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wastrelust	By : HarlequindeRustre Category: -Misc Video Games/RPGs > General Views: 2099 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Agony. Whatever hilarious inconsistencies with the as-of-yet unknown canon, that could be construed as attempts at original content, are just me writing blind. In addition, I make no profit off this work, for good or ill.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
He awoke to darkness. Stirring with some difficulty, he managed to free himself from the suction of the mouth-wall. A wastrel of gristle and bone, he’d been able to secrete himself away in the dark corners of this bestial place. It was only for a small expanse of time, to rest and hide, otherwise he would become a part of this foul landscape of limbs and organs.
How he’d come here seemed distant and abstract to him now. He had no time for introspection or calm, as the monsters were always searching. True sleep was now a concept of unattainable bliss, as the wastrel lived in varying states of duress- more often panic.
Every waking moment was one where a hell-fiend would stalk closer. The variety of these things was staggering, as there seemed to be no end. Some were fat, hulking, many legged pig things of the pit, slavering with huge tongues and pitiless appetites...the wastrel had seen the only other surviving human he had met glutted whole and torn apart in one such beast’s giant mouth.
Most others had two feet like a man, but rarely moved with any dignity. Most were like animals, others simply profane. The wastrel had quivered under the sweeping gaze of a floating mockery of an angel, featherless wings bedecked with bleeding eyes, black ooze and offal dripping from its jawless mouth. It had hovered, soundless, for seeming days. It was only the distant cries of another damned soul that had drawn it away...and yet as the wastrel carefully crawled away, he could have sworn he felt breathing on his neck. He dared not look, and was reluctantly thankful for it.
The wastrel was hesitant to think about sustenance. Pangs of hunger had dogged him every moment, but it was something he’d yearned for- a passing away from starvation, the only peaceful exit he’d believed existed in this gaol of lost souls. Water...the air he breathed was thick with moisture, yet his throat was parched for as long as he could remember.
His quivering, sinewy body had long since acclimatized to being covered in sweat and filth. Each injury he sustained- and there were many- ceased to heal past a point, and so pain oppressed the wastrel in every moment, waking and not. Bruises became seamless ulcers, writhing under his skin. Gashes became encrusted, oozing pus and filth. His guts were a festering pool of cancer, the maddening sensations of suffering rolling from one into the other. Sometimes a nausea so powerful his head clouded over and his retching sounding like the cries of some yet unknown fiend. Others, stabbing pain, like thousands of worms latched to the internal expanse of his body. Yet other times, his form simply convulsed in a strange rictus.
There were other afflictions that plagued the wastrel’s internals at random, but to count them all would surely cripple his will to deny his predators their satisfaction. Suffering as he did, he’d pondered if some fiends found greater delight in the torment of humankind, rather than the simple murder, mutilation, and devouring of them. The damned one wouldn’t have doubted it.
The wastrel finished freeing himself from the pile of grisly remains, only stopping to smear off what excrement would come free. He eyed the “room” he was in. Circular, and ribbed much like the inside of a throat. Its color, like most of the world, was red. It was this shade, paired with the eternal night of this place, that made the man’s head ache. The least of his concerns, it still endeavored to tax his remaining sanity.
Making careful, stalking strides on the scabby, knotted balls of his feet, the wastrel padded silently through the wallow pit. He sidestepped the black puddles here and there, knowing from fortunately brief experience that in reality they were doors. Where they led was a madness-place he feared more than even the one he currently suffered in. At least here the ground was the ground, he could touch everything he saw, and there were places to hide. On the other side...no, even confronting the Other Place in his own memory was beyond his means. He sought his end, but it would be on his terms- not in the unspeakable void.
Or in the process where his remains would be voided. At that thought, the wastrel felt a surge of something approaching humanity. Feeling as if he was more than a rat in the dark, merely delaying being sustenance for larger, more capable animals. As if he could survive this place.
He coughed, choking back a weak laugh. Perhaps his restful sleep had taken some of his sanity in exchange for strength. It would certainly explain much about this living catacomb.
As always, he searched. Not so much for a way forward- especially since there appeared to be none- as a new hiding place. Whilst no place was safe for long and anything “safe” was potentially hazardous, anyways, having a second option to being gored at all times was paramount. The reason the wastrel had lasted long enough to accumulate his tableau of wounds was his natural animal instinct. Flight was a constant, an unending escape from the kings of this twisted forest. A pile of bones, an inert fetish, a tight alcove, the recently deceased...these things were the wastrel’s sword and armor against the dark. Through the camouflage of the damned, he was able to evade the beast.
