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Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} The Price {Maureen} (MM+ semi-NC tort anal best magic goth)
Date: Thu, 13 Apr 2000 12:10:06 -0400
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THE PRICE
@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, April 2000. All rights reserved
under the Bourne Convention, but this story is free for
non-commercial redistribution if proper credit is given to
the author and no alterations are made.
WARNING: The theme here is semi-consensual, supernatural
homosexual rape/sex and torture by demons in a fantasy setting,
with sadomasochistic elements. If any of this bothers you, leave
now. If it's BDSM and cheer you want, try something else, like my
Precious Cargo series (http://velar.ctrl-
c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/).
If you're still reading this now, and I'm not sure *I* would
still be reading this now: this story is NOT intended to condone
real-life rape (either homosexual or heterosexual), torture or
even devil worship. This is DARK FANTASY. DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME.
Got it? Good. Now remember it, or I'll send a pack of sex-starved
Phlegazeum demons after you.
THE PRICE
The Dark Warrior and his warlords looked up as the messenger
entered the tent.
"I'm sorry, honored sirs -- the prisoner is dead," he told them.
"He said nothing."
General Ka'alin snarled, exposing his orcish fangs, and the youth
paled perceptibly. General Despin muttered a curse, echoed by
Arilliag as he set down his mug.
The Dark Warrior, whom the others called Raven - no one here knew
any other name for him -- merely looked at the youth. Despite his
name, Raven's mane of shaggy long hair was golden blond, not
black. His fine-boned features were almost beautiful, with a
thin, straight nose and deep, dark, cold eyes.
"Thank you, Rolt," he said. His voice was a thing of beauty,
middle-toned, smooth, melodious -- but an indefinable something
in it held an air of lethality. "You can leave now."
The relieved Rolt wasted no time departing.
"Well, there goes our chance of tracking down Gerei's boys,"
growled Despin.
Arilliag nodded sour agreement. "Oracles couldn't get a damned
thing either. Makes you wonder why we bother taking along the
priests . . ."
"Wouldn't need 'em if the torturers could learn their job,"
growled Ka'alin in a voice deeper than any true human's. "'Stead
of killing half their victims before they can break them."
"Guess we'll have to just find out where they are the hard way,"
Arilliag mused.
"And just hope their priests haven't had time to call down divine
assistance," Despin added helpfully. His tone made "divine
assistance" sound like a scatological term.
Ka'alin growled "Y'fool! If'n they have, we're marching into a
slaughterhouse --"
Raven raised one hand, silently. The warlords ceased their
grumbling as swiftly as if he had shouted.
"Ka'alin is right," he said into the sudden silence. "We do need
that information." He paused for a long moment.
"How? We're fresh out of prisoners --" Arilliag interrupted. And
Raven was looking at him. He didn't glower or snarl; he only
stared, but something deadly hung in that look. Arilliag blanched
and fell silent.
"I will deal with this," Raven said softly. He closed his eyes
for a long moment . . . as if in resignation.
No one dared to break the silence again, but each one felt a
sensation like a trickle of ice water down his spine. Even
Ka'alin, the half-orc.
They knew all too well upon whose help their commander would
call.
The Dark Warrior opened his eyes, then pushed himself back from
the table and rose in a single graceful movement. Standing, he
was revealed as taller than any of them save Ka'alin, if not as
crudely built -- well-muscled, but not burly as Arilliag and
especially Ka'alin were.
He said, "Gentlemen, I thank you for your work this evening, but
since I must begin at once, this council is dismissed. Be ready
in the morning."
He strode from the tent, not waiting for his warlords to depart.
When he had vanished through the tent opening into the night,
Arilliag found his tongue again.
"Just how does he - do what he does? Even the Dark Priests can't
get us the help he does."
Despin stared out the opening a long moment, then slowly shook
his head.
"I'm not sure I ever want to know. He looked like a man about to
walk through fire."
It took Raven at least a turning to properly lay out the markings
on the floor of his private tent, and set up the braziers and the
other apparatus of the ritual.
