The Companion's Charter

The day began, as it so often did, with the scent of burnt coffee and old paper. From her sprawling oak desk, Raven Moonweaver surveyed her domain: the headquarters of the Enchanted Companions Guild. The morning light struggled through the grimy arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air—some mundane, some definitely glittering with residual magic. Her job, she often mused, was ninety percent paperwork and ten percent putting out fires, both literal and metaphorical.

She took a long drag from her mug, the bitter coffee a necessary shock to her system. On her monitor, the guild’s quarterly expense report glowed. It was a litany of the bizarre logistics required to keep the city’s supernatural sex trade running safely and smoothly. Item: 47b, Arcane Ward Maintenance - $1,200. Item: 47c, Ectoplasmic Lubricant, Bulk Order - $750. Item: 48a, Emergency Soul-Fragment Retrieval Kit Replenishment - $2,500. A necessary expense after that unfortunate incident with the incubus and the over-eager stockbroker. Raven sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. It was a gilded cage, this life. She fought for the freedom of her members, yet she was shackled to this desk.

Shoving the financials aside for a moment, she reached for the more interesting part of her morning routine: new membership applications. A thick stack sat in her inbox, each folder representing a life, a skill, a unique and often misunderstood form of intimacy. She thumbed through them. A gnome specializing in psychotropic dreamscapes. A satyr offering fertility rituals that were, by all accounts, explosively effective. Then she paused, pulling one file from the middle of the stack. The applicant photo showed a woman with serpentine hair and eyes that seemed to burn with ancient knowledge, even on cheap photo paper. Name: Cassia. Species: Gorgon.

Raven’s eyebrows shot up. A gorgon was a rare applicant. Most were too reclusive, too burdened by the lethal nature of their very being. She flipped open the folder, her eyes scanning the “Skills and Specializations” section. The dry, bureaucratic language of the form was hilariously at odds with the content.

Service Description: Client is provided a unique BDSM experience utilizing controlled petrification. Through a combination of specialized, mirrored eyewear and a proprietary magical dampening unguent applied to the client’s skin, my gaze can induce a state of temporary, localized paralysis, turning flesh to a stone-like substance for a duration of up to thirty minutes per session. The sensation is one of profound stillness and weight, a complete surrender of physical autonomy.

Raven leaned back, intrigued. This was new. Creative. She read on, her professional curiosity mingling with a more primal interest.

The process allows for heightened sensory input in unaffected areas. For example, with the client’s legs and torso petrified, their cock or clit remains fully sensitive, creating an intense contrast between immobility and targeted stimulation. The cold, heavy feeling of the stone-flesh enhances the warmth of a mouth or hand. Orgasm under these conditions is reported to be seismic, a shattering release from a state of absolute tension. Full aftercare, including a magical counter-agent and deep-tissue massage to restore circulation, is mandatory. A safety waiver acknowledging the inherent risks (including, but not limited to, chipping) must be signed.

A slow smile spread across Raven’s face. Fucking brilliant. This was what the Guild was all about: taking something feared and monstrous and turning it into a source of consensual, mind-altering pleasure. She could already imagine the clientele who would pay a fortune for that kind of experience—the power brokers and control freaks who secretly craved total submission. She pictured a man, pinned to a bed not by ropes, but by the weight of his own flesh turned to marble, his cock hard and twitching as Cassia’s serpentine hair brushed against his inner thighs. She imagined a woman, her body a living statue, her cunt the only soft, wet, warm place left, a focal point for every ounce of sensation.

The thought sent a low thrum of heat through her own body. It had been a while since she’d experienced something truly novel. Running the Guild was a constant battle, a political tightrope walk that left little time for the very pleasures she fought to protect. For a moment, she let herself get lost in the fantasy, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the desk. The mundane reality could wait.

Her intercom buzzed, a shrill, ugly sound that shattered the fantasy. "Raven," her assistant's voice crackled through the speaker, "Lyra is here for her ten o'clock mediation. The client, a Mr. Abernathy, is also present."

Raven straightened in her chair, the heat from her daydream evaporating into the cool, stale air of the office. "Send them in, Maya."

The door opened to admit a study in contrasts. First came Lyra, a succubus whose tenure with the Guild predated Raven’s own presidency. She was immaculate in a tailored grey pantsuit, her dark hair pulled into a severe chignon. Only the unnatural, violet depths of her eyes and the predatory grace in her walk betrayed her nature. She looked bored, irritated, and utterly professional.

