This is a tale I wrote a while back when I was still at school. there were normally two reactions.Interest, thoughtfulness and arousal, or abject horror. See which yours is...
The Last Rites
Some endure the frustration of their will with grace and forbearance. Others see obstacles to their gratification as intolerable burdens. The former embody admirable stoicism. The latter are dangerous. Hathelys, noble of Hag Graef was placed firmly in the second category, and she was growing impatient. The entertainment she had ordered her guards to bring was slow in coming, and not surprising, considering the stepped-up patrol ships around the Empire's and Bretonnia's coasts. Her 'entertainment' was necessary and practical, and promised a certain amount of pleasure. As usual, it would take place in her sanctum sanctorum, the innermost of her private quarters.
The chamber, deep in the tunnels beneath Hag Graef was constructed of dark polished stone, the same stone forming a dozen pillars supporting the distant vaulted ceiling. Just enough light was provided by a scattering of candelabra and a smattering of guttering candles, for Hathelys favoured shadows. Wall hangings depicted complex cabalistic symbols of the Chaos God Slaanesh, the Prince of Pleasure. The floors polished surface was covered by rugs bearing equally arcane designs. A high-backed ebony chair, ornately carved but not quite a throne, stood next to an iron brazier filled with glowing coals and heady incense sticks. Two features dominated the apartment. The first was a massive chunk of squared black marble shot through with silver, that served as an altar. The the other was set in front and below it, of the same material but was white shot with black, and shaped like a low divan or couch.
A silver chalice stood on the alter. Beside it lay a serrated, ruby-hued dagger, hilt inlaid with silver, runic devices etched into the blade. Alongside was a small hammer with a weighty, rounded head. It was decorated and inscribed in a similar way. Both, had flecks of dried and crusted gore stuck to their grips. The white slab had a pair of shackles at each end, sandpaper lining the inside of the cuffs for the subject. Hathelys ran her fingertips slowly across its surface, reminiscing of past 'entertainments'. The smooth, cold surface felt sensuous to her touch. A rap at the rooms studded oak door broke her reverie.
“Come”.
Two of her guards herded in a human prisoner at spear-point. Chained hand and foot, he wore only a loincloth about his waist. Around thirty seasons old, he was typical of his race in having an incredibly broad build and standing only slightly shorter than the Dark Elves prodding him forward. Bruises discoloured his face. Old, dried blood crusted in his blond hair and beard. He walked stiffly, partly due to his chained form but mainly from the red weals criss-crossing his back. The slavers had not been easy on this one. “Ah, my guest has arrived. Greetings.” Her syrupy elven voice was tainted by the corruption in all of her race, and her tone held pure mockery. He said nothing.
As she languorously approached, one of the guards jerked the trailing chain at the captive's wrists. The man winced. Hathelys studied his robust, muscular frame and decided he would be suitable for her purpose. In turn he inspected her, and it was obvious from his expression that what he saw confounded him.
There was something wrong with the shape of her face, less angular than those of other dark elves, more rounded, as were other parts of her body which he did his best not to notice. Ebony hair tumbled to her waist, its sheen so pronounced it seemed wet, stood out in stark contrast to the almost deathly paleness of her skin. Her dark, fathomless eyes had an obliqueness to them, which her extraordinarily long lashes only served to stress. Her nose was faintly aquiline and the mouth appeared overly broad. None of this was exactly displeasing. It was rather as if her features had deviated from natures norm and followed their own agenda. The result was startling. She wore a long, many hued gown with strange runic script looping in indecipherable patterns, which left her shoulders bare and clung tightly to the outlines of her voluptuous body. Without a doubt she was comely, but her beauty had a distinctly alarming quality. Its effect on her prisoner was to quicken his blood and excite vague feelings of disgust. In a world teeming with racial diversity, she was totally outside his experience.
“You do not show proper deference,” she said. Her remarkable eyes were mesmeric, making him feel as if nothing could be hidden from her. The captive dragged himself up from the depths of that devouring gaze, and despite the pain in his back as he straightened, he smiled cynically, speaking for the first time. “Even if I were so inclined, I could not.” Hathelys smiled too, devoid of warmth. “My guards will be happy to assist,” she replied brightly. The soldiers forced him roughly to his knees. “That's better.” Her voice dripped with synthetic sweetness. Gasping from the added discomfort, he noticed her hands. The length of the slender fingers, extended by keen red nails half as long again, bordered abnormal. She moved to his side, reaching to touch the red welts covering his back. It was done softly, but still he flinched. She traced the angry red lines with the tips of her nails, releasing trickles of fresh blood. He groaned in pain. She made no attempt to hide her relish.
“Damn you, you heathen bitch,” he hissed weakly.
She laughed. “A typical human. Any rejecting your ways must be a heathen. Yet you are the upstarts, the youngest race here.”
”While you follow the god of a dying people, worshipped by the rest of your sadistic race” he countered throwing swift glances at the glaring guards.
“Oh, I never said I didn't follow the human path. I look out for the cultists among you, bring them together”
He coughed, misery racking his body. “You call yourself a friend of cultists?”
“What of it?”
“Traitors they are, but at least they are human!”
“Whereas I'm not, and therefore cannot embrace their cause? Your ignorance would fill the moat of Hag Graef, human. That path is for all. Even so, I am human in part.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You've never seen a hybrid before?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Obviously not. I'm of mixed human and dark elf parentage, and I carry the best of both.”
“The best? Such a union is...an abomination!”
Hathelys found that even more amusing, throwing back her head to laugh again. “Just what my beloved, Malus Darkblade said...but enough of this. You're not here to engage in a debate.” She nodded at the guards. “Make him ready.” He was yanked onto his feet, then goaded to the white slab and dumped him on its surface back first. The shock and pain made him cry out in agony. He lay panting, his eyes watering. The guards removed his chains and shackled his hand and feet to the stone. Hathelys curtly dismissed the guards. They bowed and swept out of the room. She went to the brazier and sprinkled more incense onto the coals, making the already heady fug in the room even more pungent, while scents of spices and intoxicants registered in the humans mind. She went to the altar itself, picked up the knife and goblet, then stood over her captive, muttering unintelligibly in an otherworldly tongue.
His apprehension of her gave way to abject fear, and he pleaded with her as he wrenched at his restraints. “Please, at least give me a quick death, show me mercy!” His pleading became senseless babbling as Hathelys raised the knife up high, and screamed as the knife swept down....to sever the loincloth. She stepped back to contemplate his nudity. His face reddened from embarrassment, and he squirmed beneath her gaze. “You humans have a very unnatural attitude to your bodies,” she chided matter-of-factly. “You feel shame where none should exist.” She lifted his head with one hand and tipped the viscous liquid that had appeared in the chalice down his throat. He bucked and writhed, and some of the golden liquid trickled from the corners of his mouth. It was quick acting but short lived, so she wasted no time. Untying the straps of her gown, she let it fall to the ground.
He stared at her in disbelief. His gaze swept from her generous, jutting breasts and down her shapely legs before resting his eyes on the luxuriant downy mound at her crotch. Hathelys had a physical perfection which combined the sumptuous charms of a human woman with the alien heritage of her elven ancestry. He, for his part, had never seen the like. For her part, she recognised in him a struggle between his prudish human upbringing and the innate base desires of all males. She knew the aphrodisiac fed to him would help lean the scales in her favour, and deaden the pain of his ill-treatment. If need be she could add the persuasive powers of her sorcery, but she knew that the best inducement required no magic. She slid onto the side of the slab and brought her face close to his. The magicks of Slaanesh made her breath a sweet mask, which made the hair on his neck prickle in anticipation. She blew gently in his ear, and whispered shockingly explicit blandishments to him. He blushed again, and this time not entirely from abashment.
At last he found his voice. “Why do you torment me this way?”
“You torment yourself,” she replied huskily, “by denying the pleasures of the flesh”
“Whore!”
Giggling, she leaned nearer, the tips of her swaying breasts tickling his chest. She made as if to kiss him, but drew back at the last. Wetting her fingers, she slowly traced them around his nipples, the pleasure/pain making them hard. His breathing grew heavier. The potion was beginning to work. Swallowing loudly, he managed to utter, “The thought of congress with you is repulsive to me.”
“Really?” She eased onto him, straddling his body, her pubic hair pressed against his abdomen. He strained at the shackles, but more feebly now. Hathelys was enjoying his humiliation, the destruction of his resolve. It heightened her own excitement. She parted her lips and disgorged a tongue which seemed over-long for her mouth. It proved course, like a cats, when she began licking at his throat and shoulders. Despite himself, he was becoming aroused. She squeezed her legs more firmly against the sides of his sweat-slicked body and caressed him with renewed ardour.
A succession of emotions passed across his face: expectancy, repellance, fascination, eagerness. Fear. He half cried, “No!””But you want this,” she soothed,. “Why else make yourself ready for me?” She lifted herself slightly. Reaching down, she took hold of his manhood and guided it. Gradually she moved against him, her lithe form rising in a deliberate and unhurried rhythm. His head rolled from side to side, eyes glazed, mouth gaping. Her tempo increased. He began writhing and moaning, the feeling of her hot sheath too much for him to resist. The motion grew faster. He started to respond, tentatively at first, then thrusting deeper and harder. Hathelys tossed back her hair. The cloud of raven locks caught the pinpoints of light that wreathed her in a nimbus of fire.
Aware he was on the verge of gushing his seed, she rode him mercilessly, building to a frenzy of wanton rapture. He twisted, flailed, shuddering to a climax. Suddenly she had the dagger in both hands, lifting it high.
Orgasm and terror came simultaneously.
The blade plunged into his chest, again, again, and again. He shrieked hideously, tearing the skin from his wrists as he fought the shackles. Unheeding, she stabbed and hacked, cleaving the flesh. With a gargling rattle, life left his body. Hathelys dropped the knife and scrabbled at the bloody rent in his chest, tearing through muscle until the ribs were exposed. Then, picking up the hammer, she smashed at that cage, splinters of bloody bone flying everywhere. Once the obstacle was fragmented she dove her arms into the cavity, her gore-drenched arms fighting past organs to grasp the still-beating heart. She ripped it free, raised it up to Slaanesh and sank her teeth into its warm, dripping tenderness.
Great as her sexual gratification had been, it was nothing compared to the fulfilment she now experienced. With each bite more of Slaanesh's divine power seeped into her body, invigorating her own. She felt the flow replenish her physically and feeding the spring from which grew the gifts Slaanesh had bestowed upon her, Slaanesh's most faithful. At last she was replete, but only for now. More sacrifices would be needed to satisfy Slaanesh's lust, and and to transform her into a truly powerful demonic entity.
Sitting cross-legged on the steaming cadavers chest, she sucked the last of the gore from her fingers, as a young black and white cat slunk fro ma dark corner of the chamer. It mewed. “Here Sapphire,” Hathelys crooned, patting her thigh. The she-cat leapt effortlessly and joined her mistress to be petted. Then it sniffed the mutilated body and started lapping at the bloody cavern in its chest. Smiling indulgently, the elf got down from the corpse and pulled at a velvet bellcord by the chair. The guards wasted no time in obeying her summons, and if they were surprised at the scene that greeted them, or her appearance, they gave no hint. “Remove the carcass,” she ordered imperiously. The cat darted for the shadows at their approach. They set to work on the shackles, and left the room with the rapidly cooling and stiffening corpse. It was carved up and added to the Cold-Ones feed, disposing of the evidence.
Hathelys went to the altar and bowed before it. A dark, salacious voice emanated from it,”Very nicely done, my lady. Very artistic. In lieu of your recent devotion to our Lord, we would gift this too you.” the voice of the Keeper Of Secrets, Nchurdamz, cut off as a spiritual fist punched into Hathelys, knocking her backwards to crack her head on the lower stone slab. She would have fled from the room at that point, but looked at her hands, around which a golden nimbus was swirling. “Enjoy...” the presence of the greater daemon vanished from the room. The witch stood up, and almost instinctively caressed her arms, the nimbus around her hands forming into a golden mirror. High backed and pitch black, it seemed to suck light into its surface. She spoke a name.
“Malus Darkblade”
His cruel, prominent features slowly seeped into the mirror. She sighed, and thought ahead to future plans. All she had to do now was evade the entirety of Druchii society, appease a Chaos God, and find a way to attract the heart of the coldest, cruellest and most devious Druchii. Oh well, she sighed to herself, no rest for the wicked. It was a term used by a long dead slave, and it seemed particularly apt for her life. Her voice echoed throughout the tunnel system, registering swiftly in her guards heads.
“Bring me another.”
