Dranon's delight XI
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Cultist had been afforded a few hours to recover after her last biochemical treatment, which had culminated in her laying a large egg for the amusement of Asdrubael Vect. With a sore pelvis and a constant ache throbbing in the more delicate parts of her physiology, she had spent her time up to now curled in the corner of her cell, sobbing quietly. Footsteps the other side of her door signified the arrival of a jailor, and she hugged her knees more tightly as the door swung open, admitting harsh white light in contrast to her cell's inky darkness.
"Get up, maggot". The voice issued from the improbably pointy helmet of an incubus. It soon became clear that he had no intention of waiting for her to stand of her own accord, his boots clacked on the floor slabs as he strode over to her, grabbed a fistful of her lank, purple hair, and yanked her to her feet. Cultist yelped at the sharp tugging of her scalp, and, in retort, the incubus backhanded her across her face. A pair of metal studs caught her on the cheek and scored two thin cuts into her grubby skin. Droplets of blood beaded along them.
"Vect has arranged a meeting for you with another of our guests". The incubus drew his face close to Cultist's, his features concealed behind his black helm. "Well then, shall we be off?" Cultist remained silent, refusing to make eye contact, looking anywhere except the crystalline eye-pieces of the incubus' helm.
"I asked you a question, worm!", the incubus bellowed, once more grabbing her hair and using it to hold her head in place as he brought his hand hard across her face, back and forth, the percussive sound of the sharp impacts echoing in the stone room. His interest waned after the first half-dozen or so blows, and he grabbed the steel collar with which she had been fitted on her arrival, hauling the girl out into the corridor by her neck. Meanwhile, Cultist tried hard to fight back her tears, but a few formed at the corners of her eyes, running down her face, leaving streaks across her unwashed skin.
The haemonculus opened the door of what he referred to as his "studio", ushering in the incubus and the dishevelled, stumbling girl. Together they half-led, half-dragged Cultist towards a chair positioned against the far wall of the room. With swift movements, the haemonculus took a curved blade in his hand and sliced away Cultist's undergarments, leaving her lower half exposed, before roughly grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her down on to the chair. She squirmed uncomfortably, for this chair was merely a frame with no seat, her thighs resting on the edges of the metal square which dug into her skin disagreeably. The incubus assisted in fastening broad leather straps around her wrists, ankles and torso, before the haemonculus dismissed him. Cultist was left in the room with the cadaverous figure, who shuffled off to a workbench and rummaged through his equipment with a clinking of glassware.
Locating the item he sought, the haemonculus turned on his heel and made his way back towards Cultist with a strange skip in his step. "A little something to start us off, hmm?" he suggested, a small flask of orange, syrupy liquid held in his hand.
"Wh- what wheel eet do to ahs?" "You'll find out soon enough. Now, be a good girl and open wide".
Cultist clenched her jaw stoically. Whilst she might not be able to avoid eventually imbibing the contents of the flask, she was determined to make it difficult for her captor. The haemonculus tutted disapprovingly.
"You're only making this more difficult for yourself", he said, before striking her hard in her chest, just below the sternum. Cultist gasped, winded by the sudden blow. Momentarily overcome by the shock, (she hadn't expected things to get so rough so quickly), the haemonculus was able to grab her jaw with one hand, tipping the vial's fluid into her mouth with a few glugging noises, before forcing her mouth closed again. Cultist held the syrupy liquid in her mouth, its taste unbearably sweet, determined not to swallow.
The haemonculus pinched her nostrils shut, and, with his other hand, started to massage her throat. "Trust me", he hissed through the least sincere smile Cultist had ever seen, "you'll only make it harder for yourself by resisting".
She started to feel the effects of the lack of air. The expert manipulations of the haemonculus' hands talked to her muscles, exhorting them to gulp down the thick fluid. With a spluttering noise, she finally lost the battle of wills and grudgingly let herself swallow, feeling the thick glob slide down her throat. The haemonculus removed his hand and she gasped for air, breathing deeply.
"There. Wasn't so bad now, was it?"
Even now Cultist could feel the elixir starting to work on her insides, and her stomach produced a few, short, gurgling sounds.