Trailing behind her was Mr. Abernathy. He was a husk. His expensive suit hung off his frame, his skin had a pasty, greyish tint, and his hands trembled slightly as he clutched a briefcase to his chest like a shield. He looked like a man who’d run a marathon he hadn't trained for and then been hit by a bus. He radiated a palpable mix of fear and impotent fury.

"Mr. Abernathy, Lyra. Please, have a seat," Raven said, gesturing to the two leather chairs opposite her desk. Her voice was calm, neutral. The voice of command.

Lyra sat with fluid ease. Abernathy practically fell into his chair, his briefcase clattering against his knees.

"So," Raven began, folding her hands on the desk. "I have a complaint form from you, Mr. Abernathy, alleging... well, it’s a bit vague. It says 'unauthorized vital fluid withdrawal' and 'grievous bodily harm.' Perhaps you could elaborate."

Abernathy sputtered, his face flushing a blotchy red. "Elaborate? That... that creature drained me! I paid for an evening of pleasure, the 'Succubus's Kiss' package, the brochure called it. I expected... you know! A sexual experience! Not to be used as a fucking supernatural juice box!"

Lyra sighed, a long-suffering sound. "Mr. Abernathy, the nature of the service was explained to you verbally, and you signed a sixteen-page contract that details the process of life-force transference explicitly. Section C, paragraph four: 'The client acknowledges that the orgasmic state is the primary vehicle for the consensual and temporary transference of bio-energetic essence, colloquially known as life-force, from client to provider.'"

"I thought it was poetic language!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "I thought it meant it would be a really, really good fuck! Not that she’d literally be sucking the life out of my cock!"

"That is, in fact, the precise mechanism," Lyra stated, her voice as cold and sharp as ice. "I bring you to the peak of ecstasy, and as your orgasm convulses through your body, I draw a small, agreed-upon tithe of your essence. It’s how I feed. It’s what you paid for. The intense pleasure you felt was the honey that sweetens the transaction. You came four times, Mr. Abernathy. You were quite vocal in your enjoyment at the time."

Abernathy shrank in his chair, a flicker of memory—of a slick mouth, of muscles clenching deep inside him, of a pleasure so profound it bordered on agony—crossing his face before being replaced by indignation. "She held me down with... with her magic! Her cunt gripped me like a vice, I couldn't have pulled out if I wanted to! Every time I came, I could feel this... this pulling sensation, like she was a vacuum and my very soul was being siphoned out through my dick. I feel weak. I can barely climb a flight of stairs."

"The weakness is temporary," Raven interjected, her voice cutting through his panic. "As the contract also states, recovery time is typically twenty-four to forty-eight hours, provided you hydrate and consume nutrient-rich foods. Lyra, did you take more than the contractually stipulated amount?"

"Of course not," Lyra said, offended. "I am a professional. I took precisely ten percent of his accessible aura, per our standard agreement. Enough to leave him pleasantly spent, not debilitated. Frankly, I suspect his poor physical condition is a result of his sedentary lifestyle, not my services."

Raven leveled a cool gaze at the client. "Mr. Abernathy, you sought out one of the most potent supernatural experiences the Guild has to offer. You wanted to fuck a succubus. This is what that entails. It is a biological, symbiotic transaction. You receive a pleasure that no human partner could possibly provide, a climax that will echo in your cells for weeks. In exchange, Lyra receives sustenance. You signed a legal document, a waiver, and a consent form. Your signature is on every page."

She slid a copy of the signed contract across the desk. Abernathy stared at his own looping signature at the bottom of a page filled with dense, arcane legalese. He looked from the paper to Lyra's placid, beautiful face, and then to Raven's unyielding expression. The fight visibly drained out of him, leaving only the gaunt exhaustion behind. He had no case. He was just an idiot who hadn't read the terms and conditions.

"He won't be filing a lawsuit," Raven said, her voice flat, as she watched Abernathy shuffle out of her office.

Lyra gave a delicate, dismissive shrug. "They never do. They just enjoy feeling wronged for a day or two. Thank you for your time, Raven." She rose and departed with the same silent, predatory grace she’d entered with, leaving the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine and ozone in her wake.

Raven let out a long breath, rubbing her temples. The paperwork for this would be a pain in the ass. Her intercom buzzed again. "Your eleven o'clock is here for his new member orientation," Maya's voice said. "Finnian Carmichael."

"Send him in."

The young man who entered was a stark contrast to the drained husk of Abernathy. He was maybe twenty-two, with a shock of sandy-blond hair that refused to be tamed and eyes the color of a summer sky. He wore worn jeans and a t-shirt for some obscure indie band, and he carried a nervous, electric energy, like a live wire wrapped in a cheap jacket. He was human, but there was a flicker in his gaze, a hint of the magic he held.

