Underworld of the Chevaan

Part XI

Many Vices

Satyra woke slowly with the sounds of her own cries of agony lingering in her ears. Her dreams had been nothing but a patchwork of violation and pain, but she was in no hurry to awaken fully, knowing her waking world would be no better.

The Chevaan blinked and took stock of her surroundings. She was in a sealed room with no windows and one door. No surprises there. And she was bound. Again, no surprise.

What was unusual was the nature of the room. The walls, floor and roof were all of the same dark reddish brown stone she had seen throughout the Underworld, except in the corner where she was tied – here the surfaces were covered in sheets of flat, rusted metal, the seams dotted either side with large bolts. The metal surfaces formed an alcove about ten twelve feet wide and eight feet deep, with Satyra bound in the centre of the space and slightly towards the front.

Satyra finished examining her resting place and looked beyond, around the walls of the chamber. The light here was dull red with many shadows, but lining the walls on hooks and natural shelves she could barely make out what appeared to be tools or devices. Their half seen outlines seemed to radiate a sinister menace, and the beautiful priestess looked away. Her recent experiences left her in no doubt as to the debased purpose of those objects, the exact nature and function of which she dared not dwell upon.

The white-skinned captive examined her new bondage. Her ankles were shackled almost six feet apart by two iron rings that were attached to the floor by fixed metal rods. The circles of iron were positioned so that her feet were held clear of the floor, her toes arching down to where they could almost touch the rusted surface. Above her head her arms were drawn straight up, their smooth white flesh framing her face, the curve of her horns, and a few wisps of curling copper hair, while below her slender throat her breasts rode high and proud. Two more bindings identical to the ones on her feet held her wrists together over her head with her arms at full stretch. With her feet clear of the floor, her whole weight was being supported by the iron circlet biting into the soft skin of her wrists.

Satyra shuddered. The nature of her captivity was such that she was effectively sitting in mid air, her rounded ass pushed out a little behind her and her knees bent at right angles as they were drawn out away from her body. Her thighs strained slightly to accommodate the splayed position of her legs, and she knew that with her lower limbs hauled wide as they were that her intimate regions were lewdly displayed. The binding above drew her arms to their maximum extension and her sternum was thrust out below her large breasts with her abdomen running in a concave slope down to her navel and the swell of her feminine temple.

The woman squirmed a little, wincing as the motion made the metal holding her wrists bite harder. She knew if she could straighten her legs, the pressure on her arms would ease. She tried pushing up, but her arms were positioned wrongly, elbows pointing outwards, and wouldn't bend to allow her any upward movement without excruciating pressure on her wrists. With some effort and chafing of her skin within the iron manacles she managed to twist her arms so that her elbows were pointing more forward. The motion put more strain of her ligaments and the joints at her shoulders, but a last she could manage to push herself up as she bent her arms like a chin-up exercise performed by the warrior women of her tribe.

Now, however, a new complication arose. Satyra's legs were spread so wide that it was impossible to straighten her knees fully without bending her ankles, but those slender joints were held rigid by their own fastenings. Trying to push up to far with her legs brought crushing force to bear on the delicate small bones connecting her legs to her feet.

Satyra stopped still, her arms bent at right angles in front of her and breasts quivering from her efforts. The choice was obvious. She could either endure the discomfort to her wrists and thigh muscles from her suspended position, or she could struggle and probably shatter her ankle bones, and then have to endure that agony as well.

She gave a frustrated snort, and settled herself back into her original squatting stance.

Time passed. The priestess licked her dry lips and tried to ignore her parched throat and mouth. Despite her natural limberness her thighs began to ache constantly, and her lower back. The dull rumble of the underworlds volcanic torment pervaded the room and made the iron rings holding her vibrate softly.

Across the room from her Satyra could see the doorway, the space filled by a door apparently wrought of the same metal as the alcove walls. Between the door and the floor was a space where flickering red light could be seen.

