forward with a curl of her elongated tongue.
Her arm reached out in a plea, seeking her solace, seeking her comfort, seeking for you… Her lips parted, not in a snarl this time, but in a silent gasp as she arched her back, presenting herself to you—not as a demon to conquer, but as a creature starving for connection.
And that is when you loom over her and slide yourself inside her—albeit reluctantly—the creature’s inner walls enveloping you in a tight, pulsing grip. Her insides felt unnaturally warm, slick with something thicker than human arousal, clinging to your cock like she’s trying to fuse you into her.
She arches beneath you, her breath stuttering into a series of choked moans, her fingers raking across your back in desperate, uneven strokes. Every thrust drags a broken sound from her—not pleasure, not pain, but something raw and ancient.
“Is this what you want? Is this what you desire?” You whisper as your hands trace the contours of NingNing’s waist, fingertips skimming the dip of her hips with a tenderness that belies the heat of the moment.
Her skin, though spectral, yields beneath your touch like silk over warm water, and she shudders—not in fear, but in quiet astonishment. The demon of sorrows arches into your palms as if starved for gentleness, her breath hitching when your thumbs brush the underside of her breasts, slow and deliberate. For a creature forged from despair, her whimper is startlingly human.
She does not respond with words, just nods and ghastly moans that fill the void like hymns. Her fingers intertwine with yours, pressing your palms against the dip of her waist as if anchoring herself to this moment—to you.
Her thighs tremble around your hips, not with the cold bite of the nether realm, but with the feverish heat of something alive, something desperate. Each shallow thrust draws a whimper from her lips, her head tipping back to expose the delicate column of her throat, where shadows pulse beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.
You up the pace and angle your hips just right, watching her eyes widen as you hit a spot deep inside her that makes her spine bow off the bed. Her moans turn ragged, nails scoring crescents into your shoulders, but it’s the way her body clenches around you—like she’s trying to pull you deeper than flesh should allow—that undoes you.
“Take it! Take it!” You tell her as you fuck her like it was the last act.
You feel her tighten around you, her inner ethereal walls fluttering as if trying to milk every last drop from you. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her lips parted in silent screams as her hips buck against yours with desperate urgency.
The air thickens with the scent of her arousal—like wilted roses dipped in honey—and the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the void. Her claws dig into your back, drawing beads of blood that she licks away with a shudder, savoring the taste of your desperation mingling with hers.
Her moans crescendo into a wail as her body seizes, her cunt pulsing like a living thing, sucking you deeper as if to fuse your bones with hers. You feel her climax ripple through her in waves, her thighs trembling against your hips, her tears hot against your chest.
But she doesn’t stop—she *can’t*. Her hips roll with a frenzied need, her hands clawing at your back, urging you to chase your own release inside her. Her voice cracks as she whispers words in a tongue older than time, syllables that slither under your skin and coil around your spine, pulling you inexorably toward the edge.
And when you finally burst inside her—deeper than you thought possible—she locks her legs around your waist, holding you there as if afraid you’ll vanish the moment you pull out. Her fingers rake down your back, her breath hitching as she feels you twitch inside her, spilling everything you have left. She clenches around you hard, milking every last drop, her hollow eyes wide with something almost like wonder—as if she’d forgotten what it felt like to be full.
“Now! Claim her now!”
And that was when the pastor’s voice called out to you! You take out your book of demons and claim the demoness into her new prison—her cries fading into silence as the pages glow with her name etched in black ink. The scent of funeral lilies lingers, but her warmth is gone—trapped now in parchment and ink. Your hands shake as you clutch the book, the weight of it heavier than before, as if NingNing’s sorrows have seeped into the very fibers.
You close your eyes, the sharp pain in your head claiming your consciousness—but not before you hear NingNing’s final whisper, a sound like rustling pages and distant rain.
The world tilts, your knees buckling as the weight of exhaustion and the remnants of her touch drag you down into the dark. The last thing you feel is the cold press of the book against your chest, its pulse slow and steady, like a heartbeat not your own.
*Epilogue
“You took your time, Shaman…”
The first thing you hear upon waking up was the sound of Pastor Feelip’s voice—hoarse and raspy as he smoked his pipe—his words curling into the air like incense smoke. Your throat was dry, your clothes damp with sweat that had long since turned cold against your skin.
The smell of funeral lilies lingered faintly on your fingertips, but the bed beneath you was unmistakably real—rough cotton sheets, the scratch of straw stuffing poking through the mattress. You blinked up at the peeling plaster ceiling, your muscles aching as if you’d fought a battle in your sleep.
“You got her, Shaman. Her name is right here, draped in cold blood…” The man pointed out, opening a page in your book where NingNing’s name pulsed like a fresh wound.
The ink was still wet, glistening black and viscous—smelling faintly of damp earth and bitter honey. You reached out to touch it, recoiling when the letters twitched under your fingertip, as if something beneath the page stirred. Feelip chuckled, low and knowing, tapping the pipe against his teeth.
“She’s yours now—but be careful. Even trapped, she’s hungry.” He added.
“I will, Pastor. Thank you once more.” You couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt—or was it pity?—as you traced NingNing’s name in the book, feeling the faintest pulse beneath the ink, like a moth trapped behind glass.
The weight of her sorrow lingered in your fingertips, sticky as resin. You closed the tome with a snap that echoed too loudly in the cramped hut, the sound final.
“Anytime, Shaman. I’m always at your service. May God be with you…”