"Mr. Carmichael. Raven Moonweaver. Welcome to the Guild," she said, rising and offering a hand. His grip was firm, his palm warm.

"Finn, please," he said, a quick, charming smile flashing across his face. "It's an honor, Ms. Moonweaver. I've been following the Guild's work for years."

"Raven," she corrected him. "Let's take a walk. I'll show you what your dues are paying for."

She led him out of her office and into the main corridor of the Guild headquarters. The space was a converted historical bank, with marble floors and high, vaulted ceilings, but the grandeur was softened by comfortable lounge areas where a pixie was animatedly describing something to a hulking minotaur, and a gnome was meticulously polishing a set of arcane devices. The air hummed with a low-level thrum of diverse magics.

"First and foremost," Raven began, her voice echoing slightly in the large space, "we provide protection. You just missed me mediating a dispute with a client who didn't read the fine print on a succubus contract. He thought he was getting a simple blowjob and instead got his life-force tithed during orgasm. He was threatening to sue."

Finn's eyes widened. "What did you do?"

"I reminded him that he signed a legally binding contract that explicitly detailed how his soul was going to be siphoned out through his cock," Raven said bluntly. "We handle the legal fallout, the misunderstandings, the threats. We have a list of approved clients and a blacklist of dangerous ones. We provide regular magical and physical health screenings. If a client gives you a magically transmitted disease, our healers will purge it, no questions asked. If they try to short you on pay, our enforcers will have a very persuasive conversation with them."

She pushed open a heavy oak door marked 'Training Room 3'. The room was spartan, with padded grey floors and walls that shimmered with privacy wards. In one corner sat a large, velvet-covered platform bed, and on the opposite wall was an array of restraints, floggers, and other, more esoteric implements.

"We also provide spaces like this," she said, gesturing around the room. "Safe, warded, soundproofed. A place to hone your craft or meet with clients who require absolute discretion." She turned to him, her expression shifting from professional to curious. "Your file says your specialization is 'tactile illusion.' I'm familiar with the concept, but it's rare in humans. Show me."

Finn looked a little nervous, but also eager. "Okay. Um, hold out your arm, if you would."

Raven extended her left forearm. Finn stepped closer, his fingers gently brushing her wrist to establish the magical link. The touch was light, professional, but it sent a surprising little jolt up her arm. "Close your eyes," he murmured.

She did. For a second, there was nothing but the feel of the air on her skin. Then, it began. A crawling, tickling sensation, as if a thousand tiny, damp tendrils of moss were sprouting and growing over her flesh. It was cool and soft and unnervingly real. Then, the texture changed. The moss receded, replaced by the feeling of dry, shifting sand trickling over her skin, each grain distinct. The sand gave way to something else entirely—the smooth, chillingly cold surface of polished glass, so seamless she could feel the faint vibrations from her own pulse beneath it. Finally, a wave of prickling heat washed over her, like her entire arm had been submerged in champagne, the bubbles bursting against her skin in a dizzying effervescence.

Her breath hitched. She opened her eyes. Her arm was just her arm. Bare skin, a light dusting of freckles, the fine, dark hairs glinting under the lights. She looked at Finn, whose face was screwed up in concentration, a bead of sweat on his temple.

"Fuck me," she breathed, the words coming out before she could stop them. Her mind, so often occupied with budgets and bylaws, was suddenly flooded with the raw, carnal potential of it. The feel of phantom tentacles, slick and probing, wrapping around her legs and sliding between her thighs. The illusion of being bound in ropes made of pure, searing energy. The sensation of a lover's tongue inside her, but impossibly long, able to trace every nerve ending in her cunt at once. She could make a client feel like they were being fucked by a god, or a monster, or a concept. He could create the sensation of a cock filling a mouth that wasn't there, of cum flooding a throat that was still breathing open air. It was a power more subtle than a succubus's drain or a shapeshifter's transformation, but in its own way, infinitely more versatile.

She met his gaze, and he must have seen the dawning comprehension—and the flicker of raw heat—in her eyes, because his quick, charming smile returned, this time with a new layer of confidence.

"You'll do well here, Finn," Raven said, her voice a low purr. "You'll do very well indeed."

She led him back to the reception area, the echo of his illusion still tingling on her skin. "Maya will get you your official Guild ID and a welcome packet. It has our bylaws, the emergency contact network, and a schedule for our optional skills workshops. I recommend the one on magical contract negotiation."

