Private Journal Entry — Father Ridire
Date: [Unmarked]
Location: Local house of lust
I had not intended to go to the dungeon tonight. Other duties pressed on me. But something drew me. No. Summoned me.
I must calm myself. I cannot breathe properly. My chest is tight. I can still hear the sound. I must get this down.
The male, I believed him to be one of the regulars. Broad. Greying. Faintly fey. Dangerous.
The woman, though… unfamiliar. Or perhaps simply changed. Her presence—
Not seductive. Not playful.
Predatory.
It was her, I am certain, whose presence summoned me.
There was no negotiation. No exchange of safeword between them. Just eye contact—long, deliberate, electric.
Then inhumanly wide grins. All teeth.
Then, motion. A blur. Collision.
I write this disbelieving, but I must believe. I saw it.
She shifted first. Then he.
It happened fast, unnatural. The sound of bones reconfiguring, skin thickening, limbs stretching into forms not meant for this world.
Her face pulled into something feline and furious.
His body darkened, hardened.
They became something like panthers. Beasts. Demons.
This is no metaphor. There were no costumes.
Only becoming.
Their forms, sleek, sweat-slick, all muscle and heat.
Her eyes caught the red dungeon lights and burned like coals when she struck.
She was faster. Stronger.
She threw him like dead weight.
Raked her claws across his ribs.
They wrestled, no, warred. A primordial clash of limbs and intent.
He fought hard. But she pinned him. Two claws on his wrists. She bit down on his chest.
Then came the sound that will not leave me.
He howled.
Not in pleasure. Not in performance.
A sound torn from a deeper place.
Something ancient and wrong.
And then, he broke.
Shifted back.
Skin. Bone. Human. Subdued. Beneath her.
I expected surrender. Some flicker of submission.
But he rose.
Still human. Skin marred red.
He gripped her beast-body and dragged her down.
There was no fear in him—only force.
Her claws raked deep. Her jaws snapped.
He shoved inside her like a blade pulled from the dirt.
They didn’t fuck.
They collided. Over and over.
A violence dressed in rhythm.
She remained monstrous throughout. Panther-faced. Snarling. Shuddering.
He never wavered.
Hands binding hers above her head.
When he told her to, she came.
She bit down on his shoulder, and—through clenched teeth—he told her to again.
Then again. And again.
He never tamed her.
Her orgasms were fury made lust.
That’s what haunts me.
Afterward, they lay curled together.
His fingers lost in her fur.
Her mouth nuzzling his throat with slow, feline licks.
And then, she changed.
Back to human. Gradually.
Bones reshaping.
Eyes last to change. Still watching him.
Not with lust.
With recognition.
Something shared.
I left before they could speak.
I couldn’t bear the risk of being seen.
But I was.
I was seen.
Not by the man.
By her.
These were not shifters. Not witches. Not roleplayers.
They were demons. Panther-spirits. Or some darker variant I cannot name.
There is precedent: faint traces in desert texts.
Guardians. Predators. Mates who devour.
The woman, clawed. Unsatisfied by human appetite.
And him?
He may be one of them.
A threshold-being.
A man who chooses the shape of flesh,
not from weakness,
but to face the monster as a man.
I do not know what they were.
But I was marked.
My neck burns where her eyes passed over me.
I will sleep with salt by the door.
The Cyrenaian Hedonic church 