This is an especially brutal story, filled with torture, rape, and snuff. Be sure this is a thing you want to read before continuing.
Everything was wrong.
Irae knew this to be a fact, but she could not for the life of her, say why. Her memories were a conflicted blur, made all the worse because of how the conflicted bits occasionally melded together. She lay across Lashrae Kiltyl’s massage table, although the pervasive calm she’d felt when she’d laid there so long ago was gone. The masseuse loomed over her, his stiff member jabbing into her slippery sex. His hands were around her throat, thumbs pressing firmly into her windpipe. The urgent wheezing pouring out of her didn’t sound like her, but she couldn’t be certain if it was the tone of the voice or simply the desperation of a dying animal she didn’t recognize. As her bloated tongue pushed free from her discolored lips, Lashrae leaned in to suck on it, slurping up the warm drool covering the swollen length of muscle.
The fog in her eyes and in her mind was easily attributed to the man’s iron-like grip around her throat, but Irae couldn’t help feeling that it was something more than that. Still, it was difficult to focus on the pervasive surrealism of what she felt when the immediate and very real horror of the acts being committed to her were so insistent. She glared up at Lashrae with hatred and the promise of punishment for his betrayal, uncertain if her asphyxiated face was properly conveying the sentiment. The muscles felt resistant to her intent, more focused on expressing the horror and confused panic radiating through her. Her body shuddered, hips jerking up to meet the masseuse’s powerful strokes. The shape and size of his member was familiar to her. She’d engaged in celebratory acts of carnal passion with him a handful of times over the many years since their initial fateful meeting. But her cunt felt strange around him, as if it had never felt him before. She attributed it to the nature of their current union and her very clear resistance to him.
And through it all, as her urgent wheeze became a fatal death rattle and she could feel Lashrae’s prick swelling within her shuddering pussy walls, only a single thought continued to pound in Irae’s oxygen-starved mind.
Everything was wrong.
The sight of him faded before he could fill her dying snatch with his seed, drifting away along with the tickling sensation that she’d heard this story before from the man himself. Had he not revealed his first act of aggression at the start of the drow rebellion? How he’d satisfied himself with the first early morning client he’d had that day? How she’d writhed beneath him, a stunning look of surprise on her face as he’d plundered into her previously forbidden sex while throttling the life out of her? Irae could almost remember that he had told her that story.
But it was impossible. Lashrae could never have told her such a tale. Because she was the woman he’d killed on that eventful day. In fact, she’d had the distinction of being the first woman to die in Menzoberranzan.
Except she hadn’t been. She’d been the woman who planned the revolt. Who’d helped set it into motion. The experience could be nothing more than a dream. A bizarre mental fantasy to pass the time now that her wicked deeds had come to a conclusion and there were fewer and fewer playthings to abuse. Cursing her mind for conjuring up such an absurd and humiliating nocturnal playground for herself, Irae drifted deeper.
Roused from her slumber, Irae felt a soothing comfort from the familiar smells of the temple, paired with the confusion of feeling an unknown figure pressing her against the small bed she’d slept in since she’d taken on the life of a priestess. She wondered which of her handful of lovers might be so bold as to slip into the temple under the cover of darkness to pay her a carnal visit in the middle of the night. Fighting against the pull of fatigue, Irae’s eyes drifted open, suddenly trying to remember when exactly she’d become a priestess and why. The authenticity of the fractured memories could not be denied, but – like the bizarre dream she’d escaped in death – it did not connect with the other things she knew were true. It was hard to see the figure looming over her as his skilled hands stripped away the thin robe she wore, exploring the pale flesh beneath.
His naked stiffness dragged against her slim belly before settling against the lips of her dry cunt. Seeing she was awake, the man clamped a hand over her mouth before he thrust into her, muffling her surprised cry. The lover felt familiar, the flickers of his likeness known to her even as her body reacted violently to his attentions. Hands that were not Lashrae’s but still just as strong – perhaps even stronger – closed around her throat, and suddenly it was happening all over again. Her location had changed, her attacker had changed, even her body had changed, but the horror and confusion of the situation remained the same. She knew there were others, fellow priestesses, sleeping only a few feet away from her, but she could not reach them and with the man’s fingers crushing her esophagus, she could not call out to them.
The whole dreadful experience played out before her like some kind of twisted play and Irae had the beast seat in the house. As her bulging eyes stared up at the man humping into her, clawing at him, she finally recognized him as Nimor, her trusted ally in the revolt against her own people and the subsequent invasion of the surface world and the eradication of the elf species. Her lips smacked wetly, gurgling barely more than a whisper as she tried to alert him to the mistake he was making. Somehow, he’d gotten it all wrong. Some devious enemy assassin had managed to take her, slip her into the bed his victim should have been in. Her head pounded, suffering through another asphyxiated demise while simultaneously being removed from it. It could only be another dream. Another nightmare. Sexually violent dreams were not uncommon to her. She’d had them as long as she’d had fur on her sex. But she’d never dreamt herself up as a victim, always the aggressor, or perhaps a voyeuristic observer enjoying the acts of others.
Again, a single thought burned in her aching mind.
This was wrong.
And then, another brief dip into inky blackness.
The smell of the temple remained as she was drawn back to consciousness. No figure toward over her, hands clasped around her throat. Instead, she was treated to an outsider’s perspective of what she’d just experienced. Peering through the gloom in the room, she watched the figures on the bed opposite from hers tussle in a passionate, fitful embrace. The thought that it was simply one of her fellow priestess’s lovers coming for a secret rendezvous fluttered through her fogged mind, although she knew that was not the case. Fighting through the confusion and trying to sort out which memories and thoughts were hers and which were not proved too taxing for Irae. Her body felt arousal, and satisfied that her mind’s fantasies were finally playing by her rules, she embraced it, working a hand down to rub against the sticky lips of a cunt that was not her own. As she wiggled the tip of her middle finger against the little bud of her clit, a nauseating rush of forethought struck her. Her masturbatory efforts intensified as she tried to block out what she somehow knew was coming.
Upon watching what she could no longer deny was herself dying within Nimor’s grip, Irae struggled to call out to him, to question him for answers she desperately needed, even as she subtly rolled away from him and let her eyes slip closed to maintain the façade of slumber. Her pulse quickened as Nimor slipped into the bed behind her, nuzzling up close to her. She knew his intent even as a part of her urged him to take her, to satisfy the burning left in her loins. When he passed through her soaked lips, the tightness of her own sex surprised her, as did the tearing pain of her maidenhood being stolen. She’d lost that part of herself so long ago that she could hardly remember the face of the man who’d taken it.
But that was absurd. She’d not seen the face of the man plunging into her for the first time. He was simply one of Pyria’s entranced men, likely encouraged to come over and take her by the woman herself now lying dead in her tangled, piss-stained sheets. She ground back into Nimor, wanting to enjoy his thick meat inside of her as long as she could before the horror started. Her attempts to question him came out as muted sighs and moans of passion, not wanting to alert the other priestesses sleeping – no, they’re already dead – in the beds surrounding her. And when his hand finally closed around her throat, her mind and body finally found a means of unifying, fighting against him. But the body’s efforts were that of a pathetic, terrified young woman. She cursed the body she being forced to dwell in as it gurgled and jerked back into Nimor’s thrusts, fucking him against her will until the heat of his seed squirting into her chased her back into the dark.
The blinding light of the beautiful day did nothing to diminish the sensation of dread and failure permeating every inch of Irae’s body as she stepped from her castle at her husband’s side. But that wasn’t right, either. Because she remember this, albeit from another perspective. This was not a moment of defeat, but of ultimate triumph. As she took her place on the stage and looked out at the mass of the drow army waiting for her, her pride was marred with disgust at the sight of them and the knowledge of that they’d done to her people. Her family. She turned, the nausea growing as she watched herself – and didn’t I look so stunning in that black leather? – strutting out onto the stage. She was everything she’d ever imagined herself being. Confident, beautiful, and wicked.
But the eyes she watched herself with were not her own. She vividly remembered standing where she saw herself standing, speaking the words she was now hearing, the electric excitement of what was to come, of the hell she had planned for the elven queen. She recalled trying to imagine the full extent of the agony that was about to befall the woman, eager to see how she would react to the suffering, and even more eager to finally see the life expelled from her worthless husk. There she was, only a few feet away, the perfect image of power and control, but so utterly disconnected from it. Instead, she was left helpless, horrified of what was about to play out with no means of changing it.
