by Jay Aury
“Please…”
“Shut up!” he says, giving your bottom a sharp spank.
You cry out, rocking forward at the blow, your pussy tightening with shameless pleasure as the impact reverberates through your core. “Mnnnn!” you keen.
The imp scoffs, grabbing your hips in his talon-tipped hands, squeezing your perky bottom with delight. “Hmm. Perfect. Do you have any idea how many demons have dreamed of fucking this ass? Of course you don’t. We’re lower than slime to you, aren’t we? Just pathetic little creatures you can fuck over. Well, the fucking is on the other cock now, isn’t it?”
“Yessss!” you cry out, gasping, your veins afire with lust, your head swimming in the heady pleasure of your need. “Please! Please, master. I need it. Need your cock!”
“Master?” Givril muses, smirking as he jerks his hips, and plunges his demon dick into your molten cunt. “I like the sound of that.”
You scream in ecstasy as at last your need is fulfilled. At last a cock has been driven into your helpless pussy. Your cunny clamps down on the demon’s prick, squeezing it as you moan, rocking, pushing yourself back against the imp on his throne.
“Yesssss!” Givril groans. “Ohhh fuck! It’s everything I dreamed! Take it, slave. Take my cock!”
“Yes!” you wail, lost in the pleasure of your defilement, driving your ass back with great jerks of your hips, fucking yourself against the demon’s burning prick. “Master! Yes! Slave needs your cock! She needs it soooo baaaaaad!”
“That’s what I like to hear!” the imp cackles as his cock saws in and out of your pussy. You moan and pant, pounding yourself back against him, your breasts mashed to the floor, your ass lifted like a breeding slut to taste more of his cock. Take more of his seed. Shame doesn’t even enter into it anymore. You need this. You need a thorough fucking.
And by the pulsing of your brand, you need oh so much more!
“Breed me!” you beg the imp. “Oh fuck… fuck! Please! Give me your seed! Breed my royal pussy! Fuck me! Give me your cummmm!”
“Yes. Yes! Oh fuck yes! Here! Take it! Take it, slave! Yesssss!” Givril howls as he plunges his cock to the root within you, and gives you what you need in a sudden deluge of his oily seed.
The world seems to turn on a new angle for you. You wail in purest pleasure, your orgasm like nothing you’ve known before. Blinding. Deafening. You feel your mind go white, shattering as the imp’s cum pumps into your fertile womb. The brand upon your mons flares, blazing into your skin, marking you as his.
And you couldn’t be happier.
Love bursts in your heart. Adoration. Worship for this wretched little demon who has claimed your pussy for his own. Stronger than any drug, better than any spell, you shudder, cumming again, your juices and his spunk spurting from your pussy and onto the floor.
You shudder, moaning, pawing at the floor as the feeling of his cock within you overwhelms you.
“Oh fuck,” the imp pants, unsheathing himself from you, his cock dripping with your latent seed.
“Master,” you moan, turning about, crawling to the foot of the throne. “Oh master. Thank you. Thank you so much!”
The imp grins at the sight of your adoring face. “Heh heh,” Givril hoots, planting a hand carelessly on your head. “You’re welcome, slut! Here. My cock is all dirty now. I think you should clean it.”
Clean master’s cock? Your very soul brightens at the prospect. “Yes, master,” you pant, palming his crimson shaft, running your tongue along the underside, your hips twitching with echoes of pleasure as you worship at the temple of his cock. The taste of his seed and your juices hits your tongue like a drug, making your cunny tighten to retain the weight of his cum within you.
Not that it matters. Your womb has taken his seed. But even losing a drop horrifies you. Master’s seed mustn’t be wasted! It must be cherished. Adored.
Givril smirks down at you as you suck and lick at his drooling tool. “Ooooh yeah,” the imp groans. “This’s the beginning of something be-utiful.”
“Mmmm,” you moan happily, agreeing wholly as you take your master’s cock between your lips, and begin to suck.
Imp Slave
Not Now
“Uh, maybe later,” you say. “It’s been a… bit of a day. I don’t know if I can bring my full… er, arrogance to bear on you.”
