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Subject: {ASSM} REV The Price {Maureen Lycaon} (MM+/M, Mdom+/M,  semiconsensual, oral, anal, torture, best, magic, goth)
Date: Sun, 17 Dec 2000 18:10:08 -0500
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THE PRICE (VERSION TWO)


@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, December 2000. All rights 
reserved under the Berne Convention. Permission is 
hereby granted for this story to be transmitted via 
normal Usenet propagation, as well as for it to be 
archived in the alt.sex.stories.moderated and 
alt.sex.stories.gay.moderated Web archives, as well as 
the Usenet archives maintained by such domains as 
Deja.com, provided that it remains unchanged 
(including this copyright notice) and that no money or 
other consideration is charged for viewing it. 
Archival on *commercial*, for-pay sites is expressly 
forbidden.


If you are underage, LEAVE NOW. I mean it, dammit!

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 disturbs you, 
leave 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. Remember it, or I'll send a pack 
of sex-starved Phlegazeum demons after you.

REASON FOR REWRITE:
This story was first posted in April of 2000, 
generating more (as well as weirder) feedback than 
I've ever gotten before on anything except my Precious 
Cargo series.

However, the concept of Raven and his world has 
changed and solidified with further thought and 
writing. In particular, I now have a much clearer idea 
of how magic works in this world, and I have rewritten 
the spellcasting scene accordingly. Plus, I've 
received a few suggestions for improvement, the most 
common one being to expand the part about the 
Darkhounds.

My thanks to Ron once again for giving me a tour of 
Raven's tent. ;-)

So here's the rewrite. Feedback is welcomed as always. 
Send it to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com .

More of my stories, including two other Raven stories 
at this time, can be found at:

http://velar.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/




The Price

By Maureen Lycaon


The Dark Warrior and his warlords looked up as the 
messenger entered the large tent.

"I'm sorry, honored sirs -- the prisoner is dead," he 
told them. "He said nothing."

General Ka'alin snarled, his orcish fangs glittering 
in the lamplight, and the youth paled perceptibly. 
General Despin muttered a curse, echoed by General 
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 without expression. Despite his name, 
Raven's mane of shaggy long hair was golden blond, not 
black. His fine-boned features were almost beautiful, 
with a long, 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's tone made 
"divine assistance" sound like a scatological term.

Ka'alin growled, "Y'fools! If'n they have, we're 
walking 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 those cold dark eyes.

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 man 
felt a sensation like a trickle of ice water down his 
spine. Even Ka'alin, the half-orc.

The Dark Warrior opened his eyes, then pushed himself 
back from the map 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. The two orcs who served as his bodyguards 
fell in behind him, flanking him.

When he had vanished 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."



Raven's private tent was ringed by his finest orcish 
guards, soldiers chosen for their loyalty, deadliness, 
and watchfulness.

The bodyguards needed no order. They left Raven's side 
and silently rejoined the others.

The orcs standing in front of the entrance parted to 
let him through. They acknowledged him with no more 
than a flicker of the eyes.

He stepped between them and entered the tent, into the 
room that served as his bedchamber.

Within was his sleeping cot, his map rack, the wooden 
tree for his armor and very little else. Two oil lamps 
illuminated the room, revealing the silent bodyservant 
awaiting him. Kneeling as soon as Raven entered, the 
servant remained on his bent knee till the commander 
nodded to him to rise.

When the last of the black leather armor had been 
removed, Raven gave him his orders for the evening. "I 
will be in the inner room. Let no one enter the tent 
until I am finished."

Past that "room", partly concealed by a wood and 
fabric screen, was the entrance into another one -- 
one where the servant was forbidden to go without 
express orders.

Raven picked up one of the lamps and stood at the 
entrance for several long moments, eyes closed, 
preparing himself, before entering.

The space within was not large, but it was sufficient. 
Raven hung the lamp carefully, making sure it had 
enough fuel for the rest of the night, and began his 
preparations.

A small wooden chest in one corner held most of his 
equipment. For this ritual, he needed little. He 
pulled out the incense brazier and set it up.

Once the ritual incense was smoldering, he stripped 
naked, revealing a body as lean and muscular as a 
panther's. 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.

Reaching into the chest again, he drew out a black 
dagger carved with curious runes.

He steeled himself with thoughts of revenge as he had 
so many times before through the years, clinging to 
his hatred as a man clings to a lifeline when stepping 
into a swift-running river. 

He would need it, during what followed the opening of 
the Gate.

A simple woolen rug lay on the floor, a red rug 
decorated only with a black circle in its center. 
Holding the ritual dagger comfortably in his right 
hand, he sat down cross-legged on the rug, within that 
circle, and closed his eyes.

For a long time, he sat without moving, breathing 
slowly. The odd musky-sweet odor of the incense slowly 
filled the room.

After a full turning, deep in trance, he rose slowly 
to his feet and began to chant the Words of Power.

As he raised the dagger and his chanting rose in 
volume and in confidence, a darkness formed in the 
smoky interior of the space, a darkness that had 
nothing to do with the natural shadows of a lamplit 
tent. It was at first only the size of his closed 
fist.

The orc guards outside glanced at each other. They had 
guarded their commander's tent during many nights such 
as this, but even so they were made a little uneasy by 
that incantation and by the odd feeling of dark energy 
coming from inside. The spell was far more powerful 
than the simple rituals of their tribal shamans. 

As he continued the chant, the darkness slowly 
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 
now lowered at his side. His fine-boned face, thrown 
into chiarascuro relief by the dim lamplight, was a 
study in rapt trance as 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. The 
blackness paled to gray, then cleared to reveal a sort 
of window -- a window into a dark, featureless plain 
like old black lava, wreathed in leaden blue-gray 
mist.

