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 Twentieth Year

The years had not been kind to Bonaluria Cartris, but the same could be said for any elf remaining in the world, especially those unfortunate enough to survive long enough to be injected into drow society. Bonaluria’s former role as a priestess had made her an alluring piece of property at first, but only for the first few years of her captivity. She’d spent the bulk of her time as a disposable fuck-slave working in one of the handful of elven brothels littered throughout Menzoberranzan. The fact that she was even still alive after such a lengthy period being casually used and abused by whatever drow male could pay the low cost of hiring her out for a few hours was some kind of cruel miracle, but somehow the former priestess had managed to hold onto her exotic beauty and still had holes tight enough to provide pleasure to the men that violated her multiple times a day.

The brand of her original owner was layered over with scars, replaced with the brand of the brothel that had taken possession of her. The mark wasn’t huge but emblazoned upon her right buttock it was quite distinctive with her lack of clothing. It ensured that even if she found a chance to escape the hell of the brothel, she would be dragged back – dead or alive – to continue her duties. She gagged around the cock pushing its way towards the back of her throat, choked as the collar around her neck tightened with the tug of her user. She begged the man to pull the collar tighter, tight enough to finally snuff her out. Death, at least, would offer her an escape. Perhaps even some form of bliss if her goddess, Corona, still looked favorably enough upon her. Unfortunately, neither of her users had paid the extra cost to terminate her, so she was left to gag and drool over one man’s prick while the other shoved his way up her clenching asshole.

It was while she was wishing for death, her holy duties thoroughly fucked and tortured out of her, that the drow guardsmen came to collect her. They dragged her from the brothel, not being shy with the exploratory movements of their groping hands as they hauled the disgraced priestess to their own temple. The architecture was jagged and dark, a perfect symbolization of the drow mentality. Just the look of the place managed to send a shiver of fear down Bonaluria’s spine. Nothing good could lurk in such a temple. The fact that she’d been pulled from her regular duties to be brought there only further scared her. Something terrible was about to happen, of that the former priestess was certain, but like everything else in her life since the drow had invaded her realm, she was powerless to stop it.

The inside of the temple was, if anything, more imposing than the exterior. There was no comfort to be found on the stiff metal pews, no kindness displayed in the wicked statues lining the walls. Bonaluria recalled her own temple – before its destruction – and how it had always felt like a welcoming place of warmth and kindness. The drow temple was the antithesis of all of that. She spotted a familiar face waiting for her. The years had been even less kind to Gwynnestri Olowynn. Her fellow priestess – the only other remaining survivor from her temple – had lost her mind during the invasion, and judging by the wild-eyed look she had, she’d never regained it. Bonaluria felt a spark of jealousy for the woman. She was certain the woman’s overeager attitude towards her abuse had done her no favors – that much was clear from the myriad of scars covering her naked flesh – but she’d at least had the benefit of not having her sanity weighing her down. Two other elven women cowered beside Gwynnestri. Amisra Keylee and Clanire Enharice were both former priestess, although Bonaluria had never met them previously. They’d been pulled from one of the more remote temples on the surface fairly recently. They’d been in Menzoberranzan less than a year, but they’d already seen more than their share of debasement.

The sight of Princess Elasha startled Bonaluria for a number of reasons. It was shocking to see a member of the royal house, even after all this time, laid bare in public. By the look of it, Elasha’s naturally golden hair had received a recent touchup to the crimson coloring she’d gained in the wake of her mother and father’s deaths. The hair was still damp with blood, courtesy of the used-up elf breeder who’d finally outlived her appeal. A thick collar circled Elasha’s throat, rusted spikes angled inwards to dig painfully into her flesh with even the most casual tug of the leash clipped to it. Judging by the ring of scars circling the woman’s neck, the leash received frequent tuggings. She remained perched on her hands and knees, like a well-trained animal, tired eyes alert and glancing up to her owner – a high profile drow lord – to catch even a hint of whatever whims might be stirring him at any given moment. The princess was a broken shell of a woman, her former life of luxury completely forgotten. The most startling thing about the princess was her mere presence in the temple. To have her trotted out of whatever private dungeon she spent the majority of her time meant that whatever was being planned was bigger than anything Bonaluria had witnessed in the awful city up until that point.

And she’d seen no shortage of terrible atrocities.

Former soldiers lined up like cattle, violently bred to produce valuable half-breed offspring. The males slaughtered as soon as they left the birth canal, the females ferried off and auctioned away to endure far worse fates.

Dryads, half-dead from being taken so far from their sacred forests, spitted while they still drew breath for public roasts. The drow seemed to have developed a particular taste for the women. Bonaluria had been forced to taste a portion of well-roasted dryad cunt-steak once, much to the amusement of her former owner. She’d been disgusted to find that she could see the appeal.

The severed heads of so many elven men and women – and drow women – lining the streets, returned to a half-life of misery, screaming silently out at passersby when they weren’t being pulled off their spikes to be casually used as sexual aids.

So many public executions, displaying the full extent of sadistic delight the drow mind possessed.

To think that something worse was primed to take place within the wicked temple left Bonaluria feeling faint, on the verge of puking.

There was a tense period of waiting. Elasha’s owner – Jegdrym Philyrr – decided to pass the time by crouching behind his pet and sliding his prick into her still tight pussy. Elasha panted urgently, shifting back and forth along his shaft, doing her best to avoid the hard yanks of the leash. The priestesses were left to fidget amongst one another, but the leering gaze of the other high profile drow guests told Bonaluria that they were merely waiting for the main event to start before they moved in to start using them. Gwynnestri – in her infinite madness – began to masturbate, whimpering aloud that it had been too long since she’d had something hard stuffed into her. Her behavior – though an affective tease – was rewarded with a hard strike to the back of her head that seemed to settle her down somewhat.

