Feature Writer: Cheeslord
Feature Title: THE ABBESS 6
Published: 09.08.2025
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
Synopsis: Demonic possession of nuns, human sacrifice, weight gain.
Author’s Notes: The Abbess: (Chapter 6 of 9)
The Abbess 6
The covert operation against the nearby monastery worked precisely as the sisters had arranged. The monks were slaughtered to a man by Magnus and the best of his Legion of Blood mercenaries in disguise, their modest treasures looted and the more valuable half of the land quietly transferred to the Abbey by the local bishop.
As for the later mission, let us shift our point of view to a large cart being escorted by armed men on horseback. It is a misty morning, and cold. The cart moves along a track skirting the boundary between moors and woodland. The party broke camp an hour ago and hope to reach Newcrofte in the early afternoon. The cart carries their supplies and camping gear, but most of the space is taken up with a large cuboid structure held in place with sturdy strapping and wrapped in a tarpaulin.
The guards do not talk much. Witchfinder Carstairs is sitting up on the wagon trying unsuccessfully to read a book. The six soldiers, veterans of the crusades who won the lottery to get to escort the prisoner home and thus have a break from the grim campaign without the dishonour of the deserter, are morosely reminded that the English weather has its downsides also. The driver of the cart, sat alongside the witchfinder and also a veteran from the crusades, reflects on their journey so far.
They had exhibited the ‘witch’ – if that was what she was – at half a dozen towns since London, drawing in some crowds. Witchfinder Carstairs was quite the showman, talking the talk about her evil, and how abominations like her consorted with the heretical heathens in the East frequently (neglecting to mention that she had been already imprisoned by the ‘heathens’ when first found). He made up a lot more stuff about magical spells and demons and the like.
The driver didn’t really believe in such things, but he knew a well-spun tale when he heard it. The witch seemed to play up to his descriptions pretty well, stalking inside the bars of her cage and hissing and spitting at the audience like a feral animal. The first couple of times she had started speaking in some tongue he didn’t recognise, but the witchfinder, convinced that she was attempting to put a spell on the audience, saw to that with his whip, so now she just kept to the hissing and snarling.
Magic or not though, the driver didn’t doubt that she was dangerous. A couple of soldiers had had a go on the way back. The driver wasn’t surprised by this – after all she was incredibly beautiful, and completely at their mercy, they thought. It didn’t help that the witchfinder denied her any clothes – showing the audience the markings on her body that he claimed were satanic in origin was part of the show. Anyway, one had died from loss of blood, the other from infection a week later. Both from their genitals.
After that everyone knew to leave her alone. Carstairs was sure to bring up this story during the exhibitions, in case any of the men in the room were feeling themselves tempted by her ‘evils of the flesh’ as he put it. A few more months of this and they would be done with the tour. The prisoner would go to the witchfinders, likely never to be seen again, and he would be done with this job, paid and free to take a break.
He had enough coin laid by for a few months off, then he thought he might join a mercenary company. Not one that was going to the east though … he had had his share of dying in the sun. It was not so much fun. He had heard the Legion of Blood had settled down now and were guarding an Abbey, despite their previous reputation for brutality. That sounded like safe, cushy work — maybe he would sign up.
His attention was distracted by something ahead. A carriage — large, with a team of horses, a little way off the road, partially concealed in the trees. He nudged the witchfinder — his boss for this job. ‘Coach ahead’ he said flatly. It was an odd place to put such a vehicle, and he feared something was amiss, but it was the witchfinder who got to decide what to do.
“Halt, men!” his voice was clear in the misty silence.
At his gesture, the driver brought their wagon forward slowly while the guards closed in, following the new route off the road to the left to come alongside the vehicle. The carriage bore no markings but looked well made. Its curtains were drawn, although as they approached the driver fancied he saw a pale, fat face peeping at the edge before it was withdrawn.
A coachman sat hooded and hunched on top, looking fixedly at the horses in his charge and away from them so his face was hidden. The driver recognised the bearing of a warrior however, the hint of armour beneath his cloak, the serviceable sword positioned so that it could be easily drawn while seated. This was not unusual; many coaches had guards or men-at-arms to protect them, but the driver did not like this one bit. Still, he was not paid to like it. The witchfinder dismounted as the cart rolled to a stop, and approached the mysterious carriage.
