Every twist and turn of the implement made her shake and twitch. The nodules and ridges bounced her upon their structure and rocked her with delight. Her system was awash with bliss from the traumatic effects being visited upon her tender womb.
The Queen cast her head back with a scowl of rapture and increased the speed. Her body tensed and her spare hand reached forward to sink her nails into Tanya's torso. Dragging red furrows backward, she then clasped brutally at her breasts.
"By the Dark Gods you are tender and wicked. I have not stolen such corrupted bliss in decades. The pleasure this must be causing has to be incredible," she announced.
Her voice was issuing upon ragged pants and the thrusts began to gather more haste. The phallus dove in and out so that the searing rhapsody of the assault made Tanya delirious. She was pinned down, held immobile and ravished by this sublime female dominatrix. The event was making every thrust and turns a mind-bending delight. Dark power was abroad and corrupting her as it always did. The black side to her soul was a joyous supplicant to such iniquitous power, and as the Queen stole her pleasure, Tanya gained more delight from the distress that in turn generated more for the Queen to steal. The sorcery and Tanya's numerous vices and insane hunger for debauchery was creating juggernaut acceleration in sensation that made both parties jerk and shake.
A final jolt wrenched the object free and the Queen slouched back, overwhelmed. Her body shook a little as she strove to come to terms with the surprise flaw she had found loitering in Tanya's body and mind.
"I shall definitely have to make you one of my personal slaves. Such a prize is too good to waste," attested the Queen.
This mere sentence condemned Tanya to the singular attentions of the sadistic goddess and her elation brought her even closer to orgasm. Despite the theft of pleasure, there had been much more left for Tanya. Her belly ground against the air and her flexing internal muscles assisted her toward climax as her mind coursed with possibilities. Her love of bondage and submission, in being owned completely and disciplined relentlessly was locking to every word of the Queen.
"Yes, I shall make you a prized pet, one that I can use for my own purposes. One I can display as a symbol of my invincibility. Imagine your Order when they see you--broken, humble, lapping at my heels as a faithful beast. Is such a sight not worth suffering for?" she stated.
The Queen laughed aloud at Tanya's sudden chagrin expression and stroked her features before moving aside. Having stolen her fill, she left Tanya on the edge of release. The sudden change in the scenario stalled Tanya in her libidinous trance and froze her before orgasm arrived.
The form of the Queen seemed to waver, as though an intense wash of heat was falling between them and distorting her vision. The veil intensified and black wisps began to emerge from the flickering sight to smother the Queen and then fade as quickly as they had come. The magics took the diabolic ruler with them and left nothing save for the continuing echo of her laughter.
Tanya felt her stomach and heart tighten and fall away. The realisation of what her fate was to be now, began to tax her sanity. There was to be no escape. The Queen wanted her as an object to be exhibited, a lesson in the futility of revolt, and she knew that the process of breaking her would be as intense as it would be guaranteed of success. Already she had tasted complete pleasure in her defeat, in being humbled by a powerful woman, and she realised that the process would continue and strengthen under the Queen's guidance until all notion of revolt was gone. She was doomed to become a slavering pet to the ruler and was eager to become it. The threat of display to her former Order was just as intoxicating because word would spread and eventually shame the parents she still despised. Her enslavement to the Witch Queen was bringing her everything she had ever truly wanted.
The magical restraints vanished and Tanya dropped onto the bed. She embraced her torso and dreamed of the Master, the Mistress, and the Queen. With diligent fantasies of confinement, punishment, worship, and submission coursing through her mind, Tanya's hand snaked between her legs to continue where the Queen had left off. She flashed to attention at the first brush to her clit and then with a long mewl of bliss she relaxed into the sheets. Finally, in slavery, she had found her freedom.
Chapter Eleven
The Kings stood as one. They watched the fields before them while the wind whipped their cloaks. Their steeds whinnied softly as if disturbed by a prescient sense of doom.