He also searched for fire. Few and far between, a lit flame was almost divine in the dank underdeep. It rendered most of the dark dwellers blind to his presence. Its warmth was shunned by the sightless things which followed the scent of the wastrel’s breath. It revealed the rare pitfall and the signs of fiends. Most important, its presence was a simple comfort- the only one the wastrel dared hope for. Perhaps when he found the courage, he would try to burn himself to death. It was worth endeavoring..
By pure chance, the wastrel’s skulking had led him to one- albeit, clutched tight in the fist of another human being. The second he had ever seen in this place, and one that looked virtually untouched. A woman child, she bore the beginning signs of starvation. Her smooth, olive skin only blemished with the rigors of travel, bearing small scabs from the knees down. As she turned to look behind, the wastrel hid. He bowed his head to prevent the glint of his eyes from giving him away, even to another human.
She turned back, looking about as if searching the room for something. Spacious, it was especially tomblike, with sheets of variegated ivory, marked with stains of old blood and putrid offal. There was little to hide with here, apart from the small spire of bone nearer to the wastrel, who gladly took shelter in its flickering shadow.
The flamebearing wanderer knelt close to the wall, across from her stalker’s hiding place. Setting the flame down beside her, the budding woman settled into a queer squat, her heels flat against the ground. As she walked as naked as the wastrel or any of the resident beasts, this gave the watcher ample view of her welling womanhead- in addition to the sizeable gash on the girl’s thigh. It was from this position the woman child began to tend to herself with her hands.
Running her palms across her flat tan belly, she swept both hands between her spread thighs. Kneading the flesh of her mound, she drew a sibilant breath in between her clenched teeth. The woman child fretted her glistening apex, teasing her quivering labia with soft, lapping touches. One hand broke away, dragging short, jagged nails against tender, golden flesh. The errant hand trailed as far as her knee before returning, gliding across her flesh. Continuing to massage her quim, the girl clawed at her backside, as if wishful of another’s hand in place of it. Nothing in her motions belied that the girl was of the notion she was in a den of beasts. If not for his persistent paranoia, her watcher would have believed that, if for a passing moment.
As the girl continued to pleasure herself, the wastrel could only count on the light of the torch blinding his intrepid kith. His head craned as far as he would dare, enthralled with the display and vicariously indulging in his compatriot’s boldness. The wastrel felt a pulse of excitement, his loins stirring for the first time since his awakening in this pit. He clutched the spire he hid behind, his nails digging into the porous spike much like it was wet clay.
Fingers a-quiver, the woman child mashed her cunny with a clumsy enthusiasm. She fisted her quim by half, two fingers curved, rocking into her front passage knuckles first. The girl braced herself against the wall with a hand, coming up fast on climax. Then a beast cantered into the room.
With the size of the room, matched with its glistening walls of light-reflecting bone, it dimly occurred to the wastrel that this place would become a virtual beacon in this world of perpetual night. As it had to the creature that now loomed over the previously impassioned human interloper.
It was not the token hulking mass of flesh that dotted the cavernous expanse of this foul labyrinth. Neither was it a gracile, twitching scavenger variety, that followed in the former’s wake. Rather, it fell in the realm in between. It stood in a predatory crouch, clawed hands half clenched. Its face seemed to be two horned plates of bone, fused to a hub of gristle and sinew caught in between. It stood firmly on two distinctly goatlike legs, covered completely in long, matted hair, ending in large cloven hooves. Both its claws and its hooves looked deadly sharp. With one clawed hand, it reached for the girl, who began to whimper uncontrollably.
The satyr creature took hold of the girl by her throat, squeezing vigorously. The trapped human flailed her limbs, kicking at her predator. The beast’s response was to thrash the girl around, thence throwing her away like one would a broken toy. The woman child hit the wall with a disgusting bellow, the air forced from her lungs in the impact. She crumpled to the floor lifelessly. Chittering hoarsely, the fiend took its leave, stalking across the room. Passing by the wastrel by mere inches, the man had held his breath, not daring to so much as think to move. It was not until the stomping of the satyr had disappeared that the unwilling spectator found the impetus to leave his hiding place.
He crawled slowly, silently over to the girl. She had not stirred at all in the time the wastrel had spent frozen against the spire. As far as he knew, she was dead. Touching her with a clammy hand, he still felt warmth, although it was impossible to tell in the awful climate of this underworld. He cupped her face briefly, examining the innocent face, with its long dark eyelashes, button nose, and large, sensuous lips. The wastrel’s hands then immediately went to the girl’s tits, seemingly cut short late in their budding. Soft, supple, and peaked with small, flat nipples, they were nonetheless a fair handful each. The wastrel noted with passing shame his erection had barely flagged at all, even with the harrowing display of bestial murder. Such was his soulless ardor it seemed.
