Plaything

One of the many benefits of having warlocks is that, when you pull on their strings, the silly little puppets dance exactly the way you want them to. This is especially useful when you’re bored of inanimate toys, and the Archduke of Phlegethos—the real one, not her miserable excuse for a father—is waiting impatiently in your bed.

Glasya hums an idle tune as she tightens the corset she’s laced Niamh into. The human gasps; a short sharp inhale she bites her lip to hide. Precious, really, that she thinks she can hide anything from an Archduke, let alone the one she sold her soul to. Glasya tugs her fluffy crop of dark curls. “Keep still now, there’s a good girl.”

Niamh keeps still. Or as still she can in the heels Glasya’s put her in—six inches of metal spike is a challenge for a girl who stomps around the mud of the Material Plane all day in atrociously sensible boots. Heels and stockings, both in near-Abyssal black; garters and corset in arterial red. Can’t go wrong with a classic combination, and the colours are stunning paired with Niamh’s warm brown skin—she has undertones of copper, a shade Glasya highly approves of.

“How much longer is this going to take?” Fierna complains. Glasya glances at where she’s sprawled on the bed.

“Don’t you know not to rush an artist? Be patient.”

Fierna huffs, a coil of sparking smoke puffing from her thick lips. “I hate waiting.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Glasya says. She finishes tying the corset and turns Niamh to face her. The girl is awkward in the feminine garb; doesn’t know how to position her limbs, what to do with her chest, and fear and embarrassment and arousal roll off her in succulent waves. Glasya holds her by the chin and pulls a lipstick to her hand in a crackle of fire. She drags it over Niamh’s lips, slow, turning them deep crimson, holding her gaze all the while. The scent of arousal grows stronger—if Glasya put a hand between Niamh’s legs, it would come up soaking wet.

“A good thing I didn’t waste underwear on you,” she murmurs, swapping lipstick for eyeliner with a snap of her fingers. “You’d have ruined it already.”

Niamh swallows audibly. Her face doesn’t quite suit the makeup. Adding glittering shadow and dark blush only makes it more obvious that she isn’t used to so much decoration—not an ugly effect, but one that emphasises how out of her depth she is. A child sitting at her mother’s vanity.

Glasya steps back, admiring her handiwork. “Doesn’t she just look good enough to eat?”

“My mouth is watering,” Fierna drawls. Glasya scowls.

“Don’t mock my work, Fifi, or I won’t share.”

Fierna’s hair flickers into flame, catching on the gauzy red drapes, which begin to smoulder. “You gonna stamp your foot next, princess?”

There’s a time and a place for Fierna to tease her, and in front of one of her warlocks is not it. Glasya sends a warning ripple through the fabric of Malbolge, scratching at the inside of Fierna’s avatar with her metaphysical claws. Fierna sighs and douses her hair. “Bring the snack here, then, and let me get a taste.”

A firm smack to Niamh’s bare ass—which echoes beautifully; give the girl credit, she does put the work in—sends her tottering towards the bed. The urge to trip her is strong, but Glasya resists, and simply climbs onto the black silk sheets behind her. She’s so small next to Fierna—both of them are, with Fifi’s current chosen form. The Archduke of Phlegethos is plushly curved, densely muscled, with mountainous breasts and voluminous thighs streaked with glowing stretch marks that continue up to decorate the swell of her stomach. She radiates heat and power and, in Glasya’s bedchambers, pure, irresistible sex.

She takes Niamh by the waist and lifts her, one handed, to examine her for a moment before lowering the mortal to straddle her face. The mark burned into Niamh’s thigh, the counter Glasya set there to bind her pleasure to her Patron’s whims, presses against Fierna’s cheek. The number hasn’t increased in a while—though not for lack of trying on Niamh’s part.

Glasya’s been very much enjoying her warlock’s dreams lately.

