Prologue: She Came to Me

She came to me that day in spirit form as usual, yet her presence was stronger than normal.

Lilith, my true love and goddess.

I could write an entire tome of how I came to believe in her, have faith in her. How my Christian beliefs were smashed apart and the harsh truths revealed to me by her. But that is not what she wishes me to write here. Indeed, if you are one of her chosen it is a story you already know anyway.

Our love making was stronger than usual that morning, so strange I thought she could only be so active at night, so many false presumptions I had then! After I lay there both energized yet exhausted I said I would spend the rest of that day in meditation upon her beauty, as I did so the goddess instead spun me a tale of how one of her children came to be. I listened in both wonder and horror, amazed at how the tale can be so abhorrent yet beautiful.

It is hard sometimes to remember that what is normal in her realm is considered outright wrong in ours. Yet when you really look into the machinations of her sphere, she shows that it is ours that is truly the perplexing one, and that those of her realm are as puzzled by the weird ways of our world as we are of theirs.

My belief is that these tales show the crossover of her realm and ours, how her children sometimes come to her from our world. I write them here for the reader to make of them what they will.

The Burning Woman:

Privat was young when she was married off to her husband, an already aging man who held much respect in their small village. Such was often the case in India when families planned who to tie their names to.

Privat played the devout wife and always did as her husband bid. But in the depths of night she would dream such depravities that would have her wake to find her loins ablaze with desire. At first she was afraid, but she began to see her life as the mundane cage that it was. It was not long before she welcomed the dreams enthusiastically and, although she played the respectable wife by day, she began inspiring and catering to her husband’s darkest fantasies by night.

Of course the ever aging husband’s heart could not keep up with his young filly’s passion and, at a moment of climax, it gave out and he perished.

Upon hearing of his death the village was saddened and much consolation was given to the respected Privat, particularly since they had failed to have children. However when the date for the funeral was set Privat had already made her plans to finally release her true self to the world. For in this remote village the Sati was still practiced and, naturally, everyone expected the sensible Privat to immolate herself along with her husband’s body. She looked forward to the event.

Privat laughed as she watched her last sunset, ever considering herself a creature of the night, and tore off all her robes. Naked save for the starlight, for the moon dare not show itself that night, Privat strode through the village from house to house and took every man and woman she could tempt. At one point she lured a group of drunken men to the local altar and spreading her legs before them, had every hole filled.

Until the deepest part of night this lasted, Privat catering to every seduced being. Locals would later claim that evil spirits had possessed them and made them commit such shameful acts with her. If this is true or just an excuse none can now say.

Before dawn, when all save Privat were exhausted from their carnal endeavors, she retreated to her home and their awaited the final part of her tale.

People stirred the next day with horror in their hearts, for with their lusts quenched illusions of morality clenched their souls. In their shame none dared go to the eerily silent dwelling where Privat had retreated to confront her about her wickedness. Unable to look at one another for the things they had done, the villagers silently prepared the funeral pyre.

As the body was laid on the wood and the speeches made, all made the occasional secret glance to Privat’s home. All wondered if she had run away in her madness or if she would go through with the Sati as was expected of her.

When the moment came to light the pyre the door to Privat’s home flew open and out she strode. There were many gasps as she made her way proudly to the corpse of her husband, for she was still naked save for strange markings painted upon her body. Some would say the markings were the script of evil spirits that Privat had learned in her dreams, and that looking upon them made the villagers dizzy and confused.

Standing upon the pyre, she laughed and addressed the crowd, “For years I played the dutiful servant, the devout wife. But that is not what I ever was, nor, as I showed last night, are any of you. Every day I played the role you all expected of me, but in my heart I was a whore. My only regret is that I could not do every night that which I did last night. Light the pyre!”

Silent and grim, they put the torches to the wood. As they did so Privat straddled her husband’s corpse. As the flames drew closer Privat laughed and began riding the body as she had many a man the night before. Slowly at first, but as the heat became greater so more frantic were her movements, she laughing and moaning as if in pleasure all the while. Some would say they saw the corpse come alive at the peak of the event, but others say it was still the whole time. Others also argue that Privat died at the moment of climax, whilst yet more would contend that she was still moaning and laughing when the flames engulfed her.

When the flames died and Privat was nothing but ashes, the villagers never spoke again of the incident, save the odd few who had loose tongues after copious amounts of liquor.