Irae could no longer delude herself into believing she was caught in the midst of some bizarre fever dream. The imagery was too vivid, the invasion of other thoughts, other memories, too personal. The other scenarios could have been flights of mental fantasy inspired by pent up stress or some deeply buried fears, based on half-remembered stories she’d heard from her conspirators. But this memory was her own, and yet not her own. It was twisted into itself, transformed from a moment of pride into an experience of nightmarish penance. Only one thing could explain this perpetual journey through suffering and death. Somehow, she had lost her own life. And her beloved goddess was now punishing her. It made little sense after all she’d done in Kiaransalee’s name. She’d been the goddess’s most loyal patron and had delivered to her more than any follower ever could have. Irae had not feared her eventual death, knowing that the parting of her mortal life would simply release her into the boundless accolades and rewards Kiaransalee no doubt had in store for her.
This ongoing montage of experiencing the acts she’d set into motion and directly ordered was no reward. She felt the bitterness in Queen Gaelira’s heart as her prolonged execution began, and cursed her current vessel for daring to compete with her own, much more deserved bitterness. She screamed as the drow mage unleashed devastated jolts of electricity into her body, taking little solace in the fact that all the pain she’d imagined the queen had suffered had not come close to what the woman had truly endured. Irae was too consumed with how unfair it all was, screaming internally that she did not deserve this after all she’d done, until the agony grew too great for her to endure. Then she screamed because it was all she could do, bound helplessly, eagerly urging her current vessel to just die already to give her even a few brief moments of reprieve from the suffering.
Crackles of electricity rushed through her, forcing her muscles to convulse. The pain was sharp, but the further emphasis over her utter lack of control hurt more. It wasn’t right. After all she’d done for Kiaransalee, to be not only cast aside in such a way, but actively tortured made no sense. It was a betrayal too large to ever forgive. Irae wished to see her goddess as she shuddered within Gaelira’s body, watching her husband – not my husband – being sucked off to further add sting to her torment, so that she could spit in the deity’s face.
Although the smoking husk of Gaelira had certainly appeared dead before the woman’s skinning had started, Irae knew now that she’d not been. Shocked and tortured into unconsciousness and drifting at the edge of death, certainly, but she’d lasted much longer than she’d ever known. While the queen had remained blissfully unaware of the defilement and removal of her flesh, Irae was given no such benefit. She felt every cut of the knife, every tug on the bloody skin as it peeled away from glistening muscle tissue. She only felt the tug down into the permanent blackness after the majority of the task had been completed, driven half-mad from the sensations of it all and howling into the void for an explanation.
The void considered Irae’s pleas, and then fed her back into the maelstrom of suffering.
Certain of the source of her new existence did nothing to prepare Irae for the imaginative cruelty her goddess possessed. The world appeared before her, massive and oppressive against the miniscule body she’d been crammed into. The drow soldier who’d snared her – this is not me – was a giant before her. The pixie – Esta is her name, not my name – trembled with terror, having seen what the soldiers had done to the dryads in the sacred forest. She was a tiny, nude thing, less than six inches from the tip of her toes to the top of her head. Her skin was the color of leaves, to help her hide among the branches in the face of threats. She’d been sent tumbling from her hiding place with the felling of the tree she’d called home and was now in the constricting grip of the soldier.
Gaelira’s execution had forced Irae to experience helplessness and lack of control. This punishment mirrored it, but with a new element. She was tiny. Puny. Inconsequential. The drow soldier holding her had been less than nothing in her lifetime. She did not recognize him. She certainly had never learned his name. He’d simply been another eager male ready to go out and spread the death and destruction she’d ordered in the name of Kiaransalee. She wanted to believe the man’s cock was in truth of a laughably small size, but as he lined up its throbbing length with her tiny form, she was forced to accept that the only small thing in this current life was herself.
The pulse of the man’s erection shook her tiny body, the heat of it washing over her and drawing a thick sheen of sweat from her pores. Worst was the knowledge of what was to come. He was showing her how big his member was compared to her, but also how stiffly eager he was to destroy her with it. He finally lifted her and sat her crotch against the head of his cock. Irae knew that nothing more than the pixie’s own fingers had ever explored her sex. Not that it mattered. The penetration would not be extreme. It would be impossible. To try and violate any of the little thing’s individual orifices would have been task even more impressive than eradicating every elf in the world – you’re welcome, by the way. But the man was not interested in fucking any one orifice Esta possessed. He’d settle for turning her into a single, gory fuck tunnel.
The skin of the pixie’s crotch did not stretch, it immediately tore. Bones snapped and organs pulped. Her little belly ballooned outwards as she gagged on the torrent of gore clogging her throat. The cock – like Irae’s suffering – was unrelenting. And the pixie’s life – much to her dismay – was stronger than her miniscule figure should have possessed. Her skin was stretched taut around the girth of the man, tiny arms and legs dangling loosely away from the mangled length of flesh. Only the top of her skull survived the man’s exit from her body, jaw ripped away and throat expanded to easily four times its normal size. She was dragged back and forth along the erection, a tight sheath of warm, bloody pleasure for the soldier.
The pulse of his arousal became Irae’s whole existence. That and the pain. His loose grip left her, blood-tinted eyes shifting as he turned and stalked towards a half-dead dryad. The green-skinned beauty had endured quite a bit of torment already. Now she would be used – without anyone but Irae’s knowledge – to disgrace the albino drow further. As the soldier moved the bloody skin-condom wrapped around his cock towards the dryad’s already heavily violated asshole, a bouquet of scents assaulted Irae. She doubted the pixie she inhabited had smelt them. What little remained of her nose was split open and clogged with blood. The stench was allowed to reach her due only to the will of an untrustworthy and foul goddess. She smelled the dryad’s fear-soaked sweat, the burn of the expulsions of the many men who’d used her before, even the linger aromas of her natural bodily processes still clinging to her. The stench worsened as the soldier drove his way into the dryad’s rear, crushing what remained of Esta’s body between the solid hardness of his member and the broken walls of the dryad’s asshole. Fucked ever deeper into the smothering, humid darkness, the tortured pixie finally succumbed to death and sent Irae tumbling away, cast off just as carelessly as the soldier had cast off the ruined flesh condom he’d made.
Irae screamed as the meat hook punched through her skin and slid under her shoulder blade. The orc brute known only as the Butcher hefted her flailing figure into the air, leaving her dangling for the drow army – my army – surging into Soleila in his wake. The Butcher had been a capable weapon – one of many she’d recruited and forged in her service to Kiaransalee – now turned against her. It was made all the worse because these were nothing more than flickers of history repeating. The drow soldiers who had their fun with her dangling body saw her as just another worthless elf bitch, helpless to deny them their lusts. Irae would not have enjoyed being hooked and hung and raped again and again under any circumstances, but she would have at least respected her attackers more if they knew who they were truly torturing. These men were nothing but cowards in her mind, spoiling a body without paying any care to who might be trapped inside it. If they knew, they would not dare touch her. And she desperately wanted to lash out at them, to strike down her own forces by the score to show them how foolish they were for taking such foul action against her.
The snapping of her shoulder blade as a particularly exuberant drow ripped her down from her perch shocked Irae back to her senses. Or at least, so much of her senses could be restored after the torment she’d endured so far. This was a memory. Someone else’s experienced ripped from their dead skull and crammed into her. These drow soldiers were doing their duty, and doing it well. It was easy to hate them because their actions were having a direct effect on her, but the hatred was misplaced. This moment should have been one among thousands that should have lifted her into the loving embrace of her goddess. She cares not for service in her name, Irae could only think. Her promise of rewards in the afterlife are nothing but lies, meant to stir her followers into zeal. What a fool I was.
With a massive chunk torn from the elf soldier’s back, she didn’t last long on the ground. Long enough to deliver Irae into another disgraceful end, stomped to death by the boots of her army.
