by M. E. Hydra
“Why do you fear us?” Cέrμləa asked.
You’re going to kill me.
Cracks spread through the circling panes of Phil’s memories.
“If that is your desire,” Cέrμləa said.
She paused for a moment.
The vast temporal orgy continued, eclipsing all of Phil’s other thoughts. Fractures spread and grew.
Cέrμləa started shuffling through his thoughts and memories in a frenzy of activity. Images, tastes, sounds and thoughts blurred into a hurricane raging through his psyche. At its eye Phil plunged his cock into the exquisite pussy of Verdé/Rosa/Nurse Honey/Nÿte and felt the build-up of an apocalyptic orgasm.
Faster and faster Cέrμləa searched, sifted and sorted. She was a blur as she examined piece after piece, discarding most into haphazard piles.
Phil groaned as the memories of a multitude of ecstatic releases super-imposed over and reinforced each other, forming one unstoppable avalanche.
Too. Much..
Cέrμləa stopped and stared at Phil with a shocked expression.
“You don’t know?”
Phil’s mind shattered and collapsed in a rain of glittering shards.
Phil lay on a pure white hospital bed. A young girl with blue hair and dark red eyes sat pensively on a chair at the foot of the bed. At the side of the bed sat a woman wearing the black garb of a mourning widow. Her face was hidden behind a black veil. Around them stretched a flat, featureless plane. It was covered in broken shards of coloured glass as far as the eye could see.
“I’m sorry, fledgling,” the widow said, her voice rich and aged like a fine vintage of wine. “I’ve shattered your mind.”
Phil stared blankly into space.
“It was not my intention. My other’s self control is…not what it was.”
The figure in black got up and stood over Phil’s supine form.
“This is the only kindness I have left to offer.”
She bent down as if to kiss him. Hands as white as alabaster reached up to lift the veil from her face.
A child’s hand reached out and grabbed the widow’s arm. The widow stopped and looked down into the face of the child with the bright blue hair and ruby-red eyes. The child pointed to Phil’s chest, where he clutched an object in both hands. It was a single shard of glass, held so tightly a little dribble of blood ran down his wrist and dripped onto the spotless white sheets.
“Well well,” the widow said. “Interesting you should pick that one,” she murmured after looking into the glass.
The widow looked at the young girl.
“Should we?” she asked. “We might only be saving him for a worse fate.”
The girl smiled shyly and nodded her head.
“If that is what you desire,” the widow said. She raised her arms.
A thousand million broken shards of glass sprang into the air like a film running backwards. They reformed into countless panes of moving memories, the sum total of a young person’s life, played across screens as far as the eye could see.
“Spend some time with the child when you can,” the widow whispered in Phil’s ear. “She gets so lonely sometimes.”
The widow took the child’s hand in hers and they both walked away.
Phil awoke to the scent of cinnamon and the feeling of warm lips pressed against his. Rosa lingered over the kiss until Phil opened his eyes and then continued for good measure anyway.
“See, I told you he was alive,” Rosa said.
“His mind?” Verdé asked.
Rosa held up a hand.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” she asked.
“Purple,” Phil replied.
Rosa shrugged.
“Close enough,” she said.
She picked him up and put him on her back.
“Let’s go find Nurse Honey and get you straightened out,” she said.
110: NEGOTIATION IV
At first Phil thought it was a nightmare. Then he hoped it was a nightmare.
Nÿte stood at the foot of his bed with a whip in her hands.
It was an image you really hoped was nightmare and not reality.
After his visit to Cέrμləa’s quarters, Phil was having a few problems with reality. Not that being trapped in hell helped with that.
Nÿte was wearing a tight black PVC teddy with a deep V around the neck that showed off the lush curves of her cleavage. Out of the succubi Phil had encountered in the castle, Nÿte was perhaps the most beautiful. She was definitely the most fearsome.
This wasn’t a dream, Phil realised with resignation.
Nÿte smiled coquettishly and offered Phil the handle of the whip.
“Hurt me,” Nÿte said. “Whip me. Turn my creamy-white flesh purple with bruises. Flay the skin from my soft, vulnerable body.”
Phil was confused. The last time he’d encountered Nÿte she’d taken great pleasure in torturing and nearly killing him.
He took the handle of the whip before he realised what he was doing.
She hopped up on the bed next to Phil.
“Beat me, fledgling,” she murmured huskily. “Thrash me and I’ll reward you.”
Her hot tongue ran up the side of Phil’s cheek.
Phil got off the bed and Nÿte turned to present her ass cheeks to him. They were creamy-white and totally exposed. The rest of her legs were covered in black fishnet stockings. A zip covered her crotch. It was partially open and moisture was dribbling out of the opening. The air was thick with the heady aroma of Nÿte’s arousal.