“Hail travellers!” he was plainly going for the open approach “What ails thee? Have no fear, for we are soldiers of God!”
The coachman did not look around, but raised his hand to the sky. He was holding a bright red cloth, which he let fall.
The driver had seen more than a few ambushes in his time; had been an ambusher himself in more than one of them. He knew a signal to strike when he saw it, and as such he was already whipping the horses to action when two bolts came from the trees, taking the witchfinder in the side of his torso.
As the wagon accelerated to the accompaniment of scared neighing, the rest of the escort formed up around it. There was no time for debate and no inclination for heroics. An ambush, a professional one — almost certainly with enough muscle to do the job and not apparently inclined to take prisoners; the witchfinder dead or mortally wounded most likely. Snipers in the trees. Nobody was paid enough to die for the coin, so escape was their best bet.
On cue, riders came through the mist ahead and behind, trying to cut them off. The escort focused on the ones in front, trying to fight or intimidate a path through. The enemy swerved, ceding them the passage, but turning to follow them on the flanks, with the plain intent to run them down. Blades clashed as the guards skirmished on each side of the wagon with their pursuers, neither side gaining a decisive hand.
Unfortunately, the road turned uphill here, giving a speed advantage to the attackers over the laden wagon. Heavy boots thumping on wood caused the driver to look around. One bandit had managed a difficult manoeuvre and leaped from his horse onto the rear of the wagon, making his way with sword drawn up the boards, around the cage occupying most of the space. On the other side another pursuer was moving up the left side of the vehicle on his steed while the escort was busy, making to reach the front and the driver’s position.
The driver swerved wildly, yanking the reigns left and right in sequence. The wheels dealt a solid-sounding whack to the horse on the left, causing it to rear and buck in pain and fall back, while the enemy already on the boards was forced to cling onto the covered cage to maintain balance, slowing his advance. This was only buying time unless the escort could defeat the rest of the bandits, the driver knew.
A new thundering of hooves to the rear suggested that more of the attackers were gaining ground behind. He tried to whip the horses for more speed, but they were tiring and panicked. A gurgle and thump from his right, and then another bandit came alongside him out of the mist, red blood dripping from his blade. The driver knew that the game was as good as up.
He slowed down to a stop and put up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. The bandits surrounded and disarmed him. The large carriage that they had passed came screaming out of the mist behind them, narrowly missing the wagon before turning about and coming to a stop in front, blocking them even if he should get an opportunity to flee again. Of the escort there was no sign — presumably they were still battling with the bandits in the mist ahead, or more sensibly had decided to flee entirely. He didn’t blame them.
The outlaws were wearing masks — no surprise there.
“Just a job, neighbour. It’s all yours if you want it”.
He did not know if the robbers were expecting to find gold and jewels, and whether they would be angry to discover he was hauling nothing of value. He was hoping to be walking away into the mist before it came up. The bandits did not respond, but glanced over to the carriage, where a big man, both tall and immensely fat, similarly masked and armoured, was stepping forth, hauling with him a large heavy sack of unknown contents. Plainly the boss. Impractical, the driver thought, to use a carriage as part of the pursuit. He wondered why, but knew it was none of his business. His business was getting out of this alive.
“So,” the giant boomed, “I hope she was worth the effort. You, is this locked?”
The driver wordlessly threw him a key. He plainly knew what he was after, at least.
“Good man, now begone. You saw nothing.”
With a curt nod the driver dismounted and began walking directly away without looking back. He had almost passed by the coach when he heard a female voice from within.
“Magnus — no witnesses, remember!”
Glancing over his shoulder at the source of the voice, he saw the fat face at the coach window again, this time fully revealed as a woman, surveying the scene with small, piggy eyes that conveyed a hunger for…something. From further behind him was a muttered oath ending in “women!” He had heard enough, and accelerated as fast as he could for the safety of the mist. He thought he had made it out of sight when with a whirring sound something struck him hard in the back. He fell forwards, face in the grass, unable to move. After a few moments, heavy boots were placed near his head.
