This is an especially brutal story, filled with torture, rape, and snuff. Be sure this is a thing you want to read before continuing.
The male drow standing over the high priestess of Kiaransalee did not offer his own thoughts on her comment. He was far too well trained to do such a stupid thing. Instead, he remained focused on his assigned task, running his hands across Irae’s uniquely pigmented skin to massage her lithe form into a state of utter relaxation. But as his eyes lingered on the drow’s pert buttocks, nude beneath his fingers and yet far beyond his reach, he silently agreed with the high priestess’s assessment of the world. If his touch strayed from professional massage to carnal intent for even a second, he knew he would face strict punishment. Perhaps even death. Still, there was nothing stopping him from admiring the figure laid out before him on the massage table, glistening with his special oils.
Irae T’sarran was unlike any drow woman he’d had the pleasure of servicing over the many years he’d spent as a masseuse. Her skin was a vibrant white, far removed from the various shades of obsidian that covered most drow. She lacked even a single strand of hair, neither between her legs or across the top of her smooth head. Up until Irae, he’d only heard rumors of the existence of szarkai – the albino variant of the drow. Seeing her before him – every succulent inch of her – stirred a blend of emotions within him. There was no denying the woman was quite beautiful, in an eerie way, but the pigment of her skin tickled an odd distaste in the pit of his stomach. Her prominent station – and her wealth – kept him from dwelling on that distaste, but he knew she was not wealthy enough to pay off the distate everyone in Menzoberranzan felt for her. Or, for that matter, even her own family.
Irae had been born into one of the highest houses of drow society, once upon a time. But her genetic defect – as it was called – had led to her being cast out. The easy life of power she’d been promised by birth had been taken from her before she’d even been old enough to comprehend why. It was not enough to keep her down. She’d worked hard – harder than any female in Manzoberranzan – to rise to the rank of priestess for her chosen goddess. And then she’d pushed further to become Kiransalee’s high priestess. It would have been an impressive accomplishment for a drow not born as a szarkai, but even her self-made status had not been enough to earn her family’s respect, or even much respect from the common citizens.
That had been enough to push Irae down a new path. If the high born wished not to acknowledge her, that was quite alright. She would simply take what she felt she deserved. Being looked down upon could only sting her pride so much, and it afforded her the opportunity of forging new friendships with other, similarly disrespected members of drow society. The male masseuse currently working his nimble fingers along the edges of her shoulder blades, for example. With the current matriarchal rule over drow society, he would be destined to live a life of servitude – or worse. While Irae had to admit it was nice having a man at her command whenever she wished, she was stunned that those in power were so blind to the possibility of revolt. It had been attempted before, but the outbursts had always been small, easily dealt with. But that did not mean the plan did not have merit. It simply needed the right kind of leadership and organization.
“Tell me your name,” Irae asked her masseuse. The length it took him to answer her showed just how surprised he was that she was engaging him on a personal level, even one as casual as asking his name.
“Leshrae Kiltyl, ma’am,” he finally answered.
“Tell me, Leshrae,” the high priestess purred. “Do you ever yearn for something more out of life?” She was met with awkward silence. A clear sign that Lashrae was a well-trained male, but not the answer she was searching for. She turned her head to the side, looking back at the man from over her shoulder. “It’s alright,” she assured him. “This is not some trick. I am genuinely curious.”
It took Leshrae a few moments longer to answer. When he did, it was in a hushed, conspiratorial whisper with the occasional glance around the room to make sure there wasn’t anyone else within earshot. “I suspect there aren’t many men in this city who don’t, high priestess,” he confessed.
It wasn’t much of an answer, but she allowed it. She lifted herself up from the table, turning her upper body to rest on one shoulder to look back at him more directly. She noticed his eyes shifting from her face to the breast she’d so casually exposed to him. It was the sort of break in subservience she could use to have the man thrashed. But she didn’t mind the glance. It reminded her that – despite how she was treated by the majority of her peers – she was still beautiful. “So why don’t you do something about it?” she asked bluntly.
Leshrae blushed. Not because he’d been caught glancing at her tit, but because her question worried him to such an extent. His eyes darted about the room faster, certain that he was being set up for something. “I… I would never indulge… such notions, high priestess,” he insisted.
Irae rolled her eyes and let out a disgruntled sigh, slumping back onto the table. “Then you are either a fool or a coward,” she declared. “Or both.” Several lengthy moments of awkward tension filled the room before the masseuse went back to his duties. “It’s unfortunate,” she muttered. “I would very much like to have a conversation about the politics of this city. And how they might be swayed to better serve the low born. Better serve those of us who’ve been met with only disdain and disrespect from those who think they are better than us, simply because of the color of their skin. Or the equipment between their legs, for that matter.”
She let the baited words hang in the air. She did not want to push her intentions too far or too directly, just in case the man truly was a coward. Irae had no intention of having the ember of rebellion burning at the back of her mind snuffed out due to the masseuse informing on her. It took him several more minutes before he worked up the courage to answer her.
“Well,” he said in that conspiratorial hush. “There is one man…”
A wicked grin spilled across Irae’s face. She rolled over without warning, lying her back on the massage table and letting her legs fall open. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to openly laugh at the man’s visible shock as she exposed her cunt to him. “Why don’t you tell me more about this man?” she offered as she motioned a hand to her loins. “There appears to be a knot in my muscles down there. Go ahead and see what you can do about working it out.”
Irae kept her moans to a minimum as Lashrae’s fingers massaged the soft folds of her pussy, listening closely to every detail he had regarding her potential co-conspirator. It became a good deal more difficult for her when those talented fingers wiggled their way inside her hot hole, diligently searching for any points of discomfort she might possess. But even so, she got what she needed from the masseuse – in more ways than one.
I must find this Nimor Imphraezl, she thought as the shudders of her orgasm slithered through her writhing form.
Nimor Imphraezl had accomplished much considering he was a man in a female-dominated society. If not for his draconic heritage and his lethal skills as an assassin, none of it would have been possible. But his own accomplishments meant little to him. His primary goal was seeking a means of elevating the status for all drow males. It was a lofty goal, and one that he’d not found much success with. Like so many others, he’d seen what had become of the small revolts, unplanned and easily squashed. Planning a larger scale rebellion was a tricky affair, and a lengthy one. But with each male he convinced to join his cause, he moved on step closer to accomplishing his task.
It helped that the majority of men in drow society were seen as little more than servants. It made getting agents into sensitive areas rather easy. As long as none of his recruits jumped the gun, they could deal with a significant portion of Manzoberranzan’s leadership in a single coordinated attack. But the logistics of such an attack were a nightmare. Especially with only limited information from within the highest inner circles of drow society. It would not be impossible, but Nimor faced the very real possibility that it would take him several more years before everything fell into place. And that was only if no one spoiled the surprise in that span of time.
And then, like a boon of good fortune, Irae T’sarran arrived on his doorstep. It took several long hours of linguistic dancing to decide whether she was genuinely interested in planning a revolt, or if she was simply a spy sent to uncover his plots. By the end of it, they’d convinced one another that their goals aligned well enough to work with one another. As Irae dispensed the knowledge she possessed and the access she had onto him, Nimor saw his timetable shrink with every word. Night passed into morning and then into late afternoon by the time the two had finished their discussion, each of them amazed at the plans they’d concocted. It would still not be a simple matter – nothing ever was – but the chances of success had risen significantly.
Now it was simply a matter of putting the final pieces of their plan together.
For the most part, Irae and Nimor’s rebellion needed numbers. In a city full of men who’d lived their lives as second-class citizens or worse, recruitment as a simple – but careful – routine. If a man was receptive to their plans, he was brought into the fold and given assignments. If not, they were disposed of. Nimor was quite talented at arranging the deaths and they were rarely investigated with any passion. What he’d originally seen as a lifelong quest became a matter of weeks with Irae’s assistance. The majority of their recruits were little more than fodder. Numbers to help them sway things in their favor. But there were exceptions, of course.
Grompf Baenre was one of those exceptions. As the current queen’s brother, he had access, influence, and means to prove very valuable in the oncoming rebellion. It helped that the man had no love for his sister – Queen Quenthel. Being their mother’s firstborn had afforded him the ability to attain some degree of power within Manzoberranzan, achieving the rank of arch-mage. But the power of true leadership was largely denied to him. He’d been engaging in his own form of subtle revolt with his sister for some time. Their mutual disdain for one another had led to a series of attempted assassinations on both their parts. Quenthel’s attempts came from a point of wanting to eliminate any potential threats to her.
Grompf’s motivations were a good deal more personal. His younger sister and the eldest daughter, Triel, had been meant for the throne. He’d been… close… with Triel and he’d anticipated her rise to power. Her more tempered approach to things spelled great progress for drow society as a whole. But Quenthel was a jealous cunt. So much so that she’d not even bothered to go through the means of hiring an assassin to eliminate her older sister. She’d done the deed herself. Grompf lacked the appropriate evidence to publicly accuse Quenthel, but he had no intention of letting that stop him from claiming revenge for Triel’s death. But even with his power – certainly the strongest male in Manzoerranzan – he lacked the resources to provide his little sister the brutal de-throning she so richly deserved.
When Irae arranged a private meeting and let him in on what was being planned, he was quite eager to lend his support to the cause. Grompf’s inclusion was the final nail in the coffin of drow society as it was. The time for rebellion had come.
Chaos gripped Manzoberranzan.
Aunrae Abaeir had feld her place of worship with the screams of her fellow priestesses echoing in her ears. The sticky warmth of blood clung to her frantic face. The images of the revolting men storming into the church and promptly slashing open Drisace’s throat haunted her mind. She’d been standing right next to the woman, giving her a clear view of her splitting jugular and putting her well within the range of the arterial spray that had erupted from her neck. Aunrae wasn’t sure how she’d managed to get out of the church. The whole experience had been a blur as the priestesses endured a combination of brutal butchering and violent rape. But somehow, Aunrae had escaped with her life and dignity intact. Her clothing, less so. She could feel the chill of the air against her bare breasts, forcing her nipples into stiff points as she ran through the city streets.
Violence surrounded her. She watched through tear-blurred as eyes one drow woman was forced over a barrel, cock spearing its way into her ass while another man lined up the blade of his axe with the back of her neck. She looked away before the swing, but it didn’t save her from hearing the meaty thud of the axe cleaving the woman’s head from her shoulders. Her eyes fell upon another woman, cradling her steaming guts in her hands as she choked down the length of a man’s rigid member. All of her teachings told her to help where she could, but her sense of self-preservation was too strong. She let out a terrified shriek as a couple of men spotted her and charged her way. Her legs pumped hard, doing everything she could to stay ahead of them.
Despite the chaos and the panic, Aunrae knew where she was going. With the sanctity of her church destroyed, she could think of only one place in the city where she might be safe from the revolt. The young drow was drenched in sweat and thoroughly exhausted by the time she reached her family home. She silently thanked her goddess for the good fortune to reach her destination with relative safety. Aunrae rushed into the dwelling, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind her and barring it. It would not hold out under a persistent assault, but it would at least give her some time to collect herself before she needed to flee again. She hoped it would be enough time to gather her family, some supplies, and escape the city.
Aunrae’s husband had been in the military. She’d lost him during a border skirmish some years ago, but he’d given her two sons before his death. They’d grown into capable young men, eager to follow in their father’s footsteps. The pain of his loss had given her the incentive to keep them at home for as long as possible and, with the assistance of her father, she hoped they’d never pick up a sword. The violence she’d seen on the streets had been largely focused on women, but she had no intention of leaving her sons and father behind. She called out to them as she entered the home, lifting an arm to cover her exposed breasts.
“Istroos, Vuznet,” she cried out. “Gather your things. We need to leave now. Something’s happening. A rebellion. It’s not safe.” She hurried towards the kitchen, already mentally calculating the supplies they would need to make it out of the city and beyond. “Father?” she called. “Are you home?”
Aunrae found her family waiting for her in the kitchen. Her face filled with confusion as she spotted their seeming lack of concern. “Did you not hear me? The people have gone mad. We have to get out of here.” She clutched her arm against her breasts tighter, keeping her nudity concealed from her sons as best she could. She motioned back the way she’d come, back into the house. “Vuznet, go to my room and get me a new top. Istroos, gather food for the journey.” Her sons made no move to do as she’d told them. “Father?” she asked, dread tickling in her belly. “What is this?”
