Feature Writer: Cheeslord
Feature Title: THE ABBESS 8 (THE VILLAINOUS ENDING)
Published: 09.08.2025
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
Synopsis: Demonic possession of nuns, human sacrifice, weight gain.
Author’s Notes: The Abbess: (Chapter 8 of 9)
The Abbess 8 (The Villainous Ending)
The town of Newcrofte in October. A pall hangs over the place. Not just the dark, wet weather, which is not unexpected in the English autumn. Not the higher-than-normal taxes levied by the increasingly corrupt mayor. Not the way the priests and vicars of the town seem, for the most part, to be increasingly out-of-touch with the suffering of the poor, while exhorting ever higher tithes from their impoverished congregations.
Not even the disappearances around the town, suggesting a murderer – or worse – is stalking the alleys at night. It is all of these things, and none of them. The townsfolk – the tradespeople, the administrators, the peasants, beggars and thieves, all sense something is amiss, some pervading darkness that draws ever closer. Many cynically dismiss it as human nature, or the way the modern world is never as good as it was in the past. Absalom Black knows different.
A senior witchfinder now, promoted following his survival of the attack at the Abbey which saw many of his comrades slain (at least he hoped they were slain, rather than captured by the enemy), he had gathered in his people from across the country to the church of St. Tyrael to formulate their plans. The witchfinders quarters across town would not have been able to accommodate the small army that had arrived, even if it had not burned to the ground some months ago in what seemed a fairly unsubtle revenge by the powers of the Abbey after Black’s abortive attempt to put a stop to their evil.
There were less witchfinders than there used to be. Over the last few months word had reached him of royal disfavour of the institution, cuts to their funding and authority. He knew the Abbey had influence in high places, ever growing influence, and he feared that if it was not stopped now, even the highest offices in the land may fall under its sway.
They had been forced to supplement the number of actual witchfinders with a force of militia, largely recruited from other towns (the locals of Newcrofte feared the Abbey amidst dark rumours – rumours that Black suspected to contain more than a grain of truth). The throng of men filled the moderately sized church completely as Absalom took the pulpit to address the assembled force.
“Brethren, thankyou for responding to my summons. I have called you all to gather together today on a matter of the direst urgency. No more than a mere few miles from this town, a coven of witches have arisen of unprecedented power!” Most of the witchfinders already knew this, but to many of the militia it was news, and there were some exclamations of surprise. Witches were usually hidden in remote villages or wild lands. A coven blatant enough to stand in a populous place and require so many to deal with – that was a new concept to them.
“This coven, this sisterhood of heathens, have in their cunning taken the guise of a holy order, but be not deceived by their lies. The Abbey of St Arissa is a fallen place, full of vile practice. It is our holy duty to purge the entire Abbey of this darkness. We will march on the heretics tomorrow, after dark to arrest all present in the Abbey. The senior witchfinders and myself will then commence the process of inquisition into how many of the nuns have become corrupted.
I sincerely hope that many may yet be saved, but we shall see.” Black went on to introduce the other senior witchfinders and divide the army into detachments to be headed by each one, arranging the rendezvous locations outside of town where the strike force would assemble tomorrow night, outside of the view of prying eyes. Their plan required speed and stealth.
He was not confident that they had the manpower to defeat the legion in a pitched battle – and even if they did, the loss of life would be large – but if they could come upon them unawares, they could take their barracks while the majority of their force slumbered, and with their protective screen of warriors removed he doubted that the nuns themselves would give much trouble. With a final reminder to go quietly and not speak of their purpose to any man in the town, he dismissed the force to their temporary lodgings around the area.
True to the witchfinder’s warning, his men did not mention their errand to any man they met around the town. Militia are at best a mixed bunch however, and a number of them made use of the Portly Pixie, a tavern and brothel of fairly good repute. There drink flowed and love was bought and sold. Lips were loosened. Pillow talk and boasting were the order of the evening. The mistress of the establishment was most interested to hear from her girls about the rumours of the night. Rewarding her informants with a shiny coin each, she summoned a runner-boy while reaching for quill and parchment.