“Sorry …” the voice of the giant said conversationally as something else struck the back of his neck and the driver knew no more.
xxxxx
Sahje was cold and angry. Captured first by the Turks and then in turn by the crusaders, touted as an example of heathen decadence across these dark and frigid lands, paraded for simpletons and peasants to gawp at. All of them were fools, unable to comprehend the powers with which she was able to consort.
Her patrons had promised her the world in return for her service, and instead she had been humiliated, deprived of her cult, her spell books, the sources of her power. Even of her clothes — somehow these worthless idiots had stumbled upon one of the weaknesses of the daemon bound — to be completely naked was agony, with no veil of seduction to spin in front of her body.
She had only her hatred left, hatred of religion, of the powers of ‘light’, of all these self-righteous and pious idiots. She would find a way to regain what she had lost, and then to gain even more, and she would crush them all in deaths so vile they would make the very foundations of the enemy’s stronghold tremble. She could tell, of course, what they were saying about her. She had concealed her knowledge of their bastard tongue in the hopes it might give her a scrap of advantage.
Now she heard the sounds of conflict, felt the sudden motion of panicked flight, the boarding and subsequent stoppage of the wagon. This could be her chance to escape, if her enemies were fighting with each other.
After a short while, there were voices around her cage. The tarpaulin was pulled away, letting in even more of the chill air of this land to torment her poor, perfect flesh. She instinctively hunched over, as far as possible from the entrance to the cage, snarling and hissing as they surely expected. The door was opened by a huge man, both tall and wide, masked and dressed in leather armour. He carried a large, heavy sack. As he appraised her, she felt something… just a hint of something that she had not sensed since….
“Ye can calm yerself, lass, we aren’t going to touch ye. Holy orders …” she feigned incomprehension and hostility.
“Hell’s teeth but that’s no way to treat a woman! Ye look mighty cold, lass! Allow me.”
He was wearing a short cloak over his armour, which he detached and threw to her. Short on him, it was too long for her and trailed to the floor, but nonetheless she took it gladly and wrapped it around herself. He was plainly not with the cursed witchfinders, ‘holy orders’ or not. She felt herself start to warm up, the faintest spark of her powers beginning to kindle within her belly. She rubbed her inkings beneath the cloak, quietly repeating the name of her patron under her breath.
“Now, come on out of here, lass. There’s someone needs to talk ta ye.” His gestures would have made it obvious even if she couldn’t speak his language. Best to feign compliance for now, if it got her out of the cage. She bowed her head and contrived to appear submissive as she obeyed his instruction, stepping down from the wagon onto the cold grass of the wretched moorlands where they appeared to have been stopped.
As she stepped down, she saw the large man empty the contents of the bag into the cage. It was a female body dressed only in rags, plainly dead from the way the neck flopped. A kidnapping then — one that must be kept secret. What could this mean?
Sahje recognized at least one other corpse in the distance — the driver, who she had heard step down and walk away earlier. Good. She hoped they had all been wiped out, especially the bastard witchfinder who had so proudly exhibited her, making up fantastic tales of her wicked deeds, some of which were actually true, though she was certain he only hit upon them by chance and imagination. She considered the possibility of making a run for it, but her rescuers were not complete idiots. A loose circle of men surrounded her, weapons at the ready. Besides, where would she go in these freezing, barren lands without any followers or resources?
A large black carriage of some sort was close by to the wagon. The men closed in, making it plain that they wished her to move over to it and enter. Lacking a better plan, she once again complied. The interior was a welcome change from the harsh cold of the outdoors. The seats were plush and lined with soft padded fabric, as were the walls. The air was warm and sweetly scented. Plainly it was the carriage of someone with means. Perhaps some noble had been seduced by her beauty at one of the exhibitions the Church had foolishly given. If that was the case, it was something she could work with. Whoring, manipulation, and control of men came naturally to her. She would be able to….
“Greetings, heathen. We meet at last.”
As she stepped fully into the interior, she became aware of the enormously fat woman sat on the seat opposite her. Dressed in robes that had an undertone of white but were covered in many ostentations, she resembled a religious leader, but Sahje sensed even more strongly what she had felt when the fat man (who was now entering the carriage behind her, sitting on her side and forcing her into one corner despite the large size of the enclosure) first entered her cage.