With nothing else to do but wait for her next torture to begin, Satyra contemplated the words of Zaraeth. The blue demoness had seemed sincere in her passion to bring down Sadiste by helping Satyra, but the priestess knew that in this place nothing could be taken at face value. Following Zaraeth's plan might indeed lead to the red demon-woman's fall from ‘grace', but it did not mean that Satyra herself would be any better off.

Of course, she would have Sadiste's screams of agony as Zaraeth oversaw her torment and degradation as comfort during her stay. The thought of watching Sadiste's admittedly gorgeous body twist and writhe as she was brutally tortured by the equally sexy blue devil-ess brought a small smile to the Chevaan's full lips.

Abruptly, Satyra shook her head to clear it. Such thoughts of revenge went against everything her life as a servant of the Goddess stood for. She closed her eyes and pushed the images of Sadiste's helpless agony to the dark back of her mind, where it belonged.

To keep her mind from being occupied by savouring Sadiste's eternal damnation, Satyra replayed her conversation with Zaraeth in her head, the instructions the devil woman had given her. It was a simple spell, really; and Zaraeth had been right about one thing – Satyra had cast it before.

The priestess sighed and shifted to ease the pain in her arms and legs. She had not thought of that incident for years; indeed, it was not something she preferred to dwell on. There had been no malice in her actions, but there had been selfishness. She had let desire rule her actions, and afterward had bitterly regretted it. She had hoped that she had put that deed behind her, that her works as a faithful acolyte of the Goddess had washed away her transgression. Now though, thinking back to what Zaraeth had said about the relationship between desire and the Underworld, Satyra couldn't help wonder with a cold dread whether her suffering in the dark realm was partly her own responsibility.

Did she deserve to be here; had her misdeed earned her a place among the damned?

A noise sounded outside the door broke in on her thoughts. A shuffling, shambling echo, coming closer. A shadow appeared at the light beneath the door.

Satyra watched the shadow linger there. She knew her pulse and breathing were speeding up and fought to control them.

The door creaked inward. Beyond the satyr-woman could see a tunnel like every other tunnel in this wretched place. In the middle of the door was a squat, almost shapeless figure, visible only a black outline. The sound of ragged breathing came from the shape as it stood motionless.

Satyra remained still as well. She had seen demonic horrors enough in this place to send a sane woman mad, but there was something about this perfectly still figure that made her afraid in a way that even the towering demon lord Vulgus had not done. She could not see any eyes or face anywhere in that shadow, but the priestess had the distinct impression she was being studied, with the same deliberate, cold scrutiny of a man inspecting a piece of freshly slaughtered beef to determine where the best cuts might be found.

The waiting silence drew itself out as the woman and the shadow watched each other, the former with growing tension. Finally the strain became too much and the priestess snapped out, ‘Are you going to stand there leering forever, or are you going to come in and do something about it, you little worm.'

The shadow gave no replied, but it seemed to quiver slightly around the edges. Satyra had the feeling that the loathsome creature was giggling.

The quivering stopped and the shadowed one moved into the room. Behind it the door closed on rusty hinges and sealed itself with a sound of metallic finality.

Satyra watched the shape move forward, its details becoming more distinct but no less disturbing. The amorphous nature of the being was the result of a cloak of some heavy black cloth, which completely covered the wearers head, body, arms and legs. The being held its hands within the voluminous folds of its sleeves, and the ragged bottom of the garment brushed the stone floor it came forward. A deep hood was draped over what was presumably a head, but beneath was visible nothing but blackness, marked only by a soft, wet slobbering.

The being came on until it was standing at the edge of the metal alcove. It was less than four feet tall, meaning that even with Satyra's current positioning it looked up at her slightly.

The creature stood like that for long moments, staring at her as she met its gaze with a scowl. After a while its head dipped and it slowly looked over the rest of her body. As its attention lingered on her full round breasts and the helplessly exposed cleft between her legs it shuddered again and wet slobbering sounds came from the depths of the shadowy hood.

The creature stirred slightly and drew back one of its arms. From the depths of its sleeve a hand covered in matted, filthy black bandages emerged, reaching out slowly towards the succulent curving globes of Satyra's chest. Satyra watched in disgust as the filthy appendage drew closer, trying to pull her skin back away from the filth crusted fingers.