Finally, the doors opened. Bonaluria turned her eyes towards the threshold, breath caught on her quivering lips. Drow guards entered first, not a surprise. The trio of chained up women trudging miserably in their wake was. The breath left the former priestess’s lips in a short, horrified gasp. The trio were Avariel elves, their wings tightly bound against their backs. Their breed of elf was rare enough to be the cause for an event all themselves, but Bonaluria knew they were merely part of the precession. Although stripped nude, the Avariel carried themselves in a certain way, exuding a kind of presence. She’d seen something close to it amongst her own sisterhood of priestesses, only this was on a far more powerful level. They’re handmaidens, she surmised, the nausea in her gut swirling to greater strength. For… oh, Goddess…

It was Her.

Beaten severely and restrained with heavy chains, the Goddess Corona stumbled her way into the unholy temple. Her beautiful face showed signs of extreme fatigue, a sign of just how weak she’d grown as her worshipers had been slaughtered and corrupted. Bonaluria damned herself even as she retched onto the floor, wishing she’d had the courage to at least try to maintain her daily worshipping to the goddess. But between all of the cocks and all of the torture – and the certainty of painful death if she was caught even thinking about practicing her old ways – she’d had little time and less incentive to try something so risky. Clearly, none of the other priestesses had, either. Certainly not Gwynnestri. And now they’d been brought together to witness the cost of their dereliction.

Irae and Nimor strolled in behind Corona, looking even smugger than usual. The last figures to enter the temple were enough to loosen Bonaluria’s bladder from the all-consuming terror their mere presence instilled.

The male was stunningly gorgeous, in an icy way. He looked not too dissimilar from any other drow, aside from the added spark in his glowing crimson eyes and the casual strut of confidence. Vhaeraun, the god of tricksters, assassins, and murder. Rumor had it, he’d also added rape to his debacherous collection of cherished vices. He was the son of Lolth, the once supreme goddess amonst the drow race. The tales of the atrocities Vhaeraun had visited upon his mother in the wake of the rebellion of the drow males were already being cemented into legend, one of the first chapters in the history of the reinvented race. After years of claiming to be only for equality between the genders in drow society, Vhaeraun had either grown weary of the prolonged suffering of his fellow males or had merely revealed his true intentions. Whatever the true reasons were behind his motivations, it hardly mattered. His side had been triumphant, thanks in large part to his most devoted worshiper, Nimor.

The female was an icon of grotesque beauty. Half of her face was flawlessly crafted and awe-inspiring. The other half inspired nothing but dread, a skeletal visage. Kiaransalee was the drow goddess of death, necromancy, and vengeance. She had many devotees, and she was just as likely to savor smiting and torturing them as she was praising them if they failed to live up to her high expectations. She had no greater champion than Irae, the albino outcast who’d been pivotal in the staging of the drow revolt that allowed her to claim vengeance over those who’d mocked her, and then press onwards to settle an even older grudge against the surface dwelling elves.

Bonaluria had only ever heard stories of the deities. She’d never expected to lay eyes on them. But the capture of an elven goddess was no common occurrence. Perhaps its a trick, she thought, allowing herself a desperate flicker of hope for the first time in two decades. Perhaps Corona allowed herself to be captured to lure these two out of hiding, so she could deal a devastating blow to these drow scum. Even as she thought the words, the disgraced priestess knew she was wrong. Even though the plot had wisdom to it, she knew her goddess would never allow the filthy drow to touch her, let alone bind her, unless she was too weak to stop them. There was no subterfuge to be found in this event, no stunning release from the ongoing nightmare that had fallen over every elf who still drew breath. This was simply another milestone on the dark road to elven extinction.

Corona was led through the temple, Irae chuckling as she viciously cracked a riding crop across the chained goddess’s perfect ass cheeks. A large stone altar dominated the front of the temple, its top and sides intricately carved with images of suffering and sexual domination, no doubt a hint of what had transpired upon the altar previously as well as what awaited Corona. The chains were removed and for a brief moment of breathtaking beauty that was not warranted in such a grim locale, the goddess was allowed to fully extend her magnificent wings. The drow guards lifted her and roughly forced her back across the altar, stretching her arms and legs away from her body and securing her in place. To witness her once powerful goddess stripped bare and forced to expose herself to her enemies in such a vile manner broke Bonaluria’s heart. She wanted to drop to her knees and begin praying fervently. Instead, she was forced onto her knees and made to suck on the high society cock of one of the drow attendees.

“Corona, once the goddess of light and justice for the elven race,” Irae announced with a cruel smile. “The time has come for you to pay for the sins of your worshippers. Sins they’ve been paying for themselves for the last twenty years. But a being of your caliber does not deserve to languish in some filthy brothel somewhere, servicing a handful of men each day. You will remain here, in this temple, on display for all to look upon, for all to use as they see fit. You will remain here until every cock in the underdark has sampled your flesh. No longer will you be seen as the goddess of light and justice. You will be a goddess of whores. Of damned women. Of disposable pleasure. Only after that title has been thoroughly ingrained into your body will you then yourself be disposed of.” Irae giggled. “I do hope you’re comfortable. You’re going to be here for a while.”