Lost in half-thought, half-desecration as he was, the foolish survivor-`til-then noticed the return of the murdering beast. He crab scrambled away, hand flailing out grasping for the torch. The satyr entered the room with a long, heavy stride, stopping to stand in the mouth of the tunnel behind it. It was then that the wastrel noticed the fiend’s more human aspects...namely, the sinewy human torso that connected to its hairy haunches, bedecked with ornate, vulgar jewelry. The perverse ornaments, paired with its sleek, pale belly, helped to accentuate the heaving of its chest. Hanging weightily from its breast were twin teats that were uncannily human in form. Milk white and pendulous, either one tipped with a large, protuberant nipple. The wastrel found himself watching the twin movements of the beast’s breasts, half-conscious of the rest of the beast. Perhaps his mind had come fully undone in recent happenings, but this had held his attention, even as his fingers scrambled to get the torch fully in hand. Like all beasts, this one was pure predator, lunging toward the wastrel without another moment wasted.
Desperate to be ward off death as prey, the human interloper leapt to his feet in an instant, his eyes burning with determination. He lashed out with the torch as if using a sword. He’d aimed at the throat of the enemy, if only to singe it. The beast recoiled as if struck, quickly lashing out with a powerful, slender arm. It caught the wastrel in the collarbone, sending him flat onto his back.
The satyr beast stepped back, sinking into a crouch. Its wouldbe victim crabbed sideways, singing himself with the torch he somehow kept ahold of. The wastrel found his legs, putting his back to the wall. He held his torch low to his side, ready to brandish it. He took a tentative step sideways, wincing as a protuberance in the wall brushed his new burns. The creature’s head turned, hidden eyes watching the man much like a simple animal of the forest would. Then the wastrel took another step, keeping his eyes trained on the predator. His foot lit on a loose fragment of bone, and the wastrel’s leg slid out from under him as he tried to correct it. In that moment, the fiend rushed him, bearing down with a speed deceptive for something its size. It lunged forward with a clawed hand, each jagged black talon aiming for its quarry’s throat
With a bellow that came out as a choked cough, the wastrel swung out with his torch again. He aimed for the claw of the satyr, his tortured heart hammering painfully in his chest. The flame struck home, charring the thing’s skin instantly. Keening dreadfully, the thing stumbled back. As the defiant prey moved away from the wall, seeing to capitalize on his tentative advantage, the beast kicked him in the breastbone. The keen edge of the hoof sliced into the wastrel’s skin with each, the force of the kick making the wastrel’s ribs creak. He doubled over, wheezing, stumbling away on his shaky legs.
The satyr eyed its prey warily, now on its guard. Unmoving, it seemed to be waiting. That it expected another mishap to give it an opening, the wastrel was immediately sure. As long as he had the fire, it could be burned. The man himself seemed to be of little consequence to it, as the memory of the previous victim’s dispatch was fresh in his mind. How quick and simple the encounter had been, ending faster than it had started. All because the wastrel held the flame. This situation was keenly similar to his encounter with the floating abomination, whose predatory vigil was unwavering. Until something changed, he was sure he was stuck here in this room of bones, held captive by a monster. From the dark corners of his mind came a plan, one that made the wastrel grimace. He would have to abandon the flame.
He crouched, easing his way down, his gaze trained on the monster. He stretched out his torch hand, which the satyrs “eyes” followed attentively. As soon as it had reached out as far as it could go, his hand loosened. The torch dropped with a soft clack, the flame spitting as if scorned. As soon as the fire fell, the beast rushed its prey, even faster than before. It swept the man into an embrace, the pressure of its sinewy arms pulverizing. The wastrel gagged, aspirating clotted blood, feeling his bones popping in their barely holding joints. His only respite from the crushing power of the beast was the chest he was being crushed against. The satyr’s great udders cushioned him, keeping him from the surely unforgiving muscular frame just beyond it. They were firm in a way that a human’s breasts weren’t, only half compressing as opposed to flattening much like the fallen girl’s would have. As he was, pinned by the fiend’s iron grip against its pillowy expanse, the wastrel could manage the meagerest of breaths.