The drow priestess jumped as her sons rushed towards her. Their rough hands clamped around her soft flesh, yanking her arm away from her exposed breasts and tugged her further into the kitchen. She struggled against them, demanding that they let her go. Her head throbbed with the horror of the situation. She’d clung to the desperate hope that despite the acts of the men outside that her family was more noble than that. Istroos and Vuznet hauled their mother before their grandfather. The older drow openly admired Aunrae’s firm breasts, giving her a thin, humorless smile as he reached out to caress the mounds.
“The tides are shifting, my dear daughter,” Diraen growled out to her. “You were always so content strutting around this home, barking demands and expecting only obedience. I’m so glad you made it home safe to us. It saves us the trouble of searching the streets for you.”
Aunrae screamed as her father tore through what remained of her tattered dress. She strained to conceal her bared flesh, but Istroos and Vuznet only tightened their grip on her. They forced her down onto her knees as Diraen loosened his belt. “Time to see if you’re as good at sucking cock as your mother,” he chuckled as he pulled his stiff dick free and pushed it towards his daughter’s mouth. Aunrae clamped her lips shift, twisted her head aside. Vuznet – the stronger of her sons – grabbed hold of her jaw, fingers digging into her cheeks as he pried her mouth open for his grandfather. Looping a hand around the back of her head, Diraen gripped a fistful of his daughter’s silver hair and tugged her towards his crotch. He let out a pleased sigh as he pushed his way into her mouth, sliding across her flopping tongue and sheathing himself down her gulping throat.
Tears of horror and shame trickled from Aunrae’s bulging eyes as she choked around her father’s prick. He fucked her face with rough strokes, holding nothing back as her sons pushed in on either side of her. Their hands wandered across her naked flesh, squeezing her tits and curling into her cunt. Drool sprayed from her stretched lips as her nose mashed against Diraen’s crotch. His balls smacked against her chin with rhythmic timing. She managed to tug an arm free, bringing her clenched fist forward and pounding against her father’s waist and thighs. Diraen snared her by the wrist, putting an end to her attack until Istroos could take hold of her arm. A muffled scream worked its way up Aunrae’s stuffed gullet as her son violently twisted her arm back and jerked it free from its socket.
The pain of the dislocation was enough to kill a fair bit of Aunrae’s fight. She knelt before her father, gagging around his cock as he pumped into her. It took him several more swift strokes to reach his climax, flooding his daughter’s mouth with his thick seed. It bubbled from her stretched lips and drained down her gulping throat as she struggled not to drown in the spunk. The cock slipped free from her mouth, leaving her gasping and coughing as she dropped down onto her hands and knees. “Puh-please,” she groaned, leaving behind the domineering attitude she’d run her household with in favor of begging for mercy. “You c-can’t. I’m your daughter.” She twisted her head to the side to look at her sons. “Your mother.”
Istroos and Vuznet were too worked up from playing with Aunrea’s body and watching her face getting fucked by their grandfather to listen to anything she had to say. Vuznet hooked an arm around her slender belly, hoisting her back onto her feet. The drow priestess cried out as she was shoved over the edge of the countertop. Vuznet kept her pinned there, signaling for his younger brother to have his fun. Istroos grinned and knocked his mother’s legs further apart as he freed his erection. He spat into his hand and rubbed the saliva across her relatively dry cunt lips, preparing her only slightly for the oncoming rape. He lined himself up, holding the base of his shaft in one hand and gripping the side of Aunrae’s hip with the other.
“Is this how he did it, mother?” he asked with a cruel laugh, ramming his cock into Aunrae’s clenching pussy. “Is this how Father impregnated you?”
Aunrae only responded with pained shrieks as her son thrust deeply into her sex, but a shudder of sickened revulsion washed over her as she realized that the answer to Istroos’ question was yes. Her horror rose further as she realized that her son’s member felt far too similar to her dead husband’s. Roughly the same length, with that same unique little curve to it that was so perfect for striking her womanhood in just the right way. The jolts of unwanted pleasure radiating up from her loins proved too much for her. Her face filled with awkward strain for a moment before she promptly puked up the deposit her father had fed her. The gooey blend of jizz and bile splattered across the countertop before her.
“Look at that, mother,” Vuznet chided with a shake of his head. “You’ve gone and made a mess. Should I fetch the mop and bucket to clean it up? Or would you like me to finish polishing your boots first?” He did neither, instead deciding to grip his mother by the back of the head and force her face against the messy slop she’d expelled. “Lick it up, you bitch,” he growled. “Like you always used to tell us, you do not let good food go to waste. Lick it up or I’ll be forced to take Father’s belt to you. Just like you did to us when we were younger.”
Too overwhelmed by the madness that had found its way into the heart of her family, Aunrae obeyed. She dragged her tongue through the foul slop covering the counter, struggling to swallow it down between her fitful sobs. Her stomach was still uneasy, but she fought against the urge to puke again as she cleaned the counter with her tongue. Istroos’ cock slammed steadily into her snatch, moving much easier due to the lubrication he’d fucked out of her thanks to his uniquely curved member. She’d only licked up a small portion of the cum-puke before Vuznet decided he’d seen enough. Yanking her head up from the counter, he twisted her to face him. Istroos hugged her hips, holding her against him as his brother worked her off of the counter and pulled her head down to his exposed member.
“Here’s something for that filthy mouth of yours,” he declared as he pushed his erection past her lips. Aunrae’s sobs became muffled around her eldest son’s prick. The two young men shared a wide grin across the sweaty backside of their thoroughly stuffed mother. Istroos thrust forward, fucking Aunrae against Vuznet’s crotch. Then it was Vuznet’s turn to repay the favor. Bent over before them, she shifted back and forth between the pair of erections, tits swaying beneath her from the rough strokes they delivered. Istroos didn’t withdraw when he felt his climax grow near. He happily pumped his creamy spunk deep into his mother’s cunt, hoping that at least one of his sperm managed to find its way into one of her eggs. He quite liked the idea of getting to raise a son-brother. He liked the idea of having a daughter-sister even better. There would be no shortage of female flesh to purchase in the wake of the rebellion, but what was the point of purchasing a new bitch to add to their collection when they had the means of breeding them within the family?
Laran Hala had been having a pleasant meal in the tavern when the rebellion started. She’d hardly heard the start of the commotion taking place outside when the young man who’d been serving her smashed the mug of ale across the back of her head. She’d slumped over the table, faceplanting into her plate of half-eaten food. Laran wasn’t unconscious for long, but when she came around, the revolt was well underway. She let out a gasp, face grimacing with pain, and then a sharp scream as she realized the fleshy stiffness ramming its way up her asshole was the cock of her former server. Nauseating dizziness rolled through her as she lifted her head, feeling her hair sticky from her bleeding scalp. She cried out again as the young man snared a fistful of her hair and yanked her head further back, forcing her breasts up from the table she’d been draped across.
“So glad you’re awake,” the server growled into her ear. “Your ass is already clenching around my dick much more nicely. And I was worried you were going to miss all the fun.”
The ‘fun’ he referred to looked like anything but that in Laran’s eyes. Disoriented and horrified by the sudden shift in societal niceties taking place around her, she was helpless to do much more than take her rapist’s cock and witness the plights of her fellow women transpiring within the tavern.
Sasniss Faertal had come into the tavern seeking only a simple drink, some ale to quench her thirst before going on with her day. Instead, the bartender had pulled her over the bar top. Several hard smacks across the face and a solid punch to the gut had left her too disoriented to defend herself. The man laid her out on the counter, tearing through her clothing as he climbed over her. Knocking her legs apart, he plunged his stiff length into her vulnerable snatch. Sasniss screamed for help that wasn’t coming as the bartender hammered into her, lips kissing and sucking at her jiggling tits. The man spewed his seed into her clenching pussy, but he’d tolerated far too many haughty drow women wearing low-cut tops to feel satisfied. His cock remained firm as he fucked his way through his first orgasm.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he growled down at the woman, words dripping with mockery. “You were thirsty.” He closed his fingers around Sasniss’s throat, squeezing hard enough to choke her. As her mouth gaped open before him, wild eyes filled with fear, he reached out to snag a full mug of ale. He held it over her head as he pumped into her, tilting the mug to the side and pouring the liquid into her open mouth. With her esophagus mostly squeezed shut, she struggled to swallow the ale, hacking up what she couldn’t consume. It was an impressive feat, but the bartender had plenty more ale to give her. Chucking the empty mug aside, he grabbed a second one and repeated the process. “Go ahead and drown in it, bitch,” he told her as he poured. “Won’t stop me from fucking you.”
Sasniss’s face and hair became soaked with ale. It gurgled at the back of her throat. She managed to make it through two more mugs-worth of ale before the blend of strangling and drowning took their toll on her. The bartender let out a laugh as she flopped about beneath him, unintentionally grinding her crotch up to meet his swift thrusts. He watched the foam pour over her lips and chin, wide terrified eyes staring up at him as she died. Sasniss managed a final, linger wet rattle as her flailing shifted into spastic shudders. The bartender came again into her dying snatch, hoping she got to feel at least a few of the hot globs of his spunk shooting into her before her life blinked out. He slid free of her messy snatch, tired but not finished. He scooped up Sasniss’s inert form, rolling her over so he could admire her perky, lifeless ass. Gripping his half-wilted shaft in his hand, he pumped himself back to a full erection before dropping back over the dead drow, ready to plunder a fresh hole.
As the proprietor of the tavern, Micarlin Blundyth had enjoyed all of the profits and benefits the business had to offer. She’d been in her office, going through the books and calculating the expansion of her wealth, when the rebellion started. When the group of employees and customers barged into the room, she’d sprung to her feet, demanding explanations for the invasion of privacy. They’d responded to her demands with a thorough beating before clearing her desk of the extensive paperwork strewn across it. They tore away at her clothing to gain access to the pleasant flesh hiding beneath it. A couple of the men turned their attention to the lockbox she kept the tavern’s earnings in, smashing it open and filling their pockets with her money. The rest seemed less interested in robbing her, instead focusing on whatever pleasures they could milk from her body.
Micarlin was twisted and wrestled into a variety of uncomfortable positions as the men took her, stuffing her various orifices with their eager members. The news that the tavern owner was very much on the menu passed through the establishment, ensuring that she had no reprieve from the violent gangrape. Micarlin could do nothing more than hope that this revolt was another small outburst. That the city’s guard would soon arrive to put an end to it. She imagined all of the terrible things she planned on doing to the men who’d taken advantage of her. She wondered what sort of bribes she would have to pay to allow for the display of stretched and tanned skins displayed on her walls. Maintaining a public display of the cost of such transgressions seemed like a wise move to dissuade future outbursts.
Micarlin got a sense of just how bad things were when one of her servers came into the office holding the severed head of a drow woman. The woman’s face was constricted with horror and suffering. She stared into Laran’s dead eyes as the server forced her to make out with the head, exchanging the backwash of jizz in her mouth for the stale seed leaking from the dead woman’s lips while her bartender pushed his overworked dick through her cleavage. But it wasn’t until someone with some apparent authority arrived that Micarlin realized this was not just another small burst of chaotic revolt.
Pulled from the rape-orgy, Micarlin could barely stand as the thick manacles were snapped closed around her wrists and ankles. Some of her clothing had survived the prolonged assault. It clung to her skin, soaked through with a myriad of bodily fluids, as she was ushered out of her office. She stared at the destruction littering her tavern, seeing numerous female bodies. She suspected the head she’d made out with had come from the decapitated corpse propped into a chair with her legs spread wide and a steady flow of jizz leaking from her thoroughly violated snatch. Another corpse was draped over the bar top. Several more littered the floor. A few of the women in the tavern were still alive, still in the midst of one form of rape or the other. One had been strung up in the middle of the room, barely clinging to life as her legs kicked about wildly. Her hands clawed at the rope cinching her throat closed, bulging eyes filled with panic. The hanging drow was still flailing about at the end of her rope as Micarlin was led out of her tavern and into the clutches of the rebellion.
Just as Irae and Nimor had suspected, their coordinated assault and orchestrated chaos had happened too fast for Quenthel to organize an effective response. The revolt raged on for three straight days before the bulk of the resistance was dealt with. Quenthel and a few of her advisors had managed to escape into hiding, but plans were already in motion to hunt her down. Large portions of Menzoberranzan had fallen under the rebellion’s control. The military leader – Iymace Kilduis – had pulled back from the occupied sections. With her numbers sorely reduced, she’d had no choice, shifting her focus to smaller battles committed using guerilla tactics. It seemed to be a no-win scenario, but the woman was battle hardened and a skill strategist. Even with a limited supply of soldiers, she still posed a significant threat to the rebellion.