There was the unmistakable scent of demonic taint about them both. She could feel, with her unnatural sorcerer’s senses, another presence within the carriage, one deliciously dark and unholy. This did not mean that she was safe – far from it, the powers of hell frequently quarrelled, and no demon would lend their aid or support without a pact or bargain, or something to gain for themselves — but after so long imprisoned away from the source of her secret strength, any such undercurrent was thrilling to her.
“My name is High Abbess Emelda Laiske. Be not afraid, for I am here to save you from your sins, heathen. I apologise for your prior treatment. That was an error of the Church — one that has now been corrected. We shall away currently to the Abbey where I will study you in more detail to determine how you might best be use… helped.”
At this the fat man thumped hard on the ceiling. There was a crack of a whip, some shouting and whinnying, and they moved off.
“In the meantime, you must be frozen — and famished. Here, refresh yourself.”
There was a small cabinet set into one wall close to the Abbess, from which she drew a wineskin and a box containing some sort of exotic cakes. Sahje was indeed hungry, and bored of the meagre fare she had been given by the witchfinder’s entourage. She enthusiastically wolfed down three small cakes and drained the wineskin in a single go.
“There, that is better. Now, do you have a name?”
Sahje felt that everything hung on her response, how she played her hand now. She was not certain of her course, but could feel her connection to her patron becoming stronger. She concentrated, her spirit dipping down inside herself, feeling the demonic presence within her own body. Loving it, caressing it, allowing it to enter her thoughts, two beings, one will, one purpose …
Sahje lunged across the carriage towards the Abbess. In an instant her companion reached out with surprising speed, grabbing her and checking her move roughly, but Emelda waved him away, seeing the expression on Sahje’s face. Sahje embraced her, arms wide around her vast midriff, the side of her face pressed into the soft fat of her obese belly.
“Sahje,” she sobbed, tears flowing into the Abbess’s robes, every sign of sincerity on her face, “My name is Sahje, High Abbess. Please, please save me! I am cold and alone and frightened. I will do anything you ask, but please stay with me!”
Emelda smiled to herself and gently stroked Sahje’s curly black hair. This was almost too easy. She was going to get what she desired with little difficulty.
Below her, Sahje also smiled to herself, thinking exactly the same thing.
The coach travelled on into the mist.
xxxxx
So Sahje, sorceress, dark apostle, summoner of demons and betrayer of souls, was brought to the Abbey. As a heathen prisoner she had to be confined, but as it happened a suitable set of cells had been incorporated into the inner sanctum during its construction. Although locked and barred, these apartments were luxuriously furnished and has shared access to the bathroom facilities. It would have been easy for her to escape, but in truth she had no intention of going anywhere once the Abbess had explained her plan.
“Sahje, you have been brought here to serve a great purpose. The Abbey of St. Arissa is rising. It is destined for greatness, to become the most glorious, most powerful, most influential institution on all of … the world. But it must have guidance. I must oversee its every detail to ensure its success never ends. To that end it is my duty to prolong my existence upon this earth as long as possible, for all of eternity in preference.
”I have researched painstakingly to this end, and I believe I hold certain tomes which might provide the key. My sources tell me you may be familiar with this … material, while I and my inner circle of Sisters Superior alone of al l… our faith … have the strength of will to bend these secrets to good purpose.
“You will be provided with the materials we have. Unlock their secrets for us, and you will be rewarded with every luxury, every indulgence, we have at our disposal. You may even become a Sister Superior of the order yourself, if you can demonstrate your loyalty to our cause. Fail and you will be … of no further use to us, and regrettably I may be unable to shield you from the witchfinders. Do you understand this, Sahje? Do you agree? Will you serve?”
“Of course, High Abbess, Emelda,” Sahje’s voice was sweet, silken, subservient but with a twist of self-satisfaction, “I can see it in you that you have the power, the wisdom, the strength of character to overrule the dark powers, to bind them to your immutable will for the good of your Abbey, to achieve works that are beyond and above anything that has gone before.
