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This was initially written as a twitter microfic for kinktober similar stuff can be found here:

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The twelfth chime rings, soaks into the walls. Midnight. With a slow breath, the witch readies herself. Tonight she seeks power beyond imagination. Runes are drawn, candles lit, blood let.

She incants in hushed whispers. Each word heightens her unease: it draws near. Pinpricks down her neck. They tickle on her flesh. Agony and delight. The air thickens. Runes glow; smoke billows. A figure, long and slender, stands stark in dim light, obfuscated by clouded air.

When the smoke clears, she sees it: tall and shapely. Its beauty ethereal and dangerous. Soft and sharp. Spindly and supple. Her grin is wicked, hungry. The witch doesn't falter. She speaks clear, firm, commanding. Tonight she claims a new familiar. Mockery echoes from all sides.

The demoness' voice is silk, worming into her ears, her mind, then sinking in razor claws. It latches on, and won't let go. The witch struggles. She sets her jaw and stands firm, even as her knees wobble and unrestrained awe swells in her breast. She knew this moment would come.

To win a demoness as a familiar, one must win a battle of wills with the void itself. The witch has spent countless nights preparing for this moment, the one which would define her entire life, her whole career as a pioneer in her field. Gathering her strength, she pushes back.

It is over in a moment. She throws her will against the Demoness'. But, instead of crashing into it, the witch finds herself drawn in. It takes her, envelops her, reshapes her. When her eyes flutter open, she is on her knees, gazing up in adoration at her new Mistress.

Claws trace slow circles 'round the witch's neck, leaving behind searing pain. The sensation hardens, materializes. A collar, etched into her neck, seared to sensitive flesh. She is one with it and one with Mistress. That wicked, sharp-toothed grin brings only comfort now.

Working diligently, she eagerly erases the same circles meant to bind her Mistress. The most beautiful, powerful creature in the universe steps forward, and the witch feels her entire body explode with pleasure at the mere brush of Her burning gaze sweeping over her flesh.

Mistress crosses the room, and sits upon what was once a witch's recliner. She pats her lap: an invitation. The familiar bounds up to Her, nuzzling into Her leg, and resting her head in her owner's lap. Affectionate, doting scritches follow. The heat of Her infernal flesh burns away the last vestiges of the familiar's will, from the ashes rises something new, something better. In the end, the familiar got her wish. A demon's pet has power beyond any mere witch could hope to attain.

As a bound, obedient instrument of her better, her abilities are unmatched. Power she could not even dream of before courses through her veins. But for now, the eager little tool has one purpose: to worship. She rests her head between her owner's thighs, and obeys.