"I'll be there," Finn said, his eyes still bright with a mixture of awe and ambition. He looked around the bustling hall, at the casual mingling of species and powers, as if he couldn't quite believe he was finally a part of it. "Thank you, Raven. For everything."

"Welcome to the fight, Finn," she said, a small smile touching her lips before she turned and headed for the exit. The fight was never-ending, and she had another front to inspect.

---

The Velvet Curtain wasn't in the city's designated 'pleasure district,' a gaudy strip of flickering neon and barkers hawking cheap thrills. It was tucked away on a quiet, cobblestoned street in the old money quarter, marked only by a heavy door of dark, polished mahogany and a single, gas-lit lantern that cast a warm, discreet glow. There was no sign, no advertisement. You either knew where it was, or you didn't belong.

Raven pushed the door open and stepped inside, the noise of the city falling away, replaced by the hushed, decadent quiet of the brothel. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, beeswax candles, and the faint, metallic tang of spilled magic. The lobby was a symphony in crushed velvet and dark wood, with deep-set armchairs arranged for intimate conversation. Muffled sounds drifted from the corridors and the floors above—the low, rhythmic creak of a bed, a sharp, indrawn gasp of pleasure, the faint, melodic chiming of a pleasure ward being activated.

She saw him immediately, though no one else would have recognized him. Coiled upon the plushest chaise lounge near a crackling fireplace was a massive serpent. Its scales were the color of obsidian, shimmering with an oily, rainbow iridescence under the low light. It was at least fifteen feet long, its body thick as a man's thigh, its head resting placidly on a velvet cushion. Its eyes, vertical slits of molten gold, tracked Raven as she approached.

"Kael," she said softly.

The golden eyes blinked slowly. The serpent's head lifted, and then its entire form began to dissolve, not in a flash of light, but like thick, dark ink bleeding into water. The solid mass of scales and muscle flowed, contracted, and reshaped itself. Bones audibly popped and reset, flesh swirled and solidified. In seconds, the monstrous serpent was gone, and standing in its place was a man.

He was tall and slender, with skin the color of pale moonlight and hair as black as the serpent's scales. His features were beautiful but unsettlingly symmetrical, and his golden eyes, now round with human pupils, retained their unnerving intensity. He wore simple black silk trousers and a loose-fitting white shirt, the picture of understated elegance.

"Raven," he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Just making my rounds," she replied, sinking into the armchair opposite him. "Checking in. Any problems? Staff happy? Clients behaving?"

Kael sat back on the chaise, moving with a liquid grace that hinted at his mutable nature. "Business is good. The staff is content. And the clients are... clients." A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. "We had a banker in last night. He wanted to experience being taken by a beast with two cocks. Lyris handled it."

Raven raised an eyebrow. Lyris was one of Kael’s most versatile shifters.

"She gave him exactly what he paid for," Kael continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Shifted her lower body into something vaguely lupine, but with two thick, veined cocks. One for his ass, one for his mouth. He wanted her to fuck his throat while she pounded his prostate. Lyris said the man's eyes nearly rolled back into his head when she had both dicks buried to the hilt, his muffled gagging barely audible over the wet, slapping sound of her balls against his chin and the squelch of his ass being stretched wide. She made him come so hard he bit clean through the leather gag we’d provided." He shrugged. "He paid double for the memory and tipped Lyris enough to cover her rent for three months. So, no. No problems."

Raven chuckled, the grim realities of her job melting away in the face of Kael’s calm professionalism. This was their world—facilitating the deepest, strangest, most carnal desires, and ensuring their people were safe and compensated for it. "Glad to hear it. I just finished an orientation for a new human illusionist. A kid with some real raw talent. I might send him your way if he’s looking for a placement."

"I'm always looking for new talent," Kael said. His golden eyes scanned the room, and for a moment, his gaze sharpened. "The mood is changing, though, Raven. Have you felt it?"

"What do you mean?"

"The clients," he said, turning his focus back to her. "The old money, the politicians... they're getting more discreet. More paranoid. They use the back entrance, pay in untraceable scrip. They still want to get their cunts fucked by a demon or have their asses filled by a shifter, but they're terrified of anyone finding out. There's a new tension in the air. A scent of fear. And righteousness."

Raven felt a familiar knot tighten in her stomach. It was the same feeling she got just before a political storm broke. "I'll keep an eye on it."