Niamh lets out a soft gasp as Fierna licks over her clit. She tips forwards, groping for something to hold on to, finally locking her fingers around the ribcage frame of Glasya’s bed, her sounds of pleasure growing louder as Fierna’s tongue works faster, lower, deeper. Fifi has a superior mouth, skilled beyond mortal comprehension—if Niamh were able to come on her own, she’d be there already twice over. As it is, all she can do is squirm and flush and drip all over Fierna’s face.

“See?” Glasya says, seating herself astride Fierna’s ample hips. “Isn’t she just scrumptious?”

“Almost as sweet as you,” Fierna concedes.

“Turn her around.”

Ah, what perfection! Niamh’s skin is glossy with sweat—from pleasure and the intense heat of Fierna’s body—her pupils enormous, mouth open in a desperate pant. Her breasts, bare above the corset, heave as Fierna goes back to eating her. She’s too tightlaced to get a full breath, and seems on the verge of passing out already. How fun!

Glasya takes one dark nipple between her claws and pinches, tugging it back and forth until it stands hard to attention. She does the same to the other breast, squeezing and twisting, basking in the precious mewls of pain that sparkle above the wet lap of Fierna’s tongue through Niamh’s cunt.

“You know,” she says, “I think these could use a little more decoration.”

“Like what?” Niamh asks.

“Like this,” Glasya says, and makes her claws into needlepoints and drives them through Niamh’s nipples. Niamh’s eyes flare and she cries out, jerking away—Fierna’s grip on her waist tightens, keeping her in place. A thin trickle of blood runs from each puncture, the exact same shade as her painted lips.

She whimpers helplessly when Glasya yanks her forwards by the tits, claws embedded in her flesh. Mortals are so fragile, so easy to break. They all three know this, Niamh especially so, and the tension is arousing her to yet greater heights; Glasya can sense it boiling inside her, held at bay by the mark on her thigh.

Glasya withdraws her claws. Copper rings replace them, just large enough to fit a finger through. The air between them ripples, hot enough to sear a mark into Niamh’s skin, and a chain forges itself from one ring to the other.

“Lovely,” Glasya says. A tug of the chain makes Niamh yelp. Delicious. She lifts it to Niamh’s mouth, makes her bite down. “Now, pet—stay.”

She stays. And moans and whines with Fierna’s tongue licking probably all the way up to her womb, knowing what Fifi is like, whilst Glasya saunters to her dresser and back—moans louder as she watches Glasya fasten the strap into its harness.

“This isn’t for you,” Glasya tells her. “You’re a toy today. A very pretty, very wet toy.” She rubs her fingers over Niamh’s soaked clit; uses the slick to wet the strap before lining herself up with Fierna’s cunt. It’s as hot as the rest of her, glowing cherry red, and Glasya lets out a sigh when, on burying herself fully, the curls of flame surmounting it singe burnmarks onto her stomach.

She builds her pace slow and steady, a finger hooked into each of Niamh’s new piercings, pulling them in time to the rock of her hips.

“Your pet is a torrent,” Fierna says. “Any wetter and she’ll douse me.”

“Nothing could put you out, Fifi.”

“She’s making a damn good effort.”

“Yes, she is.” Glasya beams. “She wants to come so badly. She’s wanted to ever since I put this mark on her—we’re in high double-digits of denial! Here, since I’m in a generous mood”—she slides her tail up the inside of Niamh’s thigh to lay the tip on the mark—“you can have all of them right now.”

Such a scream! The aroma of burning flesh floods the bedroom as Niamh’s counter races up in a blaze of fire. Her back arches, her eyes roll to the whites, her mouth gapes wide; the chain drops to her chest and Glasya grabs it, twists it, pulling hard until Niamh’s breasts stretch out and up, her nipples lovely, puffed-up peaks. The number continues to rise, months of pleasure unleashed in their entirety, drowning the warlock in a flood of her own desire.

“She’s in agony,” Fierna sighs dreamily.

“Exquisite, isn’t it?”