The beast began to squeeze even harder, yet its victim barely felt the change in pressure. Panting inaudibly, the wastrel became newly aware of his perpetually sweat-drenched body. The longer the satyr held him in its death grip, the more his perspiration wet its flesh. The fiend adjusted its grip in attempt to tighten it, but only caused its breasts to slide over the wastrel’s form. Seizing the opportunity, the wastrel squirmed, beginning to down through the demon’s arms.
Although it tried to snatch him back up, the fiend found little purchase on its prey’s slippery body. As soon as his elbows cleared, the wastrel pushed up and out, quickly sliding completely out of the demon’s grip. He scrambled backward for the nearby torch, even as the fiend grabbed for his flailing limbs. The wastrel exclaimed when his feeling hands found the fire- mostly since his fingers found its business end first. The fiend lunged for its stubborn prey with its remaining good claw, desperate to maintain control. The wastrel lashed out with the torch, burning the fiend’s hand. Expecting another kick, the brave fool was not disappointed. As the satyr reared back to kick out, its wouldbe victim charged, dropping the flame. He ducked the hoof, seizing the beast by its powerful haunch.
Imbalanced, the fiend thrashed its captured leg, attempting to free it from the wastrel’s comparatively trifling grip. Not ready to be denied the fool pressed his advantage, driving his adversary backward. Unable to grab the man with its singed claws, the beast resorted to beating on him with its heavy arms, making the wastrel’s teeth rattle. The satyr’s defiant prey kept on, shoving his enemy back. Seemingly realizing the wastrel’s aim, the satyr hopped on its good leg, bringing the wastrel up with it. It kicked back on the wall behind it, breaking free of its desperate quarry. The wastrel fell clumsily, his brow striking the ground with a blinding thud. He dimly registered a crash, like a sapling breaking, but the man wasn’t sure with the slight ringing in his ears.
Dimly realizing he’d lost his grip on the demon and his torch, the wastrel lay crumpled, not ready to face his likely painful end. Silence pervaded his senses, and the fool found the courage to stir from his pathetic position on the dust-ridden floor. He raised his head reluctantly, feeling the slight trickle of blood down his nose. The beast lay fallen before him, sprawled insensate on the floor. His adversary was prone almost parallel the wall. Fragments of the ivory wall littered the fiend, the wall itself sporting a large crater. Although his enemy appeared still, the man froze. A ploy was likely- the wastrel keenly remembered the many legged creature that claimed the first human. It had covered itself in offal, unmoving beneath the pile of entrails and filth, indistinguishable from its fetid camouflage. Its victim had sought refuge in its putrid abode, only to find the “wall” to open up behind him, falling backward into the gnashing maw of the ogre-pig.
Yet, this beast did not stir. The wastrel stole over to the fallen torch, plucking it up as if he expected it to vanish if he hesitated. Feeling the clean heat of the fire through the oppressive warmth of the endless tomb, the survivor felt a hair emboldened. He turned to his former compatriot, appraising her form. The wastrel felt a pang of remorse well up, having stayed hidden when the beast had entered. His thoughts turned to the fiend, which lay across the room from its last victim. A queer emotion fluttered in the man’s breast.
Carefully, he crept forward. The creature’s legs lay spread apart, revealing its perineum. Half-hidden under a veil of coarse hair was a gash of glistening flesh. The wastrel had found the unthinkable- the beast’s mound. Before, these foul things had only ever registered to him as neuter fiends of the pit. The monsters had appeared to be spawned from the darkness, only capable of violent gluttony. Yet, here, this thing had such a...capability.
Clearly there were differences between the girl’s mound and the beast’s, the man musing as he cleared away the veil of hair. For one, the fiend sported pitch black lips, with a patina like oil-slicked leather. Whereas the human was virtually hairless, the fiend was thick with it from the waist down, starting from the top of its admittedly wide hips all the way down to its hooves. Readily apparent was its musk, an earthy stench that pervaded the immediate area. It was surprisingly heady, the sensation alone making the wastrel’s head fuzzy. He found himself probing the thing’s thick lips with a finger. Surprisingly soft, they belied delicacy, even when the wastrel twisted one of the beefy petals between his fingers. He pulled and yanked it, abusing the fiend’s obscene flower. He played with the outer gates of the satyr for a moment more before deciding to explore it deeper. He stuck his largest finger in, again surprised to find a firmness to the demon’s flesh that was almost oppressive. The folds were tight, yet flexible, and there was a slickness to the innards that was indescribable.
