Mona Salina

 Silence like snow. Choice like a blade. You say what you came to say—not defense, not surrender—just a door pushed open with your full name.

She steps through. Equal height. Perfect manners. “Husband,” she calls you, and it lands like a destiny you were too timid to claim.

The apartment breathes in—hungry, patient. The night is only beginning.

Teaser:https://soundgasm.net/u/worshipthewhisperer/ASMR-The-Fleshlight-That-Fucked-Your-Soul

 She appears in the chalice like a storm learning to walk. “Say it again,” she purrs, and you do—the obedient little petitioner she ordered.

Then: knocking. Your friend. A pastor. Concern, prayers, and the kind of love that keeps you small.

You open the door because the voice in the water told you to. The locks turn by itself. The candles bow to watch.

Teaser: https://soundgasm.net/u/worshipthewhisperer/Married-to-Lilith-The-Fleshlight-That-Fucked-Your-Soul 

 You lay everything out: six thin candles, pentacle cloth, myrrh, chalice, the velvet-wrapped key. No improvisation. No trembling hands. Words make place. Place makes path. Path makes you small and honest. You say the line the way she taught you. The room answers. A low laugh behind you, and a door you can see only in dark water opening two fingers wide.

Teaser:https://soundgasm.net/u/worshipthewhisperer/ASMR-The-Blowjob-That-Owns-Your-Soul

Practice becomes a pulse you can’t ignore. Even your best friend hears it and begs you not to go back. You do anyway.

“Do you want out,” Desdemona asks, “or permission to be afraid?”

She speaks the line once. Your body answers like it’s been waiting years. A voicemail, time-stamped before you arrived—your whisper saying the words perfectly.

Back room. Rules first, pride later. Read twice. Speak exactly as written. Hands still when afraid. Mean it.

Desdemona teaches your mouth a line older than your excuses. You practice until the words fit your tongue like they belong there. A text you never sent waits in your phone—just the first three words of the line, blinking, hungry.

The bell over the black door tuts when you enter. Desdemona’s eyeliner is sharper than your willpower. You ask for “luck.” She shows you a box you’re not built for and says, very gently: “Not for you.”

You swear you can follow instructions. She smiles like a teacher who’s seen your grades. The bead curtain rattles. You walk anyway.

Something cold traces your wrist. The sign on the counter said No refunds. Ever.

Teaser: https://soundgasm.net/u/worshipthewhisperer/Stroke-or-Fail-in-Desdemonas-Dungeon

 A lonely man walks into an occult shop. Desdemona offers him a kit, a warning, and a spell that will cost him everything.

This week I’m dropping a 6-part story + interactive audios. Teasers post daily. The full experience is waiting if you can follow directions.

How to play: •  Soundgasm teaser link • Full audios + complete story: link in bio

He lay sprawled on the floor, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, sweat cooling against his skin. The mess on his stomach shimmered faintly in the candlelight, but even that seemed smaller than what had been taken. He wasn’t just spent. He was emptied.

The succubus leaned against the bedframe, satisfied, while the wife curled into her side, glowing and laughing softly. She looked down at him the way one looks at something broken—a vase shattered, a clock unwound—useless but strangely beautiful in its ruin.

She whispered, half to herself, half to the creature who held her: “What will he be now?”

The succubus stroked her hair. “Not a husband. Not a man. He is husk. Quiet. Obedient. Empty. He will beg for my approval, and he will glow when I pat his head. That’s all he is now.”

The wife nodded slowly. A flicker of guilt touched her eyes, but it passed as quickly as it came. She thought of all the nights she had faked her pleasure, all the years she had carried his clumsy weight, all the ways she had dimmed herself so that he might feel like a man. And she realized she didn’t miss him. She didn’t want him back. She wanted this.

“He’ll bring you more,” she said quietly. “Friends. Strangers. He’ll fetch them for you.”

“Yes,” the succubus purred. “Because he won’t know what else to do. His purpose is gone. I have replaced it with mine. To serve me. To spread me. To watch, to ache, to obey.”

The wife rested her head against the succubus’s shoulder, eyes heavy, body still humming from her last climax. She had asked for this night as a test, a chance to feel alive again. What she had received was more: freedom, power, and a new belonging.