The next evening, just after dark, the forces assembled. Meeting just beyond the farm west of town, groups of dark shapes moved through the night, coalescing together until their full fighting force stood near to the road, in the shadows of a copse of trees. Bearing no torches or other light source, they moved slowly along the road, under cover of darkness as the night was cloudy with no moon to be seen. The journey would take several hours, but they were not expecting anyone to be on the road at this time of night. They had brought with them a number of ladders judged to be a suitable height to scale the walls, allowing a swift ingress if, as was to be expected, the gates were closed.
Time passed as the black company closed in on the Abbey. A gentle rain started, strengthening to a heavy downpour in the last half mile. The Abbey was visible now — several windows were still lit despite the lateness of the hour, including some high in the oppressive central tower where Black was certain the Abbess must dwell.
They were passing the woods bordering on the easternmost wall of the Abbey when the ambush was sprung. The first they knew was a clink of steel slightly out-of-place next to the normal noises made by the army as it progressed, followed by some surprised exhalations and gurgles. Then a horn sounded loudly and chaos erupted up and down the ranks of the marching force.
The woods had been packed with many men from the Legion of Blood, warned by the mistress of the Portly Pixie- a loyal nun sent by Sister DeLor to take over the towns brothels — of the witchfinders plans. They had waited for the force to be passing flank-on to them before silently moving into their side, blowing their horns to alert their comrades in the Abbey only after they had inflicted as much damage as they could through stealth and surprise.
In the dark and the rain, the fighting was truly chaotic. Without clear identifying marks on either side, the battle soon became a number of skirmishes in which the difference between friend and foe was largely who was attacking you at that moment. From the Abbey gates emerged a second force of men that advanced into the chaos as a coherent line. Small groups of fighters scattered and reformed, rallied and fought and died.
Some fled blindly into the night, feeling that all was lost, while others ran amok, striking allies and foes equally in the confusion. Into the maelstrom of blades and death strode Magnus — he seemed swollen to an even greater size than normal, raining blows down with his heavy hammer to the left and right, felling and routing the witchfinder forces.
The legion of Blood around him seemed to be possessed also of an unnatural ferocity in their attacks, screaming and yelling, cutting down every foe in their path heedless of the injuries they received in turn. As he focussed on him through the melee, Absalom thought that sometimes he could see the outline of spikes and horns upon his head in the gloom, and then sometimes again they were gone.
He had only seen this once before, but he knew what must be done. Cutting his way through lesser foes, he faced Magnus in the dark. He drew out his crucifix in his offhand, presenting it strongly to the giant of a man.
“Begone Demon!” he yelled, “The power of the risen Jesus Christ compels you! Leave this place and begone back into the pit! You have no power here!”
Magnus’s eyes glowed yellow in the darkness, and once again for a moment he appeared as something other than human. He hissed and spat at Absalom, and tried to knock the crucifix away with a swipe of his hammer, but Absalom deftly pulled it back at the last moment before presenting it again, repeating his incantation.
Magnus snarled and retreated. His men, sensing his discomfiture, lost some of their fanatic zeal and also began to fall back. Absalom stepped up in turn, parrying a few weak strokes from Magnus’s troops with his blade. If only he could drive the demon back to a solid wall he could trap it, force it to abandon its host and flee down into hell.
There was a shout from the rear of his group of men. A few Legion troops had ended up behind them in the chaos of the battle and now pressed in from the rear with sudden fury. One of Absalom’s own people slammed into his back trying to dodge a lunging blow. He turned to deal with this new threat – which proved a mistake. Quick as a flash Magnus leaped forwards, his hammer moving in before Absalom could bring his guard back around. The flat connected with his head, and then there was only blackness.
Absalom awoke to a confusion of smoke, noise and smell. At first he thought that he was in a fire, but the voices around him were calm, assured, laughing and jesting. The smells were an odd mixture of sweet perfumes and sulphur, of delicious food and dung. His head hurt very badly and his limbs felt weak. His blurred vision focussed a little more. He was upside down, his head to the floor, in a large, smoky room. Figures moved by, partially obscured in the thick air, talking and laughing. For a few minutes, nobody seemed to notice him, and he was wary to call out, not knowing into what circumstances he had awoken. Then:
“Ah, so finally you are awake. I had hoped greatly that you would not simply die, for I very much wished to speak with you one final time.”