But even with the city in shambles and victory not yet a certainty, Irae and Nimor saw no reason not to embolden their forces with shows of their strength. While they turned their minds towards dealing with the last of their enemy, they scheduled a number of public executions to keep their group entertained. A beast of a drow by the name of Ilmdus Miezzael was appointed head executioner and left to arrange and conduct the displays of gruesome demise for a portion of the prisoners that had been taken during the initial revolt. Considering he’d gleefully butchered his own daughter before striding out into the streets to start hacking his way through the panicked civilians during the start of the rebellion, he was a perfect choice. Doubly so, as neither Irae nor Nimor had ever recruited the man. He’d simply seen the opportunity and taken it. He was not the only drow male to do so, but he was – by far – the most bloodthirsty.
The makeshift execution arena erected in the town square had no shortage of options when it came to dispatching the unfortunate women scheduled for termination. There was a gallows equipped with four nooses to allow for hangings in groups, a guillotine for prompt decapitations, a burning post, and a myriad of weapons and tools to choose from. Ilmdus had entertained the masses for a good portion of a day by seeing just how much skin he could peel off of a defiant soldier bitch before she died. As it happened, the answer had been quite a lot of skin. But with a trio of women scheduled for execution and an eager crowed waiting to see the bloodshed, the man knew he could not indulge his desires to quite such an extent.
The women brought to him varied in looks and dispositions, but each and every one of them shared a couple similar traits. They’d all been brutally raped and tortured extensively before being delivered to him, and they would all be quite dead by the time they left him. The method of their snuffing was left for him to decide, with the occasional suggestion from the audience. He was, however, allowed – if not encouraged – to satiate his carnal needs with as many of the women as he liked before doing away with them. Ilmdus found he preferred the pleasures of dead flesh to living – something he’d discovered as he’d rammed his cock up the back of his daughter’s severed throat. But he was not above indulging in a bit of pre-mortem rape for the enjoyment of his audience. Occasionally, he even found means of dispatching his victims with his monstrous member, but he saved those deaths for a certain class of prisoner. Of the three he had to choose from, none of them were worthy enough for such a gloriously depraved end.
There was Brigandrith Illarr, barely a grown woman and yet she’d been tasked with fighting. The rebellion had been the rookie’s first taste of battle and she’d not had long to get the hang of it. She’d wound up being the sole survivor of her unit, treated to the sights and sounds of her fellow women being raped and ripped apart around her while she’d remained untouched, too terrified to even draw her sword. She’d not known a cock until after she’d been captured, but since, she’d grown far too accustomed to them over the short period of her incarceration. The way she stood there, hands clasped in front of her, shivering and staring vacantly into nothingness, she might as well have been dead already.
Ilmdus considered that a challenge. The bitch was there to provide entertainment. He had every intention of making her do so. A lingering demise seemed the most fitting for her, but one that would force her to engage – even instinctively. He prepared a noose for her, tugging her up onto the gallows and letting the crowd ogle her young, petite form. Usually, he liked to hang the ones with a bit more meat on their bones. The sight of jiggling flesh never failed to stir the crowd into a frenzy of excitement. But for Brigandrith, he would make an exception. If the initial drop didn’t jolt her out of her state of shock, he was certain the lengthy hanging would. He pulled the noose over her head and tightened it around her throat, careful to position the rope in such a way that it would not break her scrawny neck when it pulled closed around her. With the rookie soldier’s end prepared, Ilmdus turned his attention to the remaining two women.
Qualnva Aleghym had been a priestess before her thoroughly raped form had fallen into custody. She was livelier than Brigandrith, but only just. She kept her head down, eyes closed, lips muttering out a litany of prayers to her goddess. Ilmdus had seen that sort of behavior before. The ones who prayed had a tendency to start praying to him before the end came. She didn’t require as lengthy a demise as the rookie, but she’d nee a good deal of pain before she was ready to snuff out. Dragging Qualnva onto the stage, he moved her over to the whipping board. He tugged away the tattered remnants of her robe before strapping her face down onto the board, leaving her smooth backside and plump ass on full display for the crowd. He could have a good deal of fun whipping the piety out of her while Brigandrith hung. But before he could get started on that, he had one last victim to deal with. His show-starter.
Jhaellin T’iom was another soldier, but far more experienced than Brigandrith. She’d remained defiant through the initial rapes before her capture and even throughout the abuses she’d endured while being a prisoner. As she tugged at her bindings and aimed deadly glares at everyone around her, Ilmdus could see she was itching for a fight, an opportunity to prove that her failure up until that point had simply been a streak of bad luck. She’d gladly put on an entertaining show for the crowd, but the interest in her would wane before long. The perfect victim to get things started. Ilmdus pulled her up onto the stage with him. She twisted away from his grip and spat a thick wad of saliva onto his broad chest.
“You will pay for this,” she hissed at her executioner before turning her ire upon the group gathered to watch her end. “You will all pay for this. When we’ve reclaimed this city, your heads will line the streets. Those that live will be branded as traitors and banished into the wilderness. You’ll carry out your days consumed by the shame you’ve brought upon yourselves and your families. You’ll die alone and abandoned, a miserable death for miserable people. And I’ll be there. Somehow, I’ll be there for all of it. I’ll watch you crumble and fade away and I will laugh.” The crowd laughed and booed at her defiant monologue, but Jhaellin was too caught up in it to notice that Ilmdus had stepped away from her. “Queen Qunethel will have her revenge! And the light of the pyres made from your corpses will be seen for miles.” She lifted her head, looking to the sky with eyes brimming with tears of pride, unintentionally giving the executioner a clear target. “I will watch it all, and I will lau – “
The broadsword met the side of Jhaellin’s neck, cleaving through meat and bone with a swift stroke. Her head was sent into the air, riding the top of the geyser of blood erupting from her severed neck. Her body snapped rigid, remaining on her feet as her head dropped to the stage floor with a hard thud. The head rolled about awkwardly before landing on its side, muscular tremors creeping through her shocked face. As blood rained across her nude form, her headless corpse stumbled about on the stage, deaf to the cheers from the crowd. She dropped to one knee, plump breasts shoved forward as her left shoulder underwent a series of spastic jerks backwards, twisting her torso to the side. The body fell forward, tits smacking against the blood-stained wood of the stage as her athletic legs kicked out, stretching straight before crumpling inwards, humping an invisible lover as piss gushed from her loins. Ilmdus planted a boot against her hip and shoved her body onto its side, allowing her wild flailing to continue as blood drained from her neck stump. With the floppy thudding the soldier’s headless husk pounding away and the cheers of the crowd continuing to roll through the arena, Ilmdus made his way back to the gallows.
Stepping next to Brigandrith and resting his hand against the lever that would seal her fate, he saw the rookie had managed to shake herself free of at least some of the daze she’d been in. “Are you with us, little one?” the executioner asked.
Brigandrith managed a nod, but her eyes remained fixed on Jhaellin’s still twitching body. Ilmdus gave it a look as well. “Did you know her?” he asked.
Another nod. It looked like she wanted to say something, but she couldn’t get her lips to stop trembling long enough to get the words out. Whatever it was, it didn’t much matter.
“She’s gone, little one,” Ilmdus confided. “But she still has some use left in her. When she finishes kicking about like that, I’ll toss her into the crowd. Try to keep the tears out of your eyes long enough and you’ll see what they do to her. You should know, when you’re finished, I’ll do the same with you.” He watched the knowledge sinking into the rookie’s traumatized mind. And, just like that, she was back to being a paralyzed victim. Ilmdus sighed. He’d hoped for more from her, but he wasn’t finished trying to get it. He tugged at the lever and the trapdoor swung out from beneath Brigandrith’s feet. She managed half a squeak as she dropped before the noose cinched tightly around her thin throat. She wasn’t fully strangled yet, but even the insignificant weight of her body would be enough to do her in eventually. The shock of the drop and the pain around her throat seemed to be enough to get her properly squirming. For the moment, that would be enough.
The priestess was still praying when Ilmdus returned to her, but she was still offering those prayers to the wrong deity. He was the only god she needed to worry about any longer. It was time to show her as much. Selecting one of the nastier whips he had at his disposal – the one with a half-dozen ends lined with twisted lengths of rusted metal – the executioner went to work. The first lash was enough to open up several light gouges across the drow woman’s back, stretching from one shoulder blade halfway down to her ass. She did not hold back the scream of pain, but in its wake she only began to pray louder, calling out to her goddess for salvation. Ilmdus continued to lash away at her, ripping open her back and buttocks. Blood flowed steadily down her length, curling around her quivering ass cheeks and down her shuddering thighs. Qualnva’s shrieks of agony blended with Brigandrith’s gurgles of slow strangling to create a symphony of suffering for the rowdy crowd observing the dual executions. He’d forgotten to kick Jhaellin’s corpse to them, but the audience was not above stepping in to lend the executioner some assistance. Her headless husk was dragged into their midst, stuffed full of their rigid pricks. Against her better judgement, Brigandrith managed to blink the tears of pain from her eyes long enough to watch the defiant soldier’s body being violated. The sight of it, along with the growing urgency in her half-strangled lungs, was enough to get her really dancing in the air.
Tugging the barbed whip free from Qualnva’s devastated back, Ilmdus leaned in close to her. “Who do you worship?” he growled. The tortured priestess responded with a whimper, naming her goddess. With an annoyed snarl, the executioner tossed the whip aside and stuffed his hand into the open sack of rock salt he had for especially troublesome victims. He chucked the salt across the tattered flesh of Qualnva’s back, delighting in her howls of fresh agony. When she got through the pain, he leaned in again and repeated his question.
“Y-you,” she groaned out, barely a whisper. The word was harsh thanks to the ravaging her throat had suffered from all the screaming.
Only minimally satisfied, Ilmdus rotated the whipping board so that Qualnva was forced to look out into the crowd of people cheering her suffering along. “Louder,” he barked, smacking his open palm – still layered in a bit of salt – against her ruined posterior. The priestess’s eyes bulged, releasing another scream and nearly passing out from the pain. “Who do you worship, priestess?”
“You!” she managed to scream. “All of you! You are all my god now! I am your dutiful servant! Simply ask and I shall deliver!”
Ilmdus chuckled as he palmed a curved dagger. “Was that so hard?” he asked, bringing the blade up against Qualnva’s throat. He opened it up with a smooth slice, watching the shock roll through her face as a heavy spurt of crimson erupted from her gashed open neck. The woman died slower than Jhaellin, but not as slowly as Brigandrith, listening to the wild applause from the audience as she bled out over the back of the whipping board. She was still drifting towards death when Ilmdus loosened her restraints. Her weak form collapsed onto the stage, one heavy hand moving slowly to clutch at the slice splitting her neck open. The executioner hefted her body up and chucked her nearly dead form into the waiting embrace of the crowd. She would live long enough to feel the first erection wedging its way into her severed esophagus.
With two out of three of the executions completed, those that weren’t enjoying the spoils turned their eyes to the final woman. Brigandrith was really hanging and putting on a surprisingly impressive performance for them. Her petite frame swayed at the end of her rope, legs kicking about in the air, clenching toes stretching towards the floor. Her bulging eyes were full of panic and regret, the peaks of her perky tits standing at rigid attention. It seemed she’d finally discovered her fighting spirit, at the very end when it would do her little good. Wet gurgles poured out of her gaping mouth as she struggled to breathe through her pinhole-sized windpipe. Every inch of her slender figure glistened with the sweat pouring out of her. Her body turned at the end of the rope, offering the audience a tantalizing view of her tight ass clenching and releasing. She’d been hanging for a good while already and, by the look of it, she still had a long ways to go before she finally died. With no other prisoners waiting to die and the crowd still enjoying the show, Ilmdus saw no reason to hurry things along.
The rookie would be a warm corpse before too long. And then Ilmdus would satisfy his own urges with her remains before tossing the leftovers to the audience.
Not all of the women captured by the rebellion were offered up to Ilmdus’ execution events. Only those deemed unworthy of other uses. The revolution would not have been possible without the contributions of certain members. Nimor had brought up the possibility of rewarding those members for their efforts with some of the surplus of female flesh they now had in stock. Irae had loved the idea. And with Iymace beaten back and forced to assume a solely defensive posture with her dwindling supply of troops, she had no trouble devoting some time arranging the delivery of a few special trophies to those that had aided them the most.