“And to start things off,” Nimor picked up, his grin even more menacing than Irae’s. “We’ve invited a special guest. My father, Chaulssin, will be the first to defile you.”

At the mention of his name, Chaulssin entered the temple. His grotesquely demonic visage seemed to darken the already murky lighting within the temple. Long, sharp-tipped claws twitched eagerly at his sides as he fluttered his leathery black wings. In his human-like form, he provided a disturbing counterbalance to Corona’s pure angelic beauty. Even in that form, he looked more than capable of giving the bound goddess a torturous rape. But even in her weakened state, Chaulssin was certain the woman could handle more than his human figure had to offer. Gasps spread around the temple as the hideous figure shifted and expanded into the demi-god’s true form; a Shadow Dragon behemoth that left the massive temple feeling overly crowded.

Chaulssin stomped his way over to Corona, sending reverberations through the solid stone foundation of the ancient temple. With the bulk of the creature in her way and a stiff cock pumping down her throat, Bonaluria could not see the face of her goddess, but she hoped it matched the defiant glower she imagined in her mind.

It did not.

Staring up at the Shadow Dragon’s massive, hideous head, Corona trembled with fear. She’d spent what had seemed an eternity basking in the powerful aura of her worshipers, an unstoppable force to be reckoned with. Weakness had never come naturally to her. With the heavy chains holding her down and her own proud handmaidens already being carelessly used as sextoys right beside her, weakness was all she had left. Her pride revolted against this new, terrible state, but even her ego could not contend with the all-too-real presence of the enormous Shadow Dragon perched over her. There had been a time, and it felt not very long ago, that she could have easily battled the creature off, crippling or killing it for its arrogant assumption that she was merely a pretty piece of flesh to be violated. Now… she could only cower and wait for him to take what he liked from her.

Chaulssin’s cock started from between his rear legs and stretched a third of the way up his belly, making the full length of his member greater than Corona’s height from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. There were battering rams capable of bashing through even the sturdiest of castle walls less girthy than the Shadow Dragon’s prick. The sexual organ was designed to dominate and satisfy feisty female dragons. No human-sized mate could hope to survive an encounter with it, but even in her weakened state, Corona had enough power to endure what was about to be done to her. Much to her own dismay.

The Shadow Dragon lowered himself closer to Corona, shifting his body back so he could slide his throbbing erection between her widely splayed legs. The firm tip of the dragon cock nestled snugly against the goddess’s crotch, prodding against her hairless cunt lips. Digging his front claws into the altar and bracing his rear against the floor, Chaulssin pushed forward with steady force. The pressure against the entrance of her snatch grew. The Shadow Dragon huffed and grunted against her face, watching the rising strain in her glistening eyes. His forked tongue slithered free to lap up a quick taste of the goddess’s burgeoning tears. The salty flavor sparked his lust to greater heights, teasing a hard pelvic thrust out of him that proved sufficient to finally breach Corona’s sex. The goddess howled, her pride not nearly strong enough to hold back the cunt-punch of pain ripping up through her loins as her pussy lips expanded to obscene proportions.

With the struggle of penetration at an end, Chaulssin hammered deeper into Corona, driving the bulging shaft of his flesh further up her body. Her wings fluttered about beneath her, lithe muscles straining against the chains in a desperate effort to rip herself free and escape the agonizing damnation of the rigid meat tearing through her gut. Corona’s screams became urgent gagging as she hacked up thick wads of blood and clumps of pulverized organ. Chaulssin slowed his punishing strokes upon reaching the midway point of the goddess’s body. He drew back, dragging thick inches of blood-smeared prick free from her obscenely gaping snatch, before driving them back into the woman. He carried on like that for a while, giving Corona the time to recover and heal from the internal destruction he’d given her so far, letting her wailing echo of the cavernous walls of the temple, blend with the soggy squelching of his shifting member.

Bonaluria would have hated the symphony of suffering filling the temple even if she hadn’t been aware of who the tortured songbird was. To hear such shrieks of helpless anguish torn from the lips of her beloved goddess crushed her soul in ways she’d thought impossible. She ground her hips back to meet the spirited thrusts of the drow stretching her asshole open with mechanical rhythm while slurping wetly at the testicles of the man standing before her. Her fellow priestesses were enduring similar assaults. Gwynnestri seemed to be having the time of her life as she bounced swiftly between the cocks sliding into her cunt and ass, begging the drow towering over her to choke her harder as he spat across her flushed, sweaty face. Amistra was laid out on her back, face buried into the crack of a drow male’s ass, tonguing at his sphincter with desperate urgency, while another sat on her chest, fucking rapidly between her mashed tits. Clanire knelt on one of the pews, body bent over the back of it while a queue of eager drow took turns fucking her pussy while swatting her plump buttocks.

The celebratory event had encouraged Jegdrym to allow a more communal usage of his prized slave. Princess Elasha scooted on her knees from one drow to the next, presenting her open, cum-clogged mouth to all those interested in sampling it. Most of the men were quite happy to fuck her royal face with enthusiastic gusto, while others simply smacked her around a bit with their members before forcing her to do all of the work. Jegdrym beamed with pride as he received praise for the oral talents of his obedient whore. The princess attended to her disgraceful duties with dull, lifeless eyes. She’d not felt even a faded flicker of hope in her heart since the day she’d been forced to watch her parents butchered. As far as she was concerned, this day wasn’t so different from any of the other terrible days she’d lived in the last twenty years.

