Underworld of the Chevaan

Part IX

Between Two Rocks…

Satyra groaned in sobbed in pain and for the hundredth time tried uselessly to find a way to alleviate her suffering.

The red-haired priestess lay face down on a slab of grey stone in a chamber much like the one she had last been tortured in. After her session with the Yukhoth and their Egyptian sex-slave the beautiful Chevaan had believed that her captors would again cast her into a cave by herself to be alone and think about what hideous suffering they would force her to endure next.

She had been half right.

After she was dragged from the Yukhoth cave the two demons she had seen with Sadiste when she first arrived in the Underworld were waiting for her. They had taken her from the Yukhoth, who glared at the larger creatures but were clearly too terrified of their more powerful brethren to protest the loss of their new toy. Then the pair of warrior demons had carried the exhausted satyr woman to this new abode.

Once inside the creatures had wasted no time in playing with their prisoner. Satyra was to spent by her whipping ad her duel with the Egyptian slutress to do more than glare hatefully at the monsters as they had cast her belly down on the slab in the middle of the room, her head hanging over the end of the rock facing the ground as they spread her legs to either side of the stone and fixed her ankle to shackles near the base. While they bound her the pair used their taloned hands to grope her body, grabbing her firm ass where the bondage had it thrust back invitingly as pulling her hair back to raise her head and give them access to her full breasts where they lay pillowed against the rough surface. They had squeezed and twisted and scratched the luscious globes of her chest while she cried silently, finally letting her loose so that she collapsed forward onto the gravely top of rock, breathing deeply and trying to regain her composure.

The red demon, Vhyl, though, had no such plans in mind for her. ‘Grab her arms,' he had snarled, and his toadish companion Fylth had hastened to comply. The monster had grasped her by the upper arms and pulled her head back again, while at the same time using the leverage of his hold to keep her torso pushed down against the rock. Satyra had been forced to arch her back painfully, her fulsome breasts brushing the stone and her belly and groin mashed down upon the slabs surface while her long legs tapered down on either side, knees bent a little forward as if she were straddling a horse for a swift gallop. The rocky surface was hard and rough and the edges tormented the still smarting meat of her sex.

A ratcheting sound and the noise of chain links jingling had inspired the ram-horned beauty to twist herself around to look behind her. As her neck and back muscles cramped with the effort she had seen Vhyl working a length of chain that had been fastened to the wall and ran up to the ceiling. In the shadows above her, se sensed something moving ponderously and bent her head back to look up.

Descending slowly towards her in a gently arc was another piece of stone, larger and much heavier looking than the one Satyra had been fixed to. It was cylindrical, its surface having a shining grey look to it, like wet granite. It was not difficult to see that if it kept descending it come to rest directly on top of the slab I the middle of the room.

And its helpless female occupant.

Panicking Satyra had tried to struggle free but the demon holding her was a strong as he was hideous. There was nothing she could do to escape as the huge rock above moved down over her.

When the stone had been close enough for her to feel it pressing down on the curling flame hair of her head, it had stopped.

Vhyl had done something with the chain he had been working, apparently locking the stone in place, then he had come over to assist his companion. Each had taken an arm and pulled it back so far that Satyra had yelped in pain as it felt like her limbs were bind dislocated from her shoulders. With brutal disregard the demons had dragged her arms upwards behind her until they had her wrists on either side of the curving stone block above, and had then fastened them there with another set of metal cuffs, the sharp edged digging painfully into her wrists as gravity and the limits of her spine's ability to bend tried to drag her down towards the floor.

The raising of her arms had given the pair of monsters a fine view of her breasts, which jutted forth proudly as her shoulders were hauled backwards by the position of her arms. Vhyl had taken the opportunity to fondle those round samples of female flesh and their hard pink nipples cruelly, the now chalk white skin soon showing fresh bruises and scratches from his mild abuse.

‘This is just love-play compared to what awaits you when we have your soul,' the demon had growled. ‘Lord Vulgus doesn't appreciate being made to wait for his pleasures, so the more you fight, the longer and more terrible your suffering will be when you are his.' The demon had pinched one nipple so hard his talons had drawn blood, practically skewering her tit-meat as her leered down at her. ‘Once he'd done with your Chevaan pussy, maybe he let the rest of us have a turn at fucking you. I'm gonna make you scream like a little bitch when I've got my ten inches inside your cunt!'

Satyra had not had even the strength to curse him, trying to ease the terrible pressure on her back, feeling as though her spine were about to shatter into bony fragments inside her body.

Relief had come when Fylth had taken up Vhyl's place at the wall chain and begun lowering the stone above again, Satyra sighing audibly as her body was allowed to fall slowly forward, the terrible pressure on the small of her back diminishing as she eased downwards. She panted fitfully and drank in the absence of pain.

But her moment of rest was short lived. In less than a minute the stone had lowered so far that the tips of Satrya's pale breasts were brushing the stone slab on which the demons had laid her.

