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Demon Mistress (mf, fantasy/ad&d)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Keywords: female dom, non-consensual, fantastic
Well, here goes. This is my first story here. For those of
you that didn't read the keywords, this is a story about a powerful
supernatural being of generally female persuasion non-consensually
dominating a helpless man. It is highly fantastic (and pretty corny
too) If this turns you on, you know who you are ;). If any of this
really pisses you off, you'd better hit 'n.'
Colin completes the complex sigils on the floor, with
the last of the silver powdered bat-fur. There was just enough.
With the dried ox-blood he draws the sign and circle that will be
his protection. In the shape hollowed out of the sweet clove incense
smoke he can see the hemispherical field of protection that surrounds
him. He is nervous but confident: this is what all his training
since childhood has been for. This is the reward for toiling over
ancient books that would fall apart if they saw the light of day
and sweating over scorching braziers trying to get insubstantial
fire-imps to produce blue or green smoke. His childhood is gone,
wasted, and all the years other boys spent flirting with girls and
stealing kisses behind barns, those years never happened to him.
But now they are men, and labor-slaves with two little brats and
another coming, and Colin, at twenty-three, is going to summon a
full demon-goddess to earth.
He glances one more time at the gigantic tome that contains
her name, a linguistic monstrosity twenty pages long, every syllable
of which he will need to control her and make her give him the power
over the world of men that he desires. The first thing a necromancer
learns is: summoning is too easy, controlling is too difficult. He
begins the summoning ritual, adding the part of her name that she will
recognize across the thousands of planes of existence that separate
them.
The ritual fits his tongue like old clothing; soon he is lost
in a brilliant colorful dreamlike trance. As he speaks, stars and
comets zip by his head. Navigating the space of the dead and not-
yet-living and never-to-live, he easily avoids the angry souls
with black and pulsating eyes that seek to devour him.
Then, in his mind, he sees her home. She floats, seemingly
asleep in a crystal sphere lit up with the colors of flame. She is
beautiful. Her skin is porcelain white and her hair is a very golden
red. Her limbs are long and muscular, and the filmy dress she wears
reveals a firm cleavage. Colin could almost fall in love with this
creature, but of course, he would be a fool to do so. She is not
the human woman she appears to be, but feindishly evil creature that
only enjoys the pain of others. Though she seems to sleep peacefully
in her shelter, he knows that inside there she is creating fantastic
hells that all the inquisitors and theologans that harass him could
not even imagine. She is only a tool, he remembers, and with the
power she will grant him he can have any earth girl kneeling naked at
his feet.
He speaks the first syllable of her name, and the crystal
shatters. Vertigo overwhelms him as his soul plunges back into his
body. In an instant he is back in his torchlit laboratory, but now,
she is there too. She kneels in the containment sigil, her limbs bound
to her body by crackling bands of force. In spite of this, he is
thankful for his protection field. He sees now that she is very tall,
almost seven feet if she were allowed to stand. She watches him with
hatred and disdain as he completes the first portion of her name.
"You may speak, demon," he tells her, trying hard to sound
confident.
"So," she says, somehow managing to look down her fine arched
nose although the containment spell keeps her head level. "Another
puling brat has learned a few containment spells and now thinks
himself a wizard."
"Don't bother trying to intimidate me, demon. I know exactly
what I want from you, and I will have it. Will you cooperate or
must I use the compulsion spells?"
She laughs, and it is a strange tinkling sound, like a little
girl laughing in the bottom of a crystal cave. When she speaks, her
voice becomes lower and huskier.
"Ah, would that be the spell where I feel I am being devoured
alive by ice-worms, or the one where I feel like I am being raped by
a dragon on a bed of hot coals?" She smiles wider when Colin's face
betrays that those were the very spells he had in mind. "Come on,
apprentice-boy, I almost *like* those spells, I've had to experience
them so often. Do you think you're scaring me?"