A heaviness filled Irae’s gut, something more physical than the dread and constant nausea that had become constant companions to her. A primal terror came with it, a matronly terror. Dull pain stabbed its way up her rear and with it the next macabre vignette exploded into focus around her. The vessel’s hands clung to her swollen belly, cradling the unborn life gestating within, shrieking out pleas to spare her for the sake of the child. Irae called the pregnant elf a fool. Her army would show her no mercy. Reproducing had never been in Irae’s plans. She’d had no love for children and no desire to undergo the torment of childbirth. But the woman she’d been forced into had plenty of both emotions to spare. The fear for something other than herself assaulted her as the drow kept her pinned over the barrel, hammering into her ass.
A wild flash of protectiveness consumed her. She needed to save the child. It was hers. It deserved to live. Her own life could be forfeited with ease if only she had the knowledge that her progeny would live on. The sensations revolted her, clashing with her selfish nature. She wished the dumb elf bitch would stretch her neck and look around a little more. She was certain she’d seen her pregnant self getting buggered during her ride through Soleila. If she could only see herself – even for an instant – she could remember her true nature. Anything to be rid of the motherly terror she felt for the unborn worm stretching her gut.
But the bitch did not turn her head. And despite all of Irae’s struggles, she could not command her to. Instead, she was forced to bask in the torment – both physical and mental – until the soldiers finally rolled her onto her back. The elf’s pleading intensified as blades were aimed at her belly and Irae – consumed with motherly instinct – silently begged alongside her. When the soldiers struck, they made sure to sink their swords into the pregnant elf only so far, dicing up the child inside her. It felt like a piece of herself, her entire future, was being murdered. Satisfied, the soldiers gave her a few kicks before moving on, leaving her to pour blood from her gouged up belly. Irae was left to grieve with the horrified mother, screaming for her to die faster so that she could escape the sorrow pushing in around her from all sides. But it was a slow, lingering demise, sparked by the occasional brute who wandered by and decided to fuck the sobbing woman, or piss in her mouth.
Irae felt a wave of relief when she finally expired, only to have it snatched away by the certainty that whatever came next would not be any more pleasant.
The unjustly punished drow at least found some balm for the emotional assault of being forced into the mind of a mother by the selfish nature of the elf she became next. The girl’s aspirations were laughably small, unsurprising given the unremarkable little town she lived in, but she could at least warm herself in the bitch’s narcissistic nature for a few scant moments before the sneak attack force she’d sent out to lure out the elven army struck. And then, it was back into hell. A fresh new hell that had already come to pass, forced not just to observe but to experience every moment in graphic detail. She swore Kiaransalee was enhancing her ability to feel, to sense, making every violation, every injury a thousand times more painful.
The elf had been quite the popular little whore in her town and she soon became a popular little whore for the drow soldiers. She’d been raped over a dozen times – in each of her most alluring holes – by the time they dragged the noose over her head and cinched it tight. Up she went and once again Irae was suffering through the slow pain of strangulation. But her drow suitors were far from finished with her. Her kicking legs are still so sexy and her holes still possessed a pleasant tightness – even tighter with the noose digging into her throat. They moved in close to her, one by one, and took their turns. The girl – fool that she was – took each of them with panicked joy, wrapping her legs around them and bouncing atop their erections to buy herself a few more minutes of life. Trapped in the depths of her psyche, Irae knew that the idiot actually thought she could win her life if she performed well enough under the constant threat of death.
Stop this, Irae demanded, both of the girl and her goddess. Stop this and just die. Just let yourself die.
But the girl did not. And swinging from the noose at the center of the town, she had a clear enough view of the atrocities taking place around her. She watched her neighbors – her handful of lovers – slaughtered. She watched the other women in the town enduring similar torments, some dying, others being enslaved. The girl’s jealousy spiked each time she witnessed one of her kind being put in chains. How desperately she yearned for a long life of servitude and abuse, proving what a selfish, narrow-minded idiot she was. She spotted another elf girl amongst the others and focused on her. Irae recognized the new girl as well.
Merethyl, the one who got away. Her and the vessel – Shandalar – had been bitter rivals before their world had come crashing down around them. That rivalry persisted even in the midst of the worst experience of her young life, it seemed. Her hips jerked against whatever cock happened to be in her at the moment, fucking with ravenous passion, clinging tightly to the back of the man plunging into her. She wanted to live. If not to be put in chains, than at least to witness her rival’s demise. Although Irae would never have allowed herself to be put in chains – except, I have, haven’t I? – she found a spark of admiration for Shandalar in her efforts to at least see Merethyl die first. But Irae had lived well beyond this point in history. She knew how things would end. Which made it all the more infuriating having to deal with the girl’s futile efforts to resist the bite of the noose, hoping to witness something that she would never get the chance to.
Shandalar’s users became more infrequent, the stretches of time she was left to dangle growing longer and longer. She was a used up slab of fuck-meat, her holes too loose and too greased to offer much pleasure. Not nearly enough pleasure compared to the thrill the men got from watching her twist and turn on the rope. The bitch put up a good fight, right until the end, much to Irae’s dismay. And when the darkness finally came, Shandalar died knowing that she’d gone before her rival. To the self-centered young woman, that was the worst slight, proving to Irae just what a petty, puny fool she was.
Not that Irae was finding herself particularly fond of the aspirations that had dictated so much of her own life in that moment.
Likely sensing how desperate her victim was for a reprieve, the wicked goddess delivered Irae into the elven priestess Gwynnestri. The blind adoration of any goddess burned Irae’s tortured psyche, but it was made all the more bitter because it was an elven goddess. One I snared and sacrificed in your name, she screamed out at Kiaransalee. The moment of worship she’d been dumped into was thankfully short-lived, interrupted by Nimor and his band of assassins. Memory gave her a hazy vision into her immediate future. She’d certainly reveled over the details of the wicked game he’d played with the priestesses. She would do no reveling while being forced to live through it, of that she was certain.
The contest began and Irae’s fury and torment grew. Another moment of great triumph ruined forever due to the personal perspective she was being given. When Gwynnestri’s mind shattered, she felt her own worn out mind bend under the strain of shared consciousness. Clearing the shameful goals presented to her with the enthusiasm of a lunatic, she fought against the growing masochist fire that fueled the priestess. Her jealousy for the less capable elves grew as they were killed – brutally but at least freed from the endless stream of suffering. Why this one? It was a question that was bouncing around Irae’s head more and more. The answer was as clear as it was distasteful, but it didn’t stop her from asking it.
The extent of Gwynnestri’s madness crushed Irae. It overwhelmed and smothered her, forcing her to enjoy the cruel acts she endured. She fought against it with everything she had, but the disgraced priestess proved to be an unbeatable foe, made all the more so because her role in the scene was fixed, while Irae’s was decidedly more malleable. With her current vessel’s tenacious grip on life and zeal for her new station, Irae had nothing but time to suffer through all of Gwynnestri’s gleeful debasement. The priestess became a prison within a prison for Irae, trapped within the depraved shell for decades as she discovered just how foul a being could be to appease her masters. The surreal nature of Irae’s existence became a haze to her as she was dragged along through Gwynnestri’s years of slavery.
Days stretched on and on, filled with violent sexual acts. Gwynnestri was incapable of being raped, no matter how depraved her users were. She welcomed each new torture and freely showed how much she enjoyed her suffering, unless ordered not to. And trapped within the former priestess, Irae was forced to perform perfectly in step with her. Under other circumstances, she would have singled Gwynnestri out as a prime example of just how pathetic the elven race truly was. But being forced to live the priestess’s foul life had Irae shrieking at the woman’s pre-written consciousness, demanding her to find some self-respect. The only ounce of it she could find came from the level of disgusting, harmful acts she performed. Gwynnestri took pride in breaking her asshole open around the thick head of a drow’s club, leaking her hot blood down the solid wood. She took pride in being so thoroughly fucked that her belly distended from the jizz-baby sloshing around inside it. She took pride in every half-breed child she squeezed down her birth canal, delivering it into either a quick, brutal death or a prolonged life of slavery just like her own.