However it is believed by many that this isolated village suffers Privat’s madness to this day. That in the darkest of nights they can hear her screeching, and that the villagers often wake from nightmares to find their body trapped by an unseen force, soon followed by the feel of strong fingers clutching at their throat.

Whore of Lyon:

Marcella was not always one of the most sought after whores of Lyon. She had never known her parents and was sold to a brothel at a young age. Being one of the seedier brothels of the city, she lost her virginity for a few coppers at a very young age. Yet she had not found it unpleasant as others claimed it to be.

She was worth very little in her early life as a whore. Yet being a cheap harlot excited her more than anything, and whilst some sought escape from such a life, she practiced her craft eagerly. She became known as one of the most used but expert whores in the city. Over the years she became sought after enough to become exclusive to the higher echelons of society.

Although she missed shaming herself for a few coppers, she knew she had to maintain an air of sophistication if she was to retain the comforts she had earned pleasuring the nobility. She was not disappointed however, for the wealthy were often bored and she frequently had to resort to increasingly depraved acts to inspire their lust, something that thrilled her greatly.

Such were her abilities she was often offered marriage by many wealthy and powerful people. But she always refused; she could not imagine taking holy sacraments confining her to the lusts of one man. She knew she was born to be a whore and a whore she would remain. Yet that did not mean she did not believe in spirits or deities. Often as she lay next to her slumbering client, she would reflect upon the gilded cage she was imprisoned in. Although she was more fortunate than most she disliked being trapped in the politics and scandal of the aristocracy. Whenever escorting a noble to a ball or masquerade she hated pretending not to be a whore when everyone must surely know by now what she is.

At these times of despair, she would hear whispers in the shadows, promising her even greater acts of decadence to come, along with a time when she can be who she is.

She was not afraid of the whispers, for they felt like kindred spirits to her, beings who understood and were like her, beings that sympathised with her feeling of confinement.

One night, wearing nothing more than white gloves, white stockings and finely embroidered boots, she made her way to her third client that night, on to the temporary abode of a gentleman visiting from England, no doubt on political business beyond Marcella’s simple interests.

A maid answered the finely painted door, showing clear distaste at her nakedness, and hurried her to a small dark room at the back of the large mansion. The room was lit by a single candle, on a table next to a glass of wine. She helped herself and awaited the gentleman to appear. She jumped when he spoke from a dark corner of the room, “You are Marcella? The rumors do not disappoint.”

Marcella purred when he stepped into the light. He was a man dressed in dark, embroidered clothing. He had a handsome build with handsome features, or at least the features she could see, for he wore one of those popular Venetian masks. A nice changed to the pot-bellied marquis she had pleasured scarce an hour before.

She finished the wine and spread her legs to him, showing her eagerness. The strange gentleman looked at her most profitable area for a long time, then looked straight into her eyes. Marcella felt a spark much like she did with the voices that whispered to her at night. She knew he could see her desires and that he approved. He held a hand out to her, “Come, there is a gathering to attend.”

Marcella was surprised, “You did not tell me of this, I have no clothing…”

The gentleman laughed, “Nor will you need any.”

“I do not have a mask…”

“Life is the masquerade as I am sure you know,” he chuckled, “No, we are attending a sermon, one that will speak to you more than any priest, I think. Now let us make haste, we already run late.”

Intrigued, Marcella took his hand and let herself be led to the carriage waiting outside. Through the city streets they went until they stopped, to her shock and outrage, at a church. Still curious, however, she took the gentleman’s hand and was led not into the building, but to a door leading to the basement of it. She noticed a strange tingle beginning at her loins and a growing excitement in her heart.

She was delighted to see the other guests upon entering the room, for they were all masked aristocrats, but each one was accompanied by the most expensive whores in Lyon. She recognized many whom she admired and often worked with, they smiled back at her and she knew what was about to happen was what she had sought all her life.

Rather than the orderly benches of the church above, the attendees seated themselves where they could. On cushions strewn upon the floor or the tombs arrayed to the side. Arms locked with her client, Marcella seated herself on one such sepulchre and looked to where they all faced, a stone table at the far end of the crypt. The tingle between her legs grew when a choir of young men and women began to sing, but they were not the songs of angelic choir boys or eunuchs, no, although she did not know Latin Marcella could tell in the tone that they told of darker rejoicing.