The voice was that of the Abbess. He could see her feet and legs through the smoky haze of the room now. She was wearing jewelled ankle bracelets in red and purple, and delicate little high-heeled shoes covered in golden scales.
He marvelled that they could survive the pressure of her immense girth, as now that he was looking in her direction, he could see her belly, even more vast than he remembered it, swelling out above his head, casting a shadow over him. Then he realised something — the Abbess’s feet were not stepping as she moved – her dainty heels floated a fingers width above the ground. She drifted away from him, moving with apparently no physical effort on her part. As she came into better focus through the haze, so did the rest of the room.
The Abbess was dressed in fine silks, ostentatious jewellery, and highly sexualised lingerie. She held a large golden chalice from which bubbling and black fumes emanated. Beyond her was a great hall in white marble and vermillion drapes, with plush carpet and furnishings. A vast feast was set out and many people moved and talked in the hall. Though those further away were lost in the fug,
Absalom could identify noblemen and high-ranking members of the clergy, drinking, gorging, talking, consorting with many scantily clad women, some obscenely fat, some slim, some voluptuous – nuns of the Abbey, at least for the most part, Absalom was certain. Music was playing from a band somewhere, elegant and mellow, but it could not quite drown out discordant sounds, moans, groans, dark chittering, coming from everywhere and nowhere in the background.
“Abbess, listen to me. You can still turn aside from this. Reject the dark powers within you. They are using you, deceiving you. Everything you think you are building will be corrupted, made dark and ruinous …”
Emelda’s face twisted and assumed an altogether different, inhuman form. Absalom fancied he could see the faint shadow of bulbous horns above her head, a forked tongue, sharp teeth, an altogether demonic visage.
“How dare you speak so to us! We will crush you! We have the power and the mastery … prepare to DIE!”
The voice was bestial and masculine, not that of the Abbess at all. Her free hand cast back as though in preparation to strike, despite the distance between them, but in the next moment the bloated features of Emelda returned and she laughed merrily, body shaking with mirth, fat wobbling against swollen fat. Her voice was her normal one again as she spoke.
“Oh, Septy. You are so protective of me. It is so sweet, but he cannot harm us now. You really cannot, you know.”
She turned to face Absalom.
“Septuthiroth and I are one now. One will, one mind, one body.”
She stroked her own breasts lovingly.
“He deceives me not — he will give me the glory, raise my beautiful Abbey up most high in the order of the world. As for the rest … he shall rule over all, and I alongside him.”
“You are a monster. You are insane!”
Emelda laughed even longer, even louder at this, holding her fat belly as it trembled with her glee.
“My dear Absalom! We choose what is sane now. We choose what is true! Is that not the case, Sister Lyre?”
Emelda drank deeply from her chalice, thick black liquids dribbling down her chin and onto her breasts as she sated herself on the abominable refreshment. From out of the smokes and vapours emerged a number of figures together.
Absalom recognised one figure at once and despaired, for it was the king, plainly very drunk, his arms draped around a pair of busty nuns. They wore obscene parodies of habits — white cloth covered their hair and most of their body in the traditional manner, but holes had been tailored around the chest and crotch to reveal these regions – huge naked breasts jutted forwards proudly, coated only in jewels and oils.
Their crotches were similarly exposed, shaved and glistening, anointed with precious rubies and amethysts stuck to the smooth flesh somehow. It was an absolute mockery of the chaste apparel of a true house of God, and the King seemed to be drunkenly enjoying it, leering lecherously over the ‘nuns’ while they giggled and joked with him seductively.
Just to the side of this trio walked Sister Lyre, carrying a large glass of wine and interjecting whispers of her own into the flirtatious conversation.
“Ah, this is the fiend I was telling you of, your majesty. It would seem that he has recovered from his long illness — by happy coincidence just in time to be judged by your august presence for his naughty wickednesses.”
Long illness? How long had he been unconscious for? Was this why he felt so weak?
Sensing his confusion, Lyre purred with pleasure.