“By good fortune I have some measure of the knowledge you seek. If you give me but some little authority within your glorious Abbey, a few students perhaps, some freedoms to come and go within your hallowed walls, and access to a few trivial materials I will need, I can serve as you ask. Look at my body, Abbess.”
She parted her loose habit. Since returning to the Abbey, Sahje had been furnished with clothes by the sisters, and was now clad in jewels and underwear made of thin golden chains beneath the white of the habit (which being from the Sensuari could be slipped off in moments). Her body was indeed beautiful, exotic and perfect. Smooth tanned skin without mark or blemish, save for the row of symbols written across her belly in a language unfamiliar to the Abbess.
Her breasts were large and firm, her buttocks perfectly rounded, her belly flat. Now that she was no longer a prisoner deprived of her needs, she exuded a sultry sensuous sexuality with her every posture. Emelda could not help but be aroused at the sight.
“I tell you truly now, I have walked the earth for over one hundred mortal years. See my perfection.”
She stroked her breasts, the nipples becoming hard through a brassiere that was mostly a mesh of gilded links and gems.
“All of this can be yours and your sisters if you follow my advice.”
“Yes!” Emelda yelled in triumph, fat hands embracing Sahje’s smooth body within her open habit, stroking the soft, delicious flesh as though it were her own, “You must do this Sahje! Do it! Make me immortal and I will give you everything your heart desires, my angel, my sweet pet! You will be the greatest amongst my sisters! Thousands will sing your praises! There will be statues of gold and feasts and glory and all will be perfect for evermore!”
Her embrace tightened and she kissed Sahje with a fierce passion, long and deep. Sahje returned the kiss with seductive skill, sinking into the deep fat that surrounded her.
“Yes, Great High Abbess,” she whispered huskily into Emelda’s ear when their kiss finally ended.
With the Abbey’s resources put at her disposal under the doting desire of the Abbess, Sahje wasted no time in consolidating her power. The collection of sorcerous tomes was brought into her large, luxurious cell for study. Materials were procured for the purpose of dark rituals, certain sinister waxes, special inks, alchemical ingredients of provenance that would shock all but the most dedicated dabbler in the arts.
There were a surprising number of materials matching her requirements already within the Abbey, almost as though they had been sought out in advance. Other ingredients could be procured through Sister Lyre’s extensive network of contacts, or in some cases taken by force or theft by Magnus’s elite covert team from the Legion. This was certainly true of ingredients made from human fat, bone, skin and similar, but Magnus was willing, and Sahje could tell that these were not the first random citizens of Newcrofte that had ‘disappeared’.
It did not take long or involve much resistance to persuade the Abbess to grant her a key to her own cell – now the strong bars were for her protection rather than confinement. She moved amongst the sisterhood, spending time with each of the Sisters Superior, encouraging them in their respective vices, partaking in all of their pleasures, though she was aware that she was merely speeding them along on paths they had already willingly embraced. She trained a team of acolytes from amongst the more suggestible sisters, taking pride in subverting their already minimal faith into something entirely perverse and wicked.
Late in the night, using a black ritual enabled by the letting of some of their blood (for she was unable to use her own – even if she had been willing, inability to intentionally harm her physical body was another consequence of her compact with her inner demon), she communed with Hakkabebenoth, the demon patron bound into her flesh who guided her actions and to whom her soul was pledged for eternity.
She communicated with Septuthiroth also, for she had determined the name of that which was directing the corruption of the Abbey. She entreated other demons to come to the place, weakening the boundaries between worlds in preparation for enactment of their diabolical plans. Pacts were formed. Great powers and principalities of evil moved and churned in anticipation of what was to come.
A spiritual miasma descended over the Abbey. It was unnoticed by the Abbess and the Sisters Superior, and by their loyal acolytes, who only felt a renewed vigour and strength of purpose, a collective sense of invincibility akin to drunkenness which inspired them to greater efforts. Those at the bottom end of the vast power structures felt it though. The indentured serfs, the lesser sisters who toiled thanklessly to support their increasingly tyrannical leaders. The new recruits and novices. They sensed a deep dread, almost despair as they grimly worked at their tasks.