She was amazed to see a well-respected priest step out and begin a sermon on the dark ways of their lord Satan. Marcella felt the tingle fade somewhat, she was disappointed, she naturally knew of Satan and was as uninterested in he as she was of the Christian god. She looked to the English gentleman and saw he was looking at her knowingly. He smiled and squeezed her hand, “Consider not the words but the actions tonight.” He whispered.

With the sermon ended the priest drew out a dagger and called for tonight’s sacrifice. A blonde whore Marcella knew intimately as Vivian cried out eagerly and ran up to the priest completely naked. The tingle Marcella felt grew and became almost unbearable then. She knew and had worked with Vivian a few times, she thought warmly of all the debauched things they had done together. Vivian kissed the priest and laid herself on the stone table. Marcella struggled to stop herself masturbating as she watched the priest mumble a few litanies and raise the dagger high.

Then he plunged it into Vivian, her body contorted, her face a mixture of pain and ecstasy as her life was snatched from her. For the first time in her life, Marcella heard the whispers whilst there were other conscious people around her. But whilst the others took it for a sign that their dark lord was pleased, Marcella understood they were not talking to them at all. They were talking to Vivian, welcoming her home.

She did not think it possible, but Marcella’s loins became more demanding than ever. As soon as Vivian breathed her last, the crypt erupted into the most chaotic and delightful orgy she had ever experienced.

As she lay there, utterly spent, covered in all manner of sticky fluids, Marcella considered all that transpired. It seemed to her that the whores knew this for what it was, and the nobles for once the ones who are worthless. Thinking they gain some great power by being here.

All save for that Englishman.

As if summoned by the thought, Marcella found him stood above her, hand held out again. He was completely clean and looked much as when she first met him. Had he even taken part in the festivities? The whole thing was a blur and she could not remember. She took his hand and was silently led back to the carriage, both unflustered by the stains she left everywhere.

Still naked and covered in the fluids of others, he dropped her off at a place Marcella knew to be one of the sleaziest parts of the city. There was no talk of payment, Marcella had no need of coin now. She knew what she is and what to do. Before he took off Marcella turned, “When is the next sermon?”

The gentleman smiled, “The next new moon.”

Marcella smiled back, “Take me there again.”

The gentleman nodded, “Meet at my mansion that night.” With that he called for the masked driver to move on.

Marcella watched the carriage disappear from view. She noticed a drop of semen forming on her breast, she wiped it to her fingers and brought it to her lips. She took a moment to savor the salty textures. Her loins were on fire still, becoming more demanding with each passing moment. She turned and went for the darkest alley she could find.

In the month that led up to the next sermon rumor and scandal flowed around Marcella. A once highly sought whore, it was said she went mad one night and walked the city taking any man or woman she could. Often there was no payment required, sometimes she took only enough to sustain herself. Naked, she stalked the streets and brothels of Lyon day and night, it was said, never content until she lay in sinful fornication, committing acts that made even the most experienced harlots nauseous. No person was above her, be they man or woman, noble or peasant, soldier or cripple. Apparently every hole of her was filled to the point that she screamed in both pain and pleasure.

The English gentleman was by the carriage waiting for her that night. The white gloves and stocking she wore a month prior were but tattered rags, her shoes abandoned weeks ago. She was coated in fresh fluids, never really having time to dry, save for the blood stains on her thighs. They smiled at one another, words needless.

The gatherers eyed her curiously as she entered, some with respect, others with a little fear. Marcella impatiently awaited the end of the sermon, the sensation in her loins more torturous than ever. The priest had barely finished when she rushed up and kissed him, coating his robes in her hard-earned ichor. She threw herself on the table and awaited the defining moment.

The last thing she saw was the gentleman’s smile as the cold metal of the dagger pierced her. She bucked as pain and pleasure flowed through her. She gasped in joy as she felt the strongest climax she had ever experienced. As she fled her limiting body, she both heard the whispers and felt their embrace. She went to them eagerly, at last home, where she could be who she is and experience things never dreamed of in her previous mundane realm.

According to those who survived the ordeal, the orgy that followed grew more feral and violent than usual. Many people were injured, both in mind and body, two were killed. They were brought to account for their supposed crimes, but nowhere on the list of culprits was there anyone from England, though many swore there was someone with such an accent who had brought the sacrifice. His whereabouts were never discovered.