With obvious relish the toad faced Fylth had continued to lower her.

The pain had begun in her pelvis and first, no worse than if she had banged against a table, but constant. Soon the weight of the stone had increased that dull annoyance to a sharp pain.

As the stone came further down, it began to apply pressure to her lower abdomen. Breathing became more difficult. Her flat belly became even flatter, melded up against the unyielding surface she lay upon as the pressure on her lower spine built up to painful levels, making her gasp and wince with every little downward jerk of the crushing block. By then her nipples were out of sight as the fleshy mounds of her tits were pillowed against the rock. Several more links of the chain and those fabulous orbs had also begun to suffer as they reached the limit of their elasticity and the mass grinding Satyra down put the twin peaks under unnatural pressure, the globes bulging out to the side and beginning to feel as if they were to full of blood, the pulse of her veins building up to a hammering rhythm in her ample chest. Satyra barely notices that pulsing beat though; by then the weight on her loser body had built from pain to constant agony and her head and shoulders had been working frantically to try and squirm out from beneath the descending stone, a useless gesture that made the attending demons laugh and gibber, watching her more and more frantic struggles.

She hadn't cried out loud until the terrible force had cracked her pelvic bone with an audible snap that was immediately drowned out by her continuous, shrill scream.

And then the weight had increased.

By the time the sadistic duo had completed their task barely eight inches had remained between the upper and lower blocks, Satyra's magnificent female form sandwiched between the two stratas from her collar bone down to her backside. Her head and shoulders were free of the crushing stone and her face gleamed with a covering of sweat, the beautiful features a glowing mask of pain. She had struggled to draw air into her compressed lungs, gasping like a fish panting hauled from the waters, managed a feeble whimpering screech before needing to suck I air again.

Watching the demons had moved around to where her head protruded from beneath the huge weight. The sight of her gorgeous features pinched with agony and her alabaster white skin turning blue from asphyxia had quickly raised the libidos of the two to new heights, their stiffened cocks waving in front of her gasping flame haired visage until their jerking fists had sprayed her lips and nose and cheeks with a fresh coating of underworld semen.

Then they had left.

Trapped in the hideously cramped gap between the two pieces of stone, Satyra had quickly come to a new understanding of suffering. Without even needing to be present, her captors tortured her young body with pain she had never believed possible. Her head pounded with throbbing anguish as she struggled to breathe. Her diaphragm and guts felt as if they would burst and spill her organs our on the ground; she could feel her heart being squeezed up into her throat with every spasming irregular beat. Drops of sweat ran down her face and into her eyes, tormenting her. Even worse were the ones that coated her body under the stone, where she couldn't shake them free. Every itch of the rough stones digging into her flesh became unbearable anguish. She instinctively tried wriggling, but quickly found that it only added to her nightmare as her tender flesh was ground against the coarse stone by her movement, its white softness stretched and torn against the far more durable rock.

Satyra moaned, trying to distract herself from her torture by analysing the unexpected subtleties of what looked so bluntly simple. If she moved, she hurt. If she tried remaining still, the torment became unbearable. The weight was terrible, constant, but just barely endurable – at least at the purely physical level. Her Sadiste-given fortitude kept her alive, her body acting to heal itself, but rather than ease her pain, the constant regeneration was just another torture. Satyra could feel her bones trying to mend themselves, only to be prevented by the awful compression grinding and cracking them. She lay at a balance point between healing and suffering, shuddering and sobbing. As the hours being horribly squashed grew more and more, Satyra felt her emotional control slipping. Tears and whimpers became throaty screams of frustration, rage, blind fury. Her hands outside the rock vice worked like claws. Sometimes she would struggle so powerfully she felt new bones in her ribs and shoulders cracking while she coughed blood from her ruptured heart even as it instantly rejuvenated itself. The pain would fuel her rag until exhaustion overcame her and her head would fall forward, hair lank with sweat, fighting against despair.

How long she lay in the crusher, she did not know. Days; a week. Every part of her imprisoned form hurt her – chest, abdomen, her breasts, her female parts mashed into the jagged surface of the block. She felt madness tickling the corners of her mind and wept brokenly, wishing only for death.

Sounds of footfalls roused her from her dance with insanity. They were light, not the heavy tread of the warrior demons, but not the skittering gait of the Yukhoth either. A woman's tread.

Satyra braced herself, shaking hair from her eyes, feeling her horns tangled in the copper locks. Could she face Sadist again? Her pain was terrible; she felt ready to do anything to escape. Fresh anger welled in her at that realization – was she so weak, then, so easy to subdue. Hatred of her red skinned torturer gave her fresh strength. She hoped Sadiste would come close enough for her to spit on the demon slut.

But her green eyes opened in surprise as the blue demoness appeared in the doorway.

As before the devil-girl was nude, her blue skin, purple nipples and hairless pubic region and exercise in lithe sensuality. Beneath the straight black horns her yellow eyes looked down on the wriggling satyr woman while one hand played with her thickly curling raven hair.

