For My Ascension, I Ordered My Commanders to Stalk Me
Copyright© 2025 by Palescript
Chapter 12: Beg Me, and I Just Might
Supernatural Sex Story: Chapter 12: Beg Me, and I Just Might - 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
Shortly after giving Libby a hug that was just a little too tight and just a tad too long, Eldra Vorn dissipated into mist much like the sovereigns had, leaving Libby to wait in the small room for the chime of the next round.
Lilibeth.
Maybe she hadn’t heard the witchdoctor correctly. Or perhaps Eldra Vorn had simply gotten her name wrong?
Truth be told, she didn’t have the mental capacity to turn it over in her mind for long. A demon calling her by a different, yet similar name, was the least of her concerns.
She’d taken a seat on the stone bench with her knees drawn up to her chest. She didn’t notice when she’d started rocking back and forth, but the motion was the only thing keeping the rising scream firmly lodged in her chest.
The longer she sat there, the more her nerves began to fray into thinner and thinner pieces. Her breathing followed suit, coming in shorter gasps. And because she wasn’t suffering enough, a deep nausea had started to churn in her center at the thought of what was waiting for her out there in the next round.
A sharp rap made her jolt upright to her feet, heart pounding in her ears. Her eyes darted to the doorway, and every muscle in her body went taut.
Galen stood just inside the threshold. Fenrow was a few paces behind him, leaning against the scarred wall of the alcove with his fingers laced behind his neck, his legs casually crossed at the ankle.
“The Wrath round will be starting in an hour,” Galen said, his voice carrying that same emotionless quality that always set her teeth on edge. “We’re here to make sure you’re prepared for it. While you will likely disapprove of our methods, these extra precautions will ensure you have an advantage in the next trial.” Just over his shoulder, Fenrow briefly closed his eyes, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
She didn’t acknowledge Galen’s words or make any moves to approach or back away. She only stood there, chin lifted and eyes blazing with unconcealed hatred. A shadow passed over the darker elf’s face. He took a menacing half-step towards her, and Libby knew she had precious seconds before he crossed the short distance to where she stood.
She quickly searched the room for anything she could use as a weapon. Her frantic gaze snagged on one of the torches mounted to the wall, and she lunged for it. Her fingers curled around the handle at the same time Galen seized her opposite arm. She shrieked in outrage, trying to wrench free from his hold, but his grip was a vise of unyielding stone.
Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She shifted her center of balance and pivoted on her heel. Using her momentum, she snatched the torch from its mount and brought the blazing haft down in a diagonal arc toward him.
A gaping void almost two feet across silently opened between them. A wave of forge-hot heat blasted her in the face as blackened arms shrouded in a layer of inky vapor surged from the dark oval and plucked the torch from her grasp. Her weapon disappeared inside the impossible manifestation, and three, four, five shadowy hands latched onto her wrist, her forearm, her shoulder. They were feverishly hot, the fibrous texture of their skin as coarse as sandpaper.
Galen stepped around what she now realized was a portal, an unreadable expression hewn across the austere planes of his face.
“Good,” he said with a nod, giving Libby a once-over. “I’m glad to see you still have some fire left. You’re going to need that fighting spirit in the next round.”
“Let me go,” she spat, trying to slip from his hold. She’d already broken her silence with Eldra Vorn twice before, and in here, there was no reason to hold back the roaring inferno of rage burning inside her. “Don’t pretend you’re here to do me any favors. We all know you’re both sadistic, narcissistic bastards who get off on seeing me like this.” Her voice was a vicious snarl. “So save the concerned act for someone stupid enough to believe it.”
The skin around Galen’s eyes tightened, and he removed his hand from her upper arm, but the grasping hands didn’t move to release her.
“What are these ... these vile things?”
“The souls of the damned,” Galen said simply. “Or rather, the ones I’ve condemned to the fiery pits of Gehenna.” He lifted a heavily muscled shoulder before letting it fall. “I may be cursed with the animus of Death, but sometimes it has its uses. Especially in moments like these.”