For his part in leading her to Nimor, Irae had been happy to track down a priestess who’d frequented Lashrae’s massage parlor. He’d admitted to Irae that he had a special infatuation with the woman. He’d even attempted going through the appropriate courting ritual with her, only to have her openly laugh off his attempts before declaring his intentions publicly. The attempt had earned Lashrae a severe punishment for fraternizing with a customer, enough to kill any interest he had in the priestess romantically.
But not sexually.
Aunrae would have been overjoyed to learn that not all of her fellow priestesses had been slaughtered during the initial stage of the revolt, but that joy would have soured if she’d learned that survival was not the gift it should have been. She’d have recalled the afternoon Amagara Baenreond had returned from her weekly massage with a tale of a brash masseuse who’d dare to attempt to court her. She’d have recalled joining in on the laughter and mockery of the man. But she’d not have been able to remember the masseuse’s name. In her current situation – with both of her sons attempting to ram their pricks up her gaping asshole simultaneously – she couldn’t be blamed for the lapse of memory. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. She would never learn of Amagara’s unfortunate fate at all.
Upon accepting delivery of his reward, Lashrae intended to do everything he could to make sure that Amagara would never forget his name. If he broke her just right, he was certain he could make sure it was the only thing she remembered. He’d intended to do so regardless, but the look of disgust she’d flashed him upon seeing just who she was being given to cemented his intention. He strapped her down to a massage table – the same one she’d lain across so many times previously – and went about giving his new plaything her initial inspection. He explored her body thoroughly with just his hands first, fingers tracing over the curves of her buttocks and along the sides of her ribs, before slipping beneath her to give her plump breasts a hard squeeze. When the exploration concluded, he satisfied himself with spanking her upturned rump, listening to her whimpered discomfort as he watched her flesh ripple from the repeated impacts of his palm. He jerked himself off over her ass, layering her aching cheeks with his seed before working the deposit into her pours with his talented fingers. Amagara would remain bound to the table, enduring the eruption of his creamy bodily secretions across her flawless flesh followed by his perverted new style of massage therapy until she became so thoroughly soaked with his seed that she would continue to reek of his cum long after he’d finished with her. Before long, the smell would drive her mad, until the former priestess would do anything if only to feel his jizz on her skin, his fingers working it into her pours. Amagara would become his eager cum-craving pet. And when she crawled to him, begging for what dwell within his balls, he would occasionally give in and laugh in her face as he waved his prick in front of her. A fitting slice of revenge.
After being taken captive and seeing the full extent of the rebellion ravaging its way through Menzoberranzan, Micarlin had not expected to see her tavern again. As she was led back into the place only scant days later, she wished she’d never had to see what had become of it. There were still signs of the initial revolt, bloodstains and broken furniture. The body of the drow woman who’d been strung up had been removed, but the makeshift noose remained. It was enough to send a shudder down Micarln’s spine, remembering the way she’d heard the woman gurgling out urgently, no doubt begging for help as she’d died. But even that revulsion paled in comparison to the discovery of who’d taken charge of her beloved tavern in her absence.
Nalgo Hylaerth had been a good bartender. He knew how to mix drinks and banter with customers. Micarlin had tolerated the passes he’d made at her over the years. And she’d punished him appropriately the few times she’d caught him stealing from her. She’d not considered him a friend, but she’d thought there’d been some degree of mutual respect between them. Less so on her part, but she’d at least considered him a semi-loyal employee. Deep down, she’d hoped that his behavior during the revolt had simply been him getting caught up in all of the excitement, taking advantage of the situation. Finding him in charge of the tavern now and herself being presented to him as a reward for his assistance in the rebellion cast a new, twisted light on what had actually happened that day.
The outburst of violence within the tavern had not been random. It had simply been one of many staged events taking place across the city. Nalgo had been recruited due to his somewhat elevated position in the establishment and he’d talked the other servers into going along with it. It hadn’t taken much convincing, especially after Nalgo revealed just how much of the tavern’s profits Micarlin kept for herself. A few of the male regulars in the tavern had agreed to take part as well. The rest had simply gone along with the event once it broke out. The promises of reform given to them by Nimor and Irae suited Nalgo and the others just fine, but they’d agreed to go along with the outburst for a different reason. They’d simply wanted to give Micarlin the hard fucking they figured she deserved. Now, for his part in the rebellion, Nalgo was being rewarded. She was to be his slave.
Micarlin’s captors had not passed along any of the details of what had transpired. She’d learned it from Nalgo shortly after passing into his possession. He’d been happy to gloat to her about how well he’d played her as he’d made her suck him off. The former tavern owner’s bleak mood only worsened as Nalgo painted her face with his cum, listening to what he had planned for her life. She would work as his serving wench when she wasn’t busy being his whore. He’d already purchased a number of inappropriately revealing outfits for her to wear while she was working. “But don’t worry, my dear,” he assured her as he stroked his fingers across her left breast. “You’re not just my whore. You’re the tavern whore. If a customer’s got the silver, he’s got your holes.”
Laying her down over the bed – what used to be her bed – Nalgo rubbed his stiffening member and climbed over her. He eased his way into her cunt from behind, taking his time violating her this time. They’d been in such a rush before and he really wanted to enjoy himself this time. Staring at the headboard as Nalgo fucked her, Micarlin dwelled in the newfound misery of her captivity. Then her former bartender muttered off a remark that chilled her blood. “I wonder if that kid sister of yours survived the rebellion,” Nalgo pondered. “I’ll need more bitches in this place to really make a profit.”
Breaking down captured soldiers into obedient sex slaves tended to go one of two ways. There were the defiant ones, clinging to their training to maintain bravery in the face of total defeat. Those ones tended to wind up being executed. Breaking them would take time and resources the rebellion could not afford to spare. Other soldiers broke with surprising ease. Perhaps it had something to do with the regimented training they’d undergone learning to obey orders without question. Being an obedient servant wasn’t much different aside from the details. Instead of being ordered to break through the enemy lines and establish a secure perimeter, they were ordered to crawl around on the floor and shake their asses. Considering the survival rate of a slave was marginally higher than that of a soldier, embracing the change in profession wasn’t quite so outlandish.
After her capture, Quarril Melrret had fallen into the latter camp. To say she was pleased with the change would have been a vast overstatement, but she could tolerate being someone’s slave if it meant she got to go on living. When the orders came down that she was to be transferred from the holding cell to a more permanent station, she took them in stride. Delivery was made without incident and she went along with her integration into her new life without complaint. The man she’d been gifted to was Antomph Claddval, a captain in the rebellion’s ragtag group of military units. She’d met him previously, during the initial revolt. Her unit had been dispatched to break up a group of disorderly men making their way through the streets. She’d not thought much of the assignment or the rabble they’d been tasked with putting down. Not until Antomph had launched his surprise attack.
Half of Quarril’s unit had been cut down in the initial attack. Several more had died in the subsequent skirmish before their ranks had been broken. If she’d known the man who’d forced her to suck him off on the streets would soon become her master, Quarril might have behaved differently at the time. The sense of pride she’d felt when she’d clamped her teeth closed around his erection was gone. Now she only feared what he’d do to her in return now that she belonged to him. That fear had Quarril on her best behavior as she waited in the man’s office for his arrival. She was nude, skin glistening with oil. The position she held might have been considered an appropriate military stance if not for the perversity of it. Her legs were parted and held straight, creating a V-shape that lead directly to her loins. She was bent forward over the man’s desk, arms at her sides and fingers curling around to clutch her buttocks, presenting her cunt and asshole for inspection.
Quarril’s tense muscles began to quiver with exhaustion as she was left to wait there for dragging hours. When she heard the door to the office finally click open, she breathed a sigh of relief, but otherwise maintained her passively obedient expression. She winced as Antomph gripped her by the hair and forced her to stand, feeling a spasm running its way through her back. He pulled her around to face him, leveling a smug smile at her. “I’ve been told you no longer have a problem keeping that mouth of yours open,” he growled. “But forgive me for wanting to make sure.” Quarril did not resist as he pulled her jaw open and worked the specially crafted mouth gag past her lips. The taste of rusted metal assaulted her tongue as the sharp points of the gag curled around to press into the skin around her lips. He tightened the strap securely at the base of her skull, ensuring that it would not slip out of place. Despite the foul taste and the pain of the gag, Quarril understood Antomph’s desire to use it. As he ordered her onto her knees and slid his bruised prick into her mouth, she hoped that one day she would earn the right to remove the gag.
For the time being, she focused on sucking her new master off.
Irae and Nimor were mere hours away from a martial victory over the previous regime ruling over Menzoberranzan. Iymace had been driven into a mere few square blocks of city with only a handful of troops left at her disposal. The woman still posed some threat, but the delay in finishing her off came more from a standpoint of needing to take her alive. Queen Quenthel had managed to keep herself hidden throughout the revolt. If anyone knew where she was, it was Iymace. Beyond simple intelligence gathering, the military leader was a high priority target. Breaking her down and sentencing her to a painful demise would do wonders for the rebels, another notch on their victory belts. While Iymace spent her time futilely attempting to figure out a way to escape her certain defeat, Irae worked with the rebel military to come up with a sound strategy for snaring the woman.
Nimor had other pressing matters to attend to. Those of a religious nature. With all the good fortune he’d met with over the last few weeks and victory well within sight, it seemed wise to cover any potential means of bad luck that could befall them. The Arachnid Caverns lay just outside of the city. The oversized spiders that dwelled within them were seen as lesser incarnations of the Spider Queen. There’d been a time in drow history when a great number of sacrifices had been made to the creatures, but now they were a less common affair, mostly reserved for undesirables in need of disappearing or the occasional young drow too stupid to know better than to wander into the caverns. In the past, sacrifices had typically been male. And while Nimor’s personal deity – Vhaeraun – had no love for the Spider Queen, he suspected the lesser god would appreciate the sacrifice he had put together for the arachnids. Lolth would be satisfied with whatever blood was shed in her name. Vhaeraun would look favorably on the rise of a male to power in drow society and the decision to sacrifice a clutch of women to his mother’s pets.
Nimor and the group of guards he’d enlisted to help him escort the batch of sacrifices did not dare enter the caverns. They prodded the line of enslaved drow females along, forcing them into the dark passages with the knowledge that none of them would ever return. The bulk of the sacrifices were made up of the women too broken to provide entertaining executions, or too undesirable to make decent slaves, but there were one or two prime cuts of female flesh in the mix. Those diamonds amongst the coal were meant as the true gifts to the gods. The rest were simply garnish. The giant spiders did not care about the quality of their victims, but they were quite excited at the quantity of them.
One of the diamonds, Dhaunafay Arkenviir, had spent the bulk of her life in luxury. Her voluptuous, soft figure made that obvious. She’d been a private performer for Queen Quenthel. When the queen had abandoned her castle, Dhaunafay had been left behind. She’d put up no fight when the rebels had stormed her home. Even knowing what lay in wait within the Arachnid Caverns, she went along without incident. She did manage a rather impressive scream when she saw one of the massive spiders descend from the ceiling above her. Dhaunafay was pulled into the arachnid’s clutches, sticky webbing binding her with even more firmness than the rusty manacles around her wrists. Carried up to the ceiling and left suspended, she had a clear view of the horrors transpiring within the caverns.
Lyberra Rhomdossz was one of the coal. She was older, but age had not diminished her beauty. Her life as a soldier, on the other hand, had taken a toll on her. Her dark skin was marred with a myriad of scars, including one that crossed her face from the top of her forehead down across one eye and curving along her cheek. She’d been allowed to keep her eyepatch, only because the vacant pit where her right eye had been before the wound unnerved the men who’d had their fun raping her before she’d been picked to be a sacrifice. As she watched the women around her being snatched up by the spiders, hauled off to become food or deposits for the creatures’ eggs, a spark of her warrior spirit managed to stir within her.
She broke away from the group, darting deeper into the spider lair. Escaping the cavern was her primary goal, but she needed some way of fighting her way through the men guarding the entrance. Her eye shifted from side to side, searching for some kind of weapon. With her hands bound in front of her, defending herself would be tricky but not impossible. Lyberra breathed a sigh of relief, tried to block out the sounds of screams surrounding her, as she spotted a broken length of bone several feet away. She hurried for the bone, bending forward to scoop it into her hands. Lyberra turned, ready to slash and stab her way to freedom. Instead, she let loose with her own scream, joining the symphony of suffering surrounding her as a spider – small compared to some of the others – leapt at her.
