A Devil's Bride
Chapter 17: Hell Raiser
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 17: Hell Raiser - Orpheia, a rare, visually tantalizing creature, has ensnared the attention of a tyrant king whose bloodline is responsible for the slaughtering of Orpheia’s people. Forced to choose between marrying the king and losing the lives of her beloved people, Orpheia calls upon the power of Hell to gain the upper hand. Inspired by Frankenstein, Carmilla, and all things Halloween, this gothic novel is sure to satiate those who crave brutal, bloody romance.
Caution: This Horror Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Hypnosis NonConsensual Romantic Lesbian Shemale Paranormal Ghost Magic Demons Humiliation Light Bond Size Caution Halloween Royalty
Orpheia was startled to find that the chapel’s interior had been deconstructed when she was dragged back inside. A wall of holy men stood against the back of the apse with splinters in their hands from stuffing the pews out of the room, creating an ample amount of space for the bodies that were pouring in. All that remained was the marble altar, a scorching furnace, and a silken-covered mattress in the shape of a shining sun. Father Grimshaw awaited Meyrick at the foot of Sol. Before him, splayed across the altar, sat the crown, a scepter, and a globus soliger. The furnace behind him scorched the air, leaving the chapel feeling tight and hot. Iron branding tools sat inside, waiting patiently to chew through the skin of the royal couple. Meyrick would get his markings upon his crowning, while Orpheia would not be marked until after the marriage was consummated. Orpheia was mortified to find that the mattress on which he would publicly steal her innocence sat between four iron spokes which held onto heavy shackles and short chains. Orpheia paled at the sight of them, for two of the shackles were still stained with her blood from her lashing that morning.
Meyrick led the hungry crowd inside with Orpheia wrapped in his arms. He threw her near-lifeless body onto the bed with little care for how she flopped over like a corpse. Her head spun. Her body ached. Orpheia barely took notice when four holy men grabbed hold of her. They worked in perfect sync, removing her restraints before cuffing her wrists and ankles in iron. Her arms and legs were splayed out in the shape of a star, exposing her to the jeering crowd. They gathered closer for a peek. Men and women all poured inside. They filled the cracks and crevasses of the empty basilica from the grimy tile floors to the balconies up above. Some scaled the walls to sit in the window frames, while others hung from the rafters like spiders on a web. Bulbous eyes studied Orpheia on the ground. Slimy lips chuckled and salivated. Their fingers ached to touch her. Some cracked their knuckles with anticipation. It was ironic that they’d rather mutilate an Umbranian alive and not dead. For Samhain’s corpse had remained utterly untouched outside. No one dared to brandish their knives to the unclean foreigner. His dirty flesh might scorn them in the eyes of Sol. His body was to be left to the maggots and the wolves. Though an altar boy had taken his head, claiming it for sport, and disappeared with it before Orpheia could make a weak attempt to stop him. Orpheia yowled like a wounded cat, for when she closed her eyes she could still picture the image of her father’s headless body left behind on the steps.
Father Grimshaw’s voice suddenly cut through the crowd. He spoke in a broken, ancient script that Orpheia was appalled to hear fall from his lips. For it was her language. The words of the moon and the stars. Her breath hitched on a sob, yet she couldn’t peel her eyes away from the ceremony. She watched as Father Grimshaw slowly removed Meyrick’s blood-stained clothes until he stood nude before his kingdom. He was unashamed, for his people marveled at his form. He was the perfect Solian, from flesh to bone to blood. The crowd grew restless; everyone wanted a peek at their new king. Bodies writhed and squirmed together as tightly as possible, fighting for a sliver of ivory tile to stand on. They did not care about suffocation, for this was a monumental day in history. No one wanted to miss it.
Orpheia broke with a groan as Meyrick began reciting the priest’s every word. This was real. It wasn’t a terrible dream. Orpheia squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them again, she never returned to her soft bed back home. She pulled at her restraints, but they held steadfast around her limbs. Even if she managed to escape the iron, she would have to fight through an ocean of Solians. They’d rip her to shreds before she ever got a chance to feel starshine against her skin again. Lu’a was gone. Samhain was gone. Reith was gone. Orpheia had no one left to protect her. Still, she muttered to herself all the same, beseeching Lu’a to outstretch her ear to her last living spectre’s misery. Even if Lu’a wasn’t strong enough on the new moon to rescue her, Orpheia would be content with Death. She’d spend eternity as a wandering ghoul if she had to. Anything to spare her from humiliation. Anything to end the pain. Her father outside. Her mother’s face flickering in the thrashing crowd. Orpheia choked on her tears. Anything at all ... She’d sacrifice everything she had left.
Orpheia’s eyes snapped back open when the priest began to shout in modern tongue. Meyrick stood before him on his knees. In his hands he held the scepter and the globus soliger. Such tools, dressed in gold and rare gemstones in a gaudy display of wealth, were promises to Sol that Meyrick would spread his holy message to the lands far and wide, should Sol allow him to take the throne. Orpheia snarled, for her people never once crafted such a device in the name of Lu’a.