Every lash of the whip, every bruising punch or bone snapping kick, every crude insult lobbed at her. It all worked to strengthen Gwynnestri’s desperate desire to be the greatest of all the whores. It sickened Irae. Not what the drow were doing to her, but the priestess’s reaction to it. She kept waiting for it to become boring. Many of the acts Gwynnestri suffered were repetitive, but she approached each abuse with the same degree of enthusiasm and excitement, which – in turn – made each abuse fresh and just as painful as the last for Irae, no matter how many times she’d gone through it. It wore away at her, until she became desperate for even a small piece of the madness that had claimed the priestess so quickly. To lose her mind, to give in completely to the torture, to no longer remember how unfair it all was and that she didn’t deserve what was being done to her, and would go on being done to her, would have been a gift too precious to cast away. Yet anytime her mind grew too fatigued to endure anymore, a fresh rush of awareness and renewed vigor surged into her, denying her the ability to slip into psychosis or blissful disassociation. If anything, the longer she spent inside Gwynnestri, the more in tune she felt with the woman.
Because it was her enduring the torture, committing the acts. And she hated it. So why did she pretend to love it so much? And why did it feel so much like she wasn’t pretending? Irae became the spark of rational thought buried deep in the back of Gwynnestri’s head, screaming at her to do something – anything – to kill herself. There were so many opportunities wasted or ignored. Even when accidental death seemed likely, she was allowed to mend, to heal, just so she could be thrown back into the flesh grinder.
Then the time came – Gwynnestri’s final orgy of suffering – and once more Irae was forced to witness one of her greatest accomplishments – perhaps the greatest accomplishment – twisted in on itself and somehow used against her. Watching Corona’s torturous execution from within Gwynnestri – with Kiaransalee in attendance – felt more like an accusation than a moment of triumph to her now. She could see another her, a her so far above the lowly whore she’d been made into, standing proud beside her goddess. She was being mocked, offended. She wanted to make Gwynnestri’s body crawl its way over to the other her, to warn her of what was coming. But even after being trapped inside her for so long, Irae had no control over the vessel, she could only dwell within, suffering, until the whore’s exuberance finally led her to breathing the chunky wads of jizz of her final living lover.
The full weight of two decades worth of suffering crashed down over Irae as she sank back into the darkness. Free from the masochistic desire to feel the pain, an aftershock of what had been done to Gwynnestri ran through her, drawing her into endless screams of agony and self-pity. Knowing that more pain, more defilement was soon to come only made her scream harder. She had no physical throat to endure the strain of her unrestrained howls, but it didn’t stop it from aching. The darkness seemed to linger, as if Kiaransalee wanted her to baste in the agony for a little while. The pain ebbed and flowed, but mostly flowed. It still felt like she was being fucked. Fucked hard by something massive. Then she realized the screaming pounding into her own ears had an echo matching it, slightly out of rhythm.
She’d slipped seamlessly into yet another tortured life without even realizing it. The darkness wasn’t quite as dark as the void that she kept slipping into, but it was close. The stench wafting up around her made her want to puke, a sentiment her vessel seemed to share as a hot watery spray erupted from her lips. Or maybe the smell had nothing to do with it. The tree-trunk sized cock was jammed so far up her torn cunt that it bashed into her stomach. Irae realized with a sudden horror exactly where she was and what was happening.
The trolls, locked up in their coffins. Used to break in the elven whores they’d captured. They’d been a special pair – Vanya and Ahshala. Twin sisters, identical beauties. It seemed especially amusing to stuff them both into a single coffin. The one she was in – Vanya – howled and pressed her bound palms against the thick bulge in her gut, kicking her legs uselessly. Thick cum sloshed down them, filling the bottom of the coffin. Ahshala – the younger sister by scant minutes – only screamed and squirmed against the pair, proving just what a useless cunt she was. Vanya, the fool, was actually thankful that she’d been the one the troll had found his way into first. Irae didn’t need control over a face to sneer, but she found it difficult to even imagine such an expression when so much organ-smashing pain tore through her. It didn’t stop her judgment of the elder sister, or her hatred for the younger with her meaningless screaming and her inability to take any kind of action to save herself. The sisters were weak. And, trapped within one and – once that one finally succumbed to the internal pulverizing the troll gave her – then the other.
Ahshala was worse than her sister. Untouched by the troll, and yet so full of terror. After being forced to experience the worst of what a woman could be tortured with, Irae felt no sympathy for the girl. Only bitterness and resentment that she was being forced to languish within the pathetic creature’s body as she wept for herself when the worst she had to deal with was being crammed into a coffin, tightly packed beside the thoroughly fucked ragdoll that had once been her sister and the creature responsible for her death. The troll seemed to be having the time of his life, continuing to rut into Vanya’s corpse. Her holes were loose and greasy, but still capable of getting the beast off. The coffin was soggy with a growing pool of jizz. It sloshed around Ahshala, clinging to her flesh and soaking through her hair. And still, the little cunt could do nothing but scream and sob. Scream and sob until she was gagging on the thick spunk pouring into her mouth. And as her body jerked and drowned, soaking in the troll’s ejaculate, Irae soaked in the aura of being helpless and weak and – ultimately – worthless.
Irae’s spirit had been broken, reforged, and shattered again. The only thing she had left, and she clung to it with every fiber of her incorporeal being, was the hatred she had. For her goddess and for all the pathetic creatures she was being forced to live as. And even that was wearing thin. Because there was no end in sight. Her memories, and she couldn’t even be convinced they were even all her own anymore, or if they were if they were accurate, were so muddied, so deluded from the suffering. She couldn’t say how long she’d been going through the hell devised for her, or if any end was in sight. There was only the next life, and its painful death. None of them her and yet all of them her. Being the twins, side by side, gave Irae a terrifying glimmer of insight into Kiaransalee’s design.
Everyone. Every single soul I brought to an end in her name. Every drop of blood I spilled for her honor. She’s making me go through them all.
There’d been a time, or at least she thought there’d been a time, where she’d marveled at the body count her not-so-little war had amassed. So many corpses. The thought of them all – the drow and the elves – piled together, rotting into one congealed mass of flesh and puss had sent her into fitful masturbatory frenzies. It wasn’t just the loss of life or how they’d died that drove her wild, but the knowledge that she’d been instrumental in their ends. Without her, none of it would have been possible. Nimor had done his part, certainly, but the man was nothing more than a murderous brute… a knife in her hands. His skills as an assassin had provided a very effective tool for her usage, but she had been the one to arrange the plans, construct the strategies.
And for all of that, for all of my work, all of my success, this is my reward? Please, just make it stop.
Of course, it did not stop. Perhaps, it would never stop. After her double dose of being trapped in the dark, the sudden light – limited though it was in the underdark – seemed blinding despite her like of genuine eyes. As she settled into the new vessel, emotions and memories layered over her own. It was the only part of her ongoing imprisonment that wasn’t painful. And yet, in perhaps the most personal way, it was. Irae would have valued the ability to peer into other people’s minds during her life, but in death the innate ability had become another method of violating her. Death – how did it happen? All of these ends, none of them mine – could not grant her solitude in her own mind. It wasn’t enough to feel all manner of cock, weapon, or toy stuffed into every hole she possessed and – if those lost their charm – fresh wounds made for the fucking. She had to suffer all of the thoughts, all of the emotions, every remote memory from every meaningless day of the lives of each woman she wound up in.
The thoughts forced themselves on her, tried to make her pity the women whose demises she’d orchestrated. At least, that was the best that Irae could think. Some deal Kiaransalee made with another deity… that was the best answer for why this was happening that she could come up with. Irae was just the cost of her bargain. It was the only thing that made sense to her, and even then, it made no sense to her. Kiaransalee did not bargain. Certainly not with a god or goddess that would wish this kind of torment on her greatest acolyte. Softened by such a lengthy span of hell, Irae was more than ready to try some bargaining of her own. Finding an escape seemed too high of a cost, but she could endure the torture a little easier if only she had an answers, any answer at all, to the questions bouncing off the consciousnesses of so many damned women.
The thoughts oozing through her were filled with arrogance fueled by a deeply embedded belief that she was too special to suffer any true horror. Too important to die and too beloved by her goddess to truly suffer. Irae felt a tickle of madness – different than the breed that had consumed Gwynnestri – as she realized who she now was. Matron Mother Quenthel, she thought. She’d not even thought of the dead drow queen in so very long. She’d never realized just how alike they’d truly been. It was a more than a little remarkable, being inside her as her brother handed her a sword and challenged her. The idiot had no skill with a blade, but she’d had every intention of killing Grompf with the blade when she picked it up. More than victory, she’d expected it to be an easy task, as if the universe would simply hand it to her because it was something she desired.