The weight of the spider forced Lyberra to the ground. She managed to angle the broken bone away so that it wouldn’t plunge into her body. She jerked it upwards with all the strength she had, managing to pierce the spider’s underside. The thing let out a high-pitched chittering shriek into her face before stretching its mandibles wide and sinking its fangs into her neck. The pain of the penetration hit her first. She clenched her jaw and rammed the bone deeper into the spider, skewering it as it unleashed a fatal dose of venom into her veins. Lyberra managed to pierce something vital within the spider. The creature let out a shudder before slumping into death on top of her. Even if the ex-soldier had the strength to lift the carcass off of her, she lacked the time. The venom was already ravaging her from within, preparing her as a tasty snack for whatever spider happened upon her next.
Lyberra’s body shuddered and jerked beneath the corpse of her arachnid killer. Bloody foam spewed from her sputtering lips as her innards were broken down into a nutrient-rich slop. Thick blood leaked from her asshole and cunt, dribbled form her nostrils and leaked from her solitary eye like crimson tears. The hollow pit of her missing eye became clogged with the slop before it managed to ooze from the edges of her eyepatch. She lived several minutes longer than the spider that had attacked her, but they were minutes spent in excruciating agony until enough of her inner workings had dissolved to finally bring her life to an end. The spider carcass was dragged off of the woman’s body, dragged off to become another meal for the hive. The creatures had no qualms about cannibalism. By that time, Lyberra’s body had become a swollen sack of juicy fluids, a ready feast for the spiders as they sank their fangs into her and proceeded to slurp up her liquified organs.
Dhaunafay had seen the ex-soldier’s attempted escape. She’d seen the spider creeping up on her before the fatal attack. But she’d not been in any position to call out and warn the woman. Her spider captor had positioned itself behind her. A fleshy proboscis extended from the arachnid’s abdomen, curling around and sheathing itself within the dancer’s cunt. Dhaunafay wailed as thick rubbery eggs were pumped into her writhing form, squeezed into her uterus. She’d never had a fighter’s physique, but she’d always taken pride in her body. Watching as her stomach deformed, bulging awkwardly out, sickened her more than the knowledge that she was being stuffed full of the unhatched offspring of the monster violating her.
With dozens of eggs crammed into her reproductive system, the spider withdrew its proboscis from Dhaunafay’s sex. It repositioned itself slightly before driving forward again, stretching her asshole open. The drow dancer wailed as more eggs were stuffed into her bowels, thoroughly plugging her ass and sliding deeper along her intestinal tract. Her belly expanded to obscene proportions. She’d never entertained the notion of having a child, too worried about what the process would do to her body. The insanity tickling its way through her mind told her she’d made the right choice as she looked down at what was being done to her. There was no way she would ever be able to recover her flawless physique, even if she wasn’t destined to die as the spider’s offspring hatched and ate their way through her.
To Dhuanafay’s left and right, she saw other women suspended as she was, each of their bodies equally filled with eggs. Some of the women screamed wildly, bulging eyes filled with panicked madness. Others appeared to be passed out. Maybe dead. She certainly felt as if she could die as her skin stretched taut, the internal pressure of her body driven to the limits of what it could handle. She watched as one screaming woman’s head was engulfed in the massive maw of her spider rapist. With a wet crunch, the spider bit down, ending the woman’s screams and reducing her head into a gory pulp. Blood and thick chunks of brain and bone splattered into the dead drow’s cleavage before sliding away to plop to the floor below. The gruesome sight was enough to make Dhaunafay puke. She choked as she retched, feeling a solid lump of something squeezing its way up her throat. She stared in sickened horror as one of the many eggs that had been pushed into her plopped from her stretched lips. The fleshy sack bounced off her left breast before spinning its way to the ground, smashing open against a rock.
Dhaunafay’s head spun, vision going grey. As the spider finished filling her body with eggs, she slumped in the webbing, passing out. The pain of the spiders hatching inside her would draw her back to consciousness, but only for the short span of time it took the baby spiders to chew away enough of her innards to kill her.
The battle for Menzoberranzan was over. The bodies of drow littered the streets, more women than men. Rebels cheered wildly as Iymace Kilduis was led from the building she’d been holding out in, shackled and beaten. The woman maintained a proud defiance as the rabble surrounding her hurled chunks of rotten food at her. They’d made her watch as the last two soldiers she’d had under her command were violently raped and hacked to pieces. Now she was treated to what had become of the rest of the city while she’d been waging her losing war against the revolt. The journey to the rebellion’s command took her past several points where she’d mounted defenses and attacks. She recognized far too many faces lying dead in the streets, soldiers and friends.
As she approached the house Irae and Nimor had taken over as their command post, she spotted yet another familiar face on one of the balconies. Quarril Melrret had been a reliable captain in her forces. Now the woman looked like some common whore, bent over the balcony railing as her master took her from behind. Drool leaked from the uniquely crafted mouth gag stuffed into her lips. Iymace’s eyes met Quarril’s, but the military leader saw no hint of horror in the captain’s expression, only acceptance. And pleasure. The sight sickened Iymace. The thought that even one woman in her army had given in to the rebellion, had decided to go along with their twisted notions of what drow society should be, disappointed her deeper than her failure.
Iymace knew they would not kill her. Not until she gave them the precious knowledge tucked away in her head. It was her last chance at victory. As she was led into the house, the military leader made a solemn vow to herself. No matter what was done to her, she would not give up the queen’s location. She would find a way to anger them enough into killing her, or she would find a way to kill herself, before that happened. One last mission to go on. The most important mission of her life. She intended to see it through to the end.
Iymace had not anticipated just how well Irae and Nimor had planned for her eventual arrival. While they’d kept their roles in the rebellion largely concealed, they’d had no shortage of information on their adversaries. As such, they’d designed a means of torture for Iymace that was guaranteed to keep her off guard and uncertain of what she would have to deal with next. It all began rather obviously. A mass rape. They’d recruited particular individuals to take part in the event, although – from Iymace’s perspective – it would seem like the whole of the rebellion was being allowed to torment her body for their own pleasure. The selection process was an important aspect. It kept any potential psychotics out of the mix, those that would disobey orders in the heat of the moment and kill the woman. Beyond that, a preference was given to the drow males with the largest members, to maximize Iymace’s discomfort.
Iymace had anticipated being raped from the moment she’d fallen into the rebellion’s clutches. The process of having her various holes stretched around one massive cock after the next as far from pleasant, but she could tolerate it. Maybe not forever, but certainly long enough to buy Queen Quenthel the time she needed to escape the city. Those arrangements had already been made. Iymace had hoped to hold out a bit longer before her capture, to continue being the visible distraction Quenthel needed to escape Menzoberranzan undetected. As far as backup plans went, being forced to endure one rough penetration after the next was hardly what Iymace would call ideal, but she was a soldier, and she would do her duty, regardless of what it meant for her.
Iymace disconnected from reality, took the hard fuckings like the professional she was. Every load of hot cum pumped into her felt like it was getting her one step closer to her victory. She found a particular appreciation for the men who took forever to get off. They wasted time that was precious to everyone but Iymace. It was only at the end of the military leader’s lengthy rape session that Irae brought out the first of many surprises. Iymace did a poor job of hiding the shocked disdain from her face as Quarril was brought in. The captain-turned-slave wore a harness, a thick fake cock fashioned out of tanned leather swayed in front of her. At her master’s command, Quarril moved in and pushed the head of the fake phallus into Iymace’s aching, gaping asshole.
Ramming deep into the woman who’d commanded her such a short time ago, Quarril found her mind twisting to see the rebellion’s point of view. She recalled all the times Iymace had ordered her around, badgered her for not being perfect in her execution of certain tactics, talked down to her in front of her unit. Being afforded the freedom to fuck the once high and mighty bitch left her mind tickled with a perverse satisfaction. The promise that if she gave the commander a properly hard fucking, Atomph would finally remove her gag only inspired her further. She clutched at one of Iymace’s tits, yanking hard on her nipple as she bucked into the woman’s rear. She didn’t hide how much fun she was having from her former commander. Seeing just how much her enjoyment bothered Iymace only amused her further.
When the rape session finally came to an end, Iymace was hauled down to the house’s basement where a cell had been prepared for her. It was dark, dank, and completely isolated. They left her there, untouched. Iymace had silently chastised the rebellion for such a stupid plan. Making her wait to be tortured and raped again only benefited her. But the darkness was thick. And lonely. It didn’t take long for the isolation to eat away at her. Her captors had been careful, removing any opportunities for her to harm herself from the cell. She only had to wait, but she had no means of determining how long she’d been in the cell. The lack of toilet forced her to choose where in the darkness she would attend to her biological processes. That paired with the meals she was given – made up of some kind of slop that she desperately hoped was not made from the leftovers of dead drow meat – reinforced the feeling that she’d been reduced to some low beast.
After being trapped in the cell for what felt like months, Iymace’s mental fortitude had weakened to the point that she was ready for the next stage of her torture. Pulled form her cell, she looked little like the proud soldier she’d been on the day of her capture. The light burned her eyes as she was led upstairs and out onto a balcony that overlooked the streets. The same balcony she’d seen Quarril being fucked on. Her eyes slowly adjusted to life in the light again, but she was left with a pounding migraine spearing into her overtaxed brain. She looked out at what had become of the city during her isolation. There were still signs of the revolt littering the streets, but it appeared as if life was settling into the new regime. Drow males strolled freely. Some of them led enslaved women along on leashes. She spotted a few scenes of public sex taking place, the males free to take their women as they desired.
Iymace could see the town square from the balcony. Specifically, the execution arena that had been set up. She saw three of the four nooses were occupied. Two of the women were already dead. The third was still kicking and jerking at the end of her rope, but it looked like she was well on her way out. The changes to the city were startling, sickening, but it seemed to reinforce her belief that she’d been locked up for a long period of time. Surely, the queen had escaped the city. If she’d not, Iymace was certain she’d have been informed before being hauled out to the execution arena. The fact that she’d not been meant that – perhaps – she’d succeeded in her final mission.
Then the guard at her side informed her of how long she’d actually been in the cell.
Three days. Only three days.
Something deep in Iymace’s mind snapped. Her passive face scrunched up, desperately trying to hold back the misery. She failed. The military commander dropped to her knees, leaning against the balcony as horrendous sobs poured from her. Behind her, in the room, Irae and Nimor shared a smile, knowing that the next stage of the woman’s torture was ready to start. It was time for them to bring in their second secret weapon.
Grompf Baenre had been integral during the planning stages of the rebellion. His knowledge and connections had allowed Irae and Nimor to orchestrate the initial stage of the revolt, giving them the much needed edge to gain a fast and devastating upper hand over the Queen’s forces. Since then, he’d not engaged in much of the rebellion, satisfied to stand back and await the capture of his younger sister. With that goal within reach, he was more than happy to lend his assistance to breaking Iymace. He entered the room to find the woman waiting for him, stripped nude and bound to a chair. Various torture tools had been arranged on a table in front of her, misleading the woman into believing she was going to be suffering physically.
Grompf had plans for the tools, but Iymace was not his victim. She was merely a means to that end. He dragged a second chair in front of the woman and sat across from her. It was clear she was still dazed, recovering from her time spent in isolation and the revelation that she’d not been kept in the dark nearly as long as she’d believed she was. Having known her before the rebellion, Grompf was surprised to see just how far she’d fallen in such a short period of time. She’d not even lifted her head when he’d come in, vacant eyes fixed on the tops of her thighs. Grompf cleared his throat. When that didn’t break through her daze, he spoke.
“Hello, Iymace,” he called to her. The familiarity of his voice managed to cut through whatever haze was clouding her mind. She lifted her head, looked at him. Her brow furrowed, confusion in her eyes as she tried to work out if he was really there or if she’d somehow slipped so deep into madness that she’d begun to hallucinate. He offered the military leader a friendly smile. “It’s really me,” he assured her.