Emerging from his trance, Raven looked through the 
Gate into the Dark Realm.

He could only see one demon on the other side. 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. 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. 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 insects. 
"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 forces will not be enough 
to defeat both them and the main army later."

Raven's eyes narrowed. He hadn't bargained on Chareum 
angels. He unconsciously rubbed a curious-looking scar 
on his right upper arm. It was not a sword cut, but an 
irregular burn mark, as if the flesh had been splashed 
by liquid fire.

"Show me," he demanded.

The Chehezrim laughed and opened its mind to let him 
look through those appallingly beautiful opal eyes.

He saw a shallow but broad valley between hillsides 
covered with pines and firs. Garei's men were camped 
in the bottom of that valley, where the ground was 
rocky with only a scattering of trees; he glimpsed 
tents, horses still saddled and bridled so as to be 
ready for tomorrow, a couple of guards in brigandine 
armor on the outskirts, almost hidden among the rocks 
and trees.

He could just see, when he looked at it the right way 
through the Chehezrim's mind, the faint shimmering of 
protective spells that lay over the camp, and he knew 
why the Dark Priests hadn't been able to divine its 
location. They had not had enough power to conceal 
themselves from demonic knowledge; if they had, even 
the Chehezrim wouldn't have known where they were. 

The view changed, and now he was looking into the camp 
itself, into an area of level earth at its center. He 
glimpsed the Torgelin Priests sitting on their dark 
prayer mats marked with white circles, eyes closed, 
gathering the forces that crackled white around their 
bodies when he used his mage-sight . . . and the two 
Bright Mages among them, also deep in meditation, also 
wrapped in white fire.

And then, as the perspective changed yet again, he saw 
at least one Chareum, its white-winged form shimmering 
as it stood sentry just outside the camp. Then 
another, standing on an outcrop on the steep slope 
overlooking 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 left arm, thrust it through the Gate. 
The Chehezrim grasped it 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 room; this 
was his spirit body.

They were waiting for him -- the Chehezrim, two 
Phorim, a Phlegazeum, four Belarim and a pair of great 
black Darkhounds. The place in which they stood was no 
longer a barren plain but a huge room, its walls 
carved stone, lined with torches that filled it with 
wavering firelight.

A stout chain dangled from the ceiling lost in shadows 
above, ending in a pair of shackles. There were more 
chains attached to the slate floor.

He tried not to look at the implements and curious 
furniture also in the room, 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 on his shoulder 
pushed 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 walked 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 Priests of 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 be satisfied, 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 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 musky-tasting 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 or their 
foul odor. 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 
his 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 use an extra healing on you."

He tried to relax as the demon'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. 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, 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. He 
couldn't keep himself from weeping at the agony; 
traitorous tears ran down his face 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 his tormentor burrowed in 
with one final powerful thrust 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, 
standing over him. 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 
for whatever torment would be inflicted next.

He did not see that the two Darkhounds had circled 
behind him, didn't know they were there until one of 
the huge black beasts reared up and mounted him. He 
jerked in surprise as the sudden crushing weight came 
down on his back; it weighed almost twice as much as 
he did, and he wouldn't have been able to support it 
if he hadn't been on hands and knees. Powerful 
forelegs embraced his torso, and he could feel hot, 
reeking animal breath on the back of his neck; but he 
offered no resistance, no protest.

The demon-beast hunched, probing for entry, and he 
could feel the tip of its heated member jabbing 
repeatedly against his flesh. When it found what it 
sought, it buried itself deep inside him with one 
mighty shove.

He threw his head back, his eyes screwing shut; but he 
kept his jaw clenched and uttered no sound, even when 
the Darkhound began to thrust. After what he had 
endured from the Phlegazeum, the pain and humiliation 
of being raped by an animal seemed of little 
consequence.

More pain flared in his innards as the giant beast's 
knot swelled, stretching him until he thought he would 
be torn open.

As it began to climax, the hound howled a loud, deep 
howl that echoed through the great chamber. Blunt 
claws dug into his ribs, drawing blood. All the while, 
it continued digging in with painful little thrusts, 
panting eagerly, and his nostrils were filled with the 
carnivore stink of its breath. It remained inside him 
for what seemed like turnings, filling his bowels with 
seed until the fluid once again ran down his thighs 
and he wondered if it would ever end.  

When it had at last spent its lust 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 
shifted, twining in his sweat-soaked hair and yanking 
savagely, forcing him to look up. The demon pointed 
toward the iron flogging post on the other side of the 
room. "Go!"

He crawled on all fours across the huge 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 powerful hand on his arm 
pulled him roughly to his feet. As his torturers 
gathered 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 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, working 
its way down his shoulders and back and buttocks and 
then starting over again, shredding the 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, despite his best efforts, 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. When he had, 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 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.

Then he was bound again, and each demon used him at 
least one more time, the Phlegazeum included. Only 
after that did they remove the rune collar from his 
neck.

Their taunts still rang in his ears as they left him 
lying on the floor, a discarded plaything. Only the 
Chehezrim tarried. 

"They are in the Valley of Jackals," the demon rasped, 
as he lay drenched and gasping. "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 on the rug, arms across his belly, hugging 
himself as the pain and humiliation faded into memory.

Every time he returned, he half-expected to find his 
physical body fouled by their slime, the marks of the 
tortures in bleeding marks 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 the demons 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 
-- dismissed the ritual circle and put on clothing, he 
called in the messenger, 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 just before dawn."



Direct comments and criticism to: 
maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . If you want to read more of my 
stories, check the notes up above for the URL. Too 
many people are skipping over them in their haste to 
get to the spooge. Use your head and READ them! This 
means YOU.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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