The open realm was already starting to wither and rot. The grass was turning brown and parting like tides to expose dark soil drained of life by the encroaching dread of the enemy. A light mist skulked over the scene. Its slithering tendrils wove across it like ethereal serpents.
The evil of the Witch Queen seemed to spoil the land itself as her forces crested the hill and caused phantom clutches of terror to rise in even the most stalwart heart. Veterans of a hundred wars were filled with this fear, and the squires, foot soldiers, peasantry, and common people were almost sent fleeing or brought to their knees by it. However, there was to be no more retreating. This day was their chance to break their foe.
The Witch Queen was eating across their lands like a cancer, and one by one, they were falling to her. Here, this day, they would stop her, or they would all perish trying to thwart her conquest.
Upon the distant hills was arrayed a legion of darkness. The visage of her knights was indelible against their sight because the black armour seemed to absorb the light and the contorted shapes of the metal made them appear more like a host from the depths of hell itself rather than a tangible army of mortal men.
Amidst the midnight legion were specks of light. These were the eyes of the avatars. The malignant allies of the Queen wielded sorcery that would visit a grievous toll indeed upon the bold troops that dared to defy her.
Her banners fluttered in the breeze. They were ragged and torn, vile of visage, and grim of purpose. They were embellished with nightmare enchantments to confuse the enemy and bolster the savagery of those who fought under their sickly shadow.
The Kings of the free lands regarded their own forces. They were bright and dazzling, and their silver armour sparkled. The colours of tunic and shield bestowed a palate of colour and symbols, and embroidered flags flapped proudly against the wind. The assembled might of a dozen nations stood in the open plains and they were ready to block the advance of the accursed foe.
The steady drumbeat of the Witch Queen's troops wafted across the fields. The sound was deep and awful, like the beat of a malevolent heart that kept the grim warriors to a pounding and unflinching march.
From the hills beyond the eldritch host, arose a line of crosses. The crucifixes rose high and immediately fixed down to reveal the pale forms of those upon them.
Gasps of shock and horror rushed like sibilant songs through the ranks as the troops recognised the forms of prince and knight, kidnapped by assassins and were now presented to them as starved, whimpering, shattered ruins that prayed for death.
With a series of coughing roars, the crosses ignited and smothered the condemned in fire. Their screams and cries echoed through the air and tore at the ears.
To the Witch Queen's forces, it was a pleasing sound, but to those who would defy them, it kindled their hatred beyond tolerance and brought rash response. As the order to attack was flung forth by incensed officers, the Kings roared for them to stop, that they required order to win the day. However, the troops were as eager for revenge as they who had granted the order and so the Kings had no choice but to call for the trumpets and horns to backup up the reckless assault with full commitment.
With a thunderous roar, the ranks broke free of the bonds of sloth. They charged forward and screamed to the heavens. The very ground reverberated with the defiance of their lives. Each was committed to the slaughter. Their lives were forfeit and each only sought to drag down as many evil souls with them as they could.
The banks of archers on each side set free blizzards of arrows. The slender darts arced through the vault and passed each other before streaking down in dense waves upon the enemy. As countless hundreds collapsed from the stab of bolt and arrow, the armies met.
The ringing clatter of metal upon metal, the awful sound of flesh being torn asunder, the screams and gurgles of the wounded, and the weighty thud of the slain dropping to the mud, immediately filled the air. Crimson drizzle churned along the battle line and thousands of warriors fed the strange incarnadine mist with every cut.
Weapons rose and fell with dreadful rhythm, hacking and slashing without pause, throwing arcs of gore through the air. The colours of the troops started to blend and they soon merged into the shades of empurpled gobs and blackened sod.
Waves of sorcery wove through the air and sought targets. The magics erupted with fiery plumes and extracted a section of the battlefield so it might be scattered upward with a bellow of unholy fury. Bodies scattered in the form of scorched debris and the craters that were gouged were swiftly filled with torn relics. A sudden rush then filled the gap as more warriors flowed forth into the fray.
Disruptive bolts started to disable and cancel the lethal energies. They targeted strategically important zones and the wizards and sorcerers of both sides strove to protect their best forces from supernatural mayhem while others of their number continued to hurl waves of deadly energy.
