As she marched towards the throne of her conquerer, naked, branded and in chains, Hilda couldn't figure out where it had all went wrong. Only weeks ago, she commanded the finest armies on the face of the earth, as the scion of her late father Baron, who had tamed the wild barbarian hordes of the vast psychic badlands. As a strong and seasoned warrior in her own right, Hilda sought to purge the archdevil and his fiendish legions from the this world through her sheer physical might, and the prowess of her family's army. But during their final battle, the archdevil proved far too wily, slowly folding back his center line during the course of the fighting. Hilda, arrogantly convinced of her own inevitable victory, took this as a positive omen, and charged the center line hard, failing to notice the slow encircling of her forces by her enemy's side flanks. In the slaughter that followed her army's envelopment, the majority of Hilda's forces were killed, with herself and her all-female honor-guard being among the few survivors.
Stripped, branded, and raped before the other survivors by the archdevil's generals, Hilda immediately fell from queen of the world into becoming one of many of the archdevil's lowly sex slaves. During the long march back to the archdevil's keep the demonic armies had taken many liberties with their new slave women; Hilda gritted her teeth in memory of the searing pain of their manhoods, which burned nearly as hot as the branding iron that had irrevocably marked the flesh of her left hip with the claiming insignia of her new owner. Born of the howling chaos deep within the badlands, each individual demon looked radically different from one another, and the new slavegirls became all too intimately aware of how to pleasure and serve the unique forms of many of them.
Hilda shuddered as she became aware of the bitterly cold air of the throne room- she would almost welcome the hellish heat of her captor's bodies, utterly nude as she was. Her lithe and tightly muscled body strained against her wrist bonds which held her arms behind her back, as her shackled legs struggled to keep up with her demonic captor as she was pulled by her chain leash. Her slave brand still had a dull ache, "Hellfire branding; the pain never fades," she thought bitterly.
As she and the demonic slave monger vice-gripping her leash crossed the threshold into the throne room, Hilda gasped as she at last gazed her hated enemy, the archdevil, sitting lazily and arrogantly atop his throne, completely naked. Looking for all the part a corpulent ogre, with a pig-like face and green, cracked skin, and pockmarked with yellow warts, Hilda internally wretched at the hideouts sight.
"This. This is the thing that defeated me and my spear-women?" she dismayed internally, "This is the thing that I will be forced to service sexually for the rest of my days? The thing that will own me in every way possible?"
But as the revulsion crossed her mind, her thoughts began to take a different tract. Along the trail she and the other slave women were kept deprived of water and all food, save for what their demonic captors called "slave gruel" and "slave wine." The gruel was nothing more than a grey porridge, flavorless and bland, whereas the slave wine had a bitter taste. Hilda noted though that after each time one of her former spear-women were force fed or forced to drink, they would sexually submit to their captors with a bit more enthusiasm, more likely to moan in pleasure or visibly juice at their touch. To her horror, Hilda realized that their slave-provisions must be laced with aphrodisiacs, and that on her way into the keep her leash-holder and forced her to drink an entire tankard.
As the slave wine began to take its effect, Hilda felt her body flush and tremble and, save for the insistent tugs on her leash, she would have collapsed to her knees. As she slowly composed herself and looked again at her captor, it was in an entirely different light.
Where once she saw the epitome of corpulence and decay, she instead found herself enraptured at the sensual thrill of submitting herself to such a creature, the sheer sexual taboo of becoming its willing concubine. To the creature's sides were a number of other chained, branded and nude women, fawning over and massaging his form, and slowly caressing and gently tugging his exposed manhood. Hilda flushed and began to juice at the thought of becoming one of them, and felt a pang of submissive heat ignite within her cold, shuddering form at the thought of debasing herself before her new master.
"Hoh, hoh, and what have we here? A new kitten for the House of Asmodeus? And one that fancied herself a queen at that- your crown and royal regalia will make an excellent collar once I have them melted down, slut."
Hilda could do nothing in response, save wordlessly glare with hatred at her captor, internally filled with shame at his mocking jibe at her loss and the sensual slave heat she felt as her body betrayed her.
"Come bring her to me," grinned the archdevil, and with an overpowering tug, Hilda nearly tripped over her own ankle shackles as she stumbled forward toward Asmodeus, her new master. Catching her mid stumble, Asmodeus took his new slave into his hellish embrace.
"He's surprisingly gentle," though Hilda, as she noticed the heat of her master was not as unbearably, searingly hot as those of her demonic captors within the archdevil's legions. Hilda suppressed a gasp as her master took one of his large hands, larger than that of any human male, and began to caress and grope her backside.
"Uuuunhh," Hilda moaned in frustration, and (to her chagrin) a not small amount of arousal. She should feel hate. Rage. This was the being whose armies had felled her father, and who had defeated, degraded and forever enslaved her. Even if she somehow escaped, even if she somehow got her revenge and felled the archdevil, she still bore his brand on her hip. The psychic badlands had little in the way of law, but the one custom every tribe and species abided by was slavery- once a man or woman was branded, it didn't matter where they came from or what they had been, rich or poor, prince or pauper, man or woman, once branded, you were a naked, sexual slave for life, fit only for labor, breeding and slave-rape.