Father Grimshaw proudly held the crown above Meyrick’s head, finishing his prayer with a flaunting hymn. The choir above roared with a matching melody. Their voices rang out louder than they had during the wedding. The crowd drunkenly joined in, arm-in-arm with their neighbors and friends. Orpheia’s lips remained still. Meyrick was no king in her eyes. He was an animal gilded in gold with blood on his maw. Meyrick rose, inciting cheers from every Solian’s lips. Their king; their future. A future of carnage and spite.
The furnace door opened with a creak. Father Grimshaw brandished one of the iron sticks. Orpheia could almost feel Meyrick’s heart beating wildly as the molten metal neared his skin. Orpheia turned away. She could not bear the thought of such a morbid practice being performed on her. Yet she would be forced to ruminate over it—strengthening her anxieties to a monumental degree—the entire time Meyrick’s cock was inside of her. The chapel fell quiet to the sound of Meyrick’s first scream. The sound of metal searing through flesh filled the gaps where the king needed to stop and breathe. Orpheia batted her tear-glistening eyes and quickly averted her gaze to the chandelier to distract herself. The basilica’s ceiling stretched on so high that in the darkness of night, it was nearly pitch black. Orpheia sought through the shadows for something to occupy her thoughts. She paused on a pair of soft red eyes staring back at her. Orpheia’s heart skipped a beat.
“You came back for me...” She whispered. But the words were too quiet to be heard over the first sound of Meyrick’s roar. The metal cut deep into his chest, yet he still had quite a way to go. Sol would not be satisfied until Meyrick knelt before him as a broken, branded man.
Reith watched Orpheia in silence. Her face was barely illuminated by the glow of candlelight from the chandelier’s myriad of candles. Her features were stern and rabid; her black lips painted into a scowl, her brow narrowed deep enough to carve deep wrinkles into her forehead. Her scalp was still empty, all except for a patch or two of black tufts of hair. And there were gaps in her back that were uncovered, revealing her bones and muscles beneath. Despite everything that had transpired, she was still incomplete. But there were far too many witnesses below. Surely someone would see if she were to swoop down and devour a victim from the crowd.
A horrible solution came to Orpheia’s head. She reached her gaze as far up as she could manage, ensuring that her demon was staring back at her. Bowing her back, she screamed, “TAKE MY FATHER! He is fresh! He will suffice! Eat of his flesh and live as whole! Rip this congregation to pieces and salt their land! Devour their children and crucify the elders! But spare my people in the fields! My father is the only Umbranian you may have! Hear my call, ruler of Hell and the Cataclysm Unknown; REITH! I CALL UNTO THEE!”
Not a soul could hear Orpheia’s pleas, for Meyrick’s screaming had hit its peak. Father Grimshaw pulled the metal from the king’s breast, finishing the last of his royal markings with an image of the sun coiling around his royal heart. Meyrick was not permitted to douse the pain with water. He was forced to bear the agony until he had recited his prayer of thanks to the foot of Sol’s effigy. Father Grimshaw observed the tradition, but he couldn’t help from catching Orpheia’s eye. The skeleton priest flashed his teeth in a wide, gruesome grin. He deposited the iron back into the furnace with a silent promise to her that he would make his queen suffer tenfold. Orpheia’s heart pounded out of her chest; her breaths growing short and weak. She looked up to the ceiling, but Reith was gone. For a moment, Orpheia wondered if she had ever been there at all.
Meyrick rose on shaky legs. The crown remained in place as he turned to face his people. His sex swung freely, slightly erect with anticipation. With a smirk, he faced Orpheia on the ground. The holy men returned to Orpheia’s side unprompted, working together to unthread her leather garments and revealing her nakedness to the crowd. Solian voices cried out like howls of wind and claps of thunder. The crowd began to grow thicker and thicker as Meyrick approached the bedside. Any gaps remaining in the sanctuary were quickly filled. Soon, the air grew boiling hot as thousands of mouths huffed with impatience. The basilica doors were sealed shut as Meyrick took a knee onto the mattress. It dipped beneath his weight.
“I have waited a decade for this,” he whispered, licking his hungry lips. Orpheia tried to squirm away, but the shackles jangled, refusing to budge.
Meyrick began slow. He held Orpheia’s gaze as he pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh. Orpheia sucked in her breath. She choked when Meyrick’s jaws split open and he buried his teeth so deep inside of Orpheia’s skin that it tore and spilled with fresh blood. Her screams were broken and misshapen in the thick, muggy air. She sobbed terribly when Meyrick began to suckle the wound. He chuckled to himself, then slowly dragged his body closer until he was straddling her hips. His cock swung low, hungry to taste all she had to offer. It was clear that the king was trapped between the desire to jump in as deep as possible, sparing no pain so that he might quench his thirst for her sex, or if he wanted to draw out the queen’s anxiety for as long as possible until her resolve shattered, forcing her to beg for his sword to thrust inside of her.
