Feature Writer: Cheeslord
Feature Title: THE ABBESS 9 (THE JUSTICE ENDING)
Published: 09.08.2025
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
Synopsis: Demonic possession of nuns, human sacrifice, weight gain.
Author’s Notes: The Abbess: (Chapter 9 of 9)
The Abbess 9 (The Justice 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.
Former witchfinder, now to all appearances just a jobless nobody, he drinks alone in a cheap tavern with a roof that fails to keep out the rain reliably. A survivor of the treachery of the Abbess of the nearby Abbey of St. Arissa, he knows of her growing power, of how it is bleeding the land dry, spreading out its tendrils, bringing more and more domains under its sinister influence. It was shortly after the witchfinders quarters in town had burned down – obvious arson that the corrupt mayor made no effort to investigate – that he learned the nuns had established a chapel in the palace of the King. It was only a few months later that the witchfinders were formally abolished by royal decree. The nun’s powers had grown too great to be curtailed through normal means, but he was not going to give up. He had never been defeated or deflected from his purpose through all of his career as a witchfinder, and he was not going to let it end like this, a broken old man in a world running to ruin. Draining the last of his bitter pint, he left without a word.
Through the rain he headed to the Church of St. Tyrael – one of the few remaining churches in town run by anyone he felt he could trust. The priest was a retired witchfinder himself, and the man who had saved Black from his life as a petty criminal, opening his eyes to God, and a higher purpose to his existence. Banging loudly on the door against the noise of the storm outside, he gained admission to where eight men sat by candlelight around a plain table in the vestry.
“Greetings, brothers,” he hailed them as he removed his wet apparel and sat down. “I see we have more arrivals.”
“Aye,” the dour Scottish voice of former witchfinder-sergeant McTavish greeted him. “This is Witchfinder Price, and Witchfinder Carstairs, they arrived last night.”
“Gentlemen,” Black greeted them curtly.
“Witchfinders?” mused Price. “Are we even that, since the King”–
“Aye, we are, laddie,” McTavish interrupted. “Tis a calling from God, and nae King can take it away from ye.”
“Gentlemen. Witchfinders. Brothers.” Black called their attention. “Thankyou for coming. I think you know why I summoned you here. The Abbey. I am not deceived; it has become a place of darkness. There are evil powers at work there. The disbanding of our order, the growing decadence and corruption we are seeing in both the nobility and the priesthood. It all stems from that place. It can all be traced back to the new Abbess. I knew her predecessor, a good woman. Now her successor I fear to have read texts we perhaps mistakenly trusted to the keeping of a holy order, thinking they would be safe. I see now that we should have destroyed them for the security of ourselves and others – their power to corrupt is too great to be allowed in this world.”
“There is little use in running over what we may have done differently in the past,” Carstairs interjected. “I too have felt the sting of the evil there present.” He touched his side and grimaced – the wounds would never completely heal, he had been told. “Had I acted with greater caution, they might have been denied one of their assets at the least. The question remains: what is to be done?”
“If yae wannae kill a snake, ye cut off its tail – right below the heed!” – McTavish. “I say we march doon there an’ take em on. At least we gae doon fightin, nonnae this sittin aroond.”
“No, we cannot afford that luxury.” – Black. “I do not think I am being overly dramatic to say that the future of the kingdom at the least is at stake. We cannot afford to fail, especially for our own vainglory in wishing a heroic death upon ourselves. No, there are too few of us left to gain victory by force of arms – the Abbess has a whole legion of mercenaries protecting her. Our only hope to achieve the deed is through stealth and subterfuge. I have a plan, and I will need all of your help, including you, Father Oakdean.”
“I will help you as I may, Absalom,” The aged priest responded, “though my old bones no longer have the vigour for a fight, I fear.”
“Do not worry, Father. I have need of another way in which you can grant us aid.” Absalom explained his plan to the last witchfinders in England, while outside the storm intensified and the darkness grew yet deeper.
The Abbey was surrounded on most sides by estates, farmland on which tenant farmers, effectively serfs to the Abbey, toiled hard to meet the extortionate tithes levied by the sisterhood. On one side, however, wild woodland still grew. It was this way that Black had escaped long months ago, using the speed and stealth he learned in his criminal past to slip away from his pursuers. It was now through the cover of these woods that he approached the Abbey, in the rain, in the dead of night, alone apart from the small barrel that he carried with him.
The trees next to the wall had been cleared, cut down for wood during the expansion of the Abbey and the construction of the walls themselves. The builders had left scattered around a number of trunks that were too small or twisted for use as building materials or scaffolds, and Black soon found what he needed – cutting some notches for grip with his knife, he leaned the small treetrunk against the wall and used it as an improvised ladder, hauling the barrel over after him with the aid of a rope.