Iymace struggled to speak. Her throat ached from disuse – beyond being the rape receptacle of several dozen pricks – but she managed to get the words out. “Wh-what are you doing here?” she asked, looking around the room, confirming they were alone. “Are you… did they capture you, too? Are you…” Her face sank as she realized the truth. “Oh, goddess, you’re a part of this, aren’t you? You had to be. They could never have pulled this off without you.” Iymace was proud. She managed to hold back the sobs, even if she failed to stop the tears from leaking down her cheeks. “How could you?”
“There are things you don’t know, Iymace,” he told her. “Things that made this whole dreadful rebellion necessary. Your queen cares nothing for you. For her people. She only desires power.”
Iymace shook her head. “That’s not true.”
“It’s very true,” Grompf pressed firmly. “Where is she now as her kingdom suffers? So much bloodshed, so much death. Much of it could have been avoided if she’d simply surrendered.” He let out a cruel laugh. “But my sister will never do such a thing. She covets the throne too much to do that. She never told you what happened to her older sister, did she? No, she wouldn’t have. That is a secret she keeps from even her closest of advisors. Triel was destined to rule this city. Quenthel – spoiled bitch that she is – decided she’d be better at it. So she killed Triel. She murdered her sister in cold blood. All for power. If she could do that to her own blood, do you really think she cares for anyone else? She’s only interested in what they can do for her. Your suffering now to defend a woman who would gladly hand you over in a heartbeat if the positions were reversed. Does that really seem worth it to you?”
Iymace didn’t want to believe Grompf’s accusations. She’d never known the man to lie before. Up until learning he’d helped to lead the rebellion, she’d even respected him. But as much as her mind struggled to deny what she was hearing, she could not banish the spark of doubt left in her heart. As the silence grew between them, Iymace made a decision. She didn’t care. She didn’t care what Quenthel had done or whether she was worthy of the sacrifices she’d made – would continue to make. She was a soldier and she had a duty. She would continue to obey that duty until she no longer drew breath. Her face firmed, head rose, a steely defiance seeping back into her eyes. “I will not tell you where she is,” she growled.
Grompf sighed as he rose from his seat, feigning disappointment. He’d seen the struggle on her face before she’d returned to her resolute defiance. That was all he needed. His part in Iymace’s breaking as complete. He left the room without offering her another word.
Another night spent in darkness. Iymace spent the bulk of it cultivating her newfound hatred for Grompf. The man was a traitor. Despite whatever crimes Queen Quenthel had committed, the atrocities she’d witnessed at the hands of the rebellion were far worse. That’s what she kept telling herself to beat back the selfishness eating away at her, the doubt. Lingering what ifs plagued her. How many young women had she led to their deaths in her attempt to save the city from invasion from within? If she’d ordered her troops to lay down their arms from the start, could the outcome have been different? Would the rebels have been satisfied with the queen in exchange for the safety of the soldiers? Iymace tried to tell herself that it no longer mattered. Things had gone too far to change anything. All she could do was continue to follow the course she’d set and hope that, in the grand scheme of things, it meant something.
The guard seemed particularly amused when he came for her the next morning. “We’ve got a surprise for you, honey,” he informed her as he hauled her out of the cell and back upstairs. The balcony awaited her, as did Irae and Nimor. They seemed just as amused as the guard. It worried Iymace.
Did they find the queen? Did I hold out for nothing?
“For a woman of power, you do like your privacy, don’t you, Iymace?” Irae asked, face splitting into a wide grin. “I’m impressed, actually. It’s not easy for a woman in your position to keep a pregnancy hidden. Perhaps you were ashamed, or you simply could not allow such a trivial thing as motherhood to get in the way of your duty?” Irae laughed openly as she saw the blood draining from Iymace’s shocked face. “Tell me, as you were leading your troops from one failure of a battle to the next, did you ever even try to send word to your daughter? To try and get her out of the city? Or did your loyalty to the queen cloud your sense of duty to your own blood?” She offered a dismissive wave of her hand. “It hardly matters. What does matter is that we’ve found her for you.”
Iymace’s body was numb as she was led out onto the balcony, her eyes directed to the execution arena. The groan of horror that droned past her lips sounded unlike any sound she’d made in her life. The groan shifted into a single word, her daughter’s name. “Imva.” She’d not laid eyes on her daughter in years, since delivering her into the custody of the priestesses to be raised. Her daughter had grown into a beautiful young woman. It made seeing her standing on the gallows with a noose around her throat all the harder to witness. Iymace had never felt a motherly instinct before, even when she’d been holding her newborn daughter to her lactating nipple. In the confusion and struggle of the unexpected revolt, she’d not offered the young woman even a single thought. Iymace had tasted many forms of failure over the course of her life. None of them stung as badly as the neglect she’d shown her daughter.
“You want the queen,” she gasped, tears blurring her eyes. “I’ll give her to you. Whatever you wish. Just, please, let Imva go. She’s done nothing to you, she’s not a threat.”
Irae nodded, lifting a hairless eyebrow. “We’re waiting.”
Iymace unleashed the precious information she had. She let them know where Queen Quenthel had been hiding, the plans of her escape from the city, the route she’d be taking, the names of the advisors she had with her, anything, everything. The words came out fast and occasionally jumbled, not wanting to delay for even an instant in fear that Irae would consider it a sign that she was holding something back. When she ran out of information to give, she let out a deep breath, seeming to deflate. Her shoulders slumped, head drooping. Whatever relief she felt was soured with the knowledge that she’d failed her final mission as a soldier. The only solace she could find was that perhaps she’d won her first victory as a mother.
“Thank you,” Irae said with a smile before turning to the town square. She lifted her hand and signaled Ilmdus to proceed with the execution.
Iymace’s heart sank, body jolting to attention. “No!” she cried out, but there was nothing to be done but watch as Ilmdus tugged the lever releasing the trap door beneath her daughter’s feet. Ivma’s body dropped and Iymace felt a sick sense of pride that her daughter did not scream as death rushed to greet her. The rope snapped rigid. The sound of Ivma’s neck snapping cut across the air, deafeningly loud in Iymace’s ears. She watched as her body danced about awkwardly at the end of the rope. But even from a distance, she could see no life in her eyes. The spasms were nothing more than twitches of death. The applause from the gathered crowd sickened her. She made an attempt to throw herself at Irae, wanting to tackle the woman over the balcony, not caring if she smashed her skull open on the street below if it meant taking the pale-skinned bitch with her.
The guard at Iymace’s side responded quickly, cracking his fist across the back of her head. The broken military leader collapsed to the floor, her desire for vengeance stolen from her. She clutched her arms to her belly, remembering what it had felt like as Ivma had grown within her womb and releasing pathetic wails of misery.
Irae enjoyed the sight of the woman’s suffering. “Don’t worry, my dear,” she told Iymace. “You’ll be joining your dead daughter soon enough.”
With the knowledge of Queen Quenthel’s location, as well as her plans to escape Menzoberranzan, it was a simple matter of assisting the woman in her attempt. To a certain point. Grompf was particularly found of the idea of allowing his sister to believe that she would succeed in her escape attempt, only to swarm her small party of advisors at the last moment. The plan went off without incident. The small unit of soldiers Iymace had assigned to guard the queen were dispatched outright. Quenthel and the trio of advisors she’d kept at her side during the revolt were captured. The rebellion had succeeded. Now it was simply a matter of enjoying the spoils of their victory. The advisors were taken away to be groomed into a new life of sexual servitude under the guidance off Nimor. Quenthel was delivered into the waiting clutches of Irae and Grompf.
After several weeks spent on the run and in hiding, Queen Quenthel returned to her castle. But it was no longer her castle. Grompf had little interest in sharing his revenge on his sister. “They can do what they like with the scraps,” he’d said in response to Irae’s suggestion of letting the people have some fun with the woman. “Until then, she’s mine.”
Irae had no problems with Grompf’s demands, but she did insist on having a front row seat. Organizing and leading a rebellion had been stressful work. She was in desperate need of some entertainment. The albino’s presence did not bother Grompf, so he agreed to her request. Quenthel’s bedroom had a stunning view of the city, but he passed on it being the venue for his revenge, instead choosing Triel’s room. The room where, many years ago, Quenthel had murdered her sister would make an appropriate cell for her final days of life, as far as the man was concerned.
Iymace was a vacant shell. Aesthetically, she looked little different than she had on the morning the rebellion had started. One glance at her face, into her eyes, was all it took to see the full extent of the loss she’d suffered in that short span of time. She’d have been a perfect candidate for becoming another slave to sell off if her fate had not already been sealed. Just because she’d ultimately failed in her quest of defending the city did not mean she’d not taken more than a few lives in the process. Having the woman publicly executed for her crimes would provide a significant boost in morale to the victorious rebels. Besides, on the off chance Iymace ever managed to work through her grief, she’d make for a potential problem if she were allowed to live.
Ilmdus chuckled as he tugged Iymace up onto the stage. The shock the woman suffered reminded him of the rookie soldier he’d hung a while back. The fact that this woman had been the leader of the city’s military forces made her mental shattering all the more amusing, not to mention shameful. “Heard you were supposed to be some kind of tough bitch,” he remarked. “Fought against us right to the bitter end.” He noticed Iymace’s eyes fixed on the gallows, on one empty noose in particular. “Ah, I see,” he laughed. “You’re remembering your daughter. The sound of her neck snapping against the rope. I saw them haul you off before you really got to see the show. You should be proud. The crowd enjoyed that bitch’s corpse quite a bit. Spent the bulk of the day fucking her. Lost track of her after a while. Who knows where that body wound up? Probably rotting in some ditch somewhere.”
He watched the tears fall from Iymace’s eyes, still fixed on the empty noose. He grabbed hold of her chin, forced her to look at him. “And she was just some bitch to them. Imagine what they’ll do to your body once I’m finished with you. Too bad that body’s long gone. You two could’ve shared some mother-daughter time.” He grinned, savoring her misery. “But who knows? Maybe you’ll wind up in the same ditch.” He lowered his hand, tracing his thick finger across the front of Iymace’s throat. “Of course, even in death, you’ll never lay eyes on your daughter again. Your demise has been left for me to design. But afterwards, there’s plans in store for that lovely head of yours.”
With a large crowd gathered and eager to witness the demise of the military leader, Ilmdus decided the time for one-sided conversations was over. Iymace was a prominent figure, one of the highest authorities in the fallen kingdom of Queen Quenthel’s rule. As such, she fit the executioner’s qualifications for a bitch worthy of feeling his glorious cock. Ripping free the codpiece concealing his manhood, he basked in the wild cheers the audience let loose with. He pushed his hips forward, shaking the thick slab of meat between his legs at them as he forced Iymace onto her knees in front of him. Even after the numerous rapes she’d endured since her capture and the daze of grief clouding her mind, the woman still possessed enough coherence to stare in horrified awe at the size of the prick being presented to her. Her fear grew as she watched the executioner’s cock stiffen before her. The fact that the man did not need to touch his member to stir it to arousal, or push even touch it against her soft skin, further frightened her.
“I’m sorry,” Iymace muttered, fresh tears breaking loose from her eyes as she watched the method of her death rising before her. “I’m sorry, my queen. I’m sorry, Imva. I… I never meant for this. For any of this.” She let her eyes slip closed, unable to bear staring at the throbbing erection bobbing in front of her face any longer. “Please, forgive m-urrk!” Her plea for forgiveness was cut off as Ilmdus gripped her by the throat, chocking off her words and forcing her mouth to gape open. Discomfort blossomed across the woman’s face as her jaw stretched painfully to accept the daunting girth of the executioner’s cock. He kept a firm grip on her throat as he fed his thick shaft down her throat, pulling her close to his crotch.
Iymace’s wrongful assumption that she was to be shamefully face-fucked before her end came to an end several long moments after Ilmdus finished pushing the full length of his member down her gullet. Her bulging eyes stared up at the man, terror sparking in them as she realized this was her execution. Ilmdus was not fucking her face, he was smothering her with his rigid flesh, forcing her to choke her way to a slow death around his erection. The muscles of her throat constricted around him, creating a tighter seal to please him as she gagged endlessly around his girth. Living her life as a soldier, she’d carried out orders she was not proud of, but she’d always tried to maintain some degree of honor. She’d never imagined her life coming to an end that was not violent in some way. But she’d always hoped that when that death came – even an execution – it would be as honorable as the life she’d tried to live. This end held no honor.