“As you wish,” the succubus says, her placid face and tone revealing none of her disappointment. “Perhaps best. Were I dishevelled, I might forget to give you this.”
Curious, you hold out your hand, and Loria drops something into your waiting palm. You look suspiciously at the ring she’s given you.
“What’s this?”
“A ring.”
“I can see that.”
“Of course, mistress. But it is what you don’t see that is better. That is a tool of summoning, and from it, you may conjure a weapon of some use. I took a look in the armory, mistress. It took some doing, but I found the Staff of Domination.”
Your brows rise sharply. You’ve heard of the staff, of course. Your father once wielded it himself while on campaign. Until he upgraded to something more robust. You turn over the ring, feeling the magic radiate from it, and slide it on. You concentrate, and from the signs in the ring bleed dark magic. You gasp as a staff suddenly forms in your hand. Black as obsidian, it’s cool to the touch, its shape like the roots of a tree winding up to wrap about a leering skull.
“Oh,” you say, feeling the latent power in the relic. “Impressive.”
“Quite so. That staff will increase the power of any blow it inflicts tenfold.”
You glance up at Loria. “That’s all it does?”
“At the most basic level, mistress. It perhaps has other functions, but your father was not free with them, nor how to use it.”
“So, from our armory, loaded with mystical weapons of immense power, you got me a stick that can hit things very hard?”
Loria raises a brow. “There were other weapons, mistress. True. But do you know how to wield any of them?”
You open your mouth. Close it. She… actually has a point. After all, with your personal sorcery and your father’s authority, you’ve never even been in a real fight, nor took any interest in the tools of war. And trying to use arcane weapons without understanding them is liable to go as badly for you as whoever you’re fighting. “Ah,” you say. “Right. Well, thank you. Loria.”
“It was my pleasure, mistress. Now, we’d best prepare to depart. You need to get ready to meet with the Dragon of Greed. I will begin prepping the portal for our departure.”
“Ah, good,” you say, banishing the staff, the bands that form it dissolving back into the ring. “It’ll be handy to arrive right in his keep.”
Loria cocks her head. “Oh no, mistress,” she says. “No doubt Avarick will have already locked down his lair in Mammon. You’ll need to enter his glittering halls from outside.”
“I will?” you say.
“Oh yes. He will have been concerned about an attack on his keep by the other demon lords. The Vault is where he keeps his many treasures, and he will not risk them idly. However, by that very notion, if you are able to convince him to join you, he shall be your most ardent supporter.”
“Why is that?” you say.
“Simple, mistress,” your demoness says. “If he has agreed to serve you, it will be because he thinks you are his.”
“Oh,” you say, feeling again that ache from the rune marking your mons. “Yay.”
Mammon
Mammon
You’ve visited Mammon before, but not often. In fact, you rarely left the Citadel at all, nor took much interest in your father’s empire before his death. A fact which you’re kicking yourself quite thoroughly about right now, but there’s nothing for it, other than to move forward.
Still, Mammon is hard to forget. As you step through the portal from the Citadel to one of the many that grant permanent access to the city, you look upon the thriving heart of trade
in the nether realm. The city is huge and made of heavy, stony structures that sprawl across leagues in every direction. Ports dip their docks into the Burning Sea, their captains coming to the great merchant city with treasures from across the infernal reaches. Huge marketplaces sprawl in tents and buildings carved from the very bedrock like a great hive of pillars. Banks tower with grim columns and gold filigree. Casinos explode with garish lights and the ring of winners. All of it overwhelmed with the bustle, the roar, the madness of crowds.
You join the multitude with Loria, swathed in cloaks to hide your identity. You worried you’d be out of place, but Mammon plays host to demons and creatures from the hells and beyond. A towering centaur with the bottom legs of a lizard rather than horse drags a wagon in his wake. Slaves wearing veils and nothing else are herded along by the whip of a huge, porcine demon from the realm of gluttony. An elegant illithid with his octopus face trades with a merchant stall, the runty demon who runs it looking both eager and terrified of his current customer.
