Sephalla My Nightmare

The non-humans are okay, except for Sephalla.

She's a nightmare, literally. That's the kind of, what, "racial" descriptor? A nightmare is like a horse-demon, so she's quite like the other horse-kids but with coal-black fur and a mane of living rebellious fire, in her case blue giving way to vivid red.

She's also, unmistakeably, a complete and utter prick.

Mud in my mouth, because she tripped me on the field. A crack on my phone, because she knocked it out of my hands. Buttons missing on my shirt. Half of my tie missing. My shoes on the goddamn library roof.

Nobody likes Sephalla. "The Magnificent"? My fucking arse.

I can't exactly fight her. Sephalla is about eight-and-a-half feet tall. She's muscular, toned, and -- most annoyingly -- very, very attractive. The horse girls are generally pretty cute, but Sephalla is gorgeous, and womanly in a way that most adult women must envy her for. Curves like a race-track, breasts bigger than my head, a backside that could crush steel between its cheeks.

'Seph, why did Jake feel the need to report your behaviour towards him as bullying?'

Ugh. They send us to a sessions with the school counsellor, Mr Mayhew, a weak willowy rod of a man. To sit opposite her is ridiculous, as if her claim has as much weight as mine. She's like twice my size, and inhuman besides that; nightmares are demonic, not even regular non-humans, way beyond human limits.

'He's annoying,' she says. Sephalla's voice is sultry, dark, syrupy-sweet, black treacle. 'He's always in my way. I can't exactly see him without looking down, after all.' The nightmare rolls her coal-fire eyes at me, red irises with a hint of flame-blue. 'I can't help bumping into him.'

Mr Mayhew makes notes, and looks my way. 'And Jake,' he says, adjusting his glasses, 'what do you say to this?'

'Does it matter?'

'Of course; speak your mind.'

'But if I say it doesn't matter where I sit or stand, she always finds ways to bother me, will anything change?' I sigh. 'I can't get taller, but she can pay attention to where she stands.'

Mayhew nods, and nods, and turns back to Sephalla. 'Well, Seph?'

The nightmare crosses her arms over her ridiculous, obscene boobs. She wears black, some punk or goth hybrid, with a silvery chain around her neck and a half-tank that covers her shoulders and the bulk of her breasts, leaving her collarbone and a great deal of bouncy cleavage exposed. There's a bump on each breast, faintly visible through the thick lacy padding of her bra -- also black -- that suggests a piercing in each nipple.

'I don't want to.' She shakes her head, in the process causing that living flame to whip about, an incandescent swirl of golden-orange, its core a glorious azure, that behaves like hair and yet flickers like fire. 'Looking down hurts my neck.'

Mayhew nods, and nods, and looks back to me. 'Well, Jake, I suggest--'

I stand, and haul up my bag. 'Yeah, right.' Pointless, pointless, toothless, toothless. Mayhew harumphs but it doesn't matter, the guy doesn't care. Sephalla smirks, and chuckles, and I march out of the room.

A turn, another, and I'm hoisted up, thrown back-first into a wall.

'Tell on me again, and I'll break your fucking arm, got it?'

Up close, her breath is hot, sweet. Her lips are dark, lacquered in black-blue lipstick, and there's a kind of rainbow dark glitter mascara around her large, beautiful, infernal eyes. Her hand on my throat practically suffocates, and the reflex to grab her wrist, to push her away, is wholly futile. She could lift a car overhead without breaking a sweat.

'C-an't...b-reathe...'

Sephalla drops me, and I collapse onto the hard floor, banging my knees. The smashing pain is little relative to the shame, the embarrassment, the realisation that nothing has changed. I've got no power over her, no means to fight back.

She walks away, then stops. In her big Doc Martens, with her fishnets running up to her thighs where they disappear beneath a pair of black denim shorts with cut-off trousers, the nightmare's a bit too sexy to be my bully. There's a mismatch in her characteristics, and a mismatch, inevitably, in the way I view her. Sephalla arouses part of me, as much as she infuses another part with anger. It's fucking pathetic, really.

'What a fucking waste of my time, dickhead,' she says, turning my way. 'You want this to stop, huh? Want me to stop fucking with you? Easy-peasy, bitch.'

Sephalla grins, her teeth straight and white behind those full, velvet-black lips. With a quick motion she unbuckles the skull clasp of her belt and reaches into her jean-shorts, drawing forth her flaccid yet semi-turgid (being out of her sheathe whatsoever) indigo-coloured horse cock, about ten inches in length, sitting beneath a pubic mound alight with living flame.

'Be my suck-slut, and I'll treat you nicely from now on.' She winks. Here, in this corridor, after school, she's got her dick out. She's bold and cruel and awful all in one. 'Well, dickhead? Got a better idea?'

It's not exactly foreign nowadays, the notion of girls with dicks. And Sephalla...while she doesn't exactly get around, nightmares -- being demons -- are well-known for having futanaris in quite a high number. And I've never had a gay thought in my life, and the whole debate on the futanaris and the shemales is a weird one, but...

Something about that flared, silky-smooth, veiny blue dick makes me feel hot. I look away and shudder, and Sephalla just laughs. 'Fine then. Bullying it is.'

She packs away her junk, and turns away from me. I glance up, finding her ridiculously voluptuous backside, barely contained in the tightness of those jean-shorts. The makings of each buttock, the pronounced curvature, jut out from the bottoms of the trouser eyelets. What must be a kind of G-string, lacy and black, barely visible against her coal-black pseudo-fur, hooks over the top of each exposed womanly hip curve. Naturally, a horse-tail of living flame protrudes from over the top of the jean-shorts, swaying gently.

'Fucking loser.'

And with that, Sephalla takes her leave.