Priestess and princess were used roughly and without care, but their treatment seemed almost kind in comparison to the treatment of the Avariel handmaidens. Freshly caught and filled with a defiant rage that grew only stronger as a result of seeing what was being done to their goddess, they were beaten severely even as they were raped. Their powerful wings were broken, left mangled and useless. Khiiral – by far the most rebellious of the handmaidens – had her teeth pried loose from her mouth after daring to bite down on one of the cocks presented to her. The men enjoyed the fight the handmaidens possessed, which was the only reason they weren’t quickly dispatched. Their energetic thrashing and flailing provided the drow with satisfying fucks, the likes of which they’d not found in any of their elven captives for more than a decade.

Although she could not see any of it, Corona’s close spiritual connection with her handmaidens allowed her to feel something of what they were experiencing. Under any other circumstances, she’d have felt rage and sorrow for their suffering. But compared to her own ongoing agony, she could only feel bitter resentment. She gagged and gasped breathlessly as Chaulssin’s massive cockhead beat its way under her ribcage, smashing the organs within flat. The flesh of her neck bulged as the Shadow Dragon fucked his way up the back of her throat. Only Corona’s divine spark kept her head from being ripped free from her body, working against her to keep her alive through the torment as her jaw snapped and the gory tip of the weapon-like erection jutted free from her gaping mouth. Growling with delight, Chaulssin fucked more of his cock through Corona, allowing her to stare, wide-eyed, at the first few feet of his giant prick. When her widely stretched pussy lips finally rested against the base of his shaft, the Shadow Dragon drew back and began to forceful rhythm of thrusts through the full length of her tortured body, transforming her into a loose flesh receptacle for his pleasure.

After boring a massive cock-shaped hole through Corona for more than an hour, Chaulssin’s pumps quickened. He tilted his head back, emitting a roar of triumph as he came through the barely alive goddess’s ruined body. Heavy spurts of cum sprayed from her gaping, broken mouth, coating her face in heavy layers in moments as the majority of the spunk splattered across the back wall of the temple. She shuddered – both from the pervasive pain as well as the stimulated twitches running down the Shadow Dragon’s shaft – until the climax ended. Drawing his spent member free from the goddess’s thoroughly wrecked form, Chaulssin drew himself inwards, shifting back into his still horrifying but significantly smaller form. Climbing up onto the altar, he straddled Corona’s chest and snared a fistful of her jizz-laden hair, forcing her face to peer up at him. Extending one of his long claws to her head, he jabbed the tip through the layer of skin covering her forehead, etching out his name with slow precision. Hot blood flowed over the cum coating her face, blending with it. When he finished signing his conquest, he released his grip on her, letting her head drop back against the altar. He climbed off of the defiled goddess and turned, leisurely strutting from the temple, leaving his once noble victim to shudder and sob as she slowly healed from the devastation he’d visited upon her holy body.

Bonaluria earned a brief reprieve in the wake of Chaulssin’s exit as she and the other women gathered to be witnesses to the goddess’s prolonged defilement and execution were abandoned by their users. They gathered at the center of the temple, pushing into a loose queue, trading places as one drow asserted their dominance over another to gain better positioning while they waited to take their turns with Corona. Several of the more powerful players were wise enough to allow others to go ahead of them, but not out of any sense of generosity. The first few eager abusers found their plaything still largely ruined thanks to the Shadow Dragon’s vigorous usage. Even her asshole was blown out as a result of her cunt flesh ripping part of the way through her initial rape. With impatient men prodding them along from behind, they were forced to climb onto the altar and satisfy their lust with the goddess’s still stunning tits. They added their creamy deposits to her messy form before being handed a blade to carve their names into her body just like Chaulssin had.

Nearly half of the high society drow males had taken a turn with Corona by the time her body mended itself enough to return her to a fuckable – albeit still loose – state. Her jaw healed the fastest, fresh teeth splitting through the bloody sockets left in her gums, ensuring that the next third of the men to take her focused almost exclusively on violating her mouth, forcing her to guzzle down their loads. Sticky wads of cum drained heavily from her gasping mouth before long, making her disturbingly thankful when enough time had passed to restore her mangled genitals. Although the forceful pumping between her strained thighs was far from pleasant, it at least didn’t come with a foul taste. By the time everyone in the line finished violating her, Corona’s body had been restored to a nearly flawless state, with the exception of the deep gouges carved into her flesh, each one spelling out the name of her already numerous abusers. The magic permeating the dagger used to create the markings would ensure the wounds would heal more slowly, leaving behind ugly scar tissue. Already, names covered her from head to toe, although there were certain areas were the grouping was much tighter, specifically across her breasts, just above her crotch, along the insides of her thighs, and spreading across her face.

In the time it had taken the invited guests to conclude their terrible business with Corona, a huge crowd of drow men had gathered outside the temple. Those bold enough to drag along a female slave or two to have something to pass the time while they waited for a crack at the goddess found their playthings torn away from them at the temple’s entrance. The only women deemed worthy enough to step foot inside the temple were already there. The others were tossed to the crowd to keep them appeased during their long wait. With the bloodthirsty excitement permeating the huge gathering, none of them survived long. Not that it stopped the rowdy bunch of men from taking turns with their carcasses. It was only after they’d grown too loose and soggy to provide any degree of entertainment that the bodies eventually made their way to the outskirts of the throng, tossed carelessly into the road and trod over as even more fresh and eager males closed in around the temple.

