I, Demon Slave

By Kristine Lichtlider

Empusa, an Erinyes, is a creature of passion and lust who must grab the soul of an Earther to serve the demon’s war against the Seraphim. The Earther is more than he seems, at times harsh, others gentle. She takes his virginity and easily ensnares his heart. What she didn’t count on is the reverse would also come true, waking her long dormant heart to her submissive desires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312644465

Kristine Lichtlider

Kristine was born the youngest child in a large family in St. Louis, Mo. Left to her own devices by an absent father and a sickly mother, she delved deep into the darkest parts of her own psyche. It is from this dark wellspring that her stories flow. She likes heavy metal music, Caesar salads, and sex sex sex!!!

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Note

Coming Soon!

Taboo Erotica

Other Novels

Chapter 1

The gout of molten rock shoots upward toward the ash-strewn sky, bending in a luminescent arch before cascading back into the lava-filled crater from which it erupted. All around the crater is blackened, sundered rock. I feel it crunching under my hoof as I stare at Asmodeus's Spire.

I'm wearing my True form, that of a red-skinned woman with sensuous curves. My hair is not the golden hue it had been when I was a sharecropper's daughter during the Dust Bowl. Once I underwent my Shaping, it turned white as driven snow. My long, lean legs appear normal—meaning human—until the knees, when they bend back like a goat's. Downy fur covers my shins and calves, until it stops at my black cloven hooves.

The Shaping left me with a face much like my old one, at least. My eyes have always been on the squinty side, possibly because of Injun blood. My nose is a bit long, narrow until it widens into my nostrils. Of course, when I was mortal I didn't have the two curling horns protruding from my temples, or the black feathered wings that all Erinyes possess. Like most demons, I don't wear much more than a loincloth. It's really hot in Pandemonia, and besides Demon hide is tough, and clothes aren't much use. We certainly don't have any modesty, which took me a decade to get used to.

I was there that day, as I was most days, staring at the majesty of the spire for lack of anything better to do. Beautiful sights are rare in Pandemonia, and my heart often aches for beauty. I curse the Seraphim loudly. They get what are known as the Upper Realms—though direction loses its meaning when traveling through dimensions. The Upper Realms are closest to that point of origin where the Maker first put (His? Her? Its?) brush to the blank canvas that was the Before. As such, they are both stable and friendly—friendly meaning that the environment itself isn't trying to kill you, and will even re-shape itself to your whims. This is because the Maker left a bit of himself in his creation, and the closer you are to where all existence began the more you can feel his/her/its presence.

Down in the Lower Realms—and it doesn't get much lower than Pandemonia—things are much harder. The landscape morphs itself in the more unstable areas, becoming alternately barren sweltering desert, or jagged mountains with knife sharp rocks, or a pool of molten rock. Never anything pleasant. Worse, it takes a Demon of considerable willpower to create even the smallest change in our environment, and those changes tend not to last.

Still, we've managed quite well, all things considered. If I turn to my left, and peer past my iron coach, I can see the towering brass spires of the Suffering City, our capital. Some of the buildings are short, squat and fat, while others taper to such an extreme point you could sew with the tip. With every tower bearing a halo of Hellfire at the top, from a distance the Suffering City looks like a collection of various gold candles.

On a day like this, when the ash is thick, you can't see very far, but I know that if I turn the other way I'm facing toward Maggot Reach, the relatively docile volcano where our warrior legions are trained. My nose twitched as I thought of the place. I had wanted to be a warrior, to be trained as a hunter of Seraphim. Alas, The First peered into my soul, and decided that I would be better off as a covert operative.

A covert operative whose main job requirement was opening her legs, early and often. An Erinyes is a seductress, first and foremost. Our main job is to trick those mortals foolish enough into selling their souls. So far, I have sixty-five souls under contract. The more powerful demons have hundreds of thousands, and The First is said to have millions, but no one has the courage to ask him if it's true.

I sigh as my slave whimpers, accompanied by the sounds of her chains rattling. She gets bored so easily, but then again she is new. Hasn't quite gotten it through her pretty little head that she exists to serve us now.

Quit fussing. I step off the ledge and drop the dozen feet to the ground. My wings flare at the last moment and slow my descent enough that I barely have to bend my legs. A few feet from my landing zone, Krista starts. She's heard me land, but the coach she's lashed to is facing away from Asmodeus's Spire. No reason she should have something interesting to look at.