Silently Colin curses the loss of composure that gave her that
advantage. Quickly he begins the second part of her name along with a
spell that will fill her with the pain of being impaled on a great
stake of white-hot iron to shut her up.
She stiffens slightly, and he can see sweat forming on her
high cheekbones and the top of her chest. But she keeps speaking, and
staring at him with her burning green eyes.
"Come on, is that the best you can do? As a larva I played
games rougher than this with my brood. Are you going to give me
some pain I can feel? Are you a real wizard? Are you even a man, or
are you a little boy, masturbating to your silly hell-fantasies in
your cubicle when your master isn't around?"
He completes the spell. "Be quiet, demoness! Silence yourself
now or I will increase the pain. Acknowledge the power I have over
you and do my will."
"What a miserable lie!" Again that crystal laugh. "You can't
increase the pain. This is all you can do! You are a miserable failed
excuse for a wizard, and it's me that's going to control you."
Quickly he begins the third part of the name, but he is
beginning to feel shaky and weak. He knows that she is right: he hit
her with the best compulsion-magic he had in an attempt to cow her
immediately. And he is having trouble concentrating on the words, as
she continues to taunt him with his inadequacy. He stumbles over a
word, and the binding force-bands grow dimmer, causing the pit of his
stomach to feel like ice.
Then, disaster: his mind is blank. In his fear, he has
forgotten the rest of his name. With a kind of sob the words die off
on his lips and he knows he has failed. The power of the name gone,
she shrugs off the energy bonds and begins advancing on him. For a
brief moment he has the hope of being protected by his energy feild,
but it ripples around her body like water and then melts as she walks
through it. She grabs him by the hair and pulls him to her and sticks
a scaly violating tongue down his throat, causing him to gag.
"And now, foolish boy, it is time to begin paying for your
stupid pride."
She says a magic word and his own world vanishes forever in a
flash of blinding pain.
When he awakes, he is bound to a Saint Andrew's cross, upright.
He is naked, and his bare skin is pressed tightly to the roughness ofe
the cross' splintery wood. His bare feet rest on shards of glass. To
his amazement he discovers that he has an erection, and the painful
stretching of his limbs only makes it more intense. The room is a
classic stone torture chamber, just like the inquisition would have
used, had they ever caught him, and for a second he imagines he is
still in his world, and only suffered from a delusion when he was
caught. Then, she enters, and he knows the truth.
She is wearing a suit of tight leather, that covers her whole
body except for her breasts and vagina. Hanging above the hole that
exposes her sex is an absurdly large artificial phallus, which appears
to be in a state of detumescence. She wears black leather high-heeled
boots. She walks over to him and runs a claw at the end of her finger
lightly up the bottom of his erection.
"Welcome to hell," she says and giggles.
Colin begins to cry. He knows it is foolish to beg, but he
can't help it.
"Please let me go. Please don't hurt me. If you return me to
my world, I will become a monk, and never summon demons, and live like
a hermit in a cave..."
"Oh, yes," she says as she turns to look at a brand heating in
a coal brazier, "keep begging. It excites me. Better yet, tell me what
it feels like to know you will never again feel anything but pain and
unsatiated desire: the desire for food, the desire for water, the
desire for orgasm. None of those will ever come. If you pardon the
pun," she says and laughs at her own joke.
"That can't be true," he almost pleads. "Please, there must
be some release someday."
"No," she says, as she turns around holding a white-hot brand,
the shape of which he recognizes as the first character of her name.
"You are merely a plaything for my sadistic desires. Now if you will
I am going to brand you as my own. Wouldn't want some *other* demon
coming along to steal my hard-won toy. It really wasn't easy
to defeat you, you know. You almost had me. But that's the life of a
necromancer: slip up for a moment, pay for an eternity. Now feel free
to scream."
Colin does; it feels like the brand burns down to the bone
and catches his whole body on fire. When she releases he is racked
with sobs.