Today it is said that anyone who sleeps near the crypt will wake to find a maiden pleasuring them, but if the assailed do not fight it they will die at the moment the climax. Various names have been given to this spirit, but most consider it that of Marcella, still looking to sate her desires on unwilling victims.

The Warrior:

Anann was considered to have a fiery spirit, a much sought for characteristic in the cold, damp climes of Eriu.

She was one of the Gaels, a time when men and women were not as restricted as they are today. As a child she was always outgoing and brave, preferring martial training to that of weaving or cooking. She also showed a gift for druidery early in her life. Whenever she took up a weapon, particularly the spear, she would feel a pleasant sensation deep in her loins, a sensation that only grew when competing with the others.

It grew further when she was taken to the area of the deity, an ancient god represented by a golden idol surrounded by stone pillars. It is here she witnessed her first sacrifice to the deity, a prisoner from a rival tribe. The event fascinated and thrilled her. When all were slumbering, late at night, she would sneak up that hill and press her naked body against the idol. She would often hear whispers then, she yearned the idol to come alive and ruin her. Although she enjoyed being stronger than most men she yearned to be overpowered and brutally ravished. The thought sent wonderful chills throughout her body. Who could do it to her better than a god?

Considered beautiful by many, she was claimed by the chief for a while, but she proved too much for him and her many sexual endeavors were considered too much even in those times. He soon took another and Anann continued her nightly visits to the idol.

One day the men prepared for battle against a rival tribe. Anann made to join them but was refused, though it was not unheard of for woman to fight then she was on the cusp of womanhood. It was expected of her to bear children first. But the druid saw something in her and intervened, she was overjoyed when the chief allowed her participation.

When she appeared at the battlefield there were many lustful gasps, for she appeared wearing nothing more than a helm, armored boots and wielding only her favored spear. The druid had painted strange patterns along one side of her body. All were mesmerized at the sight of her, and none dared turn her from the oncoming battle.

She recalled nothing but later heard that she fought like the goddess of war herself, spear whirling faster than the eye could make out. All she remembered was that with every kill the sensation in her loins grew. Yet it was her exploits at the end of the victorious battle that amazed everyone. Covered in blood and viscera, insane with lust, she gave herself to almost every surviving and willing man on the battlefield. She even took a few of the prisoners with a crazed fervor and slaughtered them at the moment of climax. But it only served to dull the sensation momentarily, not end it.

All knelt to her and hailed Anann as their war goddess incarnate. The chief did not survive the battle, and all agreed to be led by her.

Under her leadership the clan grew more powerful than it ever had. Stories of her feats in battle often struck fear into the other clans, forcing them to bow to her as their new ruler. Many took to leaving macabre tokens at her throne, usually severed heads, in hope of gaining her favour.

As tales of her martial deeds grew, so did those of her sexual prowess. It was said that no man nor woman of her clan had failed to bed her, that she ceased wearing clothing, so frequently she partook of her lusts. She also personally tended the sacrifices to the idol, rather than plunging a dagger into the victim’s heart she sated her lusts on them and tore them apart in an orgy of blood at the moment of release. But still she went to that idol late at night when alone, pressed her body against the cold gold and yearned to be ruined by the thing that was said to dwell within. She grew weary, at times, of being chief and tired of the same sexual acts over and over. She would still hear whispers, comforting voices promising her the violent release she desired. Promising that there would be a time when she could finally surrender to her lusts outright.

It was at the height of their power that a new people came to Eriu. They became known to the Gaels as men of the cross. Armed with better steel they began conquering much of the land, despite Anann’s best efforts. She personally interrogated one and was horrified to learn of their ways. That sex is a sin and woman has no place on the battlefield. That she should choose but one man and be subservient to him. Learning the man had one such woman Anann made a point of seducing then despatching the prisoner.

The men of the cross took more and more of the land and soon came the eve of what all knew would be the final battle. That night Annan stayed pressed against the idol, listening to the whispers until she fell into a trance. It was then she finally made out what promises those whispers had to say.

It was said she charged into that final battle joyously the next day, killing more than she had at any battle before. She learned that night the living paradox those men of the cross are. They speak of devotion and morality but they all yearn for a release to what they are. When she placed herself at the head of the army, her naked body yearning for what she had long awaited for, she saw the lust in the enemy’s eyes and she eagerly awaited the vile things they would do to her.