Galen made a small motion with a clawed index finger. The portal in front of her glided to her right side, and the cluster of arms dragged her along with it. Caught between fear and mute horror, she didn’t even notice the second portal appear on her left until it was too late. A low, terrified whine shot from her lips as more hands clamped onto her other shoulder, her elbow, squeezing until her arms were completely immobilized on both sides.
Her whine pitched into a scream as her feet left the floor. The shadowed souls hauled her through the air until her back hit the wall with a jarring thud. Her ears were still ringing when the portals flattened against the stone on either side of her head. The dark limbs kept her pinned there, her arms stretched wide, her legs dangling uselessly below her. Panic set in, tearing through her veins in a white-hot inferno. Helpless. She despised being helpless. She was in no more control of her body now than when she’d been out there in the arena.
And in here, they could do whatever they wanted. In absolute privacy.
As if he’d been waiting for some silent signal, Fenrow pushed off the wall outside and ducked under the doorframe. He crossed the room in a few long strides, his body blocking her view as he deposited multiple items on top of the table. He languidly turned and came to stand beside Galen, the ghost of a smile playing across his full, sensual lips.
Her legs hung nearly two feet above the floor, trembling under the weight of their combined scrutiny. Her position on the wall put her nearly at eye level with the two elves, though in no way did it make her feel like their equal.
Fenrow stepped forward until his sinfully handsome face was inches from her own. She thought he was about to kiss her, but then he angled his head to get a better look at her unclothed body. Several locks of his white hair tumbled across his forehead as he leaned down to inspect the tape Narcissa’s champions had crudely placed over her cunt. He extended a hand, his dexterous fingers tracing along the edges. Libby couldn’t suppress a shudder. A breath later, a cruel, biting laugh escaped him, and he slowly shook his head.
“I guess it couldn’t have been all that bad. Look,” he said, gripping a corner of the tape. Libby braced for pain, but the strips wetly peeled off as one with an audible squelch. He let the offensive thing drop to the floor with an incredulous scoff. Cool air hit the front of her soaked pussy, the evidence of her arousal from Pride’s expert ministrations still glistening across her mons and her delicate pink folds.
Fenrow straightened one vertebrae at a time and came to brace a hand above her head on the wall. He leaned in close until their lips were almost touching again. “Despite your colorful assessment of our characters, we are here to ensure you have an advantage for what’s to come. Now,” he said, lowering his voice as if he were about to tell her a secret. He let his thumb trace along her jawline and tilted her face up to meet his gaze. “Perhaps you’ve been lucid enough to notice that we’re one sovereign short for the Rite. A rather curious discrepancy, don’t you think?”
She ... had noticed. Every scriptural text she’d ever read had always claimed there were seven circles, not six. Dante’s Inferno claimed there were nine, but Dante Alighieri had clearly never been to Hell. Libby hadn’t exactly been dwelling on the disparity, though. One less trial had seemed like a small mercy in an otherwise merciless situation, and she hadn’t been about to question it.
“Though Velmion—our esteemed, illustrious, dependable Sovereign of Greed—has been missing for over a decade, we must still do our part to ensure the Fourth Circle is properly represented in the ritual.”
Libby was trying to pay attention to his words, but a flash of movement past his shoulder pulled her eyes from his piercing, diamond gaze. She didn’t have time for a full glance, but she saw enough to recognize that whatever Fenrow had placed on the table was moving.
Fenrow caught her wavering stare and gave her a cold, hollow-eyed smirk. He pushed off the wall and sauntered across the room, his long, lithe frame completely blocking her view of the table.
“Velmion is actually the second sovereign to rule over Greed,” Fenrow commented without looking back. “Though Velmion wasn’t a blood relative of the former monarch, he was afforded the privilege of apprenticing under his predecessor for a little over five hundred years.”
Fenrow paused in front of the table, shifting through various objects she couldn’t see from her position on the wall. “The first sovereign, Auric, was responsible for a ... particularly gruesome massacre. One that wiped out the entirety of the royal family and put a swift end to a very powerful bloodline overnight. Quite tragic, really.” She heard him unsnap the latches of a box. “Since then, Velmion has ruled this domain uncontested for nearly a thousand years. Which is almost as long as I’ve been alive. Although Galen is a few years older than I am, and a bit older than our sovereign, if I remember correctly.”