"You don't understand," he tells her, "I've never felt pain
like that. My mind, it won't take it. Please stop, please let me go.
Don't hurt me anymore."
"You call that pain?" She giggles. "Honestly you've got a lot
to learn. You're a miserable weakling even for a human. Come with me
to the whipping post so we can start your lesson."
Gleefully ignoring his tears, she puts a leather collar around
his neck. With her claws she cuts the ropes that bound him, and
produces two sets of shackles. Grabbing him by the hair, she lifts
him off of the ground, and slaps one pair of shackles onto his ankles
He screams, because they are red-hot. She puts him down and puts the
other pair on his wrists. Attaching a leash to his collar, the leads
him across the room with long strides. Because of the shortness of
his leg shackles he has to adopt a humiliating hop and shuffle to
avoid falling and getting dragged across the floor. His feet are
still cut and hurt from the glass shards, and walking is agony.
She attaches his hands to a whipping post so that he has to stand
on his toes, and then walks over to a wall of various whips,
choosing among them like a connoseur choosing a wine for dinner.
Finally she chooses a cat-o'-nine-tails with metal barbs on the
end. When she removes it from the wall, sparks jump from the barbs.
The anticipation is hell all by itself as he hears the metal
barbs scraping across the floor. Terrified to look he closes his eyes
and hears the *swoosh* of the whip approaching for what seems like
hours. It hits as if each barb had a mind of its own, with some
striking his back and shoulders and some reaching around to his
nipples as if aimed at them. Each one impacts in an explosion
of numbness followed by searing pain as the blood returns to the
point of impact, to fill flaming welts or run streaming down his
body from large cuts. The force of the blow knocks him off his feet
and he feels a pain in his shoulders as he hangs from them. He can
barely get back on his tiptoes before the next one hits, this time
coming around his left side causing barbs to strike at his stomach
and the inside of his thighs. Through a haze of terror he is able
to be thankful that none struck his genitals, still highly erect
in spite of, or perhaps because of the pain. He wonders if he
will continue to be so lucky, and he wonders how long this can go on.
He wishes that he would fall unconscious, but he doubts that he will
be allowed that respite in this evil universe of her creation.
The whipping continues, with each blow like the passage to
a new hell and back, so that soon he forgets that there ever was a
time that wasn't like this. In his private microcosm of pain there is
only the last blow to recover from, and the next blow to dread. The
only kindness is that he doesn't have time to think about the foolish
prideful mistake that brought him here.
Finally, after hours, or weeks, or years, there is a
time when the next blow that he awaits doesn't come. It takes him a
moment to understand that the whipping has ended. When he does
understand, the pain of his hundreds of temporarily forgotten welts
and cuts hits him before he gets a chance to be relieved, and it is
only in this relative island of lucidity that he is able to realize
his throat is hoarse from screaming. He quiets down to a soft
involuntary whimpering.
He hears her heels click over to the wall to hang up the whip,
and then begin walking over to his side, and he wonders what she is
planning. He feels her breath on his shoulder and he opens his eyes.
She begins playing with the tip of his erection, amazingly
untouched in the barrage of blows, with her claws. The pain of her
claws on his sex is only a drop in the sea of agony that Colin is
floating in, but it lets in a flood of hellish lust, and he feels his
hips writhe involuntarily seeking nonexistant relief for his desire.
She seems to enjoy the spectacle.
"Tell me, slave," she giggles. "When your soul was still your
own, did you ever have a woman? Did you ever stick this useless little
thing anywhere besides your right hand?" When he is slow to respond
out of shame, she squeezes his testicles, and hisses, "Tell me!"
"No," he sobs quietly.
"Well," she laughs, flicking his erection with one finger,
"too late now!"
He responds, "Yes," and she watches shameful look on his face
joyfully.
"But you must have done something," she responds. "Did you ever
do it with a man?"