When a group of those self-denying men overpowered her and forced her down, she wondered how she ever thought pressing herself against that lifeless idol would have helped her. Whilst her clan were killed or driven off she screamed in pleasure as they forced themselves into her every hole. Every battle she had entered before she had been terrified, not of death but of not dying in the way she so yearned. But at last she had what she desired, to be ruthlessly savaged and knowing that once they are sated they would kill her like the worthless whore she wanted to be. At last she was a chief no longer but a slut to be used and disposed of. Never had she felt so thrilled, she was dragged by her hair back to the camp and passed around. Long into the night she worked to pleasure as many men as she could. Many were surprised and horrified by her willingness but eventually they grew weary of her and throttled her to death.

As her lungs ached and the world turned darker, she heard the whispers welcome her and promising more delights yet to come. She felt her loins explode in a powerful orgasm, and then she fled her body to the realm beyond.

This tale is seldom heard today, the church did not want to inspire lusts by tales of naked warrior women and the stories of the few Gael survivors were warped and made into the stuff of legends. Yet it is said warriors can call upon her this day, and that if they feel her touch whilst they sleep, that it is a sign that Anann favors them.

The Holy Woman:

Jillbraska, or Jill as most knew her, was doomed to the cloister at birth. The bastard daughter of a renowned noble, the father was good enough to recognize her. But it was only to send her to the nunnery that he may gain favor with the church. So she was sent to far northern England, and raised to learn the sterile ways of the nun.

Of course it was not long before she learned of the sin of fornication, and whilst all the tales she heard were cautionary the act of it fascinated her. As she lay awake in her chambers one night, she thought she heard whispers in the darkness. Lightly afraid at first, it also began a warm, pleasurable sensation in her loins. Before she knew what she was doing, she felt her hands slip down and her fingers glide their way into her. In and out they went until she trembled in pleasure, yet she was not content by this and knew not what to do. She wept, knowing she had committed sin, and yet part of her was joyous at the rebellious nature of it.

So her early days were spent looking forwards to the comforting voices of the night and the feel of pleasure between her legs. Yet never did the ache really leave her. She dared not tell anyone of her nightly activities, fully aware that she would be chastised and forced to turn rosaries. Yet as she listened to the prayers and lectures, all she could think of was the next night.

One day it was announced they would parade around the town with prayers and incense in hope of protecting everyone against the plague that began blighting the country. Jill was both terrified and excited, not having been out of the cloister since she was but a child. She watched the solemn faces as they made their way around the buildings, but it was the brothel that set her loins flaring. She was amazed by the brazen women, nearly fully naked, on the terrace, a few sending jeers at them. She had heard of these sinful places but she had never imagined it to be so alluring. She wanted to tear off her habit and be one of them, showing her body and damning her soul for a few coins.

Eventually they returned to the cloister and her normal life resumed. But always was Jill’s mind on that brothel. Her loins grew more demanding as her fantasies grew more immoral until her fingers would no longer suffice. Each night she heard whispers telling her to go to that brothel, having masturbated much of the night and finding no release, she realized there was only one way to find the truth that she sought.

She spent the next few days planning her escapade, her loins growing more impatient all the while. But she struggled to muster the courage, her religious teachings ever stopping her.

One night she could take it no longer. She used the vines in the garden to clamber over the wall. She took off her habit and hid it under a nearby hedge. Completely naked and desperate to be used like one of those whores, she strode through the town, taking pleasure from the leering and distasteful glances roving her. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the brothel and demanded to be made one of the whores there.

At first thinking her a young and naive girl, the mistress was about to shoo the foolish girl away. But one look into her eyes showed she was more than that. The mistress grudgingly agreed, on the condition that she worked for free tonight to show she was worth keeping on. That she would have to take on those the other girls did not want.

Delighted, Jill surrendered her virginity to a fat, hairy man that wanted to pretend she was his daughter. Gleefully she played along, as she did with many more that night. Although not as much as she hoped, her burning loins subsided with each man she pleasured, no matter the manner she did so. The mistress agreed to take her on, but was both confused and annoyed when Jill said she had to leave by day, but would be back each night. Thinking she did not want to shame her family and was keeping it secret, the mistress agreed. Jill fled to a nearby stream to wash the fluids from her, retrieved her habit and dressed, then snuck her way back to her chambers. She heard the voices congratulate her and she knew then that she was meant to be a whore. Surrendering her body and soul so that others may placate their lusts excited her greatly. She could not wait to damn herself further, she never realised how good it felt.