It was at this time, as Sahje was putting the final touches to her plans, that the witchfinders returned. Half a dozen of them this time, coming down the road from Newcrofte, grim men clad in grey and sable, all of them armed.
The Abbey has changed much thanks to the Sisters efforts to expand and improve it. As they approach in the early afternoon the light seems bright and glares on white walls, for the Abbey grounds are now fortified, at least against casual intrusion. A large central tower looms over the countryside, arms from which extend to a lookout gallery directly above the gatehouse. Although the gate is open, a pair of Legion guards slouch against the gateway, stepping forwards as the dark company approaches to bar their path.
“Good day, gentlemen.”
It was Absalom Black, returned as he had promised.
“We have business with the Abbess. Kindly escort us to her immediately — the matter is urgent.”
His voice was controlled, but his tone made it clear that he would brook no delay.
“Uh, we weren’t told about this. Please wait here sirs while we fetch the boss.”
One of the guards made to head into the Abbey, but he turned back as he saw the witchfinder was crossing the gravel towards him.
“I think perhaps you do not understand. We are the witchfinders army, under the orders of the King. By law you must provide us entry and not stand in our way. I say this for the sake of your soul, which will surely be imperilled of you stand against us.”
The guards hesitated under his natural air of authority, and it seemed as if they might back down, but then:
“No! Do not let them in! Close my gates! Shut them out!”
The high, almost shrill voice came from the balcony of the gallery above the gate, at which now sat the figure of an enormously fat woman in ostentatious robes, many-coloured and golden. It was the Abbess, warned of their approach by sisters she had permanently stationed here for this eventuality. Absalom was struck by how much she had changed in the months since his last visit.
She had put on an incredible amount of weight — multiple chins flowed down from a fat face to an enormous cleavage, the shiny, swollen flesh of which could clearly be seen bulging from the deep neckline of her luxurious robes; the sheer scale of the oversized mammary glands made their entire form obvious to the eye as the fabric was stretched taught around them.
Below this the huge hemisphere of her belly protruded even further, defining her entire body by its enormity. Arms vastly fat at the shoulders tapered smoothly to stubby hands that looked tiny by comparison. The witchfinder could not see the rest of her figure, concealed by the stone balcony and shadows beyond, but he was certain that it could not help but match her overall proportions. To her side was a slender figure concealed by a more plain white habit, face hidden in the shadows of her deep hood. Absalom could see the eyes though, and was struck by the sheer feral hatred that he could sense from them as they fixed on his small group.
“Abbess!”
He turned his attention from the guards to hail her.
“I am glad that the day sees you so … well. Why do you feel the need to hide behind walls, gates and guards? We have business with you. Will you not come down from your high perch and speak with us face to face?”
The Abbess paused before replying. She appeared to be eating some small treat passed to her by another attendant sister in the shadows behind her. It was to this sister she gave a short, whispered command to before turning back to her visitors, holding now the platter of cakes she had taken from the nun, who departed.
“Never!” she shouted down, eating another cake, “Mmph! Ulp! You have violated our sanctity before! This is a place of purity … mmpph … oh … brrp… of innocence, of glory! I will not now subject myself and my beautiful sisters to one so base and violent! Begone from here and come no more!”
Despite her strong words, Absalom noticed how quickly she was inhaling the plate of cakes. A sure sign of a nervousness which he may be able to exploit.
“Abbess, I must warn you that all is not well in your domain. I sense corruption in this place, the powers of darkness at work. You yourself are in dire peril. You have kept back that which you should have returned, and I can see its influence upon you. You can still be saved, Abbess, you and all the souls in this place, but you must submit yourself to cleansing at once. None know better than us how to counter the evil one, and cast out the taint of his works. Stop listening to the lies and deceptions of his writings and his servants. Let us help you. Let us in.”
“I … no! No! You can’t … you mustn’t! I am… I…”
His words hit the Abbess strongly, tearing into the veils of her self-delusion. Her whole bloated body twitched and heaved with great shudders as she broke out into a sweat. Her great limbs trembled involuntarily with the shock. The plate of cakes clattered to the floor.
Sahje sensed the threat to their hold on the Abbess, and by inference to her own position here. She would not – could not allow the enemy to stop their beautiful, wicked plans. She leaned in delicately to her fat head, whispering in her ear.