Phil felt the weight of the whip in his hand. It was long and unwieldy. He stared again at the perfect white globes of Nÿte’s ass. She looked back at him and wiggled them invitingly.
Phil wondered what he should do here. He didn’t really relish the idea of lashing Nÿte’s perfect white skin. What if he inadvertently hurt her and made her mad. That prospect terrified him. He didn’t really like the idea of refusing her either. He supposed he at least had the whip, and that was infinitely preferable to Nÿte having it.
“What are you waiting for?” Nÿte said. “Hurt me!”
Phil was galvanised into action. He swung the whip, but he hadn’t done this before and wasn’t used to how long the whip was. He got it all wrong and the tip slithered down Nÿte’s cheek with scarcely more force than a wriggling worm.
Nÿte shook her head.
He missed with the second stroke, but the third connected with a loud slap and left a red mark on Nÿte’s ass. Phil swung again, but not quite as hard this time. He was embarrassed about the mark he’d already left on her pristine skin.
“No no no!” Nÿte cried.
She turned, grabbed the whip and yanked it so hard out of Phil’s hands he toppled forwards onto the bed.
“That’s not how you do it at all,” Nÿte said.
Phil realised he was now crouched on the bed on all fours and Nÿte was holding the whip.
Not good.
“You do it like this.”
Not good at all.
The whip struck with a bone-jarring thud and smashed Phil right off the bed and up against the wall.
Ow.
“And this…”
Ow.
“And this…”
Ow. Ow. Ow.
“Ahem.”
Verdé appeared in the doorway. Phil was profoundly grateful for the interruption. Nÿte’s fangs were bared in manic glee and she didn’t show any signs of wanting to stop anytime soon.
“If you’ve quite finished beating our little fledgling to a pulp, Rosa would like to see him in her chambers,” Verdé said.
“Oh Verdé,” Nÿte said. “Lovely lovely Verdé. Are you in the mood for a little bit of fun?”
“Mmm, always,” Verdé purred. She slipped seductively out of her gossamer green robes.
“Little fledgling hasn’t got the technique right yet and I’m really in the mood for a jolly good thrashing,” Nÿte said.
“Would you like me to use the special whip?�
� Verdé asked.
“Yes please,” Nÿte purred.
Verdé touched the wooden door with her index finger and there was a short flash of green light. She drew her finger away from the door and a long green tendril followed it. It was as if new growth was sprouting out of the old wood at Verdé’s request.
“Don’t forget the thorns,” Nÿte whispered.
The green vine multiplied into seven or eight different strands. Those strands grew more and more twisted and tangled. Wickedly sharp thorns sprang up along their lengths.
“A dash of poison?” Verdé asked.
“Mmm yes,” Nÿte replied. “Something that will give it a real sting.”
Crazy, Phil thought. Absolutely crazy.
His eyes widened as bubbles of liquid welled up from the thorns. A droplet hit the floor and sent up little puffs of white smoke. Verdé pulled the new plant growth from the door and gave the vines a few experimental swings.
Aches or no aches, Phil decided it was time to get up and get out of here before Verdé and Nÿte decided it might be fun to use that whip on him.
Verdé and Nÿte approached each other, their eyes gleaming with lust. The two succubi embraced and their lips met in a sloppy, passionate kiss.
Phil stopped and stared. He didn’t really have a choice in the matter.
Verdé and Nÿte broke off their kiss and looked at him. Their arms and wings were still around each other.
“Shoo, fledgling,” Verdé said.
“Go play with Rosa,” Nÿte added. She kicked the door shut in his face for good measure.
Phil stood outside the door. In terms of his life, health and general wellbeing, it was probably a very good thing he wasn’t in that room right now.
He heard a loud crack followed by a squeal of delight.
Part of him still wished he was in there to see that.
Hey wait, he thought. Where were Rosa’s chambers?
“Lower levels,” Cέrμləa said. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor and drawing pictures of people screaming in agony as they were burned alive. The pictures were very detailed. “Opposite Nÿte’s chambers,” she added.
“Thank you,” Phil said.
Cέrμləa looked up at him and smiled, her ruby-red eyes twinkling.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
She looked back down at her drawing. Phil started to walk away.
“The conjunction is coming,” Cέrμləa said.
Phil looked back. Cέrμləa was focused on her drawings and didn’t look up. Had that been aimed at him? A little disquieted, Phil walked away.
Phil had seen Nÿte and Cέrμləa’s chambers. He’d visited Verdé’s garden. He hadn’t seen Rosa’s quarters yet and he wasn’t sure what to expect.