It occurred to the wastrel that the warmth of the thing would not remain for long, even at its core. There was likely to never be a situation like this, in these the roiling bowels of suffering. He thence grabbed hold of his surprisingly ready prick and pressed it between the demon’s folds. Immediately, his rod was assaulted by the viselike pressure of the fiend’s pussy, the still folds confining his rod as if a custom built prison for it. He began to shift his knees into a stable position, putting his hands on either side of the fallen beast’s hips. The feeling of the beast was exquisite, the tight, ribbed muscle clinging to the wastrel’s knob better than something on earth ever could. Every pump was met with a firm resistance, every withdrawal with a pressure that sucked the man back in. The wastrel grunted feverishly, his head wilting against the satyr’s flat belly. Turning his gaze upward as he continued to plow his former adversary’s fleshy rose, the wastrel espied the huge breasts that he’d admired before. That had inadvertently saved him before.
The full, milk white udders of the beast glistened in the torchlight, smeared as they were with cold sweat. The wastrel gaped in awe of them, reaching up with a hand to grip one. The firm flesh barely gave at all, the sheer size of the breast not quite engulfing the man’s wiry fingers. His fingertips plied the satyr’s thick dark nipple. Of a sleekness not unlike its outer lips, its flesh puckered, the crown of it even firmer still than the surrounding tit flesh. The man slavered as the notion occurred to him- that he had to taste the demon’s breast.
He strained his neck upward, desiring to taste the fiend but equally so to keep plumbing its dark flower. The wastrel pulled the beast teat close to his mouth, lunging up to latch onto it with his lips. As he began to suck on it, the man noticed the nipple’s thick, meaty texture. He rolled the thick crown about in his mouth, its perverse texture and shape thrilling him on a base level. The subtle tang of his sweat intermingled with the beast’s own, a sour tang much like its nether musk. Its harsh piquancy only made the wastrel salivate more, his prick hardening even more inside the fiend’s exquisite confines. The man became almost dizzy with arousal when the teat let forth an unexpected gush of fluid, thin and sulphuric. In the split moment following, it dawned upon the wastrel that something had gone horribly wrong.
The body that the fool had been debasing so eagerly began to stir, the sleek muscle of it belly writhing. Even as he detached the beast’s breast in shock, it continued to drool milk in profane spurts. As the beast’s head rose, the wastrel yelped as his cock was all but crushed, the sleeve it was still lodged in tightening like a hangman’s noose. Powered by the surge of terror clawing up from his lungs, the wastrel managed to free himself from his pussy prison. Bumbling backwards, he quickly crashed headfirst into the bone-wall behind him, setting dancing lights afire in his eyes. Through the haze of fear, the wastrel watched the beast rise to stand at her full height, the spires of her bone-plate face scraping the low ceiling. He could only watch as the satyr advanced on him, frozen as he was in mind-robbing fear.
The beast flexed her claws, burned skin flaking away to reveal new pale flesh, unmarred by fire. Chittering in what appeared to be satisfaction, the fiend turned her attention to her prey. She swept down upon the wastrel, growling slowly. The wastrel was quickly pinned by his neck to the wall, the beast’s talons digging into his flesh. The boneplates parted slightly, and the doomed man screwed his eyes shut. Even now, he was unwilling to face his terrible end.
The wastrel felt something hot and wet slither across his cheek, snaking under his chin. The vile appendage teased at the corner of his mouth before sliding between his lips. His tongue found itself entangled with the thing, the serpentine monstrosity twining about it, almost strangling it. The wastrel began to choke as the appendage moved past his tongue, down his throat. He could feel it pulsing, undulating. The sensation reminded him of the still present throbbing of his cock, and the notion turned this invasion of his body erotic.
And, suddenly, the thing withdrew from his throat, the wastrel feeling the shadow of the beast passing from him. He slowly opened his eyes, just in time to witness something red slide back between the demon’s plates. With a shudder, he realized the satyr had essentially kissed him.
The beast turned away from the wastrel, showing its sinewy back. She knelt on the ground, arms cast in front of her. The satyr’s back arched, her hefty, muscular rump jutting out. The wastrel could barely make out the glimmer of the wanton beast’s dark flower amidst her damp fur. With a pang of raw excitement, the man realized the fiend’s intentions- that she wanted him to mount her.
Liquid fire seemed to pool into the wastrel’s innards, his prick rousing. The man rose to his feet, shakily taking a step forward, then another, firmer one. He shambled toward the satyr, heart split between familiar paranoia and this new erotic fatalism. As he knelt before his antagonist’s wide hips, the wastrel felt his heart fly into his mouth. Reaching out with quavering hands, he tried to swallow it back down. It stuck in his craw, hammering pulse huge in the back of his throat.