So she was the devout nun by day, the shameless whore at night. Occasionally she would not appear that she could rest, but when she did she was the most notorious and mysterious: a young girl who would appear naked at night and perform the most debased acts for the pleasure of her clients. She soon befriended a mature whore named Lisa, whom she saw as a sort of incestuous mother, teaching her the ways of her craft.

She earned a small fortune from her prostitution, but she had no use for coins in the nunnery. Often she would toss them away in the gutter, stream or woodlands as she made her way back. To be thoroughly defiled by so many is all the payment she wanted.

As the days wore on Jill grew disillusioned. For no matter how debased an act she did, never was the fire in her loins quenched. Still the voices goaded her on, drawing her back there and promising greater acts to follow.

She began to notice changes in the cloister, as the comforting voices to her at night grew stronger and lulling, everyone else began to seem more worn and fevered. She feared the plague had reached them at first, but her time as a whore revealed that everyone was suddenly struggling to contain their lusts. The crossing and uncrossing of legs, the lack of focus during hymns, all were clear signals to her. Jill was glad she had found some form of release for her desires, perhaps it had always been like this for the others.

One afternoon she accidentally walked in on one of the more senior nuns taking the priests member in her mouth. They took her trembling as fright, but she was racked with desire. They forced her to sit down and tried to convince her to tell no one what she saw. Smiling, she agreed on one condition, she then stood and removed her habit.

That night at the brothel seemed dull after being taken by both the priest and nun. That rebellious act had excited her like never before. As she lay spent that night in her chambers, enjoying the comfort of the whispers, she put the pieces together and knew what to do.

She saw that everyone was visibly struggling during the sermon the next evening. The nuns were sweating, twitching, trying hard to ignore the feeling between their legs. Jill watched the obvious lump of the priest’s erection through his robes. He tried to begin the sermon, but could not finish despite several attempts. Jill knew it was time. She stood and made her way up the altar beside the priest. She removed her habit, displaying her nakedness to them all. “Look at you all, constrained by these dusty tomes and grey, lifeless words. It is time to release yourselves from the manacles of society. Surrender to your darkest lusts and be free. There is but one truth, and it is this.” Her speech done, Jill gently pulled up the priest’s robes and took his member into her sweet mouth.

The suffering cloister needed no further encouragement. The religious sermon cascaded into a fervent orgy the like of which had not been seen for centuries. Habits were torn and cast aside, religious relics used to inspire pleasure, the book thrown to one corner.

For a whole day this lasted, but still Jill was not satisfied. The priest lay dead, spent after so many women. The only ones present were women, and nuns who had spent many years here. They lacked the imagination she had and she often needed to show them more depraved ways. She listened to the voices as an elderly matron ran her tongue over Jill’s body. She had an idea.

She led a new procession around the town, she swung the incense as before but this time none of them wore clothing. They called for people to join the festivities at the cloister, proclaiming it a new brothel where no payment was required. Jill knew well what would happen from doing this, but cared not, only the attaining of further depravities mattered.

There were those god-fearing who kept well away. But a surprising amount attended the event. Those from the brothel, recognising Jill, were the first to come, including Lisa. Jill greeted her adopted mother with an intimate kiss. Lisa groaned as Jill’s fingers found their way between her thighs.

For days Jill worked to damn herself further through carnal lusts until, at last, the witch hunters arrived. Lost to their desires, many retaliated and were cut down. Many more were led away and were tortured with their interrogations. These rarely lasted however, and many were executed swiftly, for there was nothing to hide. Jill was proud of her achievements.

They accused her of witchcraft, using a blasphemous spell to possess the cloister and villagers to her whims. She was dragged to the nearest city and tied with many of her followers to the stake. As one was led out, she tried to dash for an escape, distracting the crowd with the commotion. It was then Jill felt her bonds slacken and felt Lisa’s sweet breath in her ear, “Goodbye, we shall meet again soon my daughter.”