"And whilst you wait", the haemonculus continued, "I just so happen to have somebody here to meet you. I believe you two are... acquainted".
He shuffled off towards a second door in the corner of his workshop, disappearing into a room beyond for a few minutes, and giving Cultist time to start to contemplate the feeling of nausea that was creeping up her throat. She felt uncomfortably full and bloated. She tried in vain to shift her weight on the uncomfortable chair, twin lines of compacted muscle now beating out a steady rhythm of dull, throbbing pain in her buttocks.
Presently the haemonculus returned, walking into the room backwards. "You are just going to love this", he said, and continued to back through the door, pulling a wheelchair with him. From her position, Cultist could make out white hair of the wheelchair's occupant. Turning it around, the haemonculus wheeled the chair and the girl seated therein over to opposite cultist, leaving them six feet apart.
Cultist had seen Ringarde in better states than this. She regarded Cultist through hooded eyes, an idiot grin twitching across her face. A little drool gathered at the corner of her lips and dripped down onto the simple surgical gown she was clothed in. She gazed vacantly at Cultist, her face showing no signs of recognition.
"Waht hhave hyuu dahn to her?"
"Ringarde is enjoying another one of my little concoctions. Although it has left her mental faculties a little..." the haemonculus paused as he searched for a word he considered fitting, “attenuated, shall we say? Isn't that right, Ringarde?" At this mention of her name she flopped her head back to look up at the haemonculus with dull eyes, and then produced a childish giggle. "'tenn’wated", she asserted.
The haemonculus squatted down so his head was level with Ringarde's, his cheek close to hers. He ruffled her hair in mock playfulness. "You like this Cultist girl, don't you? I think you like her very much". The haemonculus had made a disturbingly facile transition from his sibilant, whispering voice to a sing-song cadence. Ringarde blushed, and let out another girlish giggle. "I think you should show her just how much you like her. Up we go". With those words the haemonculus grasped Ringarde under her armpits and lifted her up. She wobbled for a few moments, and took a faltering step towards Cultist, grinning spastically.
“Of course, given my chemical stimulation of her libido, she becomes intensely enamoured with any other person she encounters”, explained the haemonculus. “All I have to do is plant the suggestion in her mind”.
Ringarde lurched forwards, drowsily made a quarter turn whilst not quite losing balance, and plopped down into Cultist's lap. The added weight only compounded the effect of the angled metal frame digging into Cultist’s legs, and she let out a cry as her thighs started to go numb.
"You have such... pretty eyes", Ringarde slurred.
"Reengarde... eet is ahs! Get eet tohgether!"
The heavily-drugged girl extended her tongue and licked Cultist's cheek. The haemonculus, meanwhile, had seated himself in the wheelchair, one leg crossed over the other, his head resting on one fist, with the index finger extended to his temple. Ringarde's tongue slid up Cultist's face, leaving a broad, wet track of saliva. Ringarde started to focus her efforts, and Cultist screwed her eye shut as her tongue worked across it, probing.
"Your eyes... are so lovely".
Ringarde clumsily pawed at Cultist's face before, surprisingly dexterously, forcing her eyelid open. With the tip of her tongue, she caressed the white of the eyeball, running it back and forth in the cleft where the lower eyelid comes against the eye. Cultist winced and her eye darted about in its socket, trying to evade the lascivious intrusion of Ringarde's tongue. She rolled her eye upwards as Ringarde pressed even more of her tongue's slightly rough surface against her sclera. Cultist's eye began to water, the fluid from her tearducts mingling with saliva.
Her ocular muscles straining, eventually Cultist had to relax her eyeball, giving Ringarde an opportunity to hugrily lap around the iris. The blurring of Cultist's vision was punctuated with rasping pains as the tongue continued to quest around her eye, and then she felt a pressure to the side as Ringarde started to force the very tip of her tongue round the edge of her eyeball, a constant, distressing ache as Cultist heard wet sounds of movement inside her own skull.
With her vision now becoming dark and blurry, the pain in her eye socket becoming unbearable as Ringarde forced her taut tongue further down the side of her eyeball, Cultist shrieked, causing a smile to crack across the haemonculus' face.