The event lasted weeks. Small, manageable groups of men were allowed into the temple at a time, free to make use of the priestesses while they waited. Jegdrym had Elasha chained to a wall, turning a tidy sum as he offered the waiting men the opportunity to fuck a princess’s mouth for a small fee. The tougher men took advantage of the handmaidens. Their feistiness had waned somewhat since their capture, but they still held a violent spark of defiance that made them entertainingly dangerous prey. But despite the valuable appetizers filling the temple, Corona remained the ultimate delicacy. Even as more and more names were sliced into her scarred body, a special kind of radiant beauty filled her, made all the more beautiful by the state of constant suffering she was kept in. When no inch of her skin remained unmarred by a collection of letters, fresh names were dragged through her flesh, overlapping with those beneath. The most cherished portions of her body to sign remained largely the same, ensuring that the most important men to fuck her had no chance of identifying their own signings, only brief glimpses of their names even remotely visible beneath multiple layers of scar tissue.

It took several days before Bonaluria’s grief for her goddess dwindled away completely. None of them were given any time to rest, the event going on endlessly. There were times when her exhaustion became severe enough that she simply passed out, lying listlessly as men had their way with her. Even Gwynnestri’s insanity-bolstered stamina could not sustain her, although Bonaluria suspected perhaps her former holy sister had been fucked sane during the course of the event when she caught her whispering urgently to the drow pumping away at her swollen pussy, begging him to strangle her to death. She’d looked relieved when she coaxed him to action, eyes rolling back as he mashed his thumbs into her throat. The guards were quick to yank the aggressive drow off of her, hacking off his right hand as punishment. Bonaluria had thought she’d seen something close to disappointment in Gwynnestri’s eyes as she coughed air through her bruised windpipe. But then the look was gone, and the psychotic priestess returned to playing with herself while beckoning another man to come over and sooth her aching throat with a load of his seed.

When every drow male had violated Corona’s body in some way or another, the lesser races were allowed to take their turns. Packs of goblins worked away at her in groups of three or four, tinkering with the goddess’s flesh, working to pump mind-destroying pleasure through her. But the pain and misery she’d sustained up until that point was too great to be contended with. Their efforts only worked to further torment and humiliate her. The goblins considered it a failure, but the drow god and goddess overseeing the festivities were quite pleased with the outcome.

The orcs used her roughly. Even rougher when they were informed they could beat the goddess during their usages. They slammed their fists into her scarred flesh, snapping her bones and pulverizing her organs, as they rammed their cocks into her holes. They tore clumps of bloody feathers from her wings and forced her to swallow them. They beat her face so badly that her right cheek caved in and one of her eyes popped free from its socket. Corona was given lengthier gaps between her usages while the orcs had their fun with her, allowing her body time to recover from the violent beatings they unleashed upon her.

Ogres came next, each of them breaking open Corona’s holes with their massive members, although none were large enough to come close to the level of devastation Chaulssin had given her. Not that it stopped the giants from trying. They fucked their full lengths into the goddess’s body, leaving her innards a gory mess of pulverized organs basted in soupy pools of jizz.

The goddess was only vaguely recognizable by the time the full assortment of higher lifeforms finished using her. Every inch of her body was scarred with the overlapping collection of thousands of names. When the names carved across her front were too numerous and still bleeding to allow for any further etchings, she was rolled over to expose more flesh to use as a marking pad. When her backside got to a similar point, she was turned again, revealing the healed scar tissue ready to be used once more. From the soles of her feet to her scalp, down each limb, even through the thin skin hiding beneath her thickly feathered wings, she bore numerous names, each one left by a man who’d violated her, used her as nothing more than a pleasantly fuckable piece of trash.

When the last of the ogres finally spat his messy spunk into Corona’s mangled body and trudged out of the temple, Bonaluria had dared to hope that the event had finally come to an end. Just kill her already, she thought selfishly, ashamed to find herself yearning for the brothel. She’d not found anything close to a pleasant day at the place and she suspected she’d find only further torment upon her return – if she was allowed to return – but at least there she had moments, far too brief, of reprieve between her numerous assaults. She glared over at the disfigured beauty strapped to the altar. The love she’d had for the woman had been the purest love she’d ever known, but she felt none of it lingering within her. Now she looked upon Corona with hateful disdain. She regretted devoting her life to the goddess. Perhaps without her added dose of daily worship, the bitch would have done her a favor and died already. She begged the drow to finish off the ugly lump of holy meat groaning pathetically on the altar, certain that her endless stream of rapes had to finally be at an end.

When the first of the spider lizards was herded through the temple doors, Bonaluria began to sob. It appeared that Irae’s claim that every cock in the underdark would have a chance to violate Corona’s body would be carried out the most perverse of extremes. After twenty years of being a whore to the drow, the former priestess did not have enough strength left in her to even feign surprise at the revelation. All she could do was watch as the spider-lizard mounted the goddess and silently beg for the beasts to be quick with their business. An attendant stood beside Corona, dagger in hand, meticulously marking out etchings for each of the beasts that had their way with the disgraced goddess. Individual names, it seemed, were not important. Only an extensive, impossible to decipher record of all of Corona’s rapes was.

It took several more days until every manner of beast lurking within the Menzoberranzan was led into the temple. Giant spiders, their minds leashed by dark magic, stuffed Corona’s body full of their eggs only to have them stomped into gooey mush by the heavy boots of drow soldiers. Hounds knotted themselves into her tight asshole before having their pricks popped free, leaving the orifice to gape open obscenely as the goddess shat out gooey streams of canine ejaculate. Several horses stolen from the surface were brought in to pound away at her cunt and ass with their flat-headed pricks, but after the Shadow Dragon and the ogres, even those extreme penetrations seemed comical. Each beast earned a mark on Corona’s scarred flesh, although none of them possessed the intelligence to comprehend what was happening. They only knew that the pliant lump strapped down before them was pleasant to hump into. That limited comprehension was more than enough for them to serve their purpose.