“Do not listen to them Emelda. They are but liars and charlatans — remember, no man is pure, all of them are corrupt. Only we superior women of the Abbey can see the truth. They want to take away your authority and glory and steal it for themselves. They have no power over you — your little finger is thicker than their loins. Soon your guards will be here and we can … ohh! We can crush them completely. Answer them O Abbess. Smash and stun them with your words while your full strength gathers. Come forwards in your seat — just a little now — I will aid you with my powers.”
Emelda’s trembling ceased; fortified by Sahje’s words she slowly shuffled forwards in her seat, vast buttocks rubbing against the plush velvet lining, belly and breasts wobbling with the effort as she moved. She reached the edge, close enough to grab the stone balustrade, while Sahje ducked down below.
“How … how dare you suggest such things!”
Her chins wobbled angrily, and her normally pale face began to flush. Below, beneath the Abbess’ robes, Sahje delicately teased her elephantine legs apart now that there was room to do so. Even so, there was barely enough space between her hot, sweaty thighs and below the huge curve of her belly, for her face to fit.
“The Abbey of St Arissa is absolutely divine! Our greatness is undeniable! Who are you to challenge our authority? A bunch of old beggars in grey, long bereft of useful purpose, clinging on to outmoded superstitions, denying the improvements and enhancements that will inevitably, unstoppably drive us forwards to ever higher greatness! Ah! Aaaah!”
Sahje’s long, sinuous tongue reached her taint — her undergarments were now incredibly sexualised and allowed access to her intimate places through cleverly woven structures — and began licking up and down, searching the mass of soft, fat-padded flesh for the sweet dome of her clitoris. Finding it, she teased around and across the sensitive orifice, while her free hand groped below the chair, finding several of the discarded cakes.
“Abbess, enough of …”
“SILENCE!”
She cut him off with a bellow.
“Do I not know thee … huff… and thy miserable ways? You would turn aside knowledge and destroy it. You would try and pull down what is great and replace it with tedium and mediocrity. We are the true path! We are on the very brink of … oooooh yes! More … moooore greatness than this world has ever known!”
Sahje’s free hand slid up between the Abbess’ legs to join her head, inserting the cakes into her throbbing vagina one after the other, each pushing the sticky mass deeper within her. In between kissing and licking her, she began a chant of dark magics, calling out the name of Septuthiroth amidst incantations to strengthen his power.
She could sense him around her, thrusting into Emelda’s body with unseen fingers, unseen manhood, enhancing her pleasure while pushing more lies and madness into her bloated, swollen mind. It was incredibly intoxicating for her to feel such powerful evil at work, and her arousal began to run to a growing orgasm of her own as her hips rocked back and forth in time with the thrusts of her head and lips into the fat-protected centre of the Abbess.
“You … mmm … you cannot be allowed to stop us! You must not be allowed to stop us! Nothing can…ahhhh! Nothing can stop us!” The Abbess was caressing her distended belly with one hand while the other reached down to touch Sahje’s lustrous black curls, her hips gently rocking in time with the sorceress’s ministrations.
“Enough! Stand aside, this madness ends, NOW!”
Absalom and his companions drew their weapons and advanced on the guards, who, after a period of distraction, had been trying to quietly close the gate. They responded in kind, but fell back, being outnumbered three to one.
“Surrender your weapons; I would not see your blood spilt over these heretics, and neither should you.”
“To me, men! For blood!”
Magnus steamed round the angle of the partially-closed gate, a dozen men in tow.
“FOR BLOOD!” they echoed the legion’s rallying cry as the gate guards relievedly fell into formation with the rest of the force.
Magnus’s great warhammer was already in his hands as he brought his men to a close standoff with the witchfinders.
“Stand down men!” Absalom was undaunted by this reversal of fortune, “Use your wits, can you not see that the Abbess has lost her mind?”
“I’ve worked fer less sane people than her,” Magnus returned conversationally.
“Magnus, my darling … uff … aaah … uff … ufff … oh!”
Sahje had retrieved more cakes from the floor now and was putting them to good use.