"Mahke her stop!" she met the gaze of the haemonculus with her unmolested eye, "pleeease, we wheel do aanytheeng, jast make her stooohp". She started crying in earnest, her body wracked with gasping sobs, wrenching her head from side to side as Ringarde clumsily tried to keep up with the movement.
The haemonculus merely grinned. Ringarde, after a few moments, abated her oral assault and looked into Cultist's eyes, one of which was now severely bloodshot.
"But... I love Cultist", she said, grasping for each word in turn like a distant memory. At this, the haemonculus stood and walked up behind Ringarde, again bringing his face close to hers as he spoke in a melodious tone.
"Are you sure you can say that, hmm?" he enquired.
"I do. I DO so", the girl pouted staring blankly, her eyes focussed on nothing.
"And just how much would you say that was? I know", he said, not giving her a chance to respond, "let's find out".
He gently but firmly placed his hands on Ringarde's shoulders and pushed her down to the ground in front of Cultist, so that her head was level with Cultist's crotch. "Stay there. Good girl". She sat, her legs splayed out in a childish posture.
"This is where we do a little test to find out just how much indeed the girl adores you", the haemonculus explained to Cultist, "or at least, thinks she does, in her current state".
Cultist's stomach growled again. The mounting feeling of nausea that had been eclipsed by the more immediate concern of Ringarde’s drugged-up advances was once again at the forefront of her mind. Cultist felt her bowels gurgle and shift, and, despite making a huge effort to clench her buttocks together, a brief rasping noise issued from her anus. She was now completely numb down there, the cruel edges of the chair frame probably restricting several vital arteries, but she did hear a brief, liquid, spattering noise against the floor beneath her. Mortified, Cultist's face flushed red. For a brief, appallingly shameful instant she made eye contact with the girl sat before her, which was only compounded when Ringarde beamed back at her, chuckling idiotically.
"Aha, my little cocktail seems to have started doing its job".
The haemonculus produced from a drawer a kidney-shaped, metallic dish a few inches deep. Crouching down by Cultist's side, he balanced the dish on one hand in the manner of a waiter bearing a platter, holding it under her twitching sphincter. Wordlessly, he raised one eyebrow at Cultist, a corner of his mouth twisting into a grin.
Beads of sweat formed on Cultist's skin as she directed all her effort to stop herself from voiding her bowels. A thin, aching pain screamed out from muscles in her posterior not accustomed to such hard work. Apparently impatient, the haemonculus jabbed two of his fingers into her asshole, giving a brief twist before quickly withdrawing them.
A flush of warmth spread across Cultist's abdomen as her muscles relaxed. The pent-up strain of tensing her bowels for so long released like an uncoiling spring, and in one, continuously smooth contraction, she extruded a broad cylinder of faeces into the dish. After what felt like the longest shit Cultist had ever taken, a few more short, wet, burbling sounds from her behind signalled the end of the ordeal. She felt drained and empty, as if she had just passed out a large portion of her intestines.
"Marvellous", the haemonculus complimented her, lifting the dish up in order that she could see it. A large, rust-coloured turd rested within, a continuous, unbroken cylinder with a hairpin turn at one end where the haemonculus had carefully turned the dish to maintain the integrity of it. Cultist's nostrils were filled with its rich, earthy odour, and she wondered how such a thing could ever have been produced by her own body.
"Now then, I'll expect you're just aching to get out of that chair, eh?" the haemonculus asked in a disturbingly friendly tone.
Cultist refused him an answer, and even if she wanted to, she was now feeling so groggy that she doubted she would have been able to formulate anything comprehensible. Her limbs felt heavy, and black spots swam at the corner of her vision, which was shifting in and out of focus.