He steeled himself with thoughts of revenge, as he had so many
times before through the years, clinging to his hatred like a
lifeline.
He would need it, during what followed the opening of the Gate.
When the room was ready, he stripped naked; revealed, his body
was as lean and muscular as a panther instead of the carrion crow
that was his namesake. Some might have called it handsome, and it
was -- save for the battle scars of a man who has spent most of
his life as a warrior.
He picked up a black dagger carved with curious runes, stepped
into the thaumaturgic triangle and sat down cross-legged.
After another turning, deep in trance, he rose slowly and began
to chant the Words of Power, dagger in hand.
As he raised the dagger and his chanting rose in volume and in
confidence, a darkness formed in the smoky interior of the
triangle, a darkness that had nothing to do with the clear night
outside. It was at first only the size of his closed fist.
Slowly, as he continued, it enlarged itself, as if sucking all
the darkness of the world into itself, until it was fully as tall
as a man. It was impossible to say what was inside it, very
difficult indeed even to look directly at it. It was not the
difficulty of looking directly at the sun but more its opposite,
a darkness painful to look at.
Raven stared directly into its depths, the rune dagger lowered at
his side. His fine-boned face was a study in rapt trance until
the chant wove to its conclusion.
He spoke the final words of the spell.
"I call upon the Gate, and the Gate is open."
There was a strange ripping sound, almost like some heavy fabric
being rent asunder by mighty hands, and the blackness paled, then
cleared to reveal a window -- a window into a dark, featureless
plain like old black lava, wreathed in leaden blue-gray mist.
Emerging from his trance, he looked through into the Dark Realm.
He could only see one demon clearly through the man-size Gate. It
looked more or less humanoid but taller and more slender, its
sleek skin a livid blue. Its eyes were huge: they looked like
colossal opals, with strange colors slowly moving in them.
He recognized it as a Chehezrim demon. He didn't recognize it as
one he had dealt with before.
The Chehezrim's great almond-shaped eyes settled on him, blinked
slowly. They were devoid of pupils, and no human could read them
-- but a less skilled warlock would have been hypnotized by their
beauty, pulled into those strange depths with their shifting
half-seen colors.
"Greetings, Dark Warrior," it said, speaking in Lesser Demonic,
its voice the buzzing of a thousand bees. "State what you seek.
It must be urgent indeed, for you to pay us another visit so
soon. Unless you enjoy those visits as much as we do?" It smiled.
"I seek knowledge," Raven said stonily, in the same language. "I
know that General Garei's Catarals are hidden in reserve
somewhere nearby. I need to know where."
The demon nodded. "We have been watching. It was thought you
would come to consult."
It paused, but Raven waited. After a moment, it continued.
"Know that even if you take the battle to their hiding place,
they have Chareum with them now. Even with surprise on your side,
your own forces will not be enough to defeat both them and the
main army later."
Raven's eyes narrowed. He hadn't bargained on Chareum. He
unconsciously rubbed a curious-looking scar on his right upper
arm. It was not a sword cut. It was an irregular burn mark, as if
the flesh had been splashed by liquid fire.
Could the demon be lying to him, solely in order to extract a
higher price for the Black Realm's aid?
He sent a quick truth-probe toward the Chehezrim, who merely
laughed mockingly and opened its mind to let him look through
those appallingly beautiful opal eyes.
He saw the bivouac of Garei's forces. They were in a shallow but
broad valley, and the floor was rocky with only a scattering of
pines. He glimpsed the Torgelin priests sitting on their circle-
marked prayer mats, eyes closed, gathering the forces that
crackled white around their bodies.
And he saw at least one Chareum angel, its white-winged form
shimmering as it stood at a post just outside the camp. Then
another, standing on an outcrop on the valley wall, guarding the
camp below . . . and another, on another outcrop.
He gritted his teeth. It would be a slaughter -- unless he could
get minions of his own to counter the Chareum.