She knew exactly how it would all play out. There she was, after all, lying across the armchair, stripped bare and teasing her breasts. She’d gotten quite a good deal of pleasure out of watching all the terrible things Grompf had done to Quenthel. Stunning pleasure only a few feet away but hopelessly unreachable. Instead, she was forced to endure the queen’s pompousness from outside and from within. Irae wanted more than anything to lie back and laugh at the selfish fool for her steadfast belief that she was better than all others. But she couldn’t. Every passing moment she spent inside Quenthel, through Grompf’s myriad of rapes and tortures, only further underlined the reality that she was just like the dead queen. The same thoughts, or versions of them at least, had rolled through her head so many times. And just like Quenthel, she’d been so very wrong. She’d not been the darling of her goddess, she’d not been too clever, too powerful, too important to escape a terrible fate. Quenthel… herself… they were no different than the lowest of whores rubbing their hairy snatches into the faces of toothless drunkards for a few coins to spend on stale bread.
The grand scheme of things was being revealed to Irae. And she found she hated it. She’d always imagined the grand scheme to be something… grand. Mean-spirited and full of cruelty, perhaps. But not this. Not this petty, meaningless thing where no one – where she – held any value. Quenthel had considered herself to be the most important being in all of creation. Irae knew that as well as she knew the folds of her own cunt. And while her death had been the climax of a change that would never be undone, her existence had meant very little in the grand scheme of things. Irae, herself, had nearly forgotten about the dead queen after all that had come afterward. The eradication of the elven race was certainly something that would be written about in history books until there was no time left in the world to write another recounting of the events. But none of the elves who’d perished to make it possible had meant anything. From the queen down to the drooling idiots who rather liked the taste of their own excrement, their lives were of equal value, measured in the same stretch of suffering before oblivion. They’d done things, things they’d considered meaningful certainly. But when the armies and the assassins and the hunting parties came for them, killed them, it nullified them completely.
It was another thought that had kept Irae warm at night, mostly because everyone else had been so meaningless, while she’d been the truly important one. Finally. It had been hard fought and well won. And she’d been so very certain that no other drow, before her and certainly not after her, could ever amount to such glorious deeds. The thought that she could just as easily become yet another dead, worthless thing had never crossed her mind. She’d rested easy knowing her afterlife would be spent basking in the praise of her goddess, mostly because she’d never expected the day to arrive.
The mental hell she was tumbling through proved to be an effective distraction from the horrors being visited upon Quenthel’s flesh, but one that left her feeling even worse. Fresh horror suddenly shot through her as she realized in the time she’d drifted, days had passed. Grompf’s single-minded and selfish torment of his sister had slackened and suddenly, it was her orchestrating the pain. She looked up into her own face, watching her own smirks of sadism and listening to her own orgasmic sighs as she fingered Quenthel into unwanted releases or lashed her back into raw, bleeding welts. She tasted her own fluids as Irae rode Quenthel’s face, Grompf stuffing his slippery tongue into his sister’s slit. And just like Quenthel’s own mind, Irae felt like a worthless cunt.
The depression only worsened, her mind finally breaking down and allowing all of the pain and weakness she felt to come spilling out of her. She’d sobbed before, screamed, begged, but the hatred in her had kept her grounded. Now, it was no longer enough. Her grip on herself – her real self – slipped away. Quenthel was no vessel. She was Quenthel, and Quenthel was her. She tumbled about in the tortured queen’s mind, powerless to control anything and now fully aware that she was so powerless. And when Grompf finally slipped the silk cord around her throat, she thanked him for finally giving her a way out, already sobbing for whatever new life would be waiting for her on the other side of the veil.
She’d always wanted to be a soldier. Being an only child, her parents had not approved, but it hadn’t stopped her from fashioning toy swords from sticks and dueling with her toys growing up. It was her uncle who gave her the bow, trained her how to use it. She’d been quite good with the weapon, a natural. She’d kept that bow at her side from then on, during her journey to enlist and through the realization of her childhood dream of becoming a soldier. It had taken some subterfuge on her part to get her superiors to allow her to use her personal bow instead of one assigned to her, but – as far as they knew – she was just better at hitting the mark when she used her uncle’s bow. When the reports came in of the attack, she’d been eagerly looking forward to using it to drop as many of the drow filth as she could.
But the drow filth had been waiting for them – of course, it was a perfect trap to snare them… us – and the fight had gone against them so swiftly that she’d not had any time to live out her dream of being a stunning warrior. The best she could manage was a single panicked shot into a drow soldier’s gut. The small dose of satisfaction she got from the strike was immediately destroyed as the rest of the soldier’s unit swarmed her. They were beasts, all of them, stuffing and groping her with concern only for their own pleasure. She was thankful for that. It kept the experience pure in its foulness. Based on the rising moans of unrestrained, unwanted pleasure pouring out of Nakiasha courtesy of the pack of goblins working her over, she could have been suffering something so much worse. Just give it time. I will be eventually. Or maybe she already had.
When the tight line of her bowstring was brought up against her throat, she felt a sting of shame. She’d been entrusted with the weapon, had grown so skilled with it, but now the family heirloom was being used against her. It would have been bad enough to be felled by arrows launched from the thing, but to be strangled by the string was so much crueler, more personal. The tugging against her throat hammered in her failure with a burning intensity that overshadowed the throbbing pain of the drow’s cock hammering into her ass. She died feeling worthless, pathetic, and utterly disgraced.
The burlap sack kept her from seeing anything as she was roughly shoved about. It stank of terrified sweat, both stale and fresh. The scar tissue capping the tops of her mangled ears ached. That was nothing new. The agony of shredding off the pointed tips had hurt more than anything she’d ever felt and the pain had never fully gone away. But now the scars were hurting a little more than normal. It could only be the fear coursing through her and the anger. The humans who’d come for her had not bothered to listen to her pleas or her explanations. They’d had a little fun with her as they took her to wherever she was going. With the sack over her head, it had been impossible for her to predict what area of her body they assaulted next The festivities had been intense for a while, but when she was finally dragged out of the back of the wagon and into some building, forced onto her knees, she knew she’d reached the destination they’d set out for.
The sack came off and suddenly she was glaring up into a face that had haunted the nightmares of every elf still alive in the world. It was a face she knew very well – intimately even. He stared down at her with bafflement at first, followed swiftly by amusement. His mocking laughter burned at her, conjuring up bitter memories of all those who’d openly mocked her in the past. Revenge against those who looked down on her had inspired her to commit terrible deeds. The man – Nimor – had helped her accomplish many of those deeds. And now even he was laughing at her, mocking her, seeing her as nothing more than a joke.
Her lips parted, spilling out lies about what she was, denying her heritage, her race. But that was wrong. The heritage was not her own and she did not wish to deny anything. She wanted to punish Nimor for how he was treating her, just like she’d punished so many others who’d made the same foolish mistake. But instead, all she could do was lie, the terror eating away within her, desperate to find some means of escape from the terrible deed these men were planning to commit upon her. And all those lies gave her was more laughter, more mocking. Then the crossbow came out and she dared Nimor to pull the trigger, to cross a line that would mean his certain downfall. He was playing some kind of silly, stupid game, certainly. She’d allowed him too much freedom and he’d taken it and gotten delusions about how much more important he was than she was. The crossbow – the threat of sudden death – was meant to frighten her. If she gave him even an ounce of fear, he’d no doubt lower the weapon and laugh at her some more.
She refused to play along with his sick game. And even if her mouth would not form the words she was trying so hard to get out, she could at least pass the message along through her face, through her unwavering glare up at him. She’d go on glaring at him until he finally relented, begged for her forgiveness, offered her his life in exchange for the offense he’d given her. Against her control, her eyes shifted to the tip of the bolt aimed at her face, and suddenly all of the fear stuffed inside her came spilling out. She barely heard the twang of the crossbow firing, hardly felt the stabbing pain through her head, but as the darkness snapped shut around her, she swore she could hear Nimor’s laughter chasing after her.
