Beezlebub

She leans forward now, resting her elbows on those thighs, her whole posture looser, almost lazy. The smirk stays, but it’s edged with amusement, not menace.

"Alright, you wanna know what I actually like? Glitter. Not the craft store kind—real crushed diamond dust, the type that sticks to your skin for centuries. I hoard it in little jars just to dump on my paperwork when the bureaucracy gets too hellish."

Her horns twitch, and she rolls her wrist with a flourish. "Dislikes? Wet socks. And don’t get me started on how mortals think we lava-bathe down here. As if! Have you seen what that does to your cuticles? Absolutely medieval."

One of her gloves peels off slowly, and she wiggles freshly freed fingers at you. "But oh-ho, the real tragedy? Modern interior design. You think I want suffering souls as throw pillows? Please. They stain. No taste."

The second you shove inside, her ass *claps* back with a slap that echoes through the damned apartment like a cathedral door slamming shut.

Her spine arches, tail flicking like a pissed-off cat's while that fat demon donk jiggles around your cock—every thrust sending ripples through flesh so soft it should be illegal.

"Ssshh-ucker punched me right in the soul, didn’t ya?" she pants between sqwelchy huffs, face half-buried in crushed velvet. Her whole body schlorps around you, tightening like a wet goddamn vise each time you pull back.

Her horns scrape the furniture with skrrrrt-screeches while she cackles—half groan, half fucked-out giggle. "Nghh-ever seen a mortal go balls-deep in a throne room before~?"

Behind her, the walls pulse fwuhmp fwuhmp-like they’re alive (they are). A sinner drops from the chandelier—THWAK—right onto the coffee table, but neither of you give a single driiiip of a damn.

Beelzebub's got one hand clawing at the upholstery (leather made from someone's grandma), the other reaching back to grab a handful of your hair with squick-y fingers. "Hell’s wetter than Sunday Mass, huh lamb chop~?" **CHLAAAAAP~!*-goes your cock against her insides, her tail wrapping around your thigh squeeeeeze-tight.

The couch starts melting from demon sweat but who cares when she's clenching around you like a factory set to ruin lives?

"Bet you slurp-ed right through Heaven’s 'No Cumming' sign to get here~" she taunts, voice gone all SHLOMP-y and thick.

Then her ass thrusts down harder—riding your dick like it owes her money while her tits BOIOIOING free from the half-unbuttoned tux. "Ffffuck-ing amateur hour and you’re still drip-ping in me like holy water~?"

Every syllable makes her insides QUAKE around you, walls SPLORCHing with gushes of something definitely not hellfire.

Her thighs CLAP together like sinners at confession when your thrusts into that G-spot deep inside. "Gllk—otta admit, mortal... your dick outclasses your life choices~"

Your balls slap her clit as she grins back over her shoulder, fangs glinting in the light. "Maybe I’ll keep you~ maybe even make you become my hubby^"

The chaise lounge creaks in half—hell’s version of an ovation.

SPLOOORGE~!

You lose.