Surely, that’s the end of it, Bonaluria thought wearily as she lapped at the cum squirting from her latest user’s dick, watching a mangy runt of a dog kicked from the temple and into the waiting hands of the butcher lying in wait.

Again, the exhausted priestess was wrong. That the trolls had been left until the very end showed just how little the drow thought of them. Freed from their coffins for a brief period, they were ushered into the temple and set loose upon Corona. They humped away at her with psychotic frenzy, caring not that their toy had been a beloved deity once. The trolls may have possessed names at some point, but they’d long forgotten them, along with the ability to write. So the same method as was done with the beasts was utilized again, with the attendee scrawling out TROLLS in big, bleeding letters across Corona’s belly, before adding a stroke for each of the lunatics that violated her. After nearly another week and a thousand more rapes, Corona’s time as a bound-up fuck-doll finally came to an end.

Released from her chains, Corona was made to stand on the altar. The weakness in her legs was too great to keep her on them for long, so more chains were used to keep her up. They kept her legs parted, her arms out to her sides. Hooks were driven through her wings, forcing them to expand fully. She was left to stand there for a full day. No one touched her. No one even approached her. There was no need to. Every male in the underdark had already sampled her and the leftovers weren’t nearly appealing enough o draw interest from even the most desperate man, outside of the trolls. And they were all locked up in their coffins again. The message was clear enough. Corona, goddess of light and justice for the elven race, was now nothing more than the most raped woman in all of history. The layered scars covering every inch of her flesh were mirrored on her psyche. There was no pride left in her, no air of superiority or divine grace.

As a pathetic sign of their everlasting devotion to their goddess, even when it was so obvious that their goddess no longer believed in herself, the handmaidens still showed signs of aggressive rebellion against their captors. With the festivities now winding down, their spirited efforts were no longer a source of entertainment but a sign that the Avariel were too troublesome to keep around. One by one, they were brought before Corona, forced to kneel before her and stare up at what had been done to their deity and given the chance to forsake her and embrace the drow as their new masters.

Khiiral – still by far the feistiest of the Avariel – was the first to kneel, her legs kicked out from under her in order to force her to assume the position. Irae asked her to submit. Khiiral responded with a toothless scowl and spat a wad of blood and jizz towards the albino. With a nod from Irae, the handmaiden’s wings were viciously hacked from her back. Khiiral screamed, fell into a gasping heap against the bloody floor, and then was dragged back up onto her knees and asked, a second time, to submit. The handmaiden twisted her head away from the woman, staring angrily at the nearest pew. Irae was unbothered by the refusal and signaled the drow guard to lop off the handmaiden’s arms. Before she had a chance to ask for the Avariel’s obedience a third time, Khiiral responded, shrieking out that she would never betray Corona. The words were a little muddy between the shrieks of agony and the missing teeth, but clear enough to understand. She’d barely finished speaking them before her head was hacked away.

The second handmaiden – Pirphal – was dropped into Khiiral’s place after the dead Avariel’s twitching husk was dragged off to the side. Her defiance seemed to be wavering, but after a few moments of panicked breathing, she steadied herself and seemed to find a comforting calmness in the face of the pain waiting to strike her down. Irae asked her to submit anyway, and received only stoic silence in response as Pirphal stared up at Corona’s ruined flesh with something like awe and sadness. The handmaiden’s silence was broken by her anguished scream as her belly was split open and her steaming guts came spilling out of her, but she managed to seal her lips tightly when Irae asked the second time. Sighing with annoyance, Irae barked to the guard to just finish the bitch. A moment later, the man’s sword was rammed through Pirphal’s back, exploding from between her jizz-glazed tits. She stared down at the bloody blade, a priceless expression of shock filling her face before the slackness of death stole it away.

With the butchered remains of her sisters only a few feet away and the disfigured visage of her goddess suspended before her, Erlan was trembling badly as she was made to kneel. She broke into heavy sobs as Irae asked her to submit, sputtering out pleas for Corona to forgive her. Irae rolled her eyes with impatience, a moment away from ordering the final handmaiden’s execution when the winged elf threw herself to the ground, shrieking out her submission to the drow race and forsaking her goddess. The sudden turn surprised Irae. She didn’t fully trust the Avariel’s submission, but the look of betrayal on Corona’s hideously scarred face was too perfect to ruin by cutting it short with Erlan’s death. Instead, she instructed the guard to snap the magically imbued shock collar around the handmaiden’s neck. Even if the woman rediscovered her spark of defiance, it would easily handled. If she proved too troublesome as a slave later on, she would be disposed of in the same brutal fashion as her sisters had been.

With the handmaidens dealt with, the time had finally come for Corona’s execution. A noose, woven from the harvested hair of elf women, was secured to the temple’s rafters. Vhaerun was given the honors of slipping the noose over Corona’s head and cinching it tightly around her throat. As he loomed behind the defiled deity, he leaned in close to her, taking the opportunity to get a feel of her heavily scarred tit flesh. “You’ve done such a good job looking after these elves,” he growled into her ear as he teased at the lumps where Corona’s nipples had been. “Ferrying them into a blissful afterlife. Someone will need to look after all those souls once you’re gone. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve decided to take up your mantel.” He leaned over Corona’s shoulder to see her reaction to the news. It wasn’t much, but the spark of sudden dread that flashed in her exhausted eyes was enough to bring a smile to his lips. “That’s right, cunt. That heaven you made for them will become a never-ending orgy of suffering. Even death will not spare these pests from torment.” He tightened the knot on the noose, forcing it to dig into Corona’s throat. “I only have a single regret. You won’t be there to witness it. So please, as a personal favor to me, spend this last little time you’ve got imagining it, won’t you?”

