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ripped at every edge

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Abaddon will never quite be sure what it is about this particular woman that so wholly captures her. She’d had human lovers in the past, to be sure, but never before had she been willing to let the tables turn, to give them the advantage, let alone those who knew what she was.

Charlie could extinguish her in a moment, and she’d die naked and betrayed, one of the world’s most powerful demons struck down in a moment of lusty weakness by a relatively inexperienced but nonetheless skilled hunter. Centuries, millennia, of working and dealing and haunting and possessing, and here she lay, as helpless as a human infant. If she were anyone but herself, it’d be laughable to think of the current picture of her.

Charlie tut-tuts, moving closer to Abaddon and stroking the crop over her bare legs; they reflexively snap together, and Charlie makes the tutting sound louder. She moves around behind the chair that Abaddon’s tied against, and keeps smacking it gently against her thighs before formally urging them open and tapping the tip of crop against Abaddon’s clit.

Abaddon whines, but knows that her squirming will do little to change Charlie’s course of action, let alone Abaddon's bound status. Both of them would have to come before Charlie released even her wrists from their ropes, and she’s better than anyone at drawing out an orgasm like she was a painter using a curiously monumental number of brush strokes to perfect her masterpiece.

And oh, what masterpieces they were.