“Oh my! It seems that he is unaware of recent events. This is just too precious. He has been sleeping for months, an indulgence in the sin of sloth that only lends lie to his claim to be a man of integrity. Meanwhile, we have been busy, striving to do much good in the kingdom, and erase the stain of the so-called witchfinder army, have we not, your majesty?”
“Indeed,” the King responded, “Sister Lyre has told me much of the evil and chaos you and your kind have caused. Attacking innocent nuns with mobs of militia, worshipping the devil, and other crimes most numerous and diverse. I think it will come as no surprise to you that your blighted order has already been disbanded, and in fact all former witchfinders have been arrested and taken for interrogation. The Abbess here has kindly granted the royal household the services of many skilled … interrogators, and we will soon find the truth of the matter.”
Behind the King, Lyre stuck out her tongue at the witchfinder in mockery. He could not help but see that it was long, green, and forked at the tip as it waved in the air at him.
“Yo-your majesty, please, you are being deceived. You cannot trust these so-called nuns. They are plotting …”
“Silence! I will hear no more of your lies and trickery!”
As Absalom had tried to talk to the King, Lyre had been whispering in his ear, her forked tongue almost seeming to lick or taste it at times. The King gave no sign of noticing it, but his pupils dilated and his gaze became distant for just a moment.
“Would you care for some wine, your Majesty?”
Lyre offered him her half drunk glass.
“Yes, yes, I … think I would care for some wine.”
He took it and had a sip.
“You should let us decide the fate of this one. Why not rejoin the party?”
“Yes … come, let us rejoin the party. The sisterhood may decide your fate, heretic.”
The king turned and walked back into the haze of the room. Sister Lyre followed, casting back a cheeky wink as Absalom as a parting shot, hips swaying with pleasure as she followed her thrall back into the celebrations.
The Abbess chuckled. She had been watching this exchange intently while being fed from platters of rich meats carried by an entourage of servants which had seemingly been summoned at her whim. To her other side her chalice was being refilled periodically from a huge pitcher which bubbled noisomely.
“You see, you have nothing now. No power, no reputation, no future …”
Another deep swig of her chalice, followed by a thick slab of meat presented by a servant. She chewed and swallowed in a comfortable, leisurely fashion before she again spoke.
“The only thing you have left, in fact, is your life, and that only depends on for how long I desire to savour your demise. Ah, I see Sister Horslip is approaching. Let us see what sport she may make of you for our amusement.”
Sister Horslip came out of the mist, floating just above the ground in the same manner as the Abbess herself. Sister Lyre by contrast had walked, Absalom noticed. There seemed to be some variation in the way that they used their powers. If he could just escape, all knowledge might be useful in the struggle to defeat them.
“Sister dearest,” the Abbess crowed, “I believe you have already been acquainted with master Black. He has violated our rules. I think something long and slow might be in order, do you not agree?”
Horslip was flanked by six acolytes. All were dressed in stern black, and about their waists were great belts hung with a wide variety of unpleasant instruments.
“By your will, Great High Abbess,” she intoned formally, her face only showing emotion — the cruel smile of a bully about to inflict misery — as she drifted closer to the witchfinder.
She began her work. Not lifting a finger herself, she called out her acolytes one at a time, by name and instrument, to perform their ministrations. She observed them diligently, not hesitating to chastise or rebuke them if a stroke was not of the correct strength or applied in the precise location to inflict the desired level of pain.
They worked through from plain whips to spiked instruments to blades to heavy blunts to other, more exotic devices. As they worked, Sister Horslip began to caress and stroke her own body, occasionally groaning to herself, plainly experiencing a sick pleasure at the infliction of torments.
Absalom had felt pain, even mortal pain, before, but never had it been inflicted so methodically. Despite himself he began to cry out with the agony. The party guests seemed to pay no heed to his screams — it was as though they were all under some kind of spell, and could only sense that which the Sisters and their demonic masters wished them to sense.
Eventually, breathing heavily and drooling slightly, Horslip called a halt to the work. Absalom was bleeding and bruised in many places, and a thin bloody foam was tricking from his mouth. He was barely able to hold on to consciousness, but he refused to allow himself to pass out — there might still be an opportunity to escape.