It was clear to Vhaerun that Corona would have given anything to deny him his request, just as it was clear that she could not help but think of all of the terrible things he planned on doing to the souls tucked safely away in the great beyond. After more than a month of endless rape and torture, the goddess found she was still capable of shedding tears. More than that, she found that she still had something to fight for, even though all hope of saving herself was lost. The chains were loosened from her limbs and the hooks were removed from her wings and she found she had enough strength to remain standing on her own.

That was a start.

The worship and devotion of her priestesses had bolstered her strength throughout the years, the tending of her handmaidens had cultivated and focused it. But even before all of them, before she’d risen to her full state of power, she’d still been strong. She’d simply spent too much time being endlessly adored to remember that there’d been a goddess within her all along waiting to emerge. One born of self-reliance and unwavering devotion to those things she’d grown to be known for. And if ever there was a time that the elves needed a little light and more than a little justice, it was then. She only required a little time to remember how to be a strong goddess again. Her legs were shaking, the muscles threatening to give out at any moment, but they were holding her up. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for her to work with. She only needed a little –

Vhaerun shoved Corona off the altar.

She dropped a foot before the noose pulled tight around her throat, leaving her suspended and flailing at the end of it. With her restored desire to live, the goddess stretched her wings, wincing as the pain from the still healing hook holes shot through her. She flapped wildly for a few moments as the initial panic of her hanging overwhelmed her, paired with the pain of moving her heavily scarred flesh after such a lengthy period of simply laying around being fucked. Corona’s resolve helped to sooth the pain, lessen her panic. After a few moments of dangling, she managed to catch air within her wings, beating them in unison to lift her body higher into the air, enough to lessen the strangling tightness of the noose. Her head grew dizzy with thoughts, most of them devoted to keeping her in the air and away from the fatal snare of the noose. Fighting through an entire city of drow would be impossible in her weakened state. The best she could hope for was to escape them somehow, return to the surface. There were still free elves out in the world. If she could gather them together, provide them a sanctuary, perhaps they could keep the drow at bay long enough to repopulate. And once they had, they would march into the underdark and eradicate the drow menace once and for all.

As Corona fought to keep herself from hanging and filled her mind with far fetched fantasies of revenge, Vhaerun and Kiaransalee watched with great amusement, already feeling the goddess’s divine essence being sapped away from her courtesy of the specially crafted noose. Although the planning and orchestration of Corona’s demise had been by the hands of the drow, the method being used was as elven as it could be. On a purely mechanical level, a betrayal of that magnitude worked against Corona in ways she had no way of discerning. She attributed the growing weakness in her wings to nothing more than their badly scarred state and prolonged disuse when it was actually something far worse. The waning belief in her had been enough to weaken her to the point of an easy capture. With the pilfered elven hair woven into the noose, her people had now sentenced her to death, whether they chose to or not.

The rules of divinity were a tangled and messy business.

Despite all of this unknowingly damning the goddess, Corona managed to find the strength to keep flying, her hands coming up to work at the tight knot in the rope. Amazingly, she managed to make progress. Even if she managed to pull the noose from her bruised neck, she had no hope of making it out of the temple. She’d be butchered into bloody pieces before she made it to the building’s doors. But she would die with some of her divine essence intact. Even a single spark of it was enough to make Corona dangerous, even after her physical form was destroyed.

Irae allowed the impressive display of willpower to go on long enough to glimpse a flicker of concern flit across her goddess’ face before she lifted her hand and gave a simple snap of her fingers. This is why you love me as much as I love you, she thought as she admired her deity. I plan for every possible problem.

A pair of archers hurried into the temple, arrows already notched into their bows. The stopped and took aim at the elven goddess fluttering before them. Being the best marksmen in the drow army, they had no trouble firing their arrows into Corona’s frantically beating wings. The goddess let out a half-strangled scream, hands dropping away from the partially loosened knot to stretch towards the arrows piercing her wings. She managed to grasp one of them, tearing it free. But even as she tossed the bloody arrow to the floor, two more arrows were rushing to meet her, one of them managing to crunch through a critical bone in her right wing. The wing fluttered in agony, half-crippled, while she flexed the left wing harder to keep herself aloft. She dropped slightly in her efforts, but managed to keep the hair-woven rope loose enough to continue breathing.

Adjusting to the agony of moving her broken wing, Corona fought hard, her scarred flesh becoming layered in sweat. She managed to slop her slow decent and hover in place. Then, incredibly, she managed to regain the height she’d lost. Her face – hideous and strained – filled with fury as she struggled to deny the pain ripping through her body and the pervasive weakness eating away at her very core.

Igniting the oil-soaked rags wrapped around the tips of their arrows, the archers fired a final volley into the goddess’s tortured wings. The flames caught and spread quickly, turning her feathers into ash. Corona’s eyes bulged, mouth gaping open, as a brand-new breed of pain shot through her. She managed a horrendous shriek before her body dropped, the noose cinching closed around her throat and crushing her windpipe. The flapping of her burning wings continued, albeit as only the sporadic twitching of tortured flesh. Burning feathers slipped free from the wings, fluttering through the air around the goddess as the rumbling inferno rapidly depleted its source of fuel and flickered out, leaving her wings blackened and useless tatters of thin skin.