"You see?" the Chehezrim said. "You *will* need our assistance."
"Very well," he growled. "I demand your Masters' help, then."
A rush of ruby light passed through those eerie eyes.
"There's a price for that aid, Dark Warrior," the demon said. "We
need the power to cross over."
Raven nodded coldly. "I will pay it, demon. So I swear by the
Black River."
The demon nodded, acknowledging the Oath. "So be it."
Raven lifted his arm, thrust it through the Gate. The Chehezrim
grasped his arm in a thin but immensely powerful hand and pulled
him through into the Dark Realm.
He was still naked. His rune dagger was not with him here, nor
anything else he possessed. He knew his material body lay
crumpled in the ritual triangle; this was his spirit body.
They were waiting for him - the Chehezrim, two Phorim, a
Phlegazeum, four Belarim and a pair of black Darkhounds. The
surrounding was no longer a barren plain but a great room, its
walls carved stone, lined with torches that filled it with
wavering firelight.
A stout chain dangled from the ceiling, ending in a pair of
shackles. There were more chains attached to the stone floor.
He tried not to look at the implements and curious furniture also
in the dungeon, but his guts knotted as he recognized some of
them.
Others he could not identify, despite his extensive knowledge of
torture devices -- and that frightened him more.
Once again he called upon his hatred, his anger, steeling
himself.
He recognized the white-winged Phlegazeum; it nodded once and
smiled back at him, and the smile was more chilling than the
Chehezrim's open smirk. Two of the Belarim were familiar, too; he
recognized the slightly crooked left horn on one.
The Chehezrim's inhumanly strong hand forced him down to his
knees. Of his own accord he crossed his wrists behind his back,
as he had long ago learned to do.
One of the Belarim circled behind him. Raven felt the cold, heavy
iron of the rune collar slide against his skin and close with a
final-sounding clank around his neck. His magical knowledge, his
intimate understanding of the flow of energies, the Words of
Power -- all were restrained, paralyzed, and would be until it
was removed. He suppressed a shiver.
In the mortal world, he was the terror of the Torgelin priests
and their Legions of Light.
Here, in this place that was the very denial of Light, he was a
kneeling, naked mortal slave. Until the demons chose to release
him, he was their whore.
He kept telling himself he was used to it; that he had reconciled
himself to the terms of the bargain he had made years ago.
Sometimes, when he was in the mortal world, he almost believed
it.
He felt his guts clench tighter. He gritted his teeth, refusing
to show his fear. The stone floor was cold under his knees.
"Before we begin, Dark Warrior," the Chehezrim smiled mockingly
at the title, "you can start by giving us the Kiss of Obedience."
The demon stood before him, its thin legs spread. Its sex was
already uplifted. It was a long, thin thing as blue as the rest
of its form, devoid of glans, unaccompanied by testicles. The
other demons circled, grinning, some already openly fondling
erections of their own as they watched.
I have no choice, Raven reminded himself. Not if I want my
revenge on the Light.
He leaned forward and took the Chehezrim's strange organ in his
mouth.
The demon's flesh was curiously hard and unyielding, but it was
the same heat as a man's, no hotter and no colder, and that was a
mercy. He hoped he would never be ordered to perform this service
for a Zhalerim or a Phlegazeum. He doubted any mortal could.
Massively powerful taloned hands pinned his wrists behind his
back -- whose, he didn't know and hardly cared. On his knees,
restrained, he worked to bring the demon before him whatever
pleasure such a creature could feel, careful neither to hurry nor
to dawdle.
Once, he would have hoped that the Chehezrim would soon achieve
its pleasure, that he wouldn't have to perform this degrading act
very long. Since then he'd learned better. At least this service
was free of pain.
One Darkhound approached from the side, whimpering savagely,
crouching, as if to mount him then and there. A hoofed leg
brushed it aside, and he heard a bawdy chuckle behind him. "Not
yet," an inhumanly deep voice growled -- a Belarim. "Later,
D'zaerel."