"No, never," he replies quickly.
"Stupid mortal!" she snarls, returning the pressure on his
testicles. "I can tell when your lying!" She smiles sweetly. "Now tell
me the truth."
"When...when I was in the magic academy," he says in humiliation.
"When I was eleven, an older boy taught me to...to suck him. Almost every
day for a year we would sneak into a quiet vestibule. I enjoyed it,
because of the pleasure it gave him. I loved him, in a way."
"This boy," she responds, leering. "Did he ever bugger you?"
"He...tried, once. I ran away, because I couldn't stand the pain.
So he found another boy that could, and never spoke to me again. I was
very sad."
"Yes, you wanted to be fucked, didn't you. All men do.
And now you will." Saying that, she grabs his legs and lifts his feet
off the ground, hooking her arms under his knees. To his horror, the
previously limp leather phallus she is wearing begins to grow erect
like a human member. Seeing what she is planning, he begins to struggle
uselessly.
"Please," he begs, "you can't possibly put that in me. It's
too big. I'll be torn in half. Please st..."
He is shut up as she covers his mouth with hers. Again he feels
her rough violating tongue stuck down his throat. With her arms still
under his knees, she reaches her hands up to grab his shoulders. Slowly
she starts lowering him onto the huge phallus. It feels like
a burning coal as it parts the walls of his sphincter. Perhaps the
worst part is the overwhelming desire to pull away or jump, which is
impossible as she slowly works the invading member deeper into him. Soon
he feels it reach a second barrier inside him, even more painfully
resistant than his outer sphincter. With an extra thrust she forces her
way past the inner sphincter, and blue stars dance in front of his eyes.
Inserted all the way, she begins thrusting slowly, and at the
same time reaches her hand between her legs and rubbing herself. As she
thrusts, the member inside him moves like it was alive. On top of the
pain he feels a humiliating excitement from the stimulation of the
phallus. He tries to rub himself against her to relieve the lust, but
each brush against the rough leather on her stomach only teases him to
greater desire.
Soon she detaches the wrist shackles from the post and begins
furiously riding him up and down the phallus, holding him only by his
hair. She starts talking rhythmically in husky tones.
"Your soul is mine forever now. I can do anything I want to
you, anything at all. You can't imagine my contempt for your puny
mortal wisp of life. With the slightest effort..." her breath catches
as she builds towards orgasm, "I can burn you...to...a...*cinder!*"
As she moans in ecstasy she tears him off of the phallus and
throws him into a raging coal fire that burns in the corner of the
torture chamber. He seems to feel every atom of his body as it is
destroyed in the blaze.
He wakes up in a meadow, in a bed of grass. The sun shines
pleasantly on his renewed skin and the grass tickles his back. Slowly
he remembers his ordeal, and begins to hope. Has he been granted a
reprieve by some kind angel? Did he dream it all? A butterfly lands on
his nose, and a little boy who was running in the field comes up to
him.
"You're naked," the boy laughs.
Colin begins to laugh, too, in relief, and just as he is about
to swear off wizardry forever, his heart freezes as he recognizes the
tinkling giggle that the boy is making. Suddenly the grass turns yellow
and prickly, and rough sharp tendrils of it reach up and bind his
limbs to the ground. The sun dies out, and a slicing hail begins to fall
on his naked skin. He looks to where the "boy" stood, where she now
stands, laughing that brittle crystal laugh.
"Did you think there was hope for you, mortal?" she laughs.
"I haven't tested a millionth of my cruelties on you! I know torments
that would drive living men of your puny little world mad with fear
just to hear of them! I can kill you a thousand times, and your ordeal
won't end!"
The horror of his plight struck Colin and he howled "Noooo...
please not forever! Please say it will end someday."
She smiled and bent down beside him. Running a claw down the
side of his face, she shook her head.
"No. There is no end. My imagination and cruelty are infinite
and your soul will always, always be mine."
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