“I already had more than a century to my name when Velmion spawned in Hell,” Galen replied without inflection. “Though, since drow age much slower than most races, I was still a child by our standards.”
She had no idea why they were telling her this. What did any of this have to do with her? And, more importantly, what did it have to do with whatever was on that table?
Her eyes slid to the aloof elder brother. Galen had been standing to the side with a stormy expression locked across his features, the hilt of a curved dagger clutched in his hand. The upper portion of the blade was exposed, revealing an intricate inlay of golden filigree.
But that wasn’t what gave her pause.
His clawed thumb was pressed against the sharp edge, his knuckles blanched a paling shade of gray. Her brow furrowed when she caught sight of a widening cut dripping a steady stream of inky black blood to the cobbled floor beside his steel-plated boots.
He was still wearing the same leather vest from earlier, which left both of his veined, powerful arms exposed. However, it wasn’t his musculature that she lingered on. Even in the gloomy murk, she could see the scars that littered almost every inch of visible skin. Some were jagged and cruel, others were fine and precise. From the way they trailed along the defined ridge of his throat and disappeared past his collar, she could only assume that he had far more under his clothes. Only his noble face was spared from the painful myriad of silvered lesions.
He caught her staring, and she quickly darted her gaze past his shoulder. Fenrow started speaking again, drawing Galen’s attention away and giving her little time to process the unsettling mutilation of his hand.
“As a matter of fact, only Wrath, Gluttony, and your new paramour—” Fenrow spat the word, “Pride are what remain of the Original Seven.”
A low murmur of contemplation escaped the fair-haired drow as he picked something up from the table and turned back to face her. When she saw what he held in his hand, a surge of gooseflesh broke out across her body. A wave of her earlier nausea immediately followed, slamming into her tenfold the longer she stared at the obscene object, or rather objects, writhing in his hand.
Dozens of undulating, fleshy tendrils formed two distinct, phallic-shaped masses. The sinuous lengths were as wide as her forefinger and as long as her forearm, all a shade of purple so dark they were nearly black.
She tore her eyes from them to glance past him. In that moment, she saw there were still several more implements on top of the stone slab other than the one he now held in his hand. If this aberrant monstrosity was just the first, what fresh hells did the others promise?
Libby jerked her focus back to the swollen, prehensile roots as Fenrow came to a stop in front of her. They pulsed with a rhythmic thrum, as if they were still attached to some great, beating heart. A cloudy fluid oozed down each tangle in viscous, dribbling streams, and her stomach twisted painfully at the sight.
The wriggling appendages were affixed to the interior of a shallow golden cup a little larger than her hand. Positioned at the upper end of the cup was a small hole no wider than her smallest finger. When her eyes settled on the multiple rows of decorative, yet sturdy chain that hung from either side, a cold feeling settled in her chest. She had a strong suspicion she knew what she was looking at.
What it’s intended purpose was for.
“I know, they’re absolutely revolting, aren’t they?” Fenrow remarked, bringing the horrifying organs closer and allowing the slick tendrils to blindly trace the soft plane of her belly. A sharp squeal left her lips, and every fine hair on her body stood on end.
It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to cry.
“Now, Velmion may be missing, but the Rite doesn’t specify that the present sovereign must participate. According to the Rite’s founding texts, the only requirement is the sovereign must be of legitimate blood. And these...” he said with a feverish gleam in his eyes, “are very legitimate. They belonged to, well, still belong to Auric, the first and former Sovereign of Greed. Much like the original Lust, Envy, and Sloth, Auric succumbed to his sin, ultimately metamorphosizing into an abomination so powerful and so grotesque that he had to be sealed away in the deepest reaches of Hell.”
Every cell in her body was saturated with a fear and disgust so potent, she could barely think, let alone process what he was saying.
To her horror, multiple tips had found the entrance to her navel. They were trying to worm their way inside, as if hungrily seeking for a warm place to nest.