There was no opening to the Chehezrim's penis; it didn't spurt as
a man would. Nor did it show any outward sign of pleasure such as
moaning or tensing or thrusting its hips. Instead, when the demon
was satisfied, it simply uttered a strange whispery chuckle and
stepped back, saying "Enough."
Perhaps the act did not even give it any pleasure at all, except
for the humiliation it brought Raven. In that, it was highly
effective.
The other two-legged demons followed, stepping before him to be
serviced one by one, except (mercifully) for the Phlegazeum and
the two Darkhounds.
The sexes of the goatlike Belarim, at least, were more
traditionally human, if as dark as their shaggy hides -- a
glistening blue-black. What was less human was the amount of seed
they shot into his reluctant mouth; twice he nearly choked on the
stuff, which brought cruel chuckles from his tormentors.
The near-hairless, vaguely catlike Phorim were a different
matter. Their phalli were inhumanly large, and cool to the touch
of his lips -- disturbingly like what one might expect of a
corpse's, an effect that was not helped by their leprous-white
skin. But there was nothing corpselike about the way they
stiffened or thrust their hips into his sucking mouth, bringing
tears to his eyes as he gagged. Their seed was equally cool but
as vile-tasting as sewer filth, and only long practice enabled
him to swallow it.
One grasped his hair in its paw and dragged his head into its
groin as it achieved its satisfaction, the inhumanly stiff,
bristly blue pubic hair scratching against his nose. At least
that way he didn't have to taste its discharge.
The final Belarim climaxed with a bass bellow, arching its back,
and then another hand twisted in Raven's long hair and dragged
him away, and he was thrown to the floor to lie there fighting
down his heaving stomach and his sore, gagging throat. It would
not do to vomit up what he had swallowed; the inevitable
punishment would make this session more painful than it needed to
be. The collar felt as though it was choking him.
He wiped his aching mouth with his arm as the Phlegazeum laughed,
its voice disturbingly sweet, like the tinkling of bells. The
others joined in.
"You are most skilled at that," the Phlegazeum intoned. "A pity
you cannot perform for me in that fashion. But you will make up
for it."
A shudder ran through Raven's entire body, which brought another
laugh from the assembled demons.
The bent-horned Belarim stepped forward, a great yellow-fanged
grin seeming to split its black face. "Since that was so well-
done, let us reward him. Just a little. Enough to whet his
appetite for more."
It squatted beside Raven's prone body and reached toward his
groin with a pawlike hand, and then it ran a leathery finger down
his manhood, lying limp on his thigh. The sensation sent yet
another shiver through Raven's body. Then the demon took his
member in its paw and began to fondle him, pleasuring him.
Raven lay still, knowing better than to resist or move. There was
nothing he could do to fight the impulse of lust that flooded his
loins, making his member stiffen in the demon's paw, and that paw
moved up and down, much like the way he would have pleasured
himself, and his manhood grew harder and harder.
He clenched his fists and his jaw, trying to make no sound. His
hips began to flex, thrusting into the demon's accursedly gentle
paw as his need grew.
The other demons had gathered in front of him and were now
watching intently, varied eyes glittering with excitement.
Raven felt his climax near. He couldn't hold back a moan as he
lay there suffering the demon's touch, loins tightening. He kept
his eyes closed, shutting out his surroundings and his
tormentors, but that did not stop the waves of hungry lust
washing through him. He didn't even dare roll onto his back, but
his thighs spread of their own accord, offering the demon all the
access to his privates that it could wish. Finally, another moan
forced its way between his teeth, which brought chuckles from the
watchers.
"Yes, whimper, dog," hissed the Chehezrim.
The Belarim's paw retreated, just short of when it would have
given him his satisfaction. Then one thick finger touched him
again, lifting and teasing his manhood for his tormentors'
enjoyment as he actually whimpered with frustration, beginning to
squirm on the stone floor, his control breaking. He wanted to beg
for the mercy of release; only the knowledge that that mercy
would be denied kept him from doing so.