Gently the questing hand came into contact with the smoothly rounded flesh, stroking it softly. Satyra screwed up her face and again tried to pull back from the foul caress. ‘Get your vile hands off me, you piece of filth,' she snarled with venom.

The creature looked up at her, cupping her breasts and massaging it softly. Satyra heard another little wet giggle inside the hood and bit back an even more lurid comment. She could feel her anger bubbling up like molten fury and tried desperately to regain her composure.

The creature reached out its other hand, holding both her breasts now. It began to squeeze the twin orbs, softly at first, then with increasing force. Its moist breathing became quicker as it started to twist the Chevaan's ripe breasts flesh, first one way, then the other. With each twist and squeeze the handling of her breasts became frenzied. In a few moments Satyra was gasping in pain as the hooded Underworld denizen mauled her tits brutally, pinching, bruising and yanking in a fit of dark passion.

‘I said get your hands off me, you little turd!' Satyra yelled between gasps of pain. She could no longer suppress the feelings of rage at the creature's abuse of her female form. The beings only response was to increase the violence of its assault, digging cloth covered fingers deep into her vulnerable flesh and pulling even harder, turning her eye-catching mams into distorted shapes of pliant white flesh. The squat attacker slobbered fitfully as it manipulated her breasts with painful intensity, digging at the nipples and pinching them so that Satyra cried out loud and tears formed in her angry eyes. It held onto her tits and pressed harder and harder, ‘til the red-head's face was twisting in pain.

Suddenly the creature stopped, releasing the twin fleshy globes and drawing back. Satyra's chest bounced back to its normal shape, her breasts and nipples almost tingling with relief at being set free.

Satyra shook her self, fighting away the lingering ache of the abuse to her sweet mounds. The short grotesque, however, spent no time watching her recovery. Instead it shambled over to one of the walls not far from the alcove, reaching across and taking something from the hooks on the wall before turning back towards the prisoner.

Satyra blinked to recover her wits and looked over to watch her tormentors return. What he carried almost made her gasp aloud in horror.

It was made all of metal, like the walls and floor around her, with a look of ancient evil in its corroded parts. Two flat plates, each about a foot and a half long and six inches wide, ran parallel to each other eight inches apart, joined at either end by two metal rods and inch thick that seemed to pass through holes in the top and bottom plate. Along the surfaces of the plates that face each other were a series of dull but sizeable metal studs, about a half dozen top and bottom, while on the outer surface where each of the rods passed through their appeared to by some kind of knob.

The cloaked figure came over in front of Satyra again and once more stared in rapt attention at her swell of womanly chest, rising and falling gently as she inhaled and exhaled. Its bandaged hands fingered the contraption, running over the studs and the knobs. With the creature closer now Satyra could see that the rods were not smooth, but shaped into a spiral pattern which the knobs seemed to follow as they turned, either moving up or down depending on which way the rag-swathed fingers turned them. And as the knobs moved, they moved the plates as well, either drawing them further apart or forcing them closer together.

Closer together.

Satyra's stomach dropped into an ice cold void as the significance of the creature's interest in her fully formed breasts became clear. She felt her breathing getting quicker again and fought to slow it. She could feel herself trembling.

The creature moved forward to within a few inches of her, moving between her spread thighs and lifting the device towards her youthfully jutting she-spheres. Satyra tried instinctively to pull back but her only reward was a wet titter from within the black folds of the hood. The plates slipped over and under the shapely domes, the rusted brown iron framing the white flesh with its palely erect nipples.

‘Son of a bitch, get this thing off me!' Satyra snarled furiously, anger driving down her fear. She tried to twist, shaking her mane of foaming

copper hair like an angry lioness. Her movement delayed the inevitable, but could not prevent it. With a few twists of the screws on the vertical rods, the plates had moved sufficiently close to make the studs on the plates find a purchase in the soft pillows of her breasts, gripping and holding the machine in position. The top one sat upon her breastbone, while its southern partner was a little higher than her defined sternum.