Inside the walls the Abbey grounds were better lit – it would be hard to avoid notice, but Black had procured some generic leather armour before coming out. He had noticed previously that the Legion of Blood often did not wear insignia (sensible given the illicit nature of many of their activities). As long as he used his wits he should be able to pass off as just another mercenary – at least to casual observation. The key to his plan, though, hinged on his assessment of the state of affairs within the Abbey, of which he did not have deep knowledge. If he was not deceived, there were two critical weaknesses in the Abbess’s defences. Only if he could properly exploit both of them did he have a hope of victory this night. Prowling around the complicated pattern of walls formed by multiple extensions to the Abbey buildings, he found an unsecured side door and slipped within.
Emelda was relaxing with her sisters in the extensive bathing complex within her inner sanctum when the alarm came. They had been toying with an ex-witchfinder that Sister Lyre’s network had located, and Magnus’s men had captured. Although they had succeeded in gaining a good deal of influence over the King (thanks to some ambitious and seductive nuns stationed at the palace, hand-picked by Sister DeLor) and had the witchfinders army declared illegal, Emelda (and Septuthiroth) would feel more comfortable when every last one of them were dead. They were currently seeing how long this one could put up with having his head held underwater before he revealed the names and whereabouts of more of his former colleagues, or drowned.
“You stupid little man, can’t you see you have already lost?” scoffed the Abbess, as Magnus brought his head back above the water. “Tell us of two or three more of your kind and we will let you depart in peace, you have my word on that. Continue to withhold and we will find them anyway, but you will be very, very dead.” She delicately selected another marzipan coated treat from the variety on the plate by the side of her bath, swallowing it whole. The bathroom of the inner sanctum was a luxurious affair – several huge stone basins set into the floor, heated from below by fires kept in a separate room, carved with shallow steps to allow the obese sisters to climb down into them easily. The senior nuns were all present, including Sahje who was now considered a full Sister Superior, in charge of a branch of Occulti acolytes specialising in the use of sorceries in the service of the Abbey. Their bulk almost completely filled the stone baths as they ate and pleasured themselves at the torment of their helpless enemy. They were disturbed only when a young novice came running to the chamber.
“Beware, sisters! A Spy! An Enemy is in the Abbey!”
“What?” shrieked Emelda, starting with sudden fear. “Close the portal! Magnus! Flail! Protect us!” She grabbed for the plate of confectionery, stuffing five into her mouth at once to steady her nerves. Had she not defeated all those who dared stand against their plans? Nobody should be able to launch an attack against her now, nobody!
Magnus roared with rage, and shifted position to hold down the head of the unfortunate witchfinder with his boot while he bodily picked up the novice by her habit and raised her to the level of his face. “What is this nonsense? Be quick, or I will EAT YOU,” he bellowed.
“Please forgive me sir!” she squealed, “but the witchfinder Absalom Black has been captured by the guards within the Abbey grounds. That’s what I was sent to tell you.”
This prompted a spontaneous change in Emelda as she swallowed down her cakes.
“Mmmph! Capshured, you shay! Absolutely splendid! Magnus, my darling, why don’t you escort our old friend to our chambers. I think we would like him…upside down on the wall. See to it if you would be so kind! You girl! Send for our servants at once! And then contact the kitchen – we require a feast for this! Come, Sisters, Patrons, let us prepare ourselves. This Black has been a thorn in our sides for some time. We will take personal pleasure in watching his life ebb away, but ohhh…so slowly. Let us take him, one bit at a time until there is nothing left! Let us make him beg and grovel and plead before out feet! Oh, that would please me. That would please me most greatly!” Her voice was practically squeaking with pleasure at the thought of tormenting one who had once had the temerity to stand against her, to threaten her glory.
With a grunt, Magnus released the girl, who fell to the floor and scampered away, yelping with the pain of her landing. He shoved his booted foot down, pushing the witchfinder deeper into the pool until he heard a satisfying crunch of bone against the stone bottom of the bath, and strode from the chamber to retrieve the new prisoner.