The king dragged a finger down Orpheia’s sternum, listening to her racing heart. He watched her face shift wildly between horror and resentment. Her body began going numb from the inside out. The air fell still around them, growing heavier by the minute. Orpheia struggled to draw in each breath. She forced herself to remain still—limp, like a corpse. His little phantom. His pet.
His Selina.
Meyrick made his decision and positioned himself accordingly. The hungry head of his cock brushed against Orpheia’s wilting petals. They were as dry as flowers in a famished field. Meyrick, on the other hand, was dripping with anticipation. His excitement rubbed onto her skin and sent it shriveling back in repulsion. Orpheia balled her hands into fists and braced herself for the pain to commence. She squeezed her eyes tight and did not open them again until Meyrick’s voice shattered into an aria of pure, unbridled anguish. Something wet, sticky, and hot coated Orpheia’s sex, her stomach, and her legs. She opened her eyes to find her body now dripping with fresher blood than what coated her face. She and Meyrick both turned to look at the gap between Meyrick’s thighs where his cock once swung. It flopped flaccidly onto the mattress between them. The cut was clean, yet there was no blade in sight.
The room fell deathly silent as Meyrick’s pathetic sobs filled the halls. He stumbled back. The crowd parted instantly, petrified to touch him. The king made a desperate attempt to keep his spewing blood inside of his body, but the fight was to no avail. The crimson crept out from between his clenched fingers. It covered his bare legs and painted the ground beneath his feet. Father Grimshaw leapt into action amidst the chaos, managing to pull the king atop the altar before he lost consciousness. Holy men and altar boys covered the wound with the king’s clothes, all while Father Grimshaw screeched to the onlookers to avert their gazes. Each and every one of them turned to Orpheia in bewilderment.
But before the first accusation of witchcraft could be thrown, the chandelier above began to roar with the flames of a bonfire. Pyres from hell shot out from the wicks, scorching the air until the crowd began to drown in their sweat. Boiling wax rained down on them, scorching their skin and blinding their eyes. Screams erupted all over again, despite Father Grimshaw’s pleas. The Solians pivoted on their heels and rushed toward the doors. Yet despite the crowd’s pushing and pounding, they refused to budge. Amidst the panic, the crowd failed to create enough room for the doors to open inwardly, effectively locking themselves inside. Father Grimshaw attempted to calm the crowd enough to allow his men to release them, but his attempts at sedating the rapture were in vain when the wax-less candles began spewing sheets of ash and embers down to burn the people and fill their lungs with heavy smog. The people gagged and vomited. They cried out to their god in fear, but he was not with them in the church, for he did not care.
Smoke billowed thicker and thicker until it blanketed the ceiling in a dense black fog. The choir sung their terror in a morbid melody. They kicked and shoved one another to escape, but the stairwells were blocked with frightened holy men hiding from the insanity. Those who flung themselves from the balcony found their brutal way to the ground below with broken necks and shattered ribs. Those who survived were flattened in the stampede, and those who remained on higher ground collapsed one by one as their lungs filled with smoke. Their worship turned to wails. Their wails to silence.
The heaviest and strongest of the people lost their sanity first. They climbed atop their brethren, their neighbors, and their betters. They trampled the old, the sick, and the weak. Bodies began to pile up against the walls. Those with the intelligence to try to pull the heavy oak doors opened were slaughtered first. The fools remained alive, pushing hinges in a direction they were not forged to bend to. The most imbecilic of the lot turned to the glorious stained glass windows for escape. But before the first pane could be shattered, the magnificent artworks of blues, greens, and gold turned crimson red from the outside. Blood rained down in heavy sheets, coating the basilica’s exterior. It painted every inch of the glass until there was nothing to be seen but red. Then, before the crowd’s very eyes, the blood turned to black obsidian. The first window was shattered in a maddened fit, but it was useless, for the stone behind it was impenetrable.
The ceiling filled with smoke, now trapped without the necessary ventilation to escape. People shrieked and wailed. More windows broke. More bones were snapped. Yet amidst the pandemonium, the silken mattress remained untouched. People averted their attention from their queen, as if she wasn’t even there. They ignored the half conscious moans of their mutilated king. Only Father Grimshaw, now wielding the royal sword and his holy text, managed to cut through the confusion. He screamed like a banshee, invoking the name of Sol to becalm the crowd. They froze one by one and turned, oblivious to the blood on their hands and their feet.
“Can you not see what has happened?” The priest roared. He pointed the tip of the sword at Orpheia. “This witch dares to throw us into turmoil! She hath invited Hell into this sanctified room in hopes of tearing this kingdom apart! Well, I say, no longer will we shudder in the face of such evil! If the king cannot have her, then she is flesh for the people! Rip this woman to shreds! Rape her, beat her, pluck her eyes, and take her heart! For there is no power stronger than that of Sol’s! I laugh in the face of any demon who dare challenge this fact! And I implore you all to do the very same!”
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