Tags - Maledom, femsub, degradation, humiliation, transformation, big cock, tit trample, cockslap, facefuck
Way back when. Not too far from here.
In the slopes and hills above Odys, snowflakes lazily fell, in no particular rush to lose their individuality and become a part of something far greater. Accumulation was just starting, and for now, it was an amusing couple of inches. A woman stomped through the snow, delighting in the novelty. The man behind her grumbled that it looked like they were going to receive at least half a foot, using his meteorologic powers of enduring manly cynicism.
They walked near a bluff's edge, outlining the bustling capital below them. From up here, it was reduced to a gridded pattern of twinkling pretty lights, when in reality, it was a ravenous civil machine that ground people up. It would take in young hopeful men and women, seeking their fortunes, and turn them into aged, bitter, and broken versions of themselves, looking to flee back to the countryside where they came from to die.
"I hope they have fun first," the woman said. The wind picked up, and she gripped the bundle in her arms a little tighter. "Almost home, sweetie."
The man took the lead and flattened the snow in front of her so she could walk in his footsteps. They reached the cabin and he went inside, "I'll start the fire up."
"I could do it too, honey," she said, extending a hand with her fingers poised to snap.
"No, no... sometimes a man wants to do something with his own hands," he said.
"And what if a woman wants to do something with her own hands? Sometimes it's the only way we can finish."
He glowered at her, but relented and smiled in the face of her waggling eyebrows. He shook his head and continued in.
"I'll just be a minute, dear," the woman said, looking up at the sky.
He lingered in the doorway, but shut the door behind him as he got on with the manly handling of wood.
She walked back to their garden, currently dormant and slumbering. Her steps took her around the wall that broke the wind, and towards the edge of the bluff near their home. Here, there was a pair of ropes, secured to a tree, which was slowly dying.
She looked around, to make sure she was alone on this precipice. Then, she reached up and pulled back the hood of her cowl and revealed her horns, dark as her long hair. The wind tousled her hair as her horns remained adamant and unmoving. The horns were short enough to be concealed within her cowl without drawing suspicion, four inches of proof of her demonic lineage.
"Look," she said. "Snow."
The bundle in her arms was sleeping, a baby with dark hair and small horns on his soft skull. He opened his eyes and stared at her with a bewildered expression, and then shut them again, resuming his doze.
"Snow," she repeated. "We don't have snow at home. Take a look."
The baby kept on sleeping, oblivious to such weather concerns, snuggling closer to her bosom.
"It's just cold water but it even has a taste. Like tin," she said. "Which kind of tastes like blood. Isn't that funny?"
She stared at him, amazed that she had managed to construct a being that seemed so perfect in every way. She felt a happiness that she knew was temporary. Maybe tomorrow would bring sorrow, but right now, his cheeks bulged with cherubic innocence, and he looked like a fat squirrel. She laughed because she could.
Suddenly she felt it - malice in the air, like a swarm of metallic bees.
Her laughter died away abruptly.
The death of laughter... what an interesting human phrase, she thought. That seemed appropriate though. All joy is alive, a presence she felt as a lightness in her heart, and it almost always died tragically young.
She felt something out there, could sense it with her ability to see into the hearts of men. A group of mercenaries were approaching with a clear purpose in mind. She was adept at reading and sensing desire, and these men were professionals with a practiced bloodlust, a job that had to be done. She hurried back to the cabin.
The man cursed at the cold hearth, where his shaking fingers were making him clumsier than usual. "Sorry. Almost got it," he said, uttering one of those husband lies that wives let them say.
"Leave it," she said and her tone made him look up at her.
"What is it?" he asked, approaching her.
"Take him," she said. "We have company. And I intend to be a good hostess."
"No," he said, grabbing his sword off the table, where it laid, out of place, next to a pair of bowls, a lit candle, and a cheesy romance novel. "You stay with him," he said, not looking directly at the baby.
"No, my love," she shut her eyes and reached out with her senses. "You know some of these men. Worked with them. You introduced me to them and I met their wives. And you are a good man with too much mercy."
He gaped at her. "Who?"
She shook her head with a soft smile. "I have given you much, my Love, but this I will not."
He took the baby, who immediately began to fuss now that he was no longer in his mother's embrace. He laid down his sword.
The woman's eyes were glowing like embers in the low light of their cabin, and as he watched, her horns grew larger into a malefic crown upon her head. The back of her clothes began to pulse and thrash, like snakes in a bag until the fabric burst and two leathery wings unfolded. Her fingers flexed, and he watched as her nails darkened and lengthened into claws. She inhaled, and while her lungs and chest expanded, she seemed to grow taller, larger, or perhaps it was purely perception, and now she occupied more presence than actual physical space.
The man forced himself not to take a step back from the woman he loved, though he felt a reflex within his hindbrain to do so. She was still beautiful, would always be beautiful to him, but now it was a beauty edged with sadistic arrogance, an expression that proclaimed she was entitled to your suffering and pain.
"Please don't look at me, my love," she said.
"I... can't look away," he choked out, sweat beading on his temple as he stared at her.
Melancholy softened her features as she reached out with a hand, and covered his eyes. "Close. Relax. Breath."