The stink of agony and opened bodies became a physical presence. It was like the odour wrought by the spectre of death itself, and the grim reaper's scythe was finding a ready harvest to collect this day.
The bodies piled atop each other to form mounds and create a terrain that was treacherous underfoot. Those who were absorbed with war started to stumble and fall. More often than not, they were summarily transfixed by a ravenous blade or staved in by mace or axe.
The outcome of the battle was in a tenuous balance, and then unto the fray came a grim form. Her blades started to cut a bloody swathe through the defenders. The strike and vivid punch of weapons upon her amour failed even to stagger her stride. The points and blades bounced off her sorcerously treated battle skin like reeds.
Lithe of limb, her midnight armour flowed in tight, sculpted waves. Ridges and crests formed bat-like wings, and thorns and spines jutted out to be trimmed with crimson. Clawed gauntlets with spiked knuckles bore the pair of serrated, great swords and each hilt was a leering demonic face that spat forth a toothed blade of jet. The swords were borne with the ease and skill of daggers, but they had not lost any of the mangling capacity for destruction such huge tools of war commanded.
Her sculpted and elongated helm gave her the face of a screaming devil with horns flung back on either side of a mane of albino hair. Her cuirasse was adorned with the vile symbol of the Witch Queen and it lay between the sculpted cups that betrayed her gender as female.
The maenad flung herself into noble or peasant without care for support. She separated from the main line of warriors who were held at bay by the ranks facing them. Where her blades fell, a life was snuffed out. Even a glancing wound caused the flesh of the victim to wither and pale. It dried the meat on their bones as they were desiccated by sorceress poison.
The lethal magical venom of the woman's blades eroded all life and though cleric and sage forced themselves through to try to counter the sorcery, it was beyond their ability. It was known that the Witch Queen herself had crafted these evil blades and the venom was impregnable to any curative, be it mundane or arcane.
Even the magically treated armour of the elite warriors was as nothing to her. The hardened metals parted with a thunderclap that spat cyan bolts and sparks out from the point where the black blades entered.
Cries went up as it was discerned that the Demon Angel was abroad. People screamed the name and it inspired more fear than the entire war host of the Witch Queen.
Mighty wizards sought to stop her and quickly locked their bodies into occult configurations. A purple weave of lightning wove around the group and the arcs leapt like serpents. They flashed with new power and suddenly merged into one monstrous enchantment. The single bolt screamed forward as a lethal juggernaut strike that robbed those who stared at it of their sight for many minutes.
The energy bored into the figure and threw her back against the warriors behind her. Her impetus shattered their bones as her body crackled and devoured by loosed arcs of toxic sorcery.
The woman dropped to the mud and seemed to be helpless. The broadswords of twin princes fell at the prone form and the edges ignited with fire as they called up the full fury of their enchanted blades. With a wriggle of impossible celerity, the woman tumbled aside and back to her feet. Her swords whirled in her grasp with terrible speed to slice the nobles open before they even had a chance to acknowledge her new position.
The troops who leapt upon her and sought to drag her down fared no better than those she faced. The demon female merely whirled. Her strength was incredible and the blades and teeth of her armour tore the attackers as she flung them from her as though they were the most trivial insects, mere annoyances at best.
The creature launched forward with a fearsome piercing shriek and her blades fell like shards of opaque lightning. They pierced the metal barriers of shields, slithered through armour, and transfixed chests and heads. Geysers of blood spat over teeth and limbs flew aside as they still clutched their weapons.
The Kings watched in dismay as their sons and friends perished at her hand. The generals of their armies, the officers, the wizards, none was able to harm her. The most destructive magics that could be gathered rained down onto her and the lives of those about her were sacrificed in the hope of felling the creature, but nothing could stop her. Fatigue was an enemy she did not have to face and it seemed that she drew her strength from the lives she snuffed out. The demon was somehow stealing their fleeing vitality to feed her ongoing carnage.