The Sisters arose from their ablutions, and retreated to their luxurious chambers, surrounded by gaggles of servants and acolytes. Each one took their time dressing themselves in their best finery (well, ordering about their servants to dress them – they were the Sisters Superior and above – and in some cases far too fat for – such mundane labour). They all knew of the dreaded witchfinder who had once reduced the Abbess to a frightened little girl (though they would not bring that up before her, of course), and looked forwards to a slow, protracted revenge over the course of the evening, followed inevitably by feasting and orgies in celebration of the extinguishing of one who dared to defy their will. Within half an hour, the Sisters were ready for their evening of entertainment. A rich banquet had been laid out (the kitchens were anticipating a feast that evening and so were well underway before the capture of Absalom Black). The witchfinder was wrestled into the room by Magnus and two henchmen and manacled upside down to one wall of the central chamber of the inner sanctum. Once he was secured, the Sisters and the Abbess came in. They were dressed in their ostentatious robes of office, creaking and swaying under the pressure of their bloated fat bodies beneath, bedecked in fine jewellery and makeup. The feast in the room was tremendous – a whole roast hog, many platters of sliced beef, endless bowls of vegetables, piles of sweet confectionery of cream, honey and marzipan, and wine so plentiful that it was presented in huge pitchers drawn straight from the vats. All drew up into sumptuous plush chairs, wide, metal and heavily re-enforced while servants passed them plates of delicious meat and huge crystal glasses of wine.
“So, once more we meet,” gloated the Abbess, in the foremost seat, guzzling her wine. “You have dared to defy us one more time, failing to learn the lessons of your past…urp…failures. You must have realised by now that we are superior, more intelligent, more determined than you. You cannot and could never have defeated us, and yet…ahhrp! You continue to try, crawling forth pathetically in another futile attempt. We are the future. We are inevitable. We are perfect, and perfection cannot be…brrrp! Cannot be stopped! Emelda found the wine tonight was a bit disappointing – too watery, and…sparkling? If some of the junior sisters had been watering it down, she would set Sister Horslip on them and watch as she went through every punishment she cared to inflict. That thought aroused Emelda, and she signalled for her servants to bring her a huge pile of meats to settle her stomach.
“You are mistaken, Abbess.” Absalom’s reply was calm, unfazed by his predicament. “It is you who have failed. You have led the Abbey down a dark path of evil and corruption. I doubt now that there is anything good or decent left here to save. Nonetheless, I give you one last chance to repent. You can turn aside from this path yet. Renounce the dark powers. Set yourself free. I warn you that there will be no more opportunity if you do not recant immediately. You do not know your peril.”
For just a moment, it seemed as though the Abbess frowned at this, and looked momentarily uncertain. Then her eyes lost focus, as though listening to an inner voice. Her face cracked into a smile that turned into a long deep laugh.
“Oh, Absalom, Absalom…you are still trying…urrrp! To fight our will, even when it is futile. You have nothing now! No resources, no allies, no power. You are…pfffft…alone and helpless and subject to our…bleck! Our whims. By all means, keep…urfft…struggling. It will make it all the sweeter as we slowly take your life. Sister…prrp…ah…sister Lyre, my sweet angel, what should we…hnnnnk…do with him?”
Emelda felt too sober to be fully enjoying the tormenting of their prisoner. She blamed the watery wine – snapping her fingers she summoned up two additional vast goblets of it which she rapidly drained to increase her intoxication, while Sister Lyre took the lead for a minute, tormenting him with her clever tongue.
“Well, my most exalted Abbess, here we have a criminal and a liar.” She rose from her chair, wineglass in hand, to strut in front of the witchfinder, gleefully caressing her hips and belly as she talked.
“He has defied the edicts of my good friend the King (who had become somewhat taken with several of our more comely sisters, if the gossip around the court is to be believed, and I assure you that it very much is) to cease all of his verminous activity, and his life is justly forfeit, but I am confident that we can take so much more from him. Do you have a family, Absalom? Oh, I sincerely hope so, because word will spread through many, many channels around the land of how you entered our sacred and holy sanctum of purity, chastity and devotion, and forced yourself on six – no, let us make it a dozen nuns. Not only that, but the only practitioner of sorcery and witchcraft in this room is you yourself! It is the ultimate delicious irony, that the one pretending to hunt demons is himself possessed of one, and uses his activity as a shroud to dissimulate hish intent while seeking out more diabolical knowledge. I have many witnesses ready to spread the”– she grinned and caressed her red lips with her hand for a moment –“the truth about you”. Not only will we deshtroy you utterly, all your family, yough…your friends, everyone who ever knew you will be ikh…ishk…imprisoned as accomplishes. We will desmmph…deshtroy tshe very rechpu…reshputation of witchfinding, and shen whe wiww…whe wllchk…hrrrrngh! Whhht…whttt isssh hahpppnnng to me?”