That done the creature stepped back a little, allowing Satyra's boobs to take the full weight of the clamp. It was light enough that the gentle pressure thus far kept in affixed, but the Chevaan could feel the slight drag on her mounds. She wriggled in her feet and wrist bindings, sweating under her arms and across her forehead. The creature reached out stroked both the imprisoned mammaries, making their owner curse anew.

While Satyra was still seething the cloak wearer reached out again and moved the screws on top of the machine. The plate moved down. It switched to the bottom pair of screws – the lower plate pushed up.

With deliberate precision, the creature alternated its attention, moving first the top screw, then the bottom. With each twist the plates moved towards each other. Eight inches shrank to seven, then to six.

Satyra soon gave up cursing the vile instigator of her torment and concentrated on trying to deal with the growing pain in her mightily full bosom. At six inches apart the studs were almost fully imbedded in her pliant suckling-mounds, and the compression had started to noticeably distort their shape, pushing the sides outwards where they were blocked by the screw rods, or inwards, unnaturally amplifying her generous cleavage. Stymied in its attempt to expand in these directions her breasts also began bulging forward, the firm, smooth flesh becoming even firmer and smoother, like a bladder that was being filled beyond its capacity. She refused to look at the obscene process, staring upwards at the roof above the door with her lips tightly pressed.

Five and a half inches. Five.

At five Satyra had resumed cursing, but her words were laced with the agony beginning to hammer at her from her tortured tits. The pain now was excruciating, already almost as bad as being crushed on the slabs, despite being specific to her throbbing glory-peaks. Mashed between the narrowing space her tits felt as if tiny devils were inside pounding at her flesh with spiked hammers, trying to break through and escape. The studs, too dull to actually pierce the flesh cleanly, ground deeper and deeper into the sensitive meat, bruising and tearing it cruelly.

Four and a half inches. The creature was breathing like a fish beside a pond, ragged sucking gasps of excitement. Satyra's own gasps were even louder, whimpers and groans giving way to deeper expression of suffering. With mixed anger and terror she relented and looked at the plate below her collar bone as it moved down, tugging the tender globe along with it. She twisted her arms again, blood trickling down towards her elbows. Between twists of the screws she took short shallow breaths between clenched teeth that made the compacted flesh melons shudder and dance as the unholy device ground the beautiful woman's roundness of her breast into food for dogs.

Four and a quarter inches. Four.

At just under four Satrya's mouthings became full blown screams. Her eyes were wet with tears, her brows arched in horror. ‘Goddess, of gods and goddesses, you scum, aaaah….aaaaaAAAAHHHHH…EEEAA AAAHHHHH!' Her tits felt as if they had been filled with an ocean of boiling blood that was trying to tear free of the soft female fruit and explode across the chamber. Another twist and surely the white curving skin of her tits would rupture and burst, leaving her gorgeous breasts nothing more that mangled cones of pulped gristle.

At just under four inches, the creature ceased the clamps mounting pressure. Where a pair of firm and perfect breasts had stood large but moments ago, now there were two hideous parodies of that lush beauty, each four times the size of a man's fist and pointing straight out almost a foot from Satrya's heaving chest. The skin was so taught and smooth it looked to be carved from white marble, the nipple were engorged with trapped blood to half again their size. Sweat dripped down the priestess face while her head hung back, and diamond drops grew beneath the tortured meat where it bulged past the Underworld iron and fell like rain onto the sharply falling slope of her midriff, then on down to the copper delta and its promising pink ravine.

The giggling Underworlder cupped one hemisphere of pain and squeezed gently.

‘AAAAAAIIIIIEEEEE! STOP IT, STOP!' Satyra's head snapped back forward, red lips thin and pale as they drew back in anguish. In reply, the creature reached for the other tit.

‘No…NO, YOU BASTARD, I SAID NO…ARRRGGGHHHHH!!!!'

Slobbering foully it squeezed the pinioned twin. It began alternating its attention, first pressing on one flesh balloon, then the other.