The reek is something else. The scent of spices and filth, suffering and the metallic tang of gold overwhelms your delicate senses in a storm of sensations. You only start getting a grip on things when you look up, and see the Vault of Avarick.
Many demons make their palaces from the raw, volcanic stone of the realms. Avarick did not, but his is no less grand. The Vault is made entirely of brass and gold, the massive walls of his keep tower over all, their golden sheen reflecting the hellfire rolling from moats of magma. Brutal, heavy, the building is so huge and yet so harshly worked it actually hurts to look upon it, even as it demands attention like some garish sun stolen for the depths of this dark realm.
You yank your attention back to the present as someone jostles you. An acerbic comment hisses on your tongue but you swallow it back. No. You’re just a trader here. You’re not the daughter of the Overlord. Hell, that role would be far more a hindrance than help. You catch again the parade of slaves being marched into an auction house, and a shudder again surges through you, and tingles from the rune above your mons.
You jump as Loria touches your arm. “This way, mistress,” you servant says. Shrouded in cloaks like you, only her face peeks from the darkness, though you can’t help but notice her figure is more than apparent, despite the bagginess of her robe.
“Who is this we’re going to meet anyway?” you demand as Loria guides you down the crowded avenues, buildings of black stone looming over the streets like grim guardians.
“Boriga Lapisra,” she says, her spectacles gleaming in the burning torches of green flame as you pass a casino, just in time to dodge a thin incubus being flung into the gutter by a guard. Immediately, a dozen imps descend on the fallen demon, stripping him of clothes, coins, and perhaps a bit of flesh. “A high merchant of the hells. Though Avarick has sealed the Vault, trade goes on, and tribute flows into the keep. Boriga is highly placed among the trade princes. If anyone can get you inside, it’s him.”
“Ha! He should be proud to aid the Princess of Pride,” you say.
“Too true, mistress. But that’s not a title with much worth, other than for those who would do you ill. We shall see.”
Her comment is sobering, a reminder of how far you’ve fallen. Or, rather, what you risk becoming. You hurry after the demoness, and towards a garish building. There are many demi-palaces within Mammon, all of which would look quite grand if they weren’t forced to exist in the shadow of the Vault. Spiraling, delicate stonework with more arches than they know what to do with form garish palaces protected by high walls. Loria guides you to one of these, the gates black steel woven with gilded filigree like blooming roses, but on closer inspection, you see the inner petals are actually screaming faces. Likely those who had sought to cheat the merchant within, and somehow, you doubt they’re just effigies.
Fortunately, you don’t have to look at them long, for a moment later the gate creaks open, and you’re met by a monstrous guard. He looks like a frog, with large, bulging eyes, a sword sheathed in a belt whose loincloth is the only thing that offers anything resembling modesty. His pale, fat belly is there for all to see, and he blinks his huge eyes owlishly.
“We are here to see Boriga,” Loria says. “I believe he is expecting us.”
The guard’s throat swells and he croaks something in a language you can’t understand. Loria thanks him, and he turns, leading you into the palace.
The interior is strikingly different from the madness outside. It’s very quiet within, the large doors admitting you into tiled floors polished to a shine. Warm, humid air thickens the atmosphere, and you catch glimpses of large bathing areas wreathed in the mists of warm steam. You hear distant splashes, though through the fog you can’t quite see who or what is doing the splashing.
More of the frog-like guards are within, their bulging eyes watching you carefully, and you are stopped at the entrance of a large room by two. They croak, holding out their hands.
“What?” you ask.
“None may see Boriga clothed,” Loria says. “Nakedness hides no weapons.”
“You’ve got to be joking!” you say, drawing yourself up.
“It’s the way it’s done,” Loria says.
You bristle, but the silence of the guards is implacable. Damn it. Under the large-eyed stare of the frogmen you strip away your garments, hesitating a moment with your shirt and revealing the mark branded above your pussy. Then, in a surge of annoyance, you forcefully pull off the cloth, nearly tearing your bra and panties off as well. “Here!” you say, shoving the clothes and your ring into the hands of the guards. “Satisfied?”