“Magnus, I want you to … ah! To … oohh! More … Magnus, destroy them, k … k … ohhh! Kill them! Let none ssssurvive! Now! Do it! DO IT!”
She collapsed backwards into her throne-like seat, opening herself wider to Sahje as she approached an incredible dark climax.
“Are you sure?”
Absalom needed only to raise an eyebrow following her outburst in order to make his point. Something in this triggered a rage in Magnus though, and with an angry snarl he began to attack, followed by his men.
Blades clashed amidst the grunts, shouts and curses of a melee. Both sides were experienced in the art of combat and neither ready to overcommit to the attack, so the lines traded blows for a few moments without either side gaining a decisive advantage.
“YES! YES! MORE GUARDS! MORE MEN! CRUSSH THEM! KILL THEM! KILL … KILL…KIIIIIIIILLLLLLLL!” the Abbess yelled, completely out of control with multiple orgasms coursing through her massive body.
Absalom fought with all the skill at his disposal, knowing the fate of more than just the Abbey could hang in the balance. He cut down a mercenary trying to flank him to the left with a sudden thrust, receiving only a minor nick to the sword-arm in response. On the other flank a witchfinder screamed and gurgled his last, taken down by Magnus’s brutal hammer which smashed through his guard to cave in his skull. Grudgingly the witchfinders found themselves forced to give ground, being pushed away from the gates.
“Fall back, men,” Absalom gave the order.
He could see his chances of victory slipping away. Already outnumbered and facing trained soldiers, who knew how many more guards the paranoid Abbess had given quarters to within her new walls.
“Peace! We seek now only to depart!”
He stepped back, but Magnus stepped up again, keeping on the pressure.
“Turn yer back and flee if yer dare,” he mocked, his hammer weaving back and forth through a series of feints.
He seemed to have no intent of letting them depart now, to carry word back of the Abbeys descent into corruption and decadence. This made the skirmish the more deadly as he knew he could expect no quarter, but if even one of them could escape they would at least have achieved something. He gave another step, risking a brief glance backwards. It was as he feared, another group of men, perhaps a half-dozen, had come from some hidden entrance to the road behind them, ready to catch them in their retreat. Another witchfinder fell as the mercenaries pressed their numeric advantage to lap around their flanks.
“Remember the Castle of Tunroddych! In Three …” Absalom called on his comrades’ shared experience of a previous conflict to give them a command their foes would not understand.
On the third second from this, all four remaining men pressed in with an impressive flurry of practised blows, and then as one turned on their heels to charge full tilt at the smaller force behind them. Magnus angrily roared in pursuit, but they had gained a brief advantage. They smashed into the squad that had been behind them with the full force of their momentum, swinging blows to distract the foe while they attempted to press through the thin line and keep moving.
Absalom heard screams of multiple men falling to both sides of him but did not look around, catching one guard in the throat with his backswing as he plunged past. Then he was accelerating for the point along the road at which the Abbey wall ended to be replaced by trees. If he could reach that, he would have a chance to slip away into the shadows. There were more sounds of combat from further behind him, followed by a bellow of rage and a whirring sound.
Absalom instinctively ducked while maintaining his speed, but the target was not him as the last of his comrades to have survived the reckless manoeuvre fell to the ground, Magnus’s warhammer bouncing from his back to land in the road in a shower of dirt. Then he had gained the treeline and with a silent prayer for protection he wove his way amongst the trunks and undergrowth, attempting to lose his pursuers, who rapidly entered the woods only a short distance behind him.
The Abbess slumped back in her chair. Sahje lay curled on her lap like a cat, hugging her massive belly which occupied by far the majority of the space. Both were exhausted from their efforts and drenched in sweat. Above them floated the spirit-form of Septuthiroth, who laughed loud and long.
Was this the best the Powers of Light could do? Six tired men? He had a legion at his command, and a network of deception and mischief the length and breadth of the land, holding the ear of every nobleman. Truly this nation was approaching a perfect state of wickedness, ready for the final stages of his plan and great glory for himself.
“The fields are ripe unto harvest, but oh, the labourers are so…many,” he sang in mockery as he slipped back down into the dark warmth of willing, tainted flesh.
THE END OF CHAPTER SIX