Still holding Niamh by the chain—and the girl has sagged, so it’s taking almost all her weight—Glasya resumes the motion of her hips, driving into Fierna in a steady, grinding roll. One of Fierna’s big hands reaches down; finds, with unerring accuracy, Glasya’s own slick entrance beneath the strap. She hums as Fifi slips two blazing hot fingers inside her, claws out, scorching third-degree burns into the flesh of her soul.

“Let go of the girl,” Fierna demands and, because she’s still feeling generous, Glasya does what her lover wants. Fierna shoves Niamh forwards, pushing the human’s face between her legs. “Be a good toy,” she says. “If you’ve the brains left to do anything useful.”

Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. Niamh whimpering, wordless, her tongue flicking pretty and pink over Fierna’s forge-red clit, occasionally dipping low enough to lick at Glasya’s strap. Fierna moans, a volcanic rumble of enjoyment—when she’s pleased, Fifi is a glorious creature; hair a corona of flame, eyes brighter than any sun on any plane. With the hand that isn’t knuckle-deep in Glasya, she grabs one of Niamh’s heels. “She still allowed to come?”

“As long as she’s servicing us, yes.”

“Good.” Fierna hauls the warlock’s twitching cunt back to her mouth. “Watch this.”

She plunges her tongue, so hot smoke curls from the red length of it, deep into Niamh’s hole. Niamh shrieks in that delectable cocktail of pleasure and pain Glasya so loves to inflict, thrashing atop Fierna’s body. They pin her in place between them, claws sunk into her flesh. She howls and moans and bleeds and as Fierna delivers one last undulating flick of her tongue, Niamh’s hips jerk and she squirts messily all over Fierna’s face.

Glasya laughs, delighted. Fierna pushes Niamh aside and licks her lips, looking supremely satisfied. Wisps of smoke drift from Niamh’s cunt, which must be raw as a wound—maybe later Glasya will fuck it, push her all the way to the brink of insanity. For now, though, she’s much more interested in Fierna.

She picks up the pace, grinding Niamh’s mouth—which isn’t doing anything but be wet and noisy—against the place where strap meets cunt. A telltale growl builds in Fierna’s chest, and a moment later she clenches around the strap, cursing. Her fingers curl fiercely into Glasya, hard enough to draw blood and orgasm out of her—her head tips back, her tail whipsnapping side to side.

“Fifi, you are a menace!”

“Good?”

“Marvellous.”

Whilst she’s catching her breath, Fierna lifts Niamh’s limp form by the neck like a kitten. “What do we do with this?”

“Put her down,” Glasya says, gesturing at the floor.

Niamh thumps onto the rug with a pained mewl. Her lipstick is smeared, her eyeliner running down her cheeks in a streaky black mess. Her eyes are glazed, half-crossed; she’s absolutely out of it. Adorable.

“Niamh, sweetie?” Glasya says, the words purring with power. Niamh struggles up into a half-sprawl, legs akimbo, all her weight on one trembling elbow—the mere act of raising her head is an immense effort. Exhausted as she might be, however, since she’s here, she can make herself entertaining until Glasya has use for her again. “Touch yourself.”

She puts only the merest hint of influence in the instruction, but Niamh is her warlock, in her bedroom, in her Hell. Refusal is not a privilege Niamh has.

Groaning, Niamh puts a hand between her legs. The mark on her thigh tightens its grip on her soul again, so the fingers she’s working into her dripping hole won’t accomplish anything, but the sight and sound are a lovely bit of background lust.

“Warlocks are such fun pets,” Fierna says, taking Glasya by the hips to pull her close. “I should really do more with the ones I have.”

“If you played with yours the way I do with mine, the Material Plane would be littered with piles of ash.”

Fierna laughs and kisses her, and Glasya kisses her back, falling into the easy rhythm of body on body. As the hours pass, she glances occasionally at Niamh, who is the very picture of overstimulated agony. Denial tangles inside her, all that backed-up pleasure a glowing knot pressing into every corner of her soul—Fierna is right: warlocks are so much fun.

With any luck, this one won’t break until Glasya’s done playing with her.