Sister Lyre seemed to be having increasing difficulty forming words. Her hands flew to her mouth and throat, dropping her wineglass, which shattered on the floor. As she desperately massaged her neck, which seemed somehow thicker even than normal, her eyes rolled and her mouth lolled open, quivering as if trying to birth something too big to fit through it. With a horrible choking noise, Lyre’s tongue lolled out. It was no longer the normal long moist tongue of a human, but a vast, swollen appendage, blackened with throbbing veins of green, forked at the end and clearly far too large for her mouth, let alone her throat. She staggered about the room, knocking heaped food and drink from the tables, as her vast tongue seemed to grow even bigger, thrashing around out of control, leaving bubbling green slime on anything that it touched. She fell to the floor, convulsed once, and was still.
“Nooooooo!” shrieked the Abbess, as consternation amongst the remaining sisters grew. “Sister Lyre! Sister Lyre! Get up! You cannot…ulp…die!” She turned to the witchfinder with insane, horrified eyes. “What have you done?” she hissed.
“Why, nothing, Abbess,” Absalom’s tone was calm, collected. “At least, nothing that would harm a child of God, to be sure. Merely a little holy water mixed in with your wine. Most refreshing, and healthy as well. Keeps the demons at bay, I hear.” He permitted himself a chuckle.
Deep within the fatty layers of the Abbess’s enormous body, Septuthiroth realised too late the trap he had been caught in. The holy water which Emelda had unwittingly imbibed was being absorbed into her tissues, its divine radiance burning into his immortal spirit, searing and blinding him with agony. He tried to flee, to slip away into the dark safety of the abyss, but Sahje had done her job too well. The symbols marked into Emelda’s obese paunch bound him into her body, proof against all powers to drive him out, even his own will. In his lust for power, he had subjected himself to a greater torment than all the legions of light could have achieved! He writhed in unquenchable agony within the Abbess, as did the other demons in their respective hosts, as all had drunk deeply of the wine. As they silently screamed into the aether, their demonic powers lashed out, uncontrolled and wild in their despair.
“No! You fool! That cannot possibly harm us! We are righteous! We are…urrrrrppph! We are divine! We are…blaaaarch!” A great gout of stinking orange foam vomited forth from the Abbess’s mouth, staining the front of her robes. Her eyes became minute pinpricks of terror as her fleshy hands rose up to cover her face, to hold down and further eruptions. Muted squeaks of fear leaked from her firmly clamped lips.
With the familiar guidance and support of their demonic hosts now turned into constant agonized screaming, a mad panic spread through the sisters, and as swine they began to stampede out of control.
“Sis…Sister Horslip…bleck! Grrgh! Get him…hurt him…KILL HIM!” Emelda practically squealed, as she tried to hold in more of the foam that was making an effort to rise up from her quaking stomach. She grabbed a huge chunk of meat from a nearby platter and shoved it deep into her throat. She managed to force it most of the way down before it jammed tight against the upcoming force of corruption. The foam stopped, but there was now a hideous sense of building pressure within her as her great body churned and gurgled.
Sister Horslip meanwhile heaved herself to her feet and advanced menacingly on the witchfinder, drawing her whip, black and well-oiled and fitted with balled tips anointed with even longer, sharper spikes than ever before. Her face was flushed red with rage and bore an expression of absolute hatred.
“How DARE YOU defy us!” she shrieked. “I will crush you! I will smash you! I will gouge you! Bite you! Punish you! Aaarrrgh!” Her shouts of rage became increasingly incoherent as she lashed the whip back and forth, striking Absalom hard about the legs and chest and face. He tried to twist and minimise the damage as much as he could, but he was firmly bound to the wall. At least they had not stripped his tough leather jacket and trousers from him, which mitigated the blows a little, but Horslip was consumed by rage and thrashing strongly with her thick arms, and there was no protection whatsoever for his face. He grunted with pain, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a scream, as blood began to flow up his face.
As sister Horslip raged, her face became redder and redder, her shouts even louder and more laden with hysterical fury. She seemed to physically swell with the insane, vindictive wrath, her fat limbs and body straining against the fabric of her robes. A red mist began to issue from her nostrils and mouth with every ferocious screech. Her whole head seemed to be expanding, neck filling and then tearing her collar. Her blows became stronger but less accurate, lashing into the stonework, furnishings, nearby plates of food, and panicked servants foolish enough not to get out of her way. As her rage grew, she bloated up further, her robes bursting at the seams, exposing arms, legs, buttocks that were now swollen to almost spherical proportions. She seemed to be having difficulty moving her arms now, the huge pressure and swelling making it difficult to force the fat of her limbs against the fat of her body. Her skin had become a bright, unnatural red and a sharp hissing as of a building head of steam was coming from somewhere inside her.
