For My Ascension, I Ordered My Commanders to Stalk Me
Copyright© 2025 by Palescript
Chapter 11: The Witchdoctor
Supernatural Sex Story: Chapter 11: The Witchdoctor - Choose your own adventure. Black Flag: (least spoilers/you want the darkest ride): Libby's life as a small-town librarian is brought to an end the night two monsters masquerading as men drag her through a portal into Hell. Subjected to public humiliation and ritualized depravity beyond comprehension, Libby clings to one certainty: none of this is random cruelty. What purpose does it, and will she, ultimately serve in this terrible new world? Red Flag blurb is in the Preface.
Caution: This Supernatural Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Mult Mind Control NonConsensual Rape Slavery BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction High Fantasy Horror Paranormal Magic Demons BDSM DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Rough Sadistic Spanking Gang Bang Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Oral Sex Voyeurism Public Sex Royalty Violence
Summary:
Libby meets the mysterious “shaman” in the intermission between rounds.
Notes:
As a special New Year’s gift, here’s Chapter 12 four days early. 🥂
An optional recap of events so far (because like many of you, I have the memory of a goldfish too, sometimes):
Two drow brothers, Galen and Fenrow, entered Earth in human glamour. They stalked a woman named Libby for months before accosting and stealing her from a library, her place of employment, late after hours. After a harrowing journey with a cadre of demonic guards, they brought her to the Fourth Circle of Hell, also known as the domain of Greed, with the ultimate goal of performing their blasphemous “Unification Rite.”
The Rite, a depraved sex ritual held every five years, is carried out by the Sovereigns of Hell with the ambition of fully corrupting a human already steeped in sin.
Their objective?
To turn the mortal captive into a vessel capable of destroying the barrier between their cursed realm and ours, allowing them to decimate Earth until its rivers run red with blood and sin.
Per their old laws, The Circles take turns hosting the Rite, and this time, Greed is presiding over it within the ancient Pit of Astaroth, also known as “the arena.”
Before the Rite began, Libby was locked in the Underground--a complex network of prison cells far beneath the Palace of Greed--for four excruciating months. Servicing the upper echelon of demons in the dark to keep herself alive, her mind and spirit were ultimately broken. Once Libby was released from her prison cell, a mysterious individual Libby refers to as “the shaman” repaired her psyche, but Libby quickly realized that not everything was put back the way it originally was in the first place.
At the start of the ritual, the sovereigns combined their profane essences into a ceremonial chalice, which seems to be one of the catalysts needed for the corruption to take hold over their mortal sacrifice. The sovereigns sent forth their pre-selected champions based on the number of times the chosen sacrifice has committed a grievous act in their respective deadly sin. As Narcissa, Pride’s viperous sister, pointed out, it is quite strange that someone like Libby, who by all accounts looked to lead a plain, boring life, managed to tally so many egregious transgressions.
After thousands of years of failed rituals, Libby suspects she will probably become another discarded human bone thrown on top of the pile ... or so we, the audience, initially thought. While Libby was delirious and half-drunk on the potent vitalis in Galen’s blood (a mysterious source of power we do not yet understand), we learned that Galen and Fenrow are bound by a vow that will forfeit their cherished princess’ life if they don’t cooperate with her mad, desperate gambit.
The more we learn, the clearer it becomes that Libby has played a direct hand in her own misery, though for what reason and how she pulled it off have yet to be revealed.
In the most recent chapter, Libby faced the Pride round. At first, she believed the Sovereign of Pride was a spiteful demon named Narcissa. However, it has become evident that Narcissa stole the throne from her older brother, who we only know as “Pride,” though Libby has given him the moniker of “Hades.” How Narcissa keeps Pride on her leash is still shrouded in obscurity, but what is clear is that Pride is a very powerful force held only in check by a compulsion of unknown origin.
How did Libby, a human woman working at a library, become the center point of a hellish crucible entrenched in mystery and subterfuge?
Well, as always, that’s for you to find out, dear reader.
The Witchdoctor
Seconds after the intermission was called, Fenrow and Galen disappeared from the terrace. Libby didn’t know if she was relieved they were gone or if she mourned the loss of the only familiar faces she knew in this wretched place.
What a twisted thing she’d become, to find herself seeking out the two demons responsible for putting her here in the first place. Craving the familiar weight of their gazes like a salve against the unknown horrors still waiting for a turn with her.
Most of the sovereigns had dissipated into tendrils of mist after the two drow had left, and only Pride’s calcified body and Sloth’s reclining form remained behind.
Libby stood on shaking legs in the center of the platform, struggling to keep her eyes open. She turned just as a flash of movement flickered at the edge of her vision.
A figure was approaching from across the sands. They wore a gauzy, hooded robe that covered them from head to toe. An arid breeze chose that moment to sweep in and lift the ends of the garment like dozens of waving black arms. If the graceful gait and the flash of a shapely, pale blue leg were any indication, she was fairly certain the advancing figure was a woman.
The hooded individual came to a stop along the outside of the platform. Like most demons, she towered a full head above Libby, which was no small feat considering the platform itself rose almost two feet above the ground. She couldn’t make out a face under the dark cowl, but she could feel the prickling weight of her gaze. What looked to be a withered branch peeked out from her shroud like a pair of spiked horns. Or maybe they were horns. She had no way to know, and she wasn’t about to ask.
Libby flinched when a hissing sound suddenly came from under the shadowed opening, only to slowly realize the hooded woman was actually exhaling a long, exasperated sigh.