The teasing finger finally retreated entirely. Slowly, ever so
slowly, the lust eased just enough for the shame to truly sink
in. He kept his eyes tightly closed, taking what refuge he could
in the darkness behind his eyelids, refusing to acknowledge his
tormentors' mocking laughter and crude jests, feeling his skin
burn with humiliation.
The Belarim's cloven hoof kicked him as he lay there, hard enough
to bruise. "Get up, slut. Cease your groveling."
Raven reluctantly opened his eyes. He rolled to all fours, then
rose up on his knees, assuming that was what was wanted of him.
Instead, the Chehezrim's buzzing voice snapped, "Get up! Do not
risk our anger."
He got to his feet quickly.
A Belarim stepped up behind him and seized his wrists, bringing
them behind his back again. It shoved him, and Raven realized he
was being directed toward the chain hanging from the stone
ceiling of the dungeon room. He obeyed, walking over to it, and
then a Phorim's paw on his collar tugged downward, urging him to
bend over. It wasn't satisfied until his spine was nearly
parallel to the floor. Another hand tugged at his wrists, forcing
him to raise them behind his back until his shoulders ached at
the strain. Then his wrists were shackled to the chain.
His skin crawled as he realized what they were going to do next.
He was already in a near-perfect position for it -- bent over at
the waist and helpless to resist. A hoof kicked his feet apart,
and then the Belarim attached more shackles to his ankles,
keeping them that way.
He stared down at the floor, refusing to look at them as the
bent-horned Belarim stepped up behind him. He closed his eyes,
preparing himself as best he could. He felt its powerful paws on
his muscular buttocks, opening him.
"Do not struggle, mortal man," the Belarim's voice intoned. "We
wouldn't want you to hurt yourself too badly and have to waste an
extra healing on you."
He tried to relax as the Belarim's massive maleness sought entry,
but even after all these years of bitter experience, there was no
way to accept it into his body without pain -- it was just too
large. He wished the Chehezrim had been first, at least. He
gritted his teeth, refusing to give the demons the satisfaction
of a groan or whimper, but the pain seemed to fill his entire
soul and tear it asunder as the Belarim's fleshy member entered
him.
There was no use in resistance, and he tried to relax every
internal muscle as he was violated by the demon. Even when the
Belarim was all the way inside him, the agony scarcely eased. He
couldn't help but squirm a little, sweat dripping down his face
to fall in droplets to the dungeon floor.
At least it was only the pain of a huge organ. The pain the
Phlegazeum would inflict would make this seem like a mere caress.
The thought did little to comfort him -- particularly when the
Belarim began to thrust back and forth inside him.
He would not shame himself, he told himself sternly. He would not
shame himself by crying out -- not at rape by a mere Belarim, not
when he had suffered Phlegazeum and Zhalerim and would again. Let
them taunt him and use him. He could bear worse than this.
The Belarim exploded inside him, its warm seed filling his
bowels. In moments it had slipped out of him and was replaced by
another Belarim.
Later, it was replaced by one of the Phorim, and then by the
Chehezrim. They each violated him to their own satisfaction, and
the pain eased as he grew accustomed to the intrusions.
The demons' overflowing seed dripped down his legs onto the stone
of the floor, creating a little pool of strong-smelling slime.
Worse, the rapes began to arouse him again. He actually *wanted*
each thrust into his guts, wanted to lift his hips to meet it,
relishing the sensations as he was violated, the demons' savage,
loveless embrace. Even the pain added its own special spice to
the pleasure. He tried to control himself, but every now and then
a little hankering groan or wordless sound of longing would
escape his throat. His skin became slick with sweat.
Inevitably, the demons took notice. He endured their jests and
mockery in silence. He hadn't cried out once. Their whore he
might be, but his silence was his last shred of pride and he was
grateful for it.
Finally, when all the others had used him, it was the
Phlegazeum's turn. He had prayed to whatever Dark Gods would
listen that it would choose to wait until later, when more severe
tortures had left him too exhausted to feel as much pain, but the
prayers had been as futile as he had expected.