He seized the fiend by her firm arse, his fingers meshing with her coarse hair. The beast cackled softly in approval, pushing against her quarry’s grasp. The wastrel rasped, breathing in a sharp, choked breath. Unable to stop himself now, he took hold of his shaft, guiding it to prise at the hunter’s dripping hole. Feeling his rod’s helm on her backside, the satyr crooned. She leaned back further, her dark wet sleeve drinking in the wastrel’s length. Gasping, the man felt his tool compress between the satyr’s folds as she ceased to relax. The tightening sensation coincided with a gush of wetness, the wastrel feeling the excess drain off his balls. With a buck of his hips, he began, crashing into the beast’s heavy rump.
His pale shaft coursed through the fiend’s folds, her ebony flower continuing to drool as he plowed it. The satyr chortled, reciprocating her prey’s movements. A wall crashed into the man’s hips, sending him rocking back. The wastrel stumbled, but didn’t let up, his shaft now painfully hard. The satyr’s backside rammed the man again, sinking him hilt deep and repelling him almost as quickly. In fact, the wastrel fell out, landing on his arse. Shaking his head to clear it, the wastrel watched the beast rise to her feet. A sinking feeling appeared in the pit of his stomach.
Caught in the shadow of the colossal woman, the intrepid fool could only watch was the fiend turned toward him. The satyr strode forward until she stood directly over her prey. Without pause, the fiend knelt, reaching out with a clawed hand. The wastrel began to move away out of instinct, the fiend yet catching him by the back of the head. Unable to resist, even with all his strength, the wastrel could only watch as the fiend’s head descended, bone plates parting threateningly. A long red tongue slid out, undulating sensuously, its tip drooling what appeared to be blood. The wastrel’s lips parted hesitantly, the man torn between dread and anticipation. The satyr warbled softly as she moved in even closer, almost a hair’s breadth away before her tongue snaked into her prey’s mouth. Unlike before, the wastrel felt his mouth fill, near stretched to capacity, as the satyr took his mouth with hers. The taste of death filled the wastrel’s mouth, the fiend’s tongue flavored with the gory feasts in which she had partaken.
The wastrel submitted to the alien invasion, his small, pink tongue pressing against the satyr’s massive red one. The beast crooned in what seemed like approval, and yet began to withdraw, the tongue sliding up her prey’s throat. It was then the man noticed something trickling down his throat, seeming to issue from the demon’s tongue. As the end of the satyr’s tongue slid out of his mouth, the wastrel tasted the fluid that had been drooling continuously from it. Rather than the taste of blood like he anticipated or even that of rotten meat, the fluid was tart and musky. The beast’s drool was thick and viscous, sliding down the back of the wastrel’s throat without his having to swallow. The beast herself stood up on her knees, still, as if watching for something. The wastrel didn’t have to wait long for that something, as he felt his guts writhe spasmodically.
Gritting his teeth, the wastrel rode out the sensation as the roiling sensation passed through him in a wave, the jitters seemed to collect in his groin. He seethed as a thread of leaden pain lanced through his member, the man’s tool seeming to spring to attention as if strung out on a wire. The wastrel groaned as more needles of agony slide up through his knob, his body paralyzed by the sheer sensation. The feeling spread from the base to the tip and down through the man’s sack, mounting with intensity with each passing moment. Then, before the fool’s very eyes, his flesh began to distort and extend. His shaft seemed to worm its way higher from the man’s thighs, revealing new, wider flesh at its base. Save, the girth spread up his length, the man’s meat broadening obscenely. The pain gave way to an indescribable tension in the core of the wastrel’s newly distended cock. All the intrepid fool could do was groan in mixed relief
The demon purred, for the first time taking hold of the wastrel’s shaft. Easily half again its original size, his cock seemed almost molded for the satyr’s hand. She squeezed her prey’s shaft experimentally, eliciting a gasp from the human. The satyr stroked his pole, talons trailing along supple flesh. Her prey writhed, fingers clawing into the floor. Seemingly satisfied with her work, the satyr released her grip of the man’s cock and leaned back. The beast splayed her thighs, flashing her tight demon pussy. In near an instant, the lust crazed human was atop her.