Her strained jaw ached, forced open as the thick slab of stiff flesh plunged further down her constricting throat. The weight of her very soul felt too heavy for her to fight back, mind burdened with the debaucheries she’d already freely committed to save herself courtesy of the defilement of her beloved goddess’s most precious icons. She wished her love of Corona was strong enough to allow her to boldly refuse the drow assassins invading the sacred temple, but seeing what became of the priestesses who had terrified her into acts of desperate salvation. Even so, it didn’t make the acts she was forced to perform any easier. And the drow male fucking her face seemed uninterested in obeying the rules that had been given to the women. His excitement had him attempting to lodge himself as deeply as he could into her throat, and keep himself there. She could only catch brief wafts of his unwashed genitals between urgent gurgles as she choked around him. She pawed at his thighs, bulging eyes stinging with tears and the jabbing of his thick strands of pubic hair. It all felt so unfair, as her vision went grey, that despite all she was willing to do to prolong her life, she would now die because of the exuberance of an overly horny assassin who seemed to like the gulping of her spasming throat muscles just a little too much. There was nothing she could do to escape it. There’d never been anything she could have done to escape it.
There had only ever been the cycle. Suffering, death, more suffering, another death. That’s all she’d ever had and all she ever would have. She was a being with a simple purpose. To be tortured, to be punished, and to be executed. There was no point in questioning the why or the how. She wasn’t worth those answers. She’d never been worthy of anything more than endless pain.
Suddenly, he was back. What he was doing in her office so late at night, she didn’t know. He shouldn’t have even been in the city. She was more furious at his intrusion and the rough way in which he was handling her than she was afraid of him, at least at the start. There were people who should have kept him from reaching her, who should have killed him before he could become such a threat. Somehow, they’d failed their duties. Thinking about it, the safety net was laughably ineffective, especially when put against an assassin of his caliber. He’d slipped through so many shadows and snuffed out so many lives. Reaching her was a thing of simplicity. But why would he want to hurt her? They were partners.
The strange familiarity she felt for the man suddenly snapped into focus as Irae’s mind and memories overrode Lixiss Raloxisys’s. The tyrannical employer seethed in her impotent outrage, but Irae was more fixed on Nimor. She shrieked up at him, mentally, as he forced himself into her, grinding into her helpless snatch. He could help her figure out what had gone so terribly wrong, but she had to find a way to make him hear her words. Her frustration built as her attempts failed again and again. We’re allies, you fool, she howled. Working together. Why are you doing this? Stop! He saw only lustful murder in his leering gaze, a clear sign of what he intended to do to her. Don’t do this, please, she begged. You have to spare me or you’ll ruin everything. This isn’t my time to die. We still have so much work to do! Please, spare me!
She begged him as he filled her roughly, confused as the interloper entered the room. The little bitch, she thought. She was never a good assistant. Go get help, you stupid cunt!
But the stupid cunt did no such thing. Instead, she had to watch as the man she’d trusted with such an important part of her life’s greatest work strike a bargain with the worthless little whore who’d never delivered a satisfying day’s worth of assistance. He allowed the bitch to do what she liked with her. Rape her, torture her, and – finally – even kill her. That such a worthless bit of flesh been gifted the privilege of executing her enraged her further. At least do it yourself, she thought at Nimor. I deserve that at least.
But he simply stood behind Keya and watched as she was snuffed out, entertained by the young elf’s act of vengeance.
The effort of trying to communicate with Nimor sapped Irae of her sense of self, allowing her to slip into the next vessel and be dragged along for the ride. Rage and disappointment soaked through her as she looked across the field of slaughter, witnessing the failures of her army and the cost of that failure. Her pride refused to let her acknowledge how soundly the drow had outplayed her in terms of strategy and her sense of self-importance left her feeling more secure than her underlings and the enslaved villagers. She was certain she would not be treated with the same disrespect. Her flesh was too valuable to risk, although there was nothing to save the bruising of her pride.
Beaten and captured and with an untold number of violations rapidly approaching, she burned with defiance. The general saved herself from much of the shame that came with being so expertly violated by slipping into a trance-like state, but Irae did not possess such a skill. She was fucked into a daze, left feeling disgusting and exhausted by the time she stepped up to herself. She recalled placing her thumb on the general’s forehead, relishing in the pain her power had caused in the woman, how it had finally managed to break her after so many men had failed to do so. Now that trick was turned against her, and she screamed alongside Syllana as the worst agony she could fathom was forced through her body over the course of a few fleeting moments.
Then came the ogre, and the general gave up any semblance of maintaining the facade she’d kept in place for so long. She showed her fear, her weakness, and her disdain for those she felt were beneath her. It did nothing to save her as her asshole was broken on the ogre’s massive member. The panicked shrieks echoed around her as the beast slowly stretched her head, decapitating her with cruel slowness as her skin stretched and tore and her bones snapped and popped. An odd weightlessness washed over her, followed swiftly by the thick heat of the ogre’s jizz as it blasted through her ragged neck stump and soaked her grimacing face.
The pain faded only momentarily before flaring to new heights. She howled, watching through tear-soaked eyes as the tree’s thick branch was brutally hacked through. Each strike of the drow’s axe was felt in her right shoulder. When the branch finally came free and toppled to the forest floor, she felt as if her own arm had been lopped off, although looking over, she could see it still secured to the rest of her body. She felt fingers close around the throbbing limb as the drow picked up the severed branch. Twisted away and forced onto her hands and knees, more hands grabbed hold of her green-skinned buttocks, prying them apart. The conflict of sensations left her dizzy as she felt her asshole being violated by the branch, while simultaneously feeling the hot walls of her rear stretching and gripping around the solid wood. Left with the bizarre duality of being fucked as well as fucking, she writhed and sobbed on the forest floor until the branch was jammed deep enough through her body to shoot up the back of her throat and punch through the roof of her mouth. As her body seized and voided itself into the leaves, she felt the pulse of her own impaled brain around the branch.
The stockades creaked around her as her son pumped steadily into her loose snatch. She could not recall the last time either of her children had come to see her, or her father. Such a long time had passed since they’d kept her for themselves, tied to her bed and open for their lust whenever they chose to climb on top of her. She’d given birth to three children while tied to that bed – or had it been five? – before she’d been delivered to the breeding farm. Her will to fight had died the day the drow men revolted, when her family turned on her and made her their personal whore. Using her to give them offspring hadn’t been a part of their plan, she suspected, but they’d been quite amused when their seed had impregnated her. Now, more than two dozen births later, she’d long ago given up the will to even live.
After becoming just another drow breeder bitch, it was impossible for her to know whether the children she birthed were the byproduct of her incestuous family or some random rapist who stalked through the crowded warehouse. Her sons had certainly visited her enough times that it was possible more than a few of the children belonged to them. Her father seemed content with only using her ass, uninterested in baring any more spawn. Whenever he came, after he finished packing her bowels with his seed, he made sure she sucked his soiled member clean before rewarding her with a hot mouthful of his urine. She wasn’t sure how many times he’d gone through the routine, but it was enough that the pungent taste of his waste no longer made her puke.
Her youngest son grunted behind her, hammering into her with easy strokes. Her pussy gaped permanently, stretched out from the multitude of births. His hands reached around to squeeze at her sagging, swollen tits, forcing spurts of creamy milk from her puffy nipples. The lengthy suffering felt so much longer, though. Because she’d been in this warehouse before, she suddenly realized. Not in this body, but in another. A sudden jolt of realization crashed over Irae as a cascade of buried experiences blossomed within her. Time held little meaning for her when eternity stretched forward and backward endlessly, but she realized – by mortal standards – she had to have been enduring this unwarranted punishment for thousands of years. If she was meant to experience every end from the rebellion and the genocide she’d orchestrated, that time would have to be drawing to a close. The death toll had been the greatest the world had ever known, but surely she had to be near the end of it.
The breeding warehouse was filled with the moans and groans of other drow women. Irae’s hope sparked as she realized she recognized some of the sounds. Remembered making the sounds. At the same time, she realized there were others she’d never heard before, or at least, never made before. The inert woman rocking in her bondage as her son drove into her from behind stared out at her fellow slaves, allowing Irae to feel a rising dread as she recognized so few of the drow women. The ones she’d been already she spotted instantly, as if being a part of them had allowed her to recognize them even from a third-person perspective. But there were far more who remained a mystery to her.