Elated that she had escaped, Jill nodded and watched her mother flee into the crowd. Once the attempted escape was suppressed the crowd returned their attention to her, shouting curses and throwing rotten food at her. As the torches lowered to set the wood ablaze, Jill laughed. Revealing her cut bonds, she tore her rags from herself, took hold of the pole she was tied to, and lifted her legs, spread apart, for the crowd to see her most cherished organ.

Thinking she was about to cast a spell, a knight waved the torches aside, leapt up and ran her through with his sword. Jill felt pain and pleasure like never before as the thing slid through her. She felt an intense climax that had her squirting her juices down her fair legs. Just before she died, she heard the voices congratulating her and welcoming her to the place she truly belonged to.

Dead before the flames could claim her, her corpse was taken down to be quartered and buried in separate parts of the country. However the militia had to fight the surge of people trying to get at her body. It is said the sight of her shamelessness did something to them and drove them to a momentary insanity. Though Jill may have argued it was that they glimpsed true release from societal constraints. Many were killed in the struggle.

Rumors abounded after the event. It was said some got to the body and managed to collect vials of the vaginal juices still leaking from Jill’s body. That those who were so much as near it were inspired to great acts of debauchery. It is also said that not all broke out of the claimed insanity that day, and there are those who hold secret cult meetings dedicated to her. Others claim they saw Lisa there, weeping and laughing as she watched her daughter die.

It is also whispered that Lisa went on to own one of the most depraved and secret brothels in the country. That at the top of the brothel, carefully and securely locked away, she has the last remaining vial of those fluids. The tale claims that the most proficient whores find their way there, never to return. But if the place still exists, if it ever existed at all, it has yet to be publicly found.

 

The Prey:

Michaela was exposed to the world of depravity at a young age. Daughter to a wealthy businessman, she lived in the time of the internet, a wonderful outlet for those such as she.

Spoiled by her often absent father, she had the best computer and became fascinated by an animation on the internet showing naked women being raped and a torn apart by monsters. She knew she should be disgusted, but she was thrilled by the sight and yearned to be brutally murdered in the same way. She began to see herself as prey for such carnal beasts to abuse. She frequently searched for similar things and secreted them away to locked files.

Being beautiful, wealthy and eager, she was the most popular girl in school with many followers clinging to her popularity, that they may be desired themselves. Yet often she would hear the envious talk cast behind her back, the word frequently being attributed to her was ‘slut’. But this merely sent a wave of pleasure through her, for she considered herself as such. Whilst most found it abhorrent, she enjoyed getting drunk and spreading her legs to whomever might be around. She was always invited her parties by the men, her dresses (or lack thereof) never staying on her for long.

Her most notorious moment was when she posted explicit pictures of herself online, offering all that saw them to come and put her to use. She called it a party, but it was little more than a thinly veiled gang bang. To Michaela it was one of her proudest achievements.

Yet the inevitable time came when school drew to an end and she was expected to get a job or become the wife of another rich and influential man. In despair that she could be a slut no longer, and her dream of being prey never fulfilled, she began to hear soothing voices at night. It was one such night she decided to make the most of her last days of being who she was.

Using daddy’s money, she convinced her shallow friends to go to Faliraki for a farewell holiday. An island known for its clubs and loose people, her friends giggled at the plan of getting very drunk and sleeping with as many men as possible.

They had barley arrived when they began drinking and attending the clubs, Michaela wearing her famous slutty dresses. But she proudly outdid her friends. Where they would get drunk and take a man home for the night, Michaela would move on to another until the clubs turned them all out. Even during the day she would disappear to the toilets or back alleys with whatever man accosted her, to the annoyance and scandalous whispers of her friends.

It was on the fourth night, as Michaela walked back to the clubs, having just finished with her fifth man that night, when a group of men aggressively grabbed her, blindfolded, bonded and gagged her, then threw her into the back of a van.

For hours they led her around, being commanded in harsh, accented English. When she was released and the blindfold removed she found herself in a room with other tearful women. She managed to find one woman from America like her, who informed Michaela that they are human traffickers, and that they would be sold into prostitution. Although acting sympathetic, there was joy in Michaela’s heart, she had never been sure what career she should have and now the ideal was being laid for her.