Tears stung her eyes, drool spraying from her stretched lips as she hacked around Ilmdus’s erection. The gurgling deep in her throat was not the sound of a proud woman, only a desperate bitch straining to go on living. His grip around her throat choked off whatever ability she might have had to suck down air through the cramped passage. He held her tightly enough that she couldn’t even submit to him sexually, make an attempt to suck him to completion before death claimed her. She could only squat on the stage before him, mere feet away from where her daughter had died, and suffer for the amusement of her executioner, for the cheering crowd watching.
Iymace’s body writhed before her murderer, sweat drenching her bare flesh. Foamy drizzles of her slobber coated the tops of her jiggling tits. Her struggles grew less coordinated as asphyxiation ravaged her mind. Muscular spasms crept through her body. The wet gurgling pouring out of her grew more urgent. The already dark complexion of her face grew darker, nostrils flaring and bulging eyes rolling back. Ilmdus didn’t so much as shift his hips as the woman suffered before him. The spastic convulsions of her throat felt wonderful. If he’d not been holding back, he’d have poured a thick load of jizz into her already. He’d gladly do so once she was done. But this was not sex. It was legally sanctioned murder.
The disgraced military leader’s movements settled down, but did not come to an end, as the lack of fresh oxygen sent her tumbling towards brain death. Ilmdus did not cum. He did not release his grip on the bitch’s throat. He could see nothing but the whites of her eyes as they rolled so far back into her skull. Her bound hands jerked up, fingers pressing against the tops of his knees. Her fingernails dug in, scratching at him as her body instinctively kept fighting to live. They slipped away, dropping down against her belly as what was surely a death rattle vibrated against the throbbing length of his member. He still held back. He took his job seriously, both as an execution and as an entertainer. Iymace’s arms shot up again, fingers clawing at his legs for a few more moments before dropping back down. Her ass pushed back before her hips shot forward, sputtering gags creeping up her cock-stuffed gullet as her body went through a series of fuck-motions. Her crotch finally sank towards the stage, piss erupting from her crotch and pooling across the stained wood beneath her.
With nothing more than the occasional death spasm rolling through Iymace’s body, Ilmdus felt confident enough to release his grip on her bruised throat. It bulged from the cock wedged down it. The most observant of the crowd were able to spot the moment the executioner allowed his pent-up climax to overtake him, seeing the bulging flesh of Iymace’s throat pulsing with each powerful spurt of jizz he fired off into her. Iymace remained propped on her knees, face buried into her killer’s crotch, nose hidden in the thick patch of wiry pubic hair as her drool-soaked chin rested against Ilmdus’s swollen testicles. The executioner finished draining his balls into the dead drow, basking in the waves of pleasure rushing through him as well as the crowd’s cheers. When he finished, he gripped Iymace’s head and went about the surprisingly difficult task of working her locked up throat off of his spent prick. With a pop and a long slurp, he withdrew from her gaping mouth. Iymace’s head rolled back as it came free from Ilmdus’s dick, jaw hanging open awkwardly as a backwash of spunk flowed past her lips.
Now that Iymace had finished giving him some head, it was time for Ilmdus to take some.
“This is absurd,” Quenthel Baenre declared.
Grompf agreed, although he suspected he was thinking of something other than his younger sister. The absurdity from his point of view had to do with the fact that it appeared that Quenthel was more annoyed by the loss of her clothing than the loss of her kingdom. And even then, it appeared as if she considered both losses to be mere inconveniences instead of the life changing – soon-to-be life ending – experiences they truly were. “It’s all your own doing, sister,” he told her, eyes lingering on her exposed flesh as he worked his hand around his cock. “If you weren’t you, if you’d not done what you’d done, this would not be happening. I want you to keep that in your mind throughout all of what’s about to come. You did this. You made this necessary.”
Quenthel rolled her eyes but did not offer her older brother even a brief glance. Despite the stimulation of his hand, his cock remained only semi-erect. His desire to rape her did not come from a place of lust or even sexual attraction. It seemed to be an effective method of showing her that whatever power she’d possessed had been taken from her. The fact that they were related was not the primary cause of Grompf’s inability to get hard. The perversity of incest did not interest him the way it seemed to interest others, but he had no trouble acknowledging the physical beauty his sister’s body possessed. The problem was his hatred of Quenthel. Looking her over, he saw only the bitch who’d killed Triel. And while forcing himself on her seemed like a well-earned bit of revenge – and something he very much would accomplish – it made preparing for the act more troublesome than he would have liked.
Grompf came to the conclusion that he was simply focusing too hard on the matter. There were other means of showing Quenthel how far she’d fallen, and other means of putting his body into a state of excitement. Rising from the foot of the bed, he strode across the room. He glanced towards Irae, seeing that she was content to watch the scene play out before her. The sight of her eerie white flesh – so uncommon for a drow – exposed to him sent a twitch through his dick, especially as he watched the woman’s hands leisurely tracing along the curves of her breasts. She lifted a hairless eyebrow towards him, lifting her head to give him a look that seemed to offer him the use of her body if that’s what he required to get things moving. As tempting an offer as it was, Grompf had other plans.
The drow male procured his sword from his discarded clothing and gear. He asked the guard standing between Quenthel and the door for his weapon. He carried both back to his sister, chucking the guard’s sword at her feet. “You want a chance to end this?” he asked. “You’ve not killed anyone personally since Triel. I think it’s time for you to get your hands dirty again. You’ve certainly had plenty of time and plenty of tutors to show you how to wield it. Let’s see what you’ve learned.” Grompf would have been concerned – the skill of the swordplay masters Quenthel had hired to train her were well known – but he knew his sister was far from the best student. Her arrogance had kept her from picking up much more than the basics, insisting that she knew how to protect herself and that the training was a waste of time. She’d used her influence and riches to make it through the training sessions more than her physical prowess.
If she’d been a wise ruler, Quenthel would not have picked up the sword. But even dethroned and stripped, her arrogance persevered. She snatched up the long blade and turned to face her brother. “If I’d known what a problem you’d turn out to be, I’d have slit your throat before Triel’s,” she grumbled, giving her weapon a few testing swipes before settling into a fighting stance. The stance did little more than accentuate her figure. It was nothing a true warrior would use. Quenthel didn’t know that. She didn’t care. She only cared that she looked good with a sword in her hand. “First, I’ll run you through. Then I’ll carve up that white-skinned whore. You’re a fool for giving me this opportunity, brother.”
Grompf ignored her words, waited for her to make the first move. It was a sloppy swipe, overextended and far too easy to predict. He smacked her blade to the side, smirking as he saw her struggle to maintain her grip on the weapon. If he wished to – and if she’d been more open to teaching – he saw several easy suggestions to improve her form. But that wasn’t the point of the fight. With her sword knocked out to the side, he stepped in close to her. Keeping his sword positioned to block whatever attempts she made to slash or stab at him, he clenched his fist and brought it forward. His knuckles slammed into Quenthel’s slender belly, knocking the air from her lungs with a heavy gasp. The clatter of metal against stone signaled the dropping of her sword. Instead of retreating or bringing her arms up to defend herself, the former queen twisted to the side and bent to retrieve her weapon. Grompf showed her what a mistake that was as his fist rose and connected with her cheek. She cried out, body spinning away from him from the force of the blow.
The fight was short and as disappointing as he’d imagined it would be, but the brief bit of combat was enough to stir him to a full erection. He lifted a leg and planted his foot against his sister’s ass, kicking out hard enough to send her stumbling out onto the balcony attached to the bedroom. He hastily advanced on her, shoving her up against the stone railing. One arm looped around her waist, tugging her lower half back towards him. The tip of his member prodded against her perky buttocks. His other arm curled around her neck, hand gripping her by the jaw and forcing her to look out at Menzoberranzan. “Look at it,” he growled into her ear as he worked to position himself at the entrance of her dry cunt. “Look at all that’s been taken from you.”
The city itself was only part of what Grompf wished her to see. The signs of change were dotted throughout the streets. But the biggest sign – the one he forced Quenthel to stare at – lined the path leading up to the castle. Wooden spikes, nearly every one topped with the severed head of a female drow. The displays had largely been made from higher profile women throughout the city. Many of them were known to Quenthel. Every one of the heads faced her, their visages constricted into frozen looks of horror and pain. Some of them were glazed in the creamy expulsions of who knew how many rapists. “Perhaps you think your general will come to save you,” Grompf whispered into her ear, reaching out to point to one of the spikes. “I’d give up on that if I were you.”
Quenthel felt a cold dread stirring deep in her gut as she watched Iymace’s freshly preserved head being wedged onto the top of the spike. She’d known the woman had failed in her assigned task the moment she’d been captured, but seeing she’d been brought to a definitive end made it clear that the military leader would not be rallying anytime soon. It was enough to chip away at Quenthel’s resolve, but not nearly enough to break it. She’d been through more than Grompf gave her credit for. She’d even tasted death once. Her goddess had saved her from that fate, restored her. The ex-queen had no reason to think that something similar would not save her again. She cried out with discomfort and disgust as her brother’s thick member speared its way into her vulnerable snatch, stretching her walls and filling her fleshy canal.
As he rammed his way into Quenthel’s body, feeling her squirming and listening to her whines of protest, Grompf knew he would not have a problem getting hard for the bitch again. He plunged into her cunt with hard strokes, designed to make her suffer more than give him pleasure. His fingers clamped around her dark nipples, yanking on them and twisting them. The semi-public venue of Quenthel’s violation drew the attention of some of the people in the streets. As he continued to ravage her, a crowd grew, cheering him on. “Think of it this way, sister,” he told her with a chuckle. “Your people may not love you, but they do love to watch you suffer. Does that satisfy your need of being worshipped?”
Quenthel did not respond, but she was sickened to realize that, on some level, it did.
Grompf’s desire to conduct the entirety of his sister’s torture and breaking single-handedly lasted for several long days. He beat Quenthel, raped her, demoralized her verbally, visited a myriad of tortures upon her flesh and mind. But even his stamina had its limits. In the end, his urge to see Quenthel suffer at any cost beat out his desire to be the woman’s sole tormentor. Irae was more than happy to lend her assistance, either working alongside Grompf when he allowed it, or taking over for him entirely when he grew too tired to go on. It helped for him to think of her as another torture tool in his arsenal. Quenthel had spent no short portion of her time ensuring that Irae had been effectively shunned by the drow high society. Becoming the szarkai’s personal fuck toy did wonders to break down the former queen’s egotistical attitude.
Stretched and bound spread-eagle across the bed, Quenthel couldn’t do much as Irae straddled her head. The albino drow brought her naturally hairless pussy down onto the ex-queen’s face, grinding her crotch against her. Irae giggled, cupping her tits as she bounced with rising speed on top of Quenthel’s head, smearing her hot juices across her scrunched-up face. With his cock too tired to rise to attention, Grompf added his own layer to the sexual torture as he lay between his sister’s widely spread legs, dragging his tongue through the folds of her cunt. The thought of giving Quenthel even a single spark of pleasure would have horrified him, except he knew that the bitch hated the sensation even more. Getting off on her brother’s tongue while she was forced to drink down the orgasmic fluids of a lowly albino drow showed her just what a worthless cunt she was.
With her hips gyrating through another orgasm, Irae leaned forward. Grompf lifted his head and planted his cunt honey-drenched lips against hers, sharing a deep kiss of passion borne from their shared pleasure of tormenting Quenthel. Grompf happily moved aside to allow Irae a turn at orally raping the ex-queen’s cunt. Sitting back, he watched the show taking place before him, feeling a renewed stirring in his overworked cock. When he was stiff again, he climbed onto the bed between Quenthel’s quivering thighs. Irae’s eyes lit up as she lifted her face to see the glorious erection. She moved forward, wrapping her soft lips around his girth and giving him a short bit of sucking before popping free to let him get at the real prize. She lifted herself back up into a squat, resuming her spirited bouncing atop Quenthel’s face as she rubbed a tit in one hand and flicked her stiff clit with the other, eyes fixed on Grompf’s member as it vanished into their captive’s unwilling hole.