That looks awful, said the demoness after a moment of staring back at the prisoner. Her voice held just enough sincerity to truly mock Satrya's pain. ‘I'll bet the pain is terrible.'

Satyra refused the bait, thinking through the pain. ‘You were…in…the throne… room…, she wheezed.

‘You remember,' said the demoness, stepping closer. ‘That's so sweet; especially since everything that happened to me there was for your benefit.'

Even in her anguish Satyra sensed the subtle malice in the blue woman's voice and tried to shake her head, her neck muscles cramped almost to immobility. ‘Didn't…want…'

‘Oh, of course you didn't,' the blue demoness said quickly, stepping over and kneeling beside Satyra's head. One delicate blue finger wiped some blood from the marble white cheek of the prisoner. ‘You're one of the good girls.'

Satyra looked over at the demoness as she put the finger with the Chevaan's blood to her lips, licking it slowly clean. Her smile was like a serpent's. ‘What…do … you want?' the red haired torture victim asked huskily.

The other woman smiled, still running her finger over her dark blue mouth. ‘We haven't been properly introduced,' she said, yellow eyes bright. ‘My name is Zaraeth.' Satyra said nothing, so the demoness went on. ‘I want to help you.'

‘Help…me?'

‘Yes. I want to help you escape, back to your mortal world.'

Satyra blinked, feeling an itch growing between her sternum and navel. She tried to ignore it by focussing on the pain in her hips. ‘Why?' she hissed up at Zaraeth.

The demoness squatted on her haunches near the Chevaan's head. Her fingers reached out to wipe the sweat from the suffering priestess' brow. ‘In the throne room, what they did to me…' The blue woman's voice trailed off, and she felt her abdomen, as if remembering the feel of the iron spear skewering her soft flesh. Her eyes narrowed in pain. ‘No woman should have to suffer such horror. I cannot be saved, but you…' She looked again at Satyra, eyes softening. Blue fingers delicately brushed the prisoners white cheek, stroking her face. ‘There is still hope for you, Satyra. Let me help you.'

Zaraeth leaned closer, her full blue lips inches from Satyra's red ones, their eyes, yellow and green, gazing deeply into each other. ‘So strong, so beautiful,' whispered Zaraeth. ‘I cannot bear to watch what they will do to you.'

The devil woman moved closer, eyes closed, their lips almost touching. Their breath mingled.

‘Liar!' Satyra spat out, twisting her head away.

Zaraeth's eyes snapped open and she leaned back. She smiled again, that snake's grin. ‘Hmmm,' she mused, ‘your not as stupid as most mortals.' Satyra looked at her warily from beneath her tangle of copper hair, but Zaraeth merely smiled more broadly.

Then quicker than the eye could follow, her hand whipped forward, seizing a fistful of that lustrous red mane and yanking Satyra's head back so hard the Chevaan thought her spine would snap.

‘And yes, I am lying,' she said with a hiss. ‘I'd love to see a haughty little bitch like you, who thinks she's better than we poor demons, twist and scream while a dozen of my brothers tore your pretty pink cunt apart with their cocks.' The blue demoness fondled her breast as she imagined Satrya's unholy rape. Then she sighed, letting the priestess' head drop. ‘But unfortunately, I'll have to defer that pleasure for another time. For now, it suits my desires to help you escape. Is that not enough?'

Satyra tried to breath deep and winced as the effort put more pressure on her mashed fem-mounds. ‘You…hate…Sadiste…'

‘That's right, pretty slut, I do,' Zaraeth replied. ‘Sadiste and I go way back, and as much as I'd love to spend a decade on that luscious albino body of yours, the thought of getting to torture that red bitch inside out is to good to pass up. So,' and here she took Satrya's face in her cupped hands, leaning in and whispering around her right horn and into the Chevaan's ear, ‘you do what I say, and in return you'll not only escape eternal damnation, you'll have the knowledge that Sadiste is suffering horrors to terrible for mortal description.'

Satyra swallowed. A new itch had started atop her left boob. She ground her teeth in anguish. If she could have ground her swollen tit to red pulp to stop the damnable itching at that moment, she would have. ‘How…how know…trust…'

‘Well, that's the delicious thing,' Zaraeth purred, moving Satyra's hair out of her eyes. ‘You don't.'

Satyra looked into those hateful yellow eyes, tears welling in her own. She thought of spending hours and days and weeks under the stone above her while she ground her soft curves raw against the stone, her body and its round breasts and flat belly oozing blood while the soft helpless mound of her sex was flayed from within by the shattered fragment of her own pelvis, the splinters of bone tearing through a vagina reduced to ragged meat again and again, as the terrible magic healed her to suffer endlessly.

‘How?' was all she wheezed out, finally.

Zaraeth bit her blue lip softly, feeling the warm tingle of success. She brushed Satyra's white cheek with her own and purred into the delicately curling ear.

‘Well, you've probably guessed, it's going to hurt a little.'