He fumbled with his newly enbiggened tool, his fat piece slapping the satyr’s mound in the hurry to penetrate it. The fiend-woman trembled, the wastrel’s clumsy attempt making her writhe in turn. The human paused, watching the object of his perversions. Then he took hold of his cock, slapping the demonic pussy again. Her talons gouged the ivory under the satyr, her hips bucking violently from the exquisite stimulation. The pitch black lips visibly gushed with new arousal. Grinning, the wastrel rapped on the demon’s outer gate again, and continued to do so, eliciting short mewls of shock each time. Very soon, the human found his rock hard pillar covered with the beast’s musk, fore to aft.
Restive under the erotic assault, the beast warbled disjointedly. Her bone plates gnashed, clapping noisily, before closing shut. A violet spark appeared to leap from it, but the human could have simply imagined it. Not that he had the time to mull it over, as the demoness took hold of the back of his head and rammed his face into the inky black between her “horns”. Expecting another assault from the satyr’s tentacle-tongue, the wastrel was caught unawares as his lips were mashed against a complementary pair. Full and soft, the demon’s lips pushed hard against the wastrel’s. The thick cupidic bow was smooth and cool, reminding the human of a leech’s skin. By contrast, the inside of the demoness’s mouth was hot like a furnace, as proven by the molten tongue that snaked into the intrepid fool’s mouth. Just shy of scalding, the narrow, forked tongue lapped and twined with the human’s own, the kiss hungry and demanding. The wastrel’s thoughts fogged, lost in the indulgent assault on his senses. The satyr took full advantage, seizing his cock with her other hand and pulling the throbbing tool down between her thighs.
As he felt his turgid shaft plow into the demoness’s darkest depth, the wastrel broke from his blissful reverie. The wanton fiend let loose a very humanlike moan, with their sealed lips sending her voice reverberating deep into the wastrel’s being. The sensation stabbed at the man’s very core, his cock twitching violently in the demon’s slick vise. A queer emotion stirred in the human’s belly, sending fire into his veins. He broke the kiss, panting hysterically. The wastrel gazed upon the visage of his unlikely lover, the bone plates revealing nothing. A light-drinking void seemed to stare back, endless black apart from the slight glimmer of spittle highlighting the demoness’s lips. A soft, breathy laugh issued from between the midnight lips, the satyr wrapping a leg around the small of the human’s back. She pulled his hips closer, sinking more of his length into her velvet sleeve.
The wastrel let loose an involuntary shudder, his member bombarded by exquisite sensation. What had been firm, but giving, was now a veritable seal. The demon’s quim clung to his newly expanded length hungrily, the slick folds pulsing. Unable to do anything but carry on, the wastrel pitched forward, splaying his hands on either side of the lusty beast. He dug in with his rod, the man’s hips heaving down just as the demon-woman’s hips bucked up.
The fool gasped as he bottomed out in an instant, thanks to the satyr’s assistance. Buried to the hilt, he felt consumed. Straining his scabrous back, the wastrel withdrew a finger’s breadth and pushed back in. Again, he struggled to pull out, this time almost two fingers, and plunged into the fiend’s cunny harder. Eliciting a grunt from the bitch, the wastrel felt a spark of enthusiasm, hauling back and near drilling into her slick hole. He fell against the fiend as he continued to pump between her legs, his body almost parallel with hers. The wastrel’s hands gripped the beast’s muscular waist, moving down past her hips to take hold of that ponderous rump.
For the first time since the ordeal began, the damned one was made aware of the state of his body. As his body pressed against the demon’s, he felt the welts and gashes that decorated his living corpse anew. They chafed, abraded, and split, the scars of his torment bringing with them memory of his pain. And here he was, once driven by compulsion and fear, giving his heart over to a fiend of the pit. Not abating in his work upon the beast’s loins, he raised his head. The man looked up at the fiend’s face, unsure exactly why he did or what he looked for.
Cool, moist breath gusted into his face, issuing from the demoness’s unseen mouth. That she looked down at him, the wastrel wasn’t sure how to think or feel. He could only peer up at the shadow-face of the satyr, her strange visage known but unknown to him. All the wastrel could think to do here, tired eyes searching for a twin gaze, was squeeze the fiend’s firm arse.
The bitch merely hummed, her hips bucking up to bang against his. Grunting, the human dug his nails into her hefty expanse, clawing at the fiend’s ass-flesh. This earned him a torrent of violent reciprocation, the satyr’s heavy girdle hammering the wastrel’s already strained loins. The hair of the satyr’s bestial arse rasped against his balls, both antagonizing the wastrel and yet arousing him further.