“Come on, then,” was all she said, her husky, feminine voice measured, yet faintly melodic. She turned halfway and beckoned with a curl of an elegant hand. Her skin was embossed with curling sigils a few shades lighter than her azure pigmentation, as if her body was subtly illuminated from within.
Libby considered refusing. Yet in the end, her pragmatism won out. The idea of being threatened until she complied, or worse, being dragged after her, was motivation enough for her to quietly trail, or rather slowly limp, after the demon. They silently crossed the uneven arena floor, and Libby did her best to ignore the many leering onlookers who’d decided to stay in their seats.
The woman led her to an alcove with an adjoining room just off the arena’s main portcullis, the same entrance that’d been used to haul in the platform.
The iron gate was currently closed. All that was visible past the enormous metal grid was a wide, curving strip of cobblestones that disappeared into a dense white fog. A fog that looked thick enough to hide and disappear in, if she could somehow get through the gate.
That pragmatic part of herself reared its bitter head again. Even if such a thing were possible, then what? Wander naked around Hell without food, water, or the faintest idea of where to go? Not to mention every demon she encountered would be a potential captor, and she had no illusions about her ability to fight them off. At least here, she was property with perceived value. Out there, she’d just be prey.
The drone of the crowd faded behind them, and Libby felt something in her chest unclench a fraction. The room inside was smaller than she’d expected. Two torches were mounted on either side, and a rustic stone table with a matching bench was stationed in the center. The robed woman slowly lowered herself onto the bench with a low curse before pulling her hood back to reveal a face far younger than her weary demeanor suggested.
A single spiked branch was mounted upon her brow, curving above her head in antler-like spires. It cast long shadows under her eyes, which only made her gleaming, milky-white irises all the more prominent. Libby had just enough wherewithal to wonder how she’d managed to fit so much of the thorny arc under her hood.
Even with her strange horns and her pearlescent eyes, she was ... lovely. There was no other word for it. In fact, those uncanny additions only served to make her all the more mesmerizing. For a brief, absurd moment, Libby wondered if everyone in Hell was this unsettlingly beautiful. But then the grotesque faces of the demons in the stands flashed through her mind, and she promptly dismissed the notion.
“I know it’s not glamorous,” she said to Libby, gesturing to the weathered stone slab beside her, “but I need you up on this table. The sooner you let me look you over, the sooner I can get you patched up.”
The demon took in Libby’s half awkward, half defensive stance in the doorway. She audibly exhaled through her nose as she took in what was surely a purpling welt around Libby’s neck. Then that assessing gaze dipped to her raw, stinging knees. Midnight blue eyebrows the same color as her hair crept up towards her forehead, and something like understanding flickered across her features. When she spoke again, her tone had lost some of its impatience.
“I’m only here to tend your wounds. I have no interest in adding to what’s already been done to you today. The gods below know you’ve suffered enough as it is.”
Libby searched her features, once again in so many minutes, scrutinizing a stranger’s face for signs of deceit. Other than an undercurrent of fatigue touching the corners of her eyes, she appeared to be telling the truth.
With a steadying breath, Libby unclenched the fist at her side, letting it relax in increments.
The woman patted the table in front of her once more, and this time, Libby grudgingly approached. She ambled across the room, every muscle screaming, every part of her aching and used. With a wince, she eased herself onto her back and managed to swing both legs onto the table without passing out.
At last, a small win. A silent laugh escaped her, one as raw and bitter as the cum still coating her lips and tongue.
The feminine figure before her—who loomed above her, even while seated—produced a small pouch from the folds of her robes and shook out the contents into a graceful hand. At least a dozen tiny bones piled into her palm, their surfaces inscribed with the same symbols covering the vast majority of her skin. Their size made Libby think they might be avian, or perhaps even belong to a small species of reptile, but she didn’t know for sure. She was no paleontologist.
Her other hand closed over the bones, and the woman shook them with a rhythmic rattle, a distant look of concentration in her radiant irises.
Libby hadn’t been sure at first, but she was becoming increasingly certain that this was the same shaman who’d visited her after she’d been released from the Underground. She’d been far too disoriented to focus on much of anything at the time, let alone possessed the capacity to inspect her hooded face, but she remembered the dry, clattering sound of her bones.
With one final shake, the demon opened her hands and threw the rune-etched remains into the air.
And they stayed there.
Libby resisted the urge to rub her eyes and verify that she wasn’t hallucinating. Before she could even begin to process the scene unfolding before her, the bones fanned out, each coming to hover above a specific region of her body. One floated at her forehead, two more were at her throat, five over her midsection, and the rest were evenly spaced out along her lower half.
A network of what could only be described as phosphorescent ley lines appeared between every bone, the thin strands an electric blue so bright they were nearly blinding in the lowlight of the room. She was still gawking when the woman hooked her index and smallest fingers around the glowing lines and then pulled on them.
Libby felt a sharp jerk, as if there were fish hooks embedded under her skin. By some small mercy, there was no pain. The horned demon began to weave the lines together in a pattern Libby had no hope of deciphering. The pliant strands flexed and bent to her commands, humming with an audible array of clear, resonant notes that seemed to vibrate within the hollows of Libby’s very bones.
To see the lingering evidence of magic in the arena had been one thing. To see it in action, to experience it herself, was another thing altogether. For the first time in a long time, a tentative sense of wonder began to bloom inside her chest as she watched the woman pluck and manipulate the threads like the strings of a zither.