Krista, being a slave, hasn't received an assignment or a shaping yet. Thus, she still looks like her Mortal self. Of Latin descent, her naked skin is an olive hue, her hair a silky black cloak that shrouds her shoulders. Her body isn't as curvaceous as mine, but my True form is created to be the ultimate male fantasy. She flicks her sweat-damp hair out of her face at my approach and glares with her green eyes.

I didn't give you permission to move, I tell her. With a quick, sudden snatch that causes her to flinch away as much as she can—which isn't very much—I take a mass of her hair and slap it down over her eyes again. Of course, she starts to flick her head again, but after I seize her nipple in my long nailed hand and twist, she stops moving. Whimpers more, but stops moving.

Not that she could move much anyway. Krista's wrists are pulled up behind her shoulder blades, like she was praying in reverse, and lashed there with thin strips of Beezle hide. The great thing about the bindings made from Pandemonia's insectoid cattle is that they never slip or shrink on sweaty skin. The bindings attach by a convenient ring to the leather harness she wears on her torso. The various straps don't conceal her nakedness whatsoever, except for the one going through her crotch. That particular strap has to cover her anus, because it's helping hold in her tail. True, I could have reshaped her to actually have a horse tail—many demons do—but it's so much more humiliating to shove a phallus up her rear. And I do so love humiliating Krista.

She has on iron-toed boots, because if her feet are torn and bleeding it just takes me forever to get anywhere. I've pierced her nipples, and her clit as well. On that morning I had attached all three rings snugly with a chain, meaning her nipples were pulled down hard and her clitoral hood was pulled up. As I get on my coach and snap the traces, Krista starts moving immediately. I ply the whip on her flesh anyway, enjoying the sound of her squeals almost as much as the red lines striping her flesh.

If you think me cruel, I should enlighten you about this particular slave. Krista used to be a spoiled woman of privilege, educated at the best schools, dressed in the epitome of fashion. For some reason I could never understand—Krista was something of a cold hearted bitch—a young poet/playwright fell in love with her. Because he was well-off financially, she strung him along for awhile, only to dump him for an even wealthier man. The poor fellow killed himself, and of course ended up down here with us. This is what damned her, because Krista knew well what she was doing. She even hoped in secret that the playwright would leave her in his will.

She would probably still be living her easy life if her husband hadn't gotten drunk and shoved her down a flight of stairs. Oh, Krista is far from the worst villain we have down here, to be certain. The thing that upsets me about her is that she had the greatest gift of all—love—and spurned it for money and power. Demons are forbidden love, just as I was forbidden love as a mortal. If I can't have love, then this bitch is NOT going to get away with discarding it like so much garbage.

I snap the traces and ply the whip until she's trotting along at a good clip. I pass by pens of Beezle, tended by slaves. Their overseer, a Glabrezu with whom I have trysted in the past, waves at me and I pull up to a stop.

Hello, Empusa, he says in a voice that rumbles like thunder. Two of his arms hold whips while his larger limbs are akimbo at his waist. His head looks like that of a goat, but he's positively handsome compared to some of the other demon types. At least he has normal sex parts. You know, your coach would move faster if you had more slaves pulling it.

Speed's not the point. Her suffering is. Are you so lenient with your own slaves, Grazz?

He shrugs as if to concede the point. We both watch as a slave struggles to get a rather large Beezle to move from the Hearts-blood streams back into its pen. Laughter erupts from both of us as the thing pins him down and covers him with feces.

Other slaves help pull him out from under the beetle-like creature and shove it into its pen. When one of them slaps the thing on its carapaced back—an act which could not have done it any harm if he'd used a sledgehammer—Grazz plies his twin whips with zeal. A little too much zeal, as the man shudders and disappears from sight, fading like a dream.

It seems you've gone too far, Grazz.

Damn, lost a slave for a hundred years. Grazz kicks a stout bone post and shatters it with his hoof. Bless it all!

I flinched.

Try not to swear in front of me, would you dear?

Bah, you are a yet a young demon, Empusa. When you grow in power such Seraphic phrases will not sting your ears so.

He looms over me, taloned hand stroking my white mane. His knuckle brushes my lip and I put my face in his hand.

When I am finished in the fields, perhaps I can come to your manse...

Maybe. I nibble on his palm, tasting his salty sweat I have a message from Plutarch Chianni waiting for me at home. I might be going to Earth on assignment.

You ignored a message from the Plutarch? Grazz's jaw drops open, spilling a line of drool onto the ground between us.

I shrug.

I already had Krista harnessed up, and I could see that the Spire was quite vigorous today.