“He is close to the limit, Great High Abbess,” she reported, “His will is strong, and methinks we will get no more from him. Should I administer the final punishment?”
She stroked her own underbelly lovingly, as close to her crotch as her immense corpulence allowed her to reach.
Emelda had been gorging on meat and then sweet cakes with increasing appetite as Horslip’s work had continued, and her great belly was noticeably more swollen now, her breathing coming in gasps from her immense fullness and excitement.
“Oh, no … huff! Stay your hand, dear sister. Patience … mmm … there is one more thing to show him before he … buuurp … dies!”
She floated over to loom above the witchfinder, now seeming vast beyond measure, powerful and terrible.
“You have already met my … hff … delicious guest, my lover, my … pffft … sweet, sweet font of beautiful evil. But now it is time to see his true power. Septuthiroth, my soulmate, my … aaahh! My glorious beast, come forth!”
With that she began to chant again, a powerful incantation seemingly proof against being disrupted by the frequent belches and the groans and gurgles from her obese, stuffed-to-the-limit body. Thick purple vapours gushed forth from her mouth, from her belly button, from between her legs. As the heavy smoke swirled about her and thickened, she rose higher into the air, illuminated by a sickly radiance.
As Absalom watched, overawed despite himself by the sheer strength of the demonic power, the dense amethyst smog coalesced into a form of hideous proportions. A huge, humanoid figure with clawed hands and hooved feet, sprouting fleshy, bat like wings from its shoulders and a great head with sharp teeth and horns that were thick and bulbous at the base before curving and tapering to fat pointed tips.
The witchfinder had no doubt that he was seeing the true form of the demon that possessed the Abbess now. The smoke had increased in density to give the appearance of a fleshy solidity to the form, and it certainly seemed to have a strong physical presence as its great limbs embraced the Abbess, holding her close. Its snake like tongue entered her mouth in a deep kiss, and the expression on her face was one of uninhibited joy. The demonic chanting now seemed to be coming from all around them, no longer needing the Abbess to maintain the spell. Her fat limbs lustfully embraced her demon-lover in turn, plainly feeling its body as solid.
Absalom saw its huge penis rise up as her legs spread in the air. It prepared to enter her, but just before it did, it paused and withdrew from their deep kiss to whisper something into her ear in its obscene tongue. Whatever it had said drew a pleased giggle from the Abbess.
“Yes, my love. Let us do this together; share your power with me and tutor me in the arts of calling it forth!” she began a new chant.
The words seeming sharper, more strident this time, and accompanied by a discordant buzzing.
She turned her fat face to look down contemptuously at Absalom and extended her chubby right arm. As she chanted, yellow-green sparks seemed to crawl around the vast circumference of her limb, rolling down from shoulder to forearm to her outstretched fat-laden hand, where they concentrated and built up. As the obscene power rose to a crescendo, a thick arc of actinic, twisting lightning leapt forth from her outstretched fingers to strike at the helpless witchfinder.
His body convulsed with agony as the malevolent light streaked into him, searing his flesh, burning his nerves. The Abbess giggled and chanted more, wobbling her fat limbs in glee at the extent of her new power. The lightning intensified and continued to blast up and down his body, even after he had succumbed to the toxic power and breathed his last. Eventually the Abbess stopped the incantation, her arm trembling briefly with a dark pleasure at the power that had coursed through it.
The corpse of the witchfinder bubbled and smoked below with the extent that it had been overkilled, but that was of no concern to the Abbess now. She turned back to Septuthiroth and resumed their passionate kiss. Their power was finally secure, unassailable. There were many plans to make, a world to conquer.
They would become the God and Goddess of the new order they would create, and all mortals would become their playthings, their fodder, their slaves. All of this was now inevitable and soon they would make it so, but first, now, they would make love in the air above the oblivious crowd of their sycophants and victims. Septuthiroth entered her and she moaned and squealed with delighted dark pleasure. They sated their boundless lusts over the course of the evening as the band played on and the socialites mingled, knowing that the world was truly theirs now.
THE VILLAINOUS ENDING