A wide basalt walkway through a pit of fire in a cavernous hall was not exactly what he’d anticipated, but not altogether unsurprising either.
The main entrance was two large double doors made out of dark red metal. The metal was warped in places as if by very high temperatures. When he slipped through and saw the room on the other side, Phil understood why. The heat hit him first. The rest of the castle was pleasantly warm. Warm enough that Phil never felt a chill despite his nakedness. Rosa’s chamber was much hotter, hot enough for a sheen of sweat to form on Phil’s skin.
On the other side of the doors was a wide walkway made from large blocks of rough-hewn basalt. On either side of the walkway the floor dropped away into pools of bubbling lava far below. The walls were plain apart from stone sculptures of ferocious looking succubi. Thin streams of yellow lava ran down from their eyes, naked breasts and naked pussies.
Tentatively, Phil walked down the walkway. He jumped every time a flare erupted from one of the pools and sent flames swirling up to the ceiling.
Rosa was at the far end of the room, where the walkway widened out into a raised dais. She lounged casually across the arms of a sturdy stone throne. Normally Rosa wore nothing or close to nothing. Today she was wearing a spiky leather bodysuit that might have resembled armour had it not hugged the curves of her figure in such a revealing manner. There was something a little more daemonic about her today, Phil thought. Even her red horns looked a little longer than usual.
“This is your room?” Phil said as he approached her throne.
Rosa smiled. “This is where I greet visitors,” she said. “It’s important to make the right first impression.”
Rosa’s left hand caught fire. Short yellow flames flickered over her wrist and fingers.
“Did they teach you any defensive magic at this school of yours?” Rosa asked.
Phil wasn’t sure he liked where this was leading.
“Some shields,” he replied.
It had been right near the start of term. At the time he was still getting over the shock that magic both existed and he was currently studying it at a college for warlocks.
“Show me,” Rosa said.
The flames in her left hand coalesced into a single ball of fire. She casually tossed it up and caught it as if it was nothing more than a tennis ball.
Phil tried to remember the lessons. It had been a long time ago. Now was it ‘Shelrak dom Magique’ or ‘Kaldak mod Magique’?
“I’m not sure if I remember,” he said. “I’ll try.”
He waved his arms around in an impressive fashion.
“Shelrak mod Magique!” he yelled.
Nothing happened.
Rosa lazily threw the ball of fire at him.
Fuck.
The ball of fire grew bigger. It went from tennis-ball-sized, to baseball-sized, to soccer-ball-sized, to something wider than his shoulders in diameter. Its heat preceded it in a simmering wave as it arced through the air towards him.
Fuck. It was going to burn him to a crisp.
Think. Think.
He could remember the lessons. He remembered that sense of awe when his own shimmering dome had appeared around him.
The fireball was moments away from striking him.
“Sheldak nida Magique!”
The fireball impacted on his shield with a bright flash. Phil was knocked backwards. His brain felt like it had been half-wrenched out of his skull. He was still alive though, and thankfully unsinged.
“You didn’t go whuff,” Rosa said. Phil couldn’t tell if she sounded pleased or disappointed.
Rosa swung her long legs round, stood up out of her throne and casually threw another fireball at Phil.
Fuck.
He made another shield and rocked backwards as the fireball struck it.
“Stop playing games, fledgling,” Rosa said, throwing another fireball at him.
Fuck.
“Sheldak nida Magique!”
“Who are you really?” Rosa screamed.
The succubus was ablaze with fury. Phil had never seen her look this angry before. Fires flickered around the edges of her body in an orange-red nimbus. In the midst of the conflagration her eyes glowed with icy blue light.
“Stop pretending!” Rosa cried.
Why was she so angry? he thought.
“I don’t know what you mean!” he shouted back.
Fuck. She really was trying to burn him to a cinder.
The fireballs were getting bigger, faster, hotter and more powerful. Phil remembered from the lessons the instructor telling them the mind provided the shield, but it also took the brunt of the force. Phil’s skull felt like a bell that had been repeatedly whacked by a large sledgehammer.
“Don’t lie,” Rosa said. She drew a whip that ignited into a long coil of bright yellow flame. “You’re hiding your abilities.”
Oh fuck.
The whip would have sliced him in two had he not got a shield up in time. Instead he was sent skidding across the walkway until his heels teetered on the edge of the other side. His lungs burned like he’d just run a mile. A single drop of blood dribbled out of his nostril.
“I tire of these games,” Rosa said.
She flapped her great re
d bat wings and took to the air. Phil watched warily as she circled above him.