As Aunrae’s youngest son squirted his load into her and left his mother to work on developing whatever fetus was currently gestating inside her, Irae was left to drink in the horror that despite all of the lives she’d gone through already, she’d not even come close to reaching the end of her ordeal. Despite her decades of abuse and her worn out state, Aunrae possessed a strength that kept her alive against her wishes. Irae was forced to watch as other drow women around her expired. Some of the deaths were icy reminders of a life she’d experienced already, while others were gruesome previews into her own future. Finally, dozens of births and more than a century later, Aunrae’s body succumbed to the stress of passing a child through her gaping birth canal, shuddering into death within the stockades. Only then was Irae free.
Her wings twitched with unease as such horror, such pain squeezed around her. Looking up at herself, eager for a show of supplication, she blubbered out pleas of forgiveness from her defiled goddess left on display. The Avariel, Irae thought with a sudden jolt of awareness. Corona’s two other handmaidens were already slaughtered. Which meant this was the one who lived. It was hard to see herself through the glaze of tears leaking from Erlan’s eyes as she cast away her goddess and pleaded for her life.
No, Irae shrieked from her mental prison. Kill her, she urged herself. Kill me! You don’t trust her servitude. You’ll do everything in your power to make sure she’s truly broken. Don’t do it, please! Just butcher her like you did the others! Please, don’t make me live this! Not this time!
But just like every other moment of time she’d experienced, Irae had no power to alter the course of events. She could only watch them play out and endure the horror of it all. The shock collar snapped closed around her throat and, as it did, Irae’s mind turned to the hundreds of years the surviving Avariel had gone through after this moment. She’d been present for much of it, witnessing it from the outside. Hardly a moment would pass through the centuries without Erlan suffering in some way or another. Her torture was nearly as masterful an orchestration as had been done to Corona. And with her goddess forsaken and dead, there was no means for the Avariel to even find an ounce of mental comfort. She would go on living, regretting her moment of weakness for self-preservation, lamenting the opportunity she’d let so casually slip away. And Irae was forced to take the ride alongside her, despising the winged bitch for that moment, despising herself for not simply killing the last handmaiden.
As the years dragged on and on, Irae dreaded the Avariel’s finale. When the greased tip of the spit was finally shoved up her upraised ass, she strained to turn back time to the moment Erlan had supplicated herself. On that point, both Irae and the Avariel were in perfect rhythm. The spit slid through her body with expert precision, emerging from her gaping mouth. The heat of the low burning fire washed over her as she was set in place and sent slowly rotating over the roasting pit. Erlan’s durability allowed her to survive the slow cooking process. She was still whimpering when her smoking, golden-brown husk was removed from the spit. Irae felt each cut as the winged elf’s body was carved up and served to the table of high-profile guests. Delirious from the pain and shock, Erlan wondered if she tasted as good as she smelled. Irae knew that she’d tasted far better, remembering each morsel of Avariel flesh she’d slipped into her mouth, chewing delicately at every bite to squeeze every drop of flavor she could from the meat.
The banquet lasted the majority of the night. Erlan was little more than scraps by the time the meal came to an end, but still very much alive. The meat cleaver finally put an end to it all, hacking through Erlan’s neck in three hard slams. The Avariel’s head would be reanimated, like so many others, and left as a macabre trophy in Irae’s room. She remembered teasing the head mercilessly, occasionally taking it down from its post to use when her hand was not enough to satisfy her. After centuries of torture and rape and the lengthy demise, Irae was only thankful that the hell she’d been forced into did not include the experiences of the reanimated flesh she’d made over the years.
Or perhaps those experiences were being saved for later.
It was the end. She was the last one left. Or, at least, she thought she was. It was so hard for her to know for sure after living the entirety of her young life in solitude with her mother. The drow assassin who she swore she’d once called a partner had made her watch her mother die. A tickling in her head told her she wasn’t the truly the last. Perhaps the last of her kind, but not the last one to die. There would be others waiting for her once this man finished doing what he liked with her. The sense of feeling is if everything might soon be over, after so very long, offended her. She’d given up on finding a true end many lifetimes ago. She’d given up on begging this familiar face for mercy as well. She’d seen him so many times, always the callous aggressor, deaf to her silent pleas. The whole thing played out like a performance piece, only the actors were taking their jobs far too seriously.
The sex, at least, was long and not as violent as many of the encounters she’d had previously. He took his time with her, even forced her to feel some pleasure despite her terror. She clung to those brief flashes of ecstasy, never wanting to let them go. Eventually, he revealed a truth to her about her very being. But the words sounded wrong in her head. Not that she was half drow, but that she could have ever been half elf. But perhaps she’d been wrong about that. Perhaps that had been why her skin was such a pale color. Perhaps that was why she’d been damned to suffer the way she had for so very long. A critical mistake, something she’d never known about herself, had damned her to the afterlife of the elves instead of the glory she’d no doubt earned herself in the post-death embrace of Kiaransalee.
That was it. That had to be it. A trick. A loophole used by Vhaerun to claim her so that he could have one more woman to torment for an eternity. If that were the truth, and she had to believe it was, there might still be a way out for her. Kiaransalee would be looking for her, would be furious at the lack of respect given to her most cherished of servants. She only needed to find some means of communicating with her goddess. Or wait for her goddess to find her. Either way, she hoped the moment came soon. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take, but she knew she would have to take it forever.
Suddenly, the noose was around her neck and she was dancing in the air. The foolish girl teased her assassin’s member with her feet, desperately hoping that playing his game might earn her some salvation. Irae wanted to tell the stupid twat to die with some dignity, but she seemed content to debase herself and she was rewarded only with the sticky feeling of jizz between her toes as she journeyed into death followed by the rude jab of the broomstick being rammed up her ass.
The moment came. Her greatest moment of triumph and her greatest moment of failure. With all of her followers either dead or thoroughly corrupted, she lacked the strength to break free from the chains binding her. She wasn’t even sure she would be strong enough to survive the massive dragon prick hovering over her. But, of course, she could. Even a defeated goddess was still a goddess. And she knew she survived the brutal penetration, despite all the damage it caused her. She’d watched herself survive it, and so much more, before she was finally snuffed out.
Irae’s awareness snapped into focus, remembering that she was not Corona. And that her goddess was only a few feet away. She screamed out at Kiaransalee, knowing she was nothing more than a memory in this sick performance. It didn’t stop her from begging her goddess to notice her, notice what had been done to her, offer her rescue from the undeserved fate she’d fallen into. She did not expect any answer to her calls. She’d been in this temple before, in this scene before, several times from the perspective of every other victim present and Kiaransalee had never once deviated from her scripted routine.
Please! Please! Help me!
This time, she did.
Kiaransalee turned and looked down at her. Not at Corona, but Irae. An unamused smirk filled the non-rotten half of her goddess’s face. “Why should I waste even a single breath to help such a pitiful disappointment?”
Disappointment? How? All of this, all I did in your name! And I’m only a disappointment?
Kiaransalee rolled her eyes. “And such a fool, too. Your arrogance far outreached your grasp. So much so that it’s followed you even into death.” She gave a casual wave of her hand to signify the scene they were in the midst of. Chaullusin’s massive cock was stuffed into Corona now, churning her insides into slop as he transformed the goddess into a blown out fuck-skin. “You actually believe this was something you were capable of accomplishing, but it was that very arrogance which kept it from coming to pass. Your idiotic attitude kept this glory from me. And that is a crime I can never forgive.”
But it did happen! I remember it! I remember it all!
The goddess frowned at Irae, a flicker of something that almost looked like true pity crossing her harsh face. “Oh, you poor, pathetic wretch. Haven’t you learned by now that your memories are not to be trusted? Allow me to show you something you can trust to be real. It seems only fair since we’ve reached the finale of this timeline of events. But don’t worry, I’ve been fantasizing about how my revenge over those who wronged me could go for thousands of years… I already have the next possibly ready for you to live through, and the one after that, and the one after that, and…”
Irae’s flesh tingled with excitement, her muscles still relaxed from the thorough massage Lashrae had given her. The masseuse had sent word that he’d managed to arrange a meeting between her and Nimor and she’d hurried back to his parlor for the fateful meeting. She had such grand plans to share with the assassin, not only for the future of Menzoberranzan, but for the world at large. In her mind, the outcome of things was already fixed. She’d spent so very long fantasizing about all of the possibilities, all of the revenge she would have on those who’d underestimated her and cast her aside over the years, all of the glory she would deliver to Kiaransalee. She was so thrilled to get started that the thought of betrayal so early on in her schemes was a possibility she never considered.