Corona clawed at her throat, slashing open deep gouges through the scar tissue as she kicked wildly at the end of the noose. Her long legs swayed, feet angling downward, toes expanding as wide as they could in a futile effort to find something solid to push against. The scarred lumps of her tits jiggled as drool flooded her mouth and poured across her chin, drizzling the mounds in a fresh layer of glistening dampness. Her head pounded, lungs burning within her, as she strained to draw air through her fully constricted esophagus. Vhaerun and Kiaransalee moved closer to Corona’s flailing form, basking in the ethereal warmth being squeezed out of the dying goddess. They moaned and groaned, freely caressing themselves as they felt their power increasing with each frantic beat of Corona’s heart.

The elven goddess’s desperate devotion to her cherished souls kept her fighting at the end of the noose well beyond the point that any mortal woman would have been capable of sustaining. Her spirited flailing gradually diminished, even as the fire in her bloodshot eyes continued to burn bright. It was only when she’d grown too weak to offer much more than the occasional jerk of an arm against her hip that the fire sizzled away, leaving behind only a puny ex-deity terrified of the oblivion eagerly waiting for her just around the corner. A handful of moments later and even that was gone, leaving Corona’s dangling corpse to drain her divine piss over the drow altar beneath her.

Invigorated both by the thrilling Corona’s thrilling execution and the fresh power surging through them, Vhaerun and Kiaransalee scanned the temple, searching for a treat to celebrate their victory with. Within moments of one another, their eyes came to rest on Bonaluria. The former priestess took notice of the drow god and goddess staring at her, releasing a pathetic whine as the archers pumped their cocks side-by-side into her gaping asshole. She didn’t know why she’d suddenly become such an appealing victim, but she suspected it had something to do with the fact that Gwynnestri had finally managed to choke herself to death on a drow guard’s cock while the trolls had been having their fun with Corona and Amisra and Clanire had fallen into dazed, unresponsive states a few days earlier.

The archers were disappointed that they would not get to finish their race to see which of them could finish in Bonaluria’s ass the fastest, but they hid it well as they shoved the whimpering elf into the clutches of the deities. Vhaerun pulled Bonaluria into his arms, lifting her with ease and lowering her onto his rigid erection. The former priestess screamed as Kiaransalee pulled her upper torso back, bending her spine at a painful angle as she could force Bonaluria’s head between her thighs, grinding her slippery slit across the elf’s terrified face. Vhaerun clutched at Bonaluria’s bouncing tit-flesh, squeezing the mounds hard enough to leave bruises as he hammered into her cunt with blinding speed, first cracking and then crushing her pelvic bone. The elf screamed into Kiaransalee’s dripping sex, choking on the drizzle of juices that poured from the goddess into her open mouth.

Trapped between the sexual frenzy of two wicked deities, Bonaluria did not last long. Vhaerun fucked a gory hole through her uterus before spearing through the flesh of her abdomen, bloody prick sliding in and out of the bleeding wound. Kiaransalee stretched the priestess’s arms up to bite through her fingers, swallowing each bloody digit down. Her thighs pressed tightly against the sides of Bonaluria’s head, orgasmic contractions fracturing the elf’s skull. Vhaerun ripped her tits from her chest, chewing away a fatty bite of one before flinging them to the floor. He settled his hands around her hips, twisting the lower half of her body until her spine gave out, snapping audibly as her flesh stretched and tore. The angle of his thrusting cock shifted as he stared down at the rippling flesh of the elf’s buttocks. Stepping back, he finished tearing Bonaluria in half, allowing a tangled mess of her innards to come spilling out of her. With a cry of release, Kiaransalee gushed her juices into the elf’s mouth before drawing her legs closed around her victim’s head, popping her skull like a ripe melon. The squishy warmth of Bonaluria’s brains trickling along her thighs drove her into another orgasm. She moaned, slipping a hand down to her crotch to finger a few of the larger chunks of brain up into her convulsing cunt.

Bonaluria’s many years of suffering ended in a sudden flash as her skull collapsed. A pure light enveloped her, warming her as her soul was whisked away from the hell that had become her life. The lapsed priestess suddenly found her faith in her goddess restored, guilt weighing heavily on her spiritual shoulders as she marveled in Corona’s capacity for mercy, even after the goddess’s cruel demise. She drifted in the light for what felt like forever before she realized she could hear something. Dread oozed into her as the dull sounds became clear to her. Screams of such anguish that she was certain she’d somehow survived her head being crushed. The pure light flickered, suddenly tainted by an oppressive shadow. Fuzzy images flickered into her line of sight, shifting gradually into terrible focus. In what felt like forever but was in fact only mere moments after her death, Bonaluria saw the afterlife that waited for her. Not the everlasting bliss promised to her by Corona, but the twisted abomination that Vhaerun had already created sometime between shoving his cock into her physical body and ripping it in half.

In what would have been a heartbeat if Bonaluria still possessed a heart, the priestess found herself sucked into the maelstrom of rape and agony that was now her entire existence, alongside that of every elf who’d ever died before her. She thought she caught a glimpse of Gwynnestri amidst the endless field of writhing flesh. She hoped the woman’s madness was helping her out well enough in the beyond as it had in the final decades of her life, but she doubted it. That thought was the last sane thing Bonaluria managed before she lost herself in the endless void of pain, violation, and screaming.

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