The strangely beautiful creature stepped before him, a smile on
its androgynous face. Most demons appeared as warped as their
natures, but the Phlegazeum were exceptions to that rule. With
their white forms as flawless as the most beautiful human's,
their feathery white wings and hair, they could easily be
mistaken for Chareum -- and unwary inexperienced sorcerers
sometimes did, to their bitter cost. Nothing about their
appearance hinted at their true nature -- except for their weird
purple eyes.
Raven often felt he would rather suffer the worst tortures of a
dozen Belarim than be at the mercy of a single Phlegazeum.
The Phlegazeum smiled as it stood before him for several long
breaths, showing him its erection, giving time for his fear to
bloom into terror. To the eye, it looked no more frightening than
the Phorims' massive members; it was smaller and, unlike those of
some demons, it had no hooks or barbs or other features to
agonize its victims. The only hint of its true nature was the
unearthly chill he could feel on his face, emanating from the
innocent-looking member before his eyes.
And then the creature walked behind him, seized his hips with
both cold hands to hold him, and began its assault.
Being impaled on a giant icicle or an ice-cold spear wouldn't
have begun to resemble the sensation; it was far worse than that.
The very first touch of that member was enough to make his entire
body try to double up in a contraction of pain and denial. It was
unbelievably cold -- an unnatural cold far deeper than snow or
ice -- as cold as the empty void between the stars, as cold as
the hearts of the lords of the Dark Realm.
There was no way that he could simply relax and permit that
frigid member entry. His entire body jerked frenziedly out of
control as the Phlegazeum impaled him on its icy length with a
sweet, mocking laugh that was drowned by the savage scream torn
from him. The cold was so intense that, paradoxically, he felt it
as fiery heat.
The demon began thrusting, and he screamed again, struggling in
the chains until his arms were nearly torn out of their sockets,
heedless of the more ordinary agony of tearing ligaments and
overstrained muscles. He was filled with the pain and nothing but
the pain of that frozen phallus, blind and deaf to all else.
After those first few awful thrusts, he regained a tiny fragment
of control. He concentrated his efforts on not screaming again,
no matter what the cost. The traitorous tears continued to drip
down his face, and he couldn't keep himself from weeping openly
at the agony, and the whimpers came shamelessly as the lining of
his orifice froze to that horrible member and was ripped and torn
away. The cold filled his being, chilling the slick sweat on his
writhing body; great waves of shivering wracked him.
He had endured this anguish more times than he could easily
count. The suffering did not ease one iota with repetition.
Mercifully, he couldn't see his frozen blood and dung now soiling
the demon's member, or the bits of torn flesh that adhered to it.
The Phlegazeum's coming was a pain beyond all pain. Though the
member was cold, the demon's seed was not; instead, it was hot as
boiling lead spewing into his guts. His agonized scream as the
Phlegazeum burrowed in brought explosive laughter from the
watching demons. Every muscle in his body spasmed with tearing
force against his bonds.
The sated Phlegazeum backed away as he slumped in his bonds,
nearly fainting, unaware that one shoulder was now dislocated.
When a Phorim unfastened the shackles, he collapsed to the floor,
his right arm bending at a grisly angle.
The demons convulsed with laughter. It was some time before any
of them recovered enough to approach him. Unfortunately, long
before then, he began to come to his senses, feeling the
excruciating pain from his damaged shoulder joining that of his
rectum as the stink of burned flesh -- his -- reached his
nostrils. He moaned and shook his head; the movement sent jagged
shards of fresh agony through his shoulder.
Had this been his physical body, he would now be dying, his torn,
frozen and burned guts bleeding out his life's blood into the
pool of gore and demon seed already on the floor.
His spirit body was denied the mercy of death, even of full
unconsciousness.
At last, the Chehezrim stepped forward -- ignoring the hoots and
catcalls of its comrades telling it to wait until the mortal had
had time to fully appreciate his suffering. Only the Phlegazeum
remained silent, watching with an amused smile as it let one of
the Darkhounds lick its befouled member clean.
