Corrigan knows they're all watching -- that they will tell stories later of his prowess, of how his shadowy tendrils slid beneath the silk and tore it away, leaving the captive youth bare, how his skillfully touch was multiplied a thousand fold, each dark wisp of shadow like a teasing fingertip, along the mortal's shivering body, teasing at the jut of their hip bone, the curve of their waist, the pink peak of their nipples. His hands stayed where they were, one stroking and caressing at the virgin folds until they grew slick and syrupy and parted beneath his fingers, the wetness gathered and spread until he felt it pooling in his palm.

Then Corrigan reaches up, gently tugs the gag away, out from between the moaning mortal's full lips, thumbing their mouth open, listening to their shuddery gasps. "Tell me your name," he commands, slowly pressing his first two fingers inside the helpless sacrifice for the first time, watching their face as he sinks in to the knuckles. "And I shall tell you what name to cry out as I take you."