She felt bony hands working at the straps around her limbs, and a release of pressure as her bonds were unfastened. Some part of her brain told her to get up, go, get out of here, but she was unable to will her limbs to move more than a couple of inches. The haemonculus finished attending to the chair, and hefted Cultist forward. As one of his forearms pressed against her stomach her mouth filled with the watery taste of impending vomit, and she belched noisily. Her vision faded completely for an apparent few moments, and when she re-opened her eyes she was sat on the floor, opposite Ringarde, the metal dish with its weighty contents sitting between them. The haemonculus had also found time to arrange a knife and fork alongside the dish, which Cultist eyed apprehensively. Ringarde babbled a few nonsense syllables before also directing her gaze to the dish, almost contemplatively. The haemonculus squatted between them both, grinning.
"Cultist, I want you to take the knife, and the fork, in your hand".
The haemonculus laid his hand on Cultist's wrist and guided her hand to the knife. She felt like she should be resisting, but her drowsiness only left so much effort available, which she was directing towards her gurgling stomach, periodically emitting twinges of pain. The haemonculus laid her hand on the knife, a flimsy, plastic thing.
"Now the fork".
Slack-jawed, on some level Cultist had decided that assent was the easiest option, and she picked up the other utensil. The haemonculus’ words, now heard as if from a distance, sounded strangely compelling.
"Good girl. Now, I want you to take the knife, and cut a piece out of that marvellous turd which you have produced for us".
Cultist felt as if she were watching herself from elsewhere, her head swam and she saw her hands reach out to the dish, the fork piercing the faecal matter whilst she slowly brought the knife down through it, cutting a piece. It was surprisingly dense, the consistency of wet clay.
"And now, you will offer it to Ringarde".
Cultist turned to look at the haemonculus. His grin faded in an instant, his expression becoming deadly serious. He nodded solemnly, grasping her arm in his hand and pushing the fork, now bearing a hefty chunk of faeces, towards Ringarde's face. She stopped babbling as the fork approached, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
"You said you loved her", the haemonculus reminded Ringarde in a soft voice.
"How can you say you love her if you can't even eat her poop?"
His expression hardened. "Do it. Do it now". He spoke sternly.
Ringarde opened her mouth uneasily, her tongue lolling out. She looked at Cultist with an expression of complete, sincere trust on her face. As if entranced, feeling as if somehow her body was being controlled by some external agency, Cultist gently guided the loaded fork into the girl's mouth. Her lips closed around it, and, when Cultist withdrew the fork, it was empty. Ringarde closed her eyes, her jaw working for a few moments as she masticated the soft matter. Cultist and the haemonculus both watched, in dull horror and glee respectively, as Ringarde's oesophagus bobbed whilst she swallowed. She opened her eyes again, an expression of adulation on her face as she looked longingly at Cultist.
She drunkenly lurched forward, one hand catching the edge of the metal dish which spilled its contents with a clatter, mashing her knee into the soft pile the next moment as she wobbled towards Cultist on all fours. As Ringarde opened her mouth, Cultist just caught sight of the brown matter squashed into the gaps between her teeth before Ringarde leaned in and kissed her passionately.
Cultist felt the intrusion of another tongue in her mouth, bringing with it a sharp, tangy flavour with subtle, earthy overtones, some complex taste of damp wood and mushrooms and rotten leaves. Having spent so long trying to keep her urging stomach under control, this final affront was too much and she felt her gastric muscles contract in unison, expelling the contents of her stomach upwards.
Mid-kiss, the vomit passed directly into Ringarde's mouth, although she managed to hold in place for a few moments while the vomit, pressurised, trickled out of her nose and down past her lips. As Cultist urged once more, the pressure became too great, forcing the girls apart in a yellowish-brown plume of lukewarm liquid. Slightly stunned, Ringarde sprawled on to her back as Cultist heaved forth another stream, blasting the girl with bile and pieces of undigested solids. Hot tears ran down Cultist's face and a mixture of mucus and vomit streamed from her nose. After expectorating a few more earnest gouts of puke, she took a moment to catch her breath. Her stomach felt like cold, prickly emptiness, and throbbed sorely. As she knelt, trembling, on her hands and knees, the last, few urges came, and she spewed a few mouthfuls of clear bile into the mess covering the floor. The effort having drained the last of her strength, Cultist collapsed into the slime with a wet thud.
The haemonculus sighed, and wandered off in search of a mop.