The Chehezrim squatted beside him, setting one hand on his hip.
He screamed one more time as spell-power tore through his pain-
wracked body like chain lightning, and then the demon stepped
back as the horrible pain began to recede, his shoulder back in
its socket, his shredded bowels already knitted.
The sudden cessation of pain was a shock in itself. He lay on the
floor, eyes closed, trying to recollect his wits. He still felt
chilled to his core, as if nothing could ever warm him again.
Slowly, strength returned to him, and he opened his eyes.
"Get up," the order came again from the Chehezrim. Not a muscle
in his body wanted to move, but he slowly got to his hands and
knees -- and a hand came down on his shoulder, keeping him there.
"Stay on all fours, mortal. You will crawl like the animal you
are until we tell you otherwise."
He crouched on the stone floor, head hanging, waiting.
He did not see that the two Darkhounds had circled behind him,
didn't know they were there until one of the huge beasts reared
up and mounted him. He jerked in surprise at the sudden heavy
weight on his back as the forelimbs embraced him, but he offered
no resistance, no protest.
The powerful beast hunched, probing for entry. When it found what
it sought, it buried its canine knot deep in him and began to
thrust. Pain flared in his innards, and he threw his head back,
staring unseeingly into the darkness of the great room, but he
kept his jaw clenched and uttered no sound. After what he had
just endured, being raped by animals seemed of little
consequence.
The Darkhound howled as it climaxed, blunt claws digging into his
ribs, drawing blood. Like its mortal counterpart, it remained
inside him for what seemed like turnings, filling his bowels with
warm seed, until the fluid once again trickled down his thighs
and he wondered if it would ever end.
When it had finished and softened, slipping out of him, it was
followed by the other one.
When the Darkhounds were done, the Chehezrim walked to his side,
hooking fingers in his rune collar.
"Exhausted so soon, mortal?" it rasped. "Such a pity. We will
have to use stronger measures, so we can hear your sweet voice
beg us for mercy." And the cruel hand twined in his sweat-soaked
hair and yanked savagely, forcing him to look up. The demon
pointed toward an iron flogging post across the room. "Go!"
He crawled on all fours across the great room, the stone rubbing
his knees raw. The journey seemed to take an eternity, and the
Chehezrim followed him step for step. Twice it kicked him in the
ribs, for no other reason than cruelty.
When they reached the post, a hard hand on his arm pulled him
roughly to his feet. As his torturers clustered around him, he
stared at the flogging post and was surprised he could still feel
humiliation. The lash was for slaves and condemned criminals of
low rank, in mortal lands.
The demons always insisted he suffer under it, every time.
"Lift your arms," the Chehezrim directed.
He obeyed, and his wrists were shackled to the ring at the top of
the post, stretching him out.
Once again his ankles were spread apart and chained with floor
shackles.
His pride, or perhaps it was the fascination of the condemned man
for the axe, forced him to watch as one of the Belarim stumped
over to a nearby table that was covered with a neatly-laid-out
arrangement of varied scourges and whips. It studied them for a
few moments. Finally, the creature picked out one whip, lifting
it, looking at it.
Then it straightened up and walked toward him, smirking. When it
reached his side, it held the implement up for his inspection: a
ten-foot-long bullwhip, studded with dozens of tiny recurved
metal barbs ending in sharp points.
Raven breathed harshly through his open mouth, but he refused to
look away from the Belarim's black gloating eyes. He tried to
ignore the cold fear in his belly, the fact that his skin was
crawling at the thought that that thing was going to be used on
him, but every muscle in his body was tensed to the point of
pain. The demon grinned broadly and looked him up and down,
savoring his terror.
It broke the gaze, not because he could have outstared it, but in
order to walk behind him. The other demons watched and waited
with glittering intensity.