“GRRRAAAAWRWARARHHGHJHHAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR!” she shouted at incredible volume, becoming even more enraged at the difficulty she was having with continuing to inflict torment. With a huge effort of pure furious temper, she forced her swollen arm back for one more strike. As her over-pressurised fat wobbled and jiggled tightly with the motion, her vicious whip swung out behind her, and one of the black spiked heads made the lightest of contacts with her taut, quivering, bright-red buttock….
Sister Horslip literally exploded in a final deafening shriek of rage, body flying apart in a shower of gore, which drenched the horrified Abbess, as she trembled and made incoherent noises of dismay and fear.
“The vault!” yelled Sister Creed. This could only be a distraction to steal the money – HER money! She ordered her minions – two burly male slaves, each bound to one of her treetrunk thighs with golden chains, well aware that they could easily be replaced if they did not comply perfectly with her will – to assist her in raising her vast bulk from her specially widened chair. Her enormousness was rapidly turning pale, shaking and sweating with fear for her beloved gold. To lose even a tiny portion of it would be like having living flesh ripped from her body! With no time to arrange her palanquin, she lumbered unsteadily from the chamber. Her largest treasury was close by, within the inner sanctum where it would be best protected, and adjacent to her personal chambers. As she moved, deep within her vastly obese body gold and gems clinked and ground against each other from the unaccustomed exercise. There was a horrible feeling of something descending inside her abdomen, and with a glutinous noise a heavy object fell from between her legs to clink on the floor. This caused Creed to shriek and gibber in horror. It was one of the many huge jewels she had stuffed inside herself. They were never meant to…fall out! They were part of her forever. This was impossible! She could not see what gem it was for the bulk of her vast body, but all were of great value. Clenching herself shut as tightly as she could she reached the vault door, yelling and snarling at her slaves to operate the locking mechanism using the golden keys from her belt – she had long ago become too fat to reach the keyhole on the armoured door with her own hands.
Another precious gem fell from her despite her best efforts, as she waited for her slaves to open the heavy portal, and she howled and panted in rage and exhaustion. She could fix this – she could fix everything once she was with her beautiful treasure. As soon as the door was opened she stomped through, shoving her slaves aside with her obscene girth. She was delighted to see that everything was in order. The huge, high, vaulted chamber was full of vast stacks of golden coins that reached right to the ceiling, while pallets of bars, chests filled with jewels, shelves containing art treasures and fabulous ornaments made of gems and precious metals, were all stacked around the room as they should be.
“Close the doors!” she ordered her slaves. Her sisters could perish for all she cared, she would be safe in here, with all the gold.
“Oh yes, oh yes oh yes!” she panted, recovering some of her strength from the presence of her vast wealth. She still felt discomfited inside, like something was wrong with her fleshy, swollen body. She needed the gold, needed to touch it, to feel it on her skin, to consume it. She advanced on the largest pile of coins with her hands raised. The money had been carefully stacked vertically almost all the way to the high ceiling via a series of pulleys and scaffolds, creating a sheer cliff of gold. Creed reached it, rubbing her fat belly and enormous breasts against the surface. It felt so good… she shuddered with glee. A fat hand plunged in and brought out a great haul of coins, which Creed stuffed into her mouth, forcing them down her throat with delight as more coins cascaded over her chest, dislodged in a gentle flow by her efforts. She plunged her other hand in, to grab more coins. This caused more disruption to the stacks – the gentle flow became a torrent. Coins piled around her feet, built up atop her cleavage and shoulders. She began to stagger under the weight, all the time feeling nothing but ecstasy at the rush of golden wealth all around her.
A great rift opened up in the wall of coins and the torrent became an avalanche. Golden treasure rained down around Sister Creed with great force. She was pushed back by the weight of the deluge. Her fat ankles tangled with the chains binding her slaves, who were trying to hide behind her from the maelstrom of money. She lost her footing and fell backwards, crushing the men beneath her as the tidal-wave of avarice flowed against her, piling up between her akimbo legs. Growing in mass until it spilled over her vast belly, the unstoppable flow of precious coins pushed onwards, building up in a great golden pile behind her breasts before overflowing even these formidable barriers to pour down upon her face, endless coins filling her open mouth, burying her entire body in a huge mound of gold. A fat hand, wearing many rings and heavy bracelets, emerged from the pile. It flailed helplessly for a moment, grasped one final handful of coins from about itself, shuddered, and was finally still.
Sister DeLor, meanwhile, could feel sensations from within her over-voluptuous body that she found particularly horrible. Emanating from her round, fat stomach she felt something she had not known for years – a terrible sense of…purity