Let's make it all better.

---

Warmth floods Seraphina's veins and her struggles cease.

Troubled thoughts melt away into honeyed contentment. Months of captivity, humiliation and abuse have worn her down to a raw, fragile thing, and it is impossible to resist giving in to oblivion as it cradles and caresses her weary soul.

At the same time, her body comes alive. Her skin, though feverish, prickles with goosebumps. A throbbing need grows between her legs, keeping time with her rapid pulse.

The angel whimpers. Arches her back. Parts her knees. Her body demands to be touched.

Somewhere deep within, a part of her is locked away. The part that would care. The part that would fight. Its screams go unheard through the thick fog in her mind.

Arms slip beneath her and lift her effortlessly. Seraphina's cheek comes to rest on the full bosom of the she-demon who has turned the proud angel into a docile, pliant little doll. Rather than recoil, she rubs her face against the demon's cool skin with a sigh of relief. Something about it is comfortingly familiar, though she could not begin to fathom why.

"Darling, be patient. We'll take care of you."

We is the small group of visiting she-demons, each one varying in size, skills and temperament, all equally eager to get their hands and mouths on the girl. Not a human dressed as one, not some simpering lesser demon, but a real angel. Fallen from grace, a celestial being crammed and locked into a mortal body, theirs to do with as they please.

"Oh she is pretty."

"You've even dressed her up for us."

Dressed is being generous. A short nightgown, sheer white fabric trimmed with lace, is all that stands between Seraphina's body and their grasping hands. The moment her captor lies her down on a long, purple velvet sofa, the others waste no time removing the meager garment and taking in the rare treat laid bare before them.

Seraphina has been thoroughly washed with a floral soap, her hair combed until it shone like silk. Her small wings have been expertly preened. They stretch out wide, as stimulated as the rest of her, rather than curl around her for protection. Her skin, smooth and unblemished, seems to almost glow.

Cool hands roam her flushed body, gentle at first, exploring. One she-demon gropes and kneads at the angel's breasts, sharp nails grazing her nipples just to hear her gasp. Another lets her fingertips wander up her inner thighs and tease her cruelly with light strokes between her legs, pulling away too soon and laughing when the poor thing softly whines.

The third opts to use her mouth, kissing Seraphina's cheeks and lips, grazing teeth down the length of her neck. She nudges the other two aside and, uncharacteristically, they allow it, enraptured by the angel's reactions as the demoness kisses and sucks and nibbles a path down her body. For the finishing touch, she licks into the angel with her long, slick tongue, making her moan in a way that would put succubi to shame.

Gradually the she-demons grow rougher, crueler, greedy to take full advantage of such a sweet, willing body. Their grips tighten with the intent to bruise. Claws and teeth join in, but so do tongues. Caresses and scratches, kisses and bites, the sensations blur together until pain is indistinguishable from pleasure.

Tension builds deep in her belly; she chases it, desperate for relief. It's right there, it's so close...

Again and again and again she is denied.

If she could Seraphina would beg, but thoughts won't form, let alone words. She is reduced to a writhing, groaning mess.

Time ceases to matter. Minutes feel like hours. She is a thrumming livewire. She is putty in their hands.

They each take themselves to completion before allowing the angel hers. By then she is barely conscious enough to appreciate it.

Seraphina collapses back onto the sofa, spent and panting. For a few brief moments the demons draw away. They stop and sit back to admire their work while showering her with endearments and praise. And...and surely that is all. Surely they know she has nothing left to give...

They know.

They simply don't care.

She is still breathless when three pairs of hands resume touching and teasing her overstimulated body. The demonesses delight in her bruises and cuts, lick the sweat from her flushed skin, press their cold bodies to hers until she's shivering. They tauntingly mimic her weak protests. Their fingers once again find her most sensitive places.