He rounded his back, pistoning in ragged bursts. The fiend bucked her hips again, this time meeting resistance halfway. She gasped in turn, and the wastrel felt a new wave of arousal wash over his abused groin. The satyr began to return the human’s efforts anew, each in-thrust met with an on-thrust. Rough and disjointed, they fucked.
The wastrel felt his heart pulsing in his chest, the sensation radiation into his arms and down into his loins. His mouth was dry again, a foul taste pervading it. He felt dizzy, yet persisted, his hellish lover dogging his advances now with her own. Each heft of her thighs eliciting an almost inaudible gasp, even as the human outright groaned with each plowing stroke.
His perspiration slicked the demoness’s flat belly, the clear human musk streaming off the sides. Similarly, the wastrel had drenched the satyr’s goaty thighs, the damp making her bestial perfume even stronger, even more intoxicating. The wastrel’s scrotum began to feel sticky, even as rivulets of sweat ran off them. With each joining, his balls half stuck to the satyr’s rump, the sensation sending a pulse through the man’s core.
The satyr draped an arm across the human’s shoulder, her sharp claws digging painfully into his flesh. It only served to urge the wastrel on as he haggardly assaulted the demon’s black cunny, only giving enough mind to the actual pain to respond with a hearty slap to the beast’s wet arse. The slut responded by ramming her human’s hips even harder, purring as she ground her cunt onto his base. The fool groaned helplessly, soldiering through the agonizing pleasure with considerable effort.
A pulse ran down the man’s turgid length, signaling the end. The wastrel bore down in an almost fiendish manner, rasping as he plowed the satyr’s hot wet vise. She growled heatedly, the beast, and she again matched the human’s enthusiasm. This time, they synchronized in locomotion, their bodies connected by the human’s hard, stinking rail. Their hips slammed together in the middle, the human’s strength mounting as the demoness’s seeming resistance waned.
The wastrel’s juice-drenched pole snaked relentlessly into the satyr’s meaty envelope. Designed by the satyr’s alien power to plow her open, it did the job with brutal majesty. Even connected to prey, it busted her cunt open. The demoness’s thighs quavered under the force of the wastrel’s thrusts, the nectar of her arousal leaking onto the already slick ivory floor.
As he felt the end approaching, the damned one hammered the satyr’s writhing form even harder than before. Each jump of her wide hips was met with the small, but undeniable force of the human’s own. With unforeseen fervor, he beat down the demoness’s meaty hips with his starved, wiry groin. The satyr’s legs encircled the human’s waist, her hooves brushing his thighs. She pulled him closer, her panting breaths washing over the wastrel’s back.
Barely any space was left between their bodies, the wastrel’s cock pumping in and out without letting up. The lust-crazed human groaned almost nonstop at this point, his mind all but gone, committed to sealing the deal with this demon whore. Balls mashed against ass, the human’s sack feeling full to bursting. Lances of pain began to eke out of his groin- and then everything just exploded out.
The wastrel heaved his full length in, seeming to struggle to fit more in. There ceased to be any room for more, imagined or otherwise, as the human came violently. A spurt of thick jism erupted from the wastrel’s knob. It was followed by another, and another, the demon’s cunt bulging a little from the sheer volume. His cock continued to pulse, but no more seed came forth. Feeling drained of more than sperm, the wastrel leaned his head down to the satyr’s chest. He kissed her pale breast, his lips wetting with his own cooled perspiration. The wastrel felt the demoness’s palm brush under his chin, tilting his head up.
The intrepid human gazed up into the unknowable darkness that was the satyr’s visage, feeling something staring back. He swallowed as the fiendish woman’s claw encircle his head, pulling the back of it to bring his face closer to hers. As he saw a glimmer of wetness in the darkness, the wastrel could guess what he was in for.
The fiend kissed him, deep and slow, her tongue twining firmly, but gently with his. The wastrel gasped in the liplock as he felt a constricting force on his fleshy expanse. Rippling powerfully, the satyr’s cunt pumped the stubborn dregs of her prey’s climax from the human’s meat. She crooned softly, apparently sated.
It was then that the wastrel heard a small noise from the far corner of the now sex-smelling room. He turned his head and froze. Curled up in a ball was the girl he’d thought dead, her eyes wide like dinner plates.

~xxx

As we can all imagine, this fic or something like it was bound to happen. Perhaps, you’d think, not as early as this, but MEH. Better to get in early before the fanbase has any actual standards.

This piece is intended to be a oneshot, not a serial. I might throw up a scene or two fifty to fit niche tastes. Trite pieces where the dude gets outright murdered without any sex should be expected- if nothing else, to satisfy my nihilism.
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