‘AARRRRRRR….no, you…STOP IT, DAMN YOU!' Satyra's made of sex body trembled in every line and sensual curve. ‘AAAHHHH…huh, huh,…wait, wait…ah ah ah aaarrrRRRREEEEAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaa...*'

The creature continued this game for several minutes, slavering within its hood at the splayed-leg contortions of the half-satyr beauty. Satyra felt as if her tits had been transformed into things of pain that existed merely for her suffering. She screamed, but she could never scream loud enough to let out all the pain.

Her mind was so wracked with suffering she didn't even notice when the cloaked one stopped and went to the wall again. He came back as she hung moaning and sobbing and used her land hair to drag her head forward again and look at his new tools.

In one palm his thumb turned a trio of small vices, similar to the ones on her tits but with only one pair of screws each. The plates that came together were the size of a fingernail. The monstrosity burbled like a deranged school boy and used its free hand to flick one over-gorged nipple.

‘Oh no, no, don't you do it,' barked Satyra, but there was a note of pleading in her words as well as command. This was beyond monstrous. The creature cupped two vices deftly in one hand and used both it and his empty one to position the clamp around the priestess' right nipple. It began turning the tiny screw. ‘No, I said no, damn it! Aaaaa…you filth…please…Oh Goddess help me, HELP ME!' These last words had risen to a shrill wailing cry as she pushed up with her legs, prepared to break her ankles if it tore her loos from the evil little abomination on her tit. The already thundering pressure in her mammary increased to a volcanic roar as the maxi-sensitized nerve cluster was pinched harder and harder, the vice tightening; tightening. Satyra's green eyes were wide and unfocused as the pain became her universe.

The creature stopped, the prisoner panted like a mare being run through a steeple-chase. The second vice moved into position as Satyra buried her face in her arm and bit down, her teeth drawing blood as the vice closed ever harder. She couldn't bear it and pulled away mouth so wide she could feel the corners tearing.

‘ YEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR! Oh no, oh no…mmm….ah..uuuaaAAA…AAAA…AAAARRRRHHHH!!! NO, no more…make it stop MAKE IT STOP!' Satyra's whole glamorous 5' 11” body heaved and danced as her tit-tips became exploding suns. If she could have taken a knife and hacked her breasts from her body, she would have. The little cloaked figure was standing right up against her now, his body rubbing against the sweat-moist cleft of her pussy as she jerked in agony, the puppet of his sex torture. The creature moaned and hooted and pressed its filthy raiment against the bucking Chevaan flesh, dry humping her as she howled like the most damned woman in the Underworld.

And then those filthy rag covered fingers were at her crotch, and they were touching her, touching her most special place, rubbing and probing, moving aside the lips of the vulva to uncover the hot pinkness behind. Satyra looked through a red mist of anguish down her body, past where he crushed mipples bleed down her obscenely swollen tits, and she could just see the parted window of skin as she felt her temple being laid bare. Her eyes were wide with agony close to madness, her face was wet with tears. She couldn't close her legs, couldn't protect her self, couldn't do a fucking thing to stop the little slurping horror reaching down with the last clamp toward the tiny little bud inside her, the insignificant centre of her womanly being.

She felt the metal move pushing into her sanctum and her mind screamed at her, Give in, tell them you'll be there's, tell them you'll do anything they want. She looked up and away and felt the metal plates find the bump. For fuck's sake, you stupid bitch, say it. Say it or he's going to crush your clit like a mussel on the beach, say it or he's going to burst it like a blood filled berry and you'll feel it and you'll be screaming and you won't die and your body will be ripping itself to pieces and you won't die and for love of all the gods just FUCKING SAY IT NOW NOW NOW!!!!

 

Satyra said nothing.

And then the pressure was there, and it grew, and it became pain, and it became agony, and it went beyond either pain or agony until she had her horned head thrown back, and her mouth open to the floor, and her savaged tits and their blood oozing nipples pointed to the ceiling, and her back was bent like a tensed hunting bow, and her belly was a crescent moon, and between thigh stretched like ship's cables her bleeding cunt was thrust out and…

‘EEEEEEYYYAA AAAAAAAAA AAAA AAAAARRRRHH!!!!!!'