Your favored status is tenuous, child. Grazz looks toward the Suffering City, and I know his red eyes are focused on a jagged tower with red gems imbedded in every brick. The Tower of Heartbreak, where the Plutarch resides. Already Brutus speaks against you in court, says that you are too soft for this work—

My sixty five souls would disagree, I say with a sneer. How many does he have? A dozen?

Brutus makes himself useful to those in power. Thus, his true strength is not indicated by his stable of slaves. He could make your life very difficult, Empusa.

As if he hadn't already. When I first arrived here—terrified, miserable, and certain that there had been an awful, awful, mistake—I was given to Brutus as a slave. For twelve years I served him, both in bed and out, the standard time of all slaves. He was not a cruel Master, not especially. For example, he rarely whipped the skin off of my breasts after the first year. I submitted to him because I had to; Those that do their time as slaves are freed to undergo the Shaping, where they will be remade into a demon who can wield their own power, own their own slaves.

When it was my time to be freed, Brutus tried to prevent it. Perhaps because our world is so chaotic, we demons tend to go by the strictest letter of our laws, and his attempt did not go over well in court. The fact that I was Shaped into an Erinyes, a personification of sexuality, probably makes it worse for him.

Old habits die hard, I suppose, because I still sometimes allow Brutus into my bed. He no longer gets to dominate me, though. These days I am my own demon, both in bed and out.

Remembering a particularly brutal whipping session from the old days has my blood boiling. I get stiffly back into my coach, because I don't want to say something unkind to Grazz. Demons don't have friends, of course, but I tolerate him well enough. I promise to send a Nightwing to him with a message if I am free later.

I stare past Krista's bound, sweating form at the massive gates of the Suffering City. Composed of the same brass as the rest of the structures, the gate stands out because of its fearsome design. The hundred foot tall gate functions like a portcullis, raising and lowering. A baator's head has been carved into its surface, with vicious black teeth acting as the bars of the portcullis. At my approach they begin to lift at once.

I trot down the main avenue, called Scream. Most of the peddlers know better than to try their luck with me; I own my own Blood-poppy fields, my own herds of Beezle. I do stop and examine a nasty whip with hard thorns woven into the tapered end, but that's just because the mere sight of it has caused Krista to whimper and plead as best she can with a metal bit in her mouth.

I end up buying the whip, not because I want to use it but because Krista is shaking like the ground during a tremor. We roll through the wide avenues until we reach a collection of modest sized towers called the Organ because they look like pipes. In the third spire from the right I make my home.

The lowest level of my tower has been converted into a stable. My head slave, Jenna, approaches me at once with her head bowed. As a sign of her status, I've allowed Jenna to dress in a long white gown—see through, of course, but it's more than what I give the rest of them. She's a petite woman, with blonde hair so pale it's almost white. Her mortal form fits her well, sweetly hipped though her bust is on the small side.

Mistress, she says by way of greeting, helping me off the coach though I don't really need it. Shall I water your steed?

I look at the miserable, sweat-soaked form of Krista.

No, I say. She needs to earn the right to drink.

Krista whimpers as I take my new whip and give it a few cracks. One of my male slaves almost drops the stack of dishes he's carrying at the sound.

Watch where you're going, fool! I lash him across his nude buttocks and he yelps, but doesn't drop the stack. He's learning.

Jenna reminds me that there's a scroll from the Plutarch waiting for me. She wrings her hands, and her speech is stilted. Obviously, she fears for my safety. Maybe I should take a look at that message soon...

Soon can wait until after I've finished with Krista. I get the feeling that I won't be quenching the fire between my legs with Grazz tonight, so I put her to work as quickly as I can.

She's still wearing the pony harness, as I didn't permit the stable slaves to attend her. I see that her fingers have turned dark, but are still warm to the touch when I pinch them painfully. Souls on Pandemonia are quite resilient, but you do have to be careful. If you go too far and they die, they are banished like the rest of us to The Bleed for a hundred years. The Bleed is so far away from the Maker's starting point that it's complete chaos. I guess you can't die there, but the Bleed is so terrifying that a lot of demons won't even speak of it. Looking around Pandemonia, I wonder just how much worse it can get.

Krista tries to say something around the metal bit in her mouth.

Beez pake dis oat!

I cock my head to the side and stroke her hair. She flinches even though the touch is gentle.

What was that? I'm sorry, but you're not speaking very well.

I grin as she stamps her feet in frustration. Her green eyes, narrow and fierce, seem to scream at me You'd understand me if you'd take this fucking gag out of my mouth!

Getting an attitude, slave? Krista may be a heartless bitch, but she's not stupid. Her head bobs in the air, though I note she's careful not to dislodge the hair still hanging in her face.