He didn't see the Belarim raise the whip; he did hear the leather
rustle as it moved, and then there was a sudden, powerful impact
on his back. He didn't even feel the pain until a moment later,
but when he did the agony was tearing. He began writhing. He
wasn't sure whether he had screamed or not. The lash's barbs had
torn raggedly through his skin, leaving a long red stripe that
began to bleed freely.
"Go ahead and scream," the Chehezrim buzzed, as the next blow
fell. "Lose your shame, mortal. None of your underlings can hear.
No one will care."
Raven gritted his teeth and refused to cry out, refusing to
satisfy the demons for as long as he could, even as the tears
streamed down his face.
The Belarim kept up a maddening slow rhythm, moving down
shoulders and back and buttocks and starting over again,
shredding skin as Raven writhed in torment, jerking his head up
at each blow, his chains rattling. Fresh blood dripped wetly to
the stone floor to mingle with drops of sweat.
In the end, he *did* break, *did* wail in anguish, again and
again.
He never knew how long the flogging lasted, but the Belarim
healed him afterward. As he hung limp in his chains, dizzy with
relief, sobbing, it waited for him to regain his senses. Then it
lifted the bloodstained whip to his mouth.
Raven knew what was expected of him. He kissed the lash, tasting
the old-meat flavor of his own blood, then spoke the degrading
words of submission. His voice sounded strange to him, hoarse and
ragged from screaming.
"Thank you, Master."
The Belarim chuckled again, a chuckle that was joined by the
other demons.
When the shackles were loosed, he staggered, barely able to
stand, as they gathered around him hungrily.
Then the Phlegazeum stepped in front of him and seized his
shoulders in both cold hands. The demon's face was directly in
his, and then it kissed him full on the mouth. Its lips didn't
freeze or burn as its phallus had --they were cool, not cold. Its
breath held a strange sweet odor of mint, not the carrion stink
of so many demons.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, that between him and
his torturers there existed a strange sort of tenderness. Perhaps
it was the same tenderness wolves felt for the lambs they
slaughtered and devoured.
He found himself opening his mouth in surrender to the kiss,
though he could not have said why. Maybe there was a way in which
the captured lamb offered its throat, too, he thought.
"You can never suffer enough for us," the Phlegazeum said.
He experienced several more of the implements, including two
devices that were new to him, before they were sated by his pain.
Toward the end, he did beg them for mercy - mercy he was denied.
Each demon used him at least one more time, the Phlegazeum
included. Only then did they remove the rune collar from his
neck.
Their taunts still rang in his ears as they left him, a discarded
plaything, lying on the floor. Only the Chehezrim tarried.
"They are in the Valley of Jackals," the demon rasped, as he lay
drenched and gasping, stomach churning. "We will join you in the
morning."
The Chehezrim motioned, and both it and the Dark Realm faded,
leaving him blessedly alone.
Back in his material body, Raven lay curled up on his side inside
the triangle, arms across his belly, hugging himself as the pain
and humiliation faded into memory. Every time he returned, he
expected to find his physical body fouled by their slime, the
marks of the demons' whips and scourges in bleeding stripes on
his flesh. The nausea, the revulsion at what had been done to him
(and what he had done) was all too familiar.
So was the raging desire that burned in his veins. Never once,
through all the years he had called upon the Dark Realm and
traded his pain and humiliation for its aid, had his torturers
permitted him to achieve his own satisfaction. The payment they
took from him was for their pleasure, not his own.
Hating himself for it, for his own lust, he reached for his
aching manhood.
When he had eased himself, bathed again -- and vomited -- cleaned
up the ritual circle and put on clothing, he called in the
message runner, though by now it was past midnight.
"They're in the Valley of Jackals, to the south," he said. "Have
a contingent of two hundred ready to ride there with me by dawn."
Direct comments and criticism to:
maureen_lcn@spamblock.yahoo.com. Flames denouncing me as a menace
to society, children or whatever will be laughed at uproariously,
shown off to friends who will also laugh at them hysterically,
then deleted and forgotten. Honest and constructive criticism
gratefully accepted.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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