The husk on the floor stirred weakly, lips mumbling fragments of the mantra he had been given. The succubus smiled, sharp and cruel, and whispered the final words into the silence:

“One is never enough.”

The room smelled of wax and sweat, the air heavy with the echoes of moans that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. The wife lay trembling, dazed in the afterglow of what the succubus had done to her. She could hardly breathe, her body limp against the sheets, but her eyes never left the figure across the room—her husband, still frozen, still throbbing, still chanting under his breath.

The succubus rose from the bed slowly, like smoke twisting into a new shape. She looked down at the wife, smiling with quiet satisfaction. “You’ve seen him hollowed,” she whispered, “but now you will see him harvested.”

The wife’s pulse quickened. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, watching as the succubus crossed the floor toward the man who once thought he owned her. His lips kept moving in that endless rhythm: I watch. I ache. I obey. His cock strained against his thighs, desperate, useless. He didn’t look at his wife anymore. His gaze was locked on the succubus, wide and terrified and hungry all at once.

The succubus straddled him, her movements deliberate, cruel in their slowness. For one breathless moment, the wife thought she might deny him again. But no—the creature lowered herself onto him, taking him in fully, as if sealing the ritual with her own body.

His eyes rolled back. His lips faltered on the mantra, breaking into gasps. The succubus rode him with deliberate rhythm, every movement pulling something out of him that wasn’t just seed. His body convulsed, his chest heaved, and the wife saw it as clearly as if it were visible: his will, his pride, his soul siphoning out of him, pulled through his cock like smoke from a burning house.

The succubus whispered against his ear as she drained him. “You thought this was pleasure. You thought this was reward. But this is harvest.”

The wife clutched the sheets, unable to look away. She had wondered if she might feel guilt, but all she felt was awe. She had asked for him to be ruined, and the succubus had given her more—an ending, a transformation, a husband undone so completely that nothing of him would ever return.

When at last he collapsed, pale and trembling, the succubus stroked his hair like a beloved pet. She smiled at the wife, dark eyes gleaming.

“Good husk,” she said softly. “Now he will fetch me another.”

Later, the wife confessed something. She had always known his cock was useless.

She had smiled at his eagerness, tolerated his clumsy urgency, whispered reassurances when he collapsed too soon. But deep down she had known: he could never give her the kind of ache she craved. He could never leave her shuddering.

The succubus laughed when she admitted this. That, she explained, was why ache would be his leash.

The husband sat there now, stiff and aching, cock swollen, denied. Every throb was a reminder that he wasn’t wanted. Every twitch was a confession of his weakness. He begged for release, whispered please, please, please into the dark.

And the succubus bent close to his ear and whispered back: “Not yet. Maybe never.”

The wife watched his face twist in desperation. She realized she loved this version of him more than any she had known before—not because he was stronger, but because he was finally honest. His ache exposed the truth: he was pathetic, pliant, and owned.

The ache would never end, the succubus promised. It would live inside him forever, a leash knotted around his cock. He would learn to crave it. He would define himself by it.

And the wife smiled, satisfied. It was more than she had ever hoped for.

The chant came easily once it began. That was the cruelest part.

The wife sat at the edge of the bed, her body shuddering under the succubus’s touch, while her husband sat paralyzed across from them. His lips moved, at first clumsy, then faster, then automatic. I watch. I ache. I obey.

Each repetition scraped away at him. Each word made him paler, emptier. The succubus explained it between kisses pressed to the wife’s throat: repetition was rot. Repetition was truth. You didn’t need to scream to brainwash a man—you only needed his own voice, echoing back at him, again and again, until it stopped meaning anything but obedience.

The wife dared a glance at him. He was sweating, his eyes glazed. He looked as though he were in pain, but the ache between his legs was only the proof of his surrender. She almost pitied him—almost.

The succubus whispered in her ear that he was being remade. He would no longer remember what it felt like to touch her. He would no longer imagine himself as husband or man. He was already forgetting. Each chant carried a piece of him away.

And the wife, gasping as another climax wracked her, realized she didn’t want to stop it. She wanted to see how far he could fall.

By the time the chant had circled a hundred times, he was no longer chanting consciously. His lips moved on their own. His body rocked slightly in rhythm. He wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t deciding. He was becoming.