"I know you will," Kael said, his expression softening into one of genuine affection. He was a creature of observation, of silent understanding. He saw the weight she carried, the endless battles she fought behind the desk and in the city's corridors of power. His presence was a comfort, a quiet anchor in the constant chaos.

She stayed for another half hour, sharing a glass of expensive Elven wine with him while they discussed guild business in low tones. Finally, the exhaustion of the long day began to settle deep in her bones.

"I should go," she said, rising from the chair. "I have financials to review before I can sleep."

"The work is never done," Kael acknowledged, standing as well. He walked her to the door, a silent, graceful shadow at her side. As she stepped out into the cool night air, the sounds of the city rushing back in, she felt his hand briefly touch her shoulder—a simple, grounding gesture of support that meant more than any words.

The walk home was a blur of streetlights and passing faces. The city was alive, a throbbing organism of mortal and magical energies, but Raven felt detached from it, sealed in the bubble of her own thoughts. Kael’s words about the changing mood echoed in her mind, a low thrum of anxiety beneath the surface of her fatigue. The scent of fear and righteousness. It was a potent, dangerous combination.

Her apartment was a sanctuary, a quiet space high above the city’s chaotic pulse. She kicked off her heels by the door, the relief immediate and profound. The main room was dominated by bookshelves crammed with everything from arcane legal texts to well-worn poetry anthologies. A large window looked out over the glittering sprawl of the metropolis, a constant reminder of the world she was fighting for.

She bypassed the stack of financial reports on her desk, knowing her mind was too frayed to focus on them now. Instead, she poured herself a glass of cheap whiskey, the harsh burn a welcome jolt to her senses, and collapsed onto her worn leather sofa. Fumbling for the remote, she switched on the television, not to watch, but for the comforting drone of background noise. The local evening news was on, a bland anchorwoman detailing a traffic snarl on the crosstown bridge.

Raven closed her eyes, letting the day’s events wash over her. The wide-eyed hope of Finn, the raw potential of his illusion magic, the feel of those phantom bubbles still a ghost on her skin. The cool, solid presence of Kael, a being of immense power who chose to be her confidant and friend, his story of the banker’s grotesque fantasy a stark reminder of the services they provided. It was a world of extremes, of profound connection and paid depravity, of healing and harm. Her world.

A new voice from the television cut through her reverie, sharp and self-assured. She opened her eyes. The screen showed a man standing at a podium, the seal of the city council behind him. He was handsome in a severe, forgettable way, with neatly parted silver hair and a jaw that seemed permanently clenched with conviction. The chyron identified him as Councilor Alistair Valerius.

"...and while we celebrate the economic vitality of our great city," he was saying, his tone dripping with a sincerity that felt utterly false, "we cannot afford to be naive. We cannot turn a blind eye to enterprises that operate in the shadows, preying on the vulnerable and exploiting loopholes in our outdated statutes."

Raven sat up, the whiskey glass pausing halfway to her lips. Her entire body went still.

"There are elements in our city," Valerius continued, his gaze sweeping across the press corps as if he were bestowing a great, terrible wisdom upon them, "that deal not in goods and services, but in forces beyond our comprehension. Forces that, left unchecked, pose a significant risk to public safety and the moral fabric of our community."

The knot in her stomach that Kael had mentioned tightened into a cold, hard stone. This was it. The righteousness.

"That is why, in the coming days, I will be introducing a new legislative proposal," he announced, his voice ringing with authority. "A proposal for common-sense oversight. The 'Magical Services Regulation Act' will ensure transparency, accountability, and above all, safety for all our citizens. It is time we brought these supernatural enterprises out of the darkness and into the light of responsible governance. We owe it to our families. We owe it to our future."

The camera zoomed in on his face, a mask of grim determination and civic duty. To most viewers, he probably looked like a hero, a protector. To Raven, he looked like an executioner sharpening his axe.

She stared at the screen, her blood turning to ice. Magical Services Regulation Act. He’d already named it. This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thought; it was a planned attack. The words he used—shadows, preying, risk, moral fabric—were carefully chosen weapons, designed to stoke fear and suspicion. He was painting a target on the back of every member of her guild. On Finn. On Kael. On Lyris and Lilith and Elara. On her.

The news segment ended, cutting back to the oblivious anchorwoman in the studio. But Raven couldn't hear her. She could only see Valerius’s face, etched into her mind. The fight she’d told Finn he was joining had just found its champion on the other side. The gilded cage they all lived in, so beautifully appointed and yet so fragile, had just been shaken, hard. And Raven knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that this was only the beginning. The man on the screen wasn't just proposing a bill; he was declaring war.