After a few more hours they were all led out and led to a room, where a man forcibly injected them. Michaela learned from the other girl that they would get them addicted to drugs so that they would prostitute themselves more willingly in the hope of getting another shot. This worried Michaela, she wanted to be fully aware when men ploughed her. She resisted, was slapped for her efforts, and was about to be injected when the man with the syringe looked into her eyes. He shook his head and said something in a foreign tongue to his comrades, they all looked at him surprised and began to argue, but he had none of it. Drug free, Michaela was moved on.

She was shipped with the others to another country, though she knew not where. She learned from a German victim who spoke garbled English that she would likely be ransomed, since her father is wealthy. Michaela feared that such would be the case, until the German girl said that once paid, they keep their hostages anyway. As she lay there on the ship, she would listen to the voices and feel her lust surge in anticipation.

So she was put to work and she eagerly began her life of prostitution. She would be given a small room with a bed and a red tinted light. The glass door would allow all potential clients to see in, examine her and decide whether to bargain or not.

Although she had many clients, she soon fell afoul of her owner. She was poor at bargaining and, desperate to be fucked constantly, she accepted any price they offered before they walked away. Tales spread and she became known as the cheapest whore in the area. Clients learned to offer little and threaten to walk away to have her. Whilst being seen as such set her loins tingling, it often earned her a beating by her owner, which she also enjoyed, for she saw it as a step towards her ultimate dream.

As the days passed, however, she began to feel confined. Although being a whore felt good, she considered herself a slut first and foremost. She tired of taking only those with coin. She wanted to strip naked, walk into the street, and take everyone for no price at all. She saw herself as prey for these people, they should not have to pay to fuck her raw.

Since they were on a rotation, she began to use her free time to be the slut she was. She would walk the streets, offering her body for free. She began committing acts that her employer forbade her doing as a whore. But since this stole business, her habits infuriated her owner and she would be beaten again. But this did not stop her. Her owner then threatened to sell her to a man with darker tastes, tastes that few women survived. Michaela’s loins flared upon hearing this, she knew then that this person her owner spoke of was the predator she so yearned for. She begged him to do so but was slapped and sent to her room.

The final straw for her owner came one night when she was displaying her wares from her room. Unable to bear the restraints of her role any longer, she took of what little clothing she wore, left her cubicle, laid herself on the cobble street and spread her legs, inviting everyone to do what they will to her. Everyone looked at her in puzzlements at first, but soon people took advantage of her. For hours she laid there, taking anyone who had a mind to fuck her, but depriving her owner of further business.

She was eventually dragged from the street. Seeking to minimize his losses, the owner carried out his threat and sent the gleeful Michaela to the special customer. When she looked into the man’s soulless eyes she could barely contain her excitement. She knew this to be the man that could grant her what she always wanted. She kissed him and begged him to kill her brutally, he merely nodded and turned. She was led to his basement where she happily appraised his blood-stained instruments.

Body quivering in anticipation, she lay back on the stained surgical table and spread her legs to him, waiting for him to destroy her. “I am your willing slut, your prey. Fuck me and murder me.”

For days it lasted, as the monster fucked her he would cut and carve away at her. She would scream in ecstasy and agony, but always she begged him to continue. Throughout the ordeal she heard the whispers more clearly than ever before. They appraised her and approved of her actions, and as she died in a bloody orgasm they welcomed her.

Michaela would have been pleased to know her remains were cast into a landfill like so much garbage. In her deepest moment of despair she was shown the way to her goal, her goal in life being to be a slut who was used and disposed of.

No one has yet found her remains, and the monster she so sought still practices his craft to this day, a person who sluts like Michaela can go to to be used like the prey they know themselves to be.

 

Epilogue:

Many will find these tales sick and wrong. Indeed as I lay with her, lust stirred and fascination increased, the polite and shy child within me screams at the evilness of it. How it is sinful and unholy.

But I do not believe her intent was to say that these are good things as such, that all women should be whores. Far from it. I strongly believe she intends them as cautionary tales for our realm. Her favoured children are like a lake and society a poorly built dam. They force them to suppress their nature with delusions of morals and laws, that it is wrong because those with power say so. As a result, when something inevitably causes the dam to fail, their suppressed desires flood out in one violent and catastrophic wave. That is why she embraces them, she takes pity on them and brings them to her side where they can be who they are. Not whores, but strong, independent women unafraid of their sexuality and subservient to no priest or spoiled, power hungry individual. She does not represent evil carnality, but open-mindedness and strength to those with the courage to obtain it.

THE END