The unyielding metal of the manacles bit into the soft skin of Quenthel’s ankles as the weight of her body hung from them, left dangling upside down. Drool leaked from her stretched lips, wrapped around the rusted metal of the ring-gag keeping her mouth open. It oozed down her flushed face, leaving her skin glistening with a combination of slobber and sweat. A fake prick – molded from a particularly well-hung troll – stuffed her cunt to painful proportions. The wide base as well as a couple inches of its length protruded from her body, but the distinct bulge against her slender belly showed just how much of the daunting cock had been forced into her. Quenthel whined out in agony as a second, even more macabre sex toy was wedged into her asshole. She could hardly fathom how her captors had managed to obtain a replica of one of the giant spiders’ breeding proboscises. The tapered tip entered her rear with far too much ease, thanks to the blend of her brother’s cum and the baking grease that had been fucked and fingered into the tight orifice to appropriately lubricate her. The proboscis thickened as it went along, each increase in size marked with a distinct bubble-like bulge. Quenthel’s tight ring of muscle strained more and more as she was forced to take each of the bulbs into her body. By the time the penetration concluded, she swore she could feel the tip of the thing tickling around inside her stomach.
With their torture doll’s ass stuffed full of monstrous cock, Irae gave Grompf a grin and a nod, stepping back from Quenthel’s suspended form. The whip he wielded was not as cruel as the one the executioner used. There were no barbs to claw through Quenthel’s flesh, but he put enough force into his strikes to leave painful welts across his sister’s back. She screamed through her ring-gag, shifting wildly within her bindings as he lashed. He spared no inch of her backside, but he made sure to pay particular attention to her stunning ass cheeks, knowing just how proud his sister had been of the mounds of meat. The welts would heal eventually, leaving behind little – if any – sign of the abuse, but the mental scarring he was whipping into her would remain. Even after the physical pain faded, she’d no doubt continue to wince any time her posterior was so much as brushed up against.
When he finished whipping Quenthel, Irae helped him to roll the bondage contraption out onto the balcony. The audience – it waned and swelled depending on the time of day – was ever-present. Their former queen’s upper half was hidden behind the cover of the stone railing, but they had no trouble seeing her thoroughly welted buttocks and the oversized dildos wedged into her cunt and asshole. They left her out there for the rest of the day and much of the night. Between the extensive abuse and the blood rushing to her head, she faded in and out of consciousness while Grompf and Irae took the time to explore one another’s bodies, not bothering to keep the sounds of their passionate fucking down.
Breaking Quenthel down from the conceited cunt of a queen she’d been into the soul-shattered whore Grompf wished her to become was a slow process. There were days when it seemed like there was little of her spirit left to snuff out, only for him to spot that flicker of haughty pride in her eyes. But the process of endless rape and torture was having an effect. Quenthel was exhausted, sleeping for only minutes at a time, usually fucked or beaten into passing out before being roused from her much needed slumber. Lack of rest and malnourishment was enough to diminish her beauty, although she was still quite striking compared to many other drow women left in the city. Still, the pride Quenthel took in her appearance made her waning good looks a particularly useful torture tool. After a week of abuse, Grompf brought a full-length mirror into the bedroom. He forced his sister to stand before it, to look at herself and what had been done to her. He watched the tears rising in her eyes, sparkling there, before breaking free to leak down her cheeks. Then a low whine started at the back of her throat. The volume and pitch of the whine rose until finally exploding into a pathetic wailing. She tried to collapse to her knees as her sobs overtook her, but Grompf tightened his grip on her arms, forcing her to remain standing.
Grompf kept her standing there, basking in the misery of what had become of her once gorgeous form, until Irae returned to the room with the specially prepared meal they’d concocted for her. The bowl frothed with the combination of their various orgasmic fluids. She set the bowl on the floor at the foot of the bed and stood beside it with a cruel grin plastered across her face. “Come along, bitch,” she called to Quenthel. “You need to eat if you’re ever going to put some weight on those skinny bones.”
Releasing her, Grompf watched his sister slump down onto her knees before him. Her gaze turned from her reflection to the perverse meal she’d been given. Grompf and Irae shared a laugh as the once proud woman dropped onto her hands and knees and crawled towards the bowl. She lowered her face to the blend of jizz and cunt honey, extending her tongue and dragging it through the thick soup. They watched as Quenthel’s remaining ego was broken before them, seeing the resistance of her laps become eager slurps as she accepted the meal, desperate to do anything she could to restore her beauty. Her face was smeared with cum and juices by the time she finished, face pressed fully into the now empty bowl as she dragged her tongue across the smears left behind, doing her best to clean up every last drop of the substance.
Grompf tugged Irae into his embrace, reaching down to cup a hand around the albino’s plump buttocks as they watched the former queen willingly debasing herself. They did not need to exchange words to know that their task was nearing its end. They’d shown Quenthel what she truly was. The time had come for her to die.
“This is where it all started for us,” Grompf said to Quenthel as he positioned himself behind her on the bed. She had her head low and her ass lifted towards him, miserable but well aware of her place in life. “How long did you plot taking her life?” he asked. “How long until you worked up the nerve to follow through with your terrible plan? Even back then, you were nothing more than a coward. You crept into her bedroom while she slept. You didn’t even know whether the dagger you wielded was sharp enough or not. You simply assumed it would be. But it wasn’t. It was tougher than you expected to cut Triel’s throat. But that didn’t stop you. Even when her eyes snapped open and stared up at you in the dark, begging for mercy, begging for answers, you didn’t stop cutting until the deed was done. It was a sloppy kill, but you managed to cover your tracks well enough, framing that guard for the act, making it look as if he’d fancied Triel and that she’d denied his interest. An act of passion on the part of a madman. The love letters you forged in his handwriting were quite well done, but that was where your skill ended. Your attempt to dispose of your bloody clothing was far more in line with your arrogance. Did you not think they would be found? Or perhaps you didn’t think anyone could tell the clothing belonged to you? But I had no trouble recognizing that tattered apparel, even if I hadn’t already known the truth about you.” He sank his erection into his sister’s asshole, pushing slowly but firmly as he entered her from behind.
“Which makes this all very fitting, doesn’t it?” he asked.
Quenthel responded with a pained groan as he fucked his full length up her ass. She’d been allowed the gift of clothing for her execution, but the tattered, blood-stained outfit she’d worn so many years ago as she’d carved open Triel’s throat did not fit nearly as well now. Neither Grompf nor Irae cared about how the clothing fit. Quenthel was beyond the point of raising any objections. Her will was broken, spirit crushed, little more than a pathetic receptacle for the myriad of abuses her captors wished to bestow upon her. She took her brother’s cock, listened to his words. But despite everything that had been done to her and just how low she’d been brought, Quenthel still felt no sympathy for her dead sister. The only difference was, she knew better than to advertise that fact, and she certainly knew better than to gloat about it. It may not have seemed like much, but the shift in personality was still enough to leave Grompf stunned. If he wished for his youngest sister to achieve some kind of redemption, she was likely on the path towards it. But he didn’t. He wanted revenge. He wanted to feel Quenthel’s life fade away, see the spark blink out of her eyes, watch her used up carcass further debased.
And while true redemption might never have been a possibility, revenge was well within his reach.
Grompf brought the silken cord around Quenthel’s throat. He’d considered slitting the bitch’s throat, letting her feel what Triel had felt, but had decided against it. His own pride would not allow him to use a dull knife and a sharp one would leave his sister dead for too quickly. The cord would allow him to control just how long Quenthel took to die. It would also allow her to experience some of what Triel had no doubt gone through in her final moments, choking on her own blood. He grinned as he felt his sister’s asshole tighten around his girth, startled by the sudden strangling. She ground her ass back against him, either trying to prove she was a loyal fuck-toy or doing a poor job of squirming away from him. He didn’t care which. He tugged the cord tighter around her throat, crushing her windpipe closed and listening to the desperate gurgles working their way past her lips.
Irae lounged in a comfortably padded armchair at the foot of the bed. She had one leg draped over the arm of the chair, the other stretched out before her. One hand extended out to a small end table beside her, plucking grapes from a bowl and slipping them into her mouth. Her teeth crushed the small green balls, allowing the juices to dribble down her chin and across her bare breasts. Her other hand lay between her legs, stroking the folds of her cunt as she watched Quenthel being strangled. She moaned and writhed seductively in her seat, giving Grompf something nice to look at while he went about the satisfying task of snuffing his little sister. Irae would have liked to have taken a more direct role in the execution, but she’d seen just how much killing the bitch meant to the man. And she took a special kind of amusement from letting the bitch watch her pleasure herself, not lifting a finger to lend any assistance to her plight. It was a fitting bit of personal revenge for her, considering all of the times Quenthel had acted similarly when Irae had needed a favor.
Grompf worked the cord with skilled dexterity, paying close attention to the movements of Quenthel’s body. He relented only for brief moments, allowing her just enough oxygen to stay conscious while prolonging her suffering. The tattered, stained clothing he’d made her ware became stuck to her skin as sweat poured out of her. Her muscles quivered and twitched as the ravages of asphyxiation tore through her. The broken queen’s anal muscles clenched and released around Grompf’s pumping girth, no doubt providing him far more of a passionate fuck than she’d ever felt the need to bestow upon any of her previous, willing lovers. Her breasts swayed beneath her as he fucked and strangled her, delighting in every strained whistle of air passing through her mostly constricted esophagus.
Dark spots flared in Quenthel’s vision. Her bulging, bloodshot eyes appeared to be on the verge of shooting free from their sockets. Irae silently urged the gruesome act to take place, knowing that she would cum hard to the sight even as she cackled out her amusement. The pounding pressure in Quenthel’s oxygen-starved brain grew worse with each passing moment, but it never got bad enough to give Irae what she desired. Drool foamed past her stretched lips as the strangulation forced her body to experience shameful ecstasy, cunt honey leaking steadily from her untouched pussy and down the backs of her quaking thighs. Her dark complexion took on a purplish-crimson hue as muscle spasms crept through her face. Her bulging eyes rolled back, bloated tongue curling from her mouth and sliding about. She gripped the sheets beneath her, weakness oozing through her. Without the persistent pull of the cord around her throat, she’d have flopped face down into the bed.
With an orgasm fast approaching, Grompf yanked hard on the cord, sealing his sister’s throat fully. The wheezes became wet clicks as she strained to suck down air. Panic exploded across her face as the realization that her goddess would not save her this time dawned on her. She found the strength to lift a hand from the bed, fingers clawing at the cord snuffing the life out of her. Her breasts bounced about wildly as her chest hitched, lungs seizing as the stale oxygen left trapped within them began to do more harm than good. The defeated queen’s struggles of panic shifted into the spastic convulsions of brain death as her strangling continued. The pleasure she’d felt became a burning agony as she pissed all over her brother’s swaying testicles, barely feeling the hot spray of his seed firing into her spasming bowels.
Quenthel’s hand slipped limply away from her bruised throat, back down to the bedding. She fell into a series of uncoordinated twitches as her life blinked out. Grompf kept the cord tight around her neck until he finished draining his balls into her corpse. When he finally released his hold on it, Quenthel’s body flopped onto the bed, ass left perched in the air, still stuffed with her brother’s wilting member. A sloppy death rattle escaped her lips as her crushed throat opened up just enough to allow her final breath to exit her lifeless lungs. Popping his softening prick free of his sister’s gaping asshole, Grompf shoved her away from him and climbed off of the bed. He looked down on the corpse – in more ways than one – basking in the culmination of his revenge. Then he turned to Irae, finding her still fingering her wet slit to the sight of Quenthel’s body. He went to her, dropping to his knees before her and burying his face in her slippery crotch.
With his vengeance satisfied, Grompf had no problem with allowing his sister’s carcass to make its way into the clutches of the denizens of Menzoberranzan. The dead queen’s body was paraded through the streets, with frequent stops for the masses to take out their frustrations on her. It had taken a violent rebellion, an utter upheaval of the way drow society worked, and nearly a week of personalized torture and rape for Quenthel, but she’d finally become a queen of the people. The passionate relationship Grompf and Irae had found as they’d shared their time abusing the woman faded after the object of their mutual distaste died. Much of Grompf’s bloodlust was sated. And Irae had other matters that stirred her interest.
The partnership between Irae and Nimor had already accomplished great things, but neither was satisfied. Nimor’s thirst for domination and expanding the newly minted drow empire was rivaled by Irae’s much more personal desire to exact revenge on all those who’d slighted her. The drow in general still left a bitter taste in her mouth, but with every woman besides herself in Menzoberranzan either dead or enslaved, she decided that particular avenue had been thoroughly milked. Instead, her thoughts turned to the elves who’d originally banished the drow into the Underdark. The high and mighty elves on the surface were a juicy target, one that would not be easy to overthrow. They were just the sort of adversary Nimor desired. The pair began to concoct their next plan.