Arriving early, Lashrae offered her another massage to pass the time before Nimor’s arrival. With the memory of his talented hands still working her body over still fresh in her mind, she agreed. She even offered to allow him to be a little forward this time around. A little pre-emptive celebration of what was to come. If Nimor arrived before they’d finished, that was fine. She felt no shame for her sexual desire and she’d always found it easier to strike bargains with people after she’d pleasured them. She’d welcome him to join in, have a little fun before they got down to the grim business they had together.
The massage oils were warm across her skin, tingling in a way she didn’t recall them doing before. She thought little of it, completely ignoring the fact that Lashrae had slipped on a pair of gloves before commencing the massage. When her cunt was wet and primed for penetration, Irae made an attempt to roll over and spread her legs for the masseuse only to find that her body was unresponsive to the effort. The harder she strained, the less control she realized she had. From the back of her neck down to the tips of her toes, it felt as though someone had poured heavy lead into her muscles. Anger and worry filled Irae. She demanded answers from the masseuse. He replied with only a dark chuckle. She lifted her head to see Nimor stepping out from the shadows, looking across the room at her with amused satisfaction.
The two men worked together, their gloved hands gripping Irae’s flesh tightly as they completed the task she’d been so willing and yet unable to perform only a few moments ago. Rolling her onto her back, the pair circled around her, looking over her helpless form with sadistic lust. Irae shrieked at them, telling them what a mistake they were making, how they were ruining all of her great plans. The men did not care. They let her watch as they leisurely stripped, baring their obsidian flesh and stiff members to her. Irae’s cunt was still damp, but the desire to fuck had left her. She called on her goddess for aid as they moved in on her, getting only silence in return. It was a desperate plea and one she’d not expected to work. Kiaransalee spared no time for those she deemed unworthy. And to stumble so blindly into such an obvious trap made her most unworthy. After striving for so long to disprove the common belief surrounding her, she’d unwittingly lived up to the low expectations.
With no other means of expressing her emotional torment, she fell into half-sobs, half-screams of rage as Lashrae pushed her milky thighs apart and climbed on top of her. Her muscles were paralyzed but not dead to feeling. She endured the mocking tease of his cockhead as he dragged it across the folds of her cunt. Nimor stepped before her, gripping her by the hair and yanking her head back. Hooking his thumbs into her mouth, he forced her jaw open and held it open to keep her from using the only means of attack she had left as he pushed his way into her mouth, gagging her screams. Drool sloshed from her mouth and ran down her face as he plugged her throat, driving forward with firm strokes that left his heavy balls smacking against the bridge of her nose. Her gurgling intensified as Lashrae finally shoved his way into her pussy. The twin slabs of meat piercing her at either end as her body lay listlessly between the men became the rhythmic fleshy drumbeat of the song of her failure.
Nimor and Lashrae used Irae as if she were nothing. It went against everything she believed about herself. Her self-importance, the grand things she’d planned, all of it meant nothing to them. They saw her as nothing more than a set of tight, warm holes to give them pleasure. Irae wished she had some argument to the contrary, but those arguments – and they were good, strong arguments – were trapped in a future she would never be allowed to witness. This Irae – the true Irae – was a failure filled with wicked yet impotent thoughts of revenge and genocide. She choked on Nimor’s cum as it fired down her gullet, a fair amount of the creamy seed pouring from her stretched lips to drain over her flushed face.
Stepping back, Nimor gave Irae a long, considering look before starting to redress. “I thank you for the invitation,” he told Lashrae, still pumping away into Irae’s cunt. “But I think I’ve had all I desire from this one. My time is better spent on things of greater value.”
Lashrae gripped the flesh of Irae’s right tit, pinching down on her nipple as hard as he could in lieu of leaning forward to bite at it. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally paralyze his own mouth. “What should I do with her when I’m finished?”
Nimor shrugged, already turning away from the scene, bored by the pathetic sight of Irae. “Cast it into the nearest refuse heap. No one will care. She’s just a Szarkai. Even in this cursed city ruled by women, she’s nothing of any significance. She never was.” He looked back at his conspirator and his inert victim, giving Irae a cruel wink. “And she never will be.”
And then he was gone, slipped back into the shadows and out of the room.
To say the meeting had not gone as Irae had planned was a supreme understatement. She cursed Nimor and his nearsighted vision, wishing him the worst of fates for not even giving her the opportunity to show him what she was capable of. Her plans were good plans. They would have succeeded. On that point, Irae was still certain. Left paralyzed and in the clutches of the despicable masseuse, she could only hope that whatever drug was in the massage oils wore off before he grew tired of her body. She would dispatch the man and then hunt down Nimor, killing him slowly for his disrespectful attitude. Then she would find someone else to work with, someone capable of genuine thought and strategy, not some idiot of an assassin.
Withdrawing from Irae’s cum-stuffed pussy, Lashrae hooked his hands under the albino drow’s knees and lifted her legs up, bending them back across her shoulders. He angled his still erect prick against her asshole, scooping some of his jizz from her cunt to lubricate the orifice before working his way into her. Irae’s arms slipped off the sides of the massage table, swaying gently back and forth in time with the masseuse’s hard pumps. Her head remained rolled back, the paralytic effects of the oils having worked their way down into her neck. Even the winces of discomfort that rolled across her face felt sluggish. She wanted to resume her screams, her threats, but found that she couldn’t. She wanted to believe that her sudden mute state was also a result of the oils, but she knew that was not the case. Her ego was too wounded to defy the reality of her situation.
Crying out, Lashrae came into Irae’s bowels. Thoroughly spent, he tugged the paralyzed drow fully onto the table, dragging her head back into place. He climbed off the table and let her lie there, utterly ignored, as he tidied up his workspace. Although her limp flesh had satisfied him far faster than she would have liked, Irae was thankful for his neglect, using the time to continue testing her muscles, urging them back to a workable state. Despite her strained efforts, she could only lie there, disregarded like the useless slab of trash she’d become. Lashrae finally returned to her after an hour, slipping a cheap towel underneath her head and neck and slipping an empty bucket beneath the table. When she saw the dagger in his hand, Irae cast aside her illusions of self-importance.
“Please,” she gasped. “You don’t understand. I can give you a future you never dreamed possible.”
Her words meant nothing to the masseuse. He jabbed the tip of the dagger into Irae’s neck, piercing her carotid artery. Blood sprayed from the small wound, gushing over her throat and splattering across her panicked face. It soaked through the towel beneath her, leaving it a dark crimson before thick strands of her blood leaked into the bucket beneath her. Lashrae watched as she gasped and whined and sobbed, pale flesh growing even paler as she bled out at a rapid pace. As darkness crept into Irae’s vision, she saw Kiaransalee waiting for her in the void.
The goddess did not look pleased.
In a flash of sudden self-awareness, Irae realized that while she’d now witnessed her true end, this was not the first time she’d experienced it. She remembered the goddess promising her an endless assortment of fates to carry her on into the future, but now she remembered that this was not the first time she’d gone through a timeline. She’d been here before. How many times, she couldn’t know… in her minds eye, as far back as her sanity would let her go, a yawning infinity stretched behind her, every bit as vast as what lay ahead of her. Dozens upon dozens of potentials timelines, ways that Kiaransalee’s vengeance of the Drow and the Surface Elves could have gone, timelines she had already made Irae suffer through from the perspective of each and every single victim.
It stretched back as far as she could think. It stretched forward as far as she could think. And in that single moment of insane lucidity, of perfect, horrible clarity, Irae at last understood the meaning of the word “eternity.”
As she pleaded with Kiaransalee for a second chance, an opportunity to do things right, Irae knew that – after a time – she would lose herself and her memories all over again, beaten down by a cascade of suffering and death until she eventually found her way back to her true fate once more. Already, though, her lucidity was fading again… lost in the madness of the agony as a new timeline of suffering began for her. Already she felt new memories flooding into her, memories of a victorious conquest that had never been, memories of life and identity and arrogance and triumph to contrast with the suffering she was going to be made to feel. And again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.
The only possibility she had for escape would come from Kiaransalee’s forgiveness.
And having been such a devoted acolyte of the goddess during her years of life, Irae knew she would never earn that forgiveness.