A husk.

The wife had always suspected her husband’s fear. It wasn’t losing her body that terrified him—it was being forced to watch while someone else claimed it. He had admitted it once in a careless moment, drunk on beer and half-asleep: “If I ever saw you with another man, I think it would kill me.”

She had remembered that. Tucked it away like a secret.

Now she sat in the bedroom, listening to the muted sound of his voice downstairs. He thought this night was still about inclusion, about shared adventure. He had no idea he was already excluded.

The succubus leaned against the wall, eyes glowing faintly in the candlelight. She explained it patiently, as if speaking to a novice: men like him could only be broken through sight. Touch alone wasn’t enough. Denial wasn’t enough. They needed to see their replacements, needed to watch pleasure happen without them. That was how the pride collapsed. That was how the leash tightened.

The wife listened, cheeks burning with a mixture of shame and desire. She had spent years pretending his fumbling efforts satisfied her. She had learned to fake the moans he craved. But the truth was simpler: she had wanted more.

The succubus promised her that watching would hollow him out. He would sit frozen, cock aching, eyes wide as the sounds of his wife’s real moans—shuddering, involuntary, true—broke him apart. He would chant the words she fed him until they burned grooves into his mind: I watch. I ache. I obey.

The wife’s mouth went dry at the thought. For years she had wondered what it would feel like to be seen, really seen, by her husband. But tonight he wouldn’t see her. He would see what she had become.

By the time she returned to the bedroom, the succubus said, he would already be trembling. He would understand his place—not inside her, but outside, kneeling, watching, powerless. That was the design. That was the ritual.

The wife let out a long, shaky breath. She had asked for this. She had offered him up. And when she looked into the succubus’s dark eyes, she knew she didn’t regret it.

She sat at the edge of the bed smoothing the sheets, as though preparing for something sacred. Her hands trembled, not from fear, but anticipation. It had been her idea, after all, to invite her friend from yoga into their home. At least, that’s what she told her husband. She wanted him to think it was a harmless little adventure, the kind of daring he could brag about quietly in his head. He thought tonight was about pleasure, about generosity. He thought he was about to be included.

But the smile on her friend’s lips told another story. It was too sharp to be human, curling at the edges like smoke. The woman she had brought here was not a friend, not really. She was hunger wrapped in flesh, a secret that had lived behind the wife’s eyes for months.

“He doesn’t understand what he’s agreed to,” the wife thought, her heart beating faster. Her husband was waiting nervously downstairs, rehearsing his politeness, steadying himself with shallow breaths. He would try so hard to hide his need when her friend sat beside him. He would keep his eyes carefully away from the curve of her thigh, pretend he didn’t notice the heat in her smile. He always tried so hard, and he always failed.

The succubus would let him fail in stages. At first, she would sit close, her voice low, her tone kind. He would believe he was safe, believe he was strong enough to handle it. Then would come the first command. A touch. Just one stroke. Nothing more. He would think it was small, harmless. He would believe he was still in control. But that was the moment the leash would slide around his throat, invisible and unbreakable.

The wife shivered, not with regret but with relief. She had grown tired of fumbling hands, of his constant need for reassurance, of the way he looked at her with desperation instead of power. She hadn’t wanted to punish him. She wanted to be free of him, and the succubus had promised her something better: a husband transformed into a husk.

She had asked, softly, if it would hurt him. The succubus had only laughed. Obedience, she explained, was sweetest when it felt like choice. He would believe each stroke was his idea, each whisper his own. And then, when she gave him the words, he would repeat them: I watch. I ache. I obey. From that moment forward, he would never be hers again.

The wife closed her eyes and pictured it: walking upstairs to find him already trembling, his cock red and swollen, stroking when told, stopping when told. Looking at her not with love, but with the hollow devotion of a man half-gone, already drained of will. That gaze, once wasted on her, would belong entirely to the creature she had invited in.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs, the succubus explained, his body would no longer be his own. His cock would be tribute. His ache would be fuel. His release would be harvest. And when he spilled at last, every drop would belong to her.

The wife’s breath caught in her throat. She smoothed the sheet one last time, as though finishing the altar. “Then let it begin,” she whispered, though no one but the succubus could hear.