The frogman’s eyes linger on your gentle curves, his throat swelling with desire. Nonetheless, he bows his head and steps back, allowing you access to the room beyond. With your head held high, even as you furiously blush at your forced nudity, you pass through the door, and into the baths.
It might have been a good thing that you opted to shed your clothes after all. The heat beyond the doorway is thick and oppressive, steam shrouding you and soon painting you with sweat.
“Hmmmm,” a thick, warbling voice croons from deeper in the mists. “Welcome to my abode, Princess of Pride.”
You squint towards the voice, and moments later the clouds of steam part, revealing the speaker.
You thought the frogs were fat, but this creature puts them to shame. He’s huge. Even half submerged in the steaming waters, his massive belly crests them like an island. He has no neck, merely layers of extra chins. Boriga wears a golden chain ending in an amulet that hangs heavily on his bloated belly, his frog-like eyes watching you with bemusement. The fat, amphibian monster shifts in the hot waters, his large eyes tracing your figure with open desire, lingering on the mark above your mons. His smirk widens.
“Hrmmm,” he croons. “Seems the rumors are true. You have indeed been cursed. But please!” he says, gesturing to the pool. “Have a seat. Let us speak, my dear, and discuss how we may help each other.”
You feel a flush climb your cheeks, but force your humiliation down. “Thank you,” you say, stepping into the waters gingerly, sucking in a gasp at the warmth as your hips sink beneath the surface.
Boriga watches all of this with amusement, cocking his head back and eying you in naked interest. You scowl a little. “I was told you might be able to help me in entering the Vault,” you say pointedly.
“Hmm… Yes. Yes, no doubt you were informed of this. And,” he laughs softly. “Of course, I would be more than pleased to assist you. But, in that, there must be a… forgive my crudity, but an exchange of equal value.”
You sit up, the waters sloshing about you. “What exchange?” you ask.
“Hmmm. Simply put, what do I, Boriga, get out of helping you infiltrate the Vault? Especially something that would offset, oh, the value of your person. Hmm?”
Despite the heat of the baths, you feel a chill steal over you. “What do you mean?” you ask.
Boriga eases back further against the tiled ste
ps, his wide mouth splitting wider with amusement. “Hmm… Simply that, your father, may he rest in peace-“
“I hope he burns forever,” you say.
“Mmm. Quite,” Boriga nods, nonplused. “As do many, for he made more than a few enemies in his quest to become the Overlord. Many of great power. All of whom would pay handsomely indeed to have his daughter as their personal breeding slave. Hmm? Putting you on the auction block? Why, my dear!” Boriga breathes, his grin widening even further until it stretches half his rubbery face. “Such a thing would earn me a dukedom, at the least! And a fortune besides. So, what remains for me to ask is, what can you offer me that simply selling you to a greater demon would counter?”
Your heartbeat quickens. The reality hits you. He’s right. Selling you would net a fortune. And aside from the Citadel, you’ve got nothing to your name. Boriga watches you, his eyes lidded with amusement, his thick tongue gliding over his lips hungrily.
Seduce Boriga
Deal with Boriga
Threaten Boriga
Spank the Succubus Dominantly
Your eyes grow lidded. You sit up, letting your legs dangle off the side of the bed. “Across my knees, Loria,” you command.
“Yes, mistress,” the succubus says. Her lovely hips swing, spaded tail flicking as she saunters to you, gently laying herself out across your lap, her shapely rear sharply outlined.
“Really now,” you breathe, hiking up her robe, letting your palm rest on her blue rump, slowly rubbing teasing circles into the firm flesh. “So this is why you were always serving me, hm? Because you liked to feel me punish you? Talking down to you? Spanking your prim and proper bottom?”
“I do, mistress.”
“And you like it?” you say, a finger teasing down the crack of her ass. For the first time you hear her breath hitch, her ass twitch as your finger glides along the tight fabric of her bottom, rubbing against the slit of her pussy, running back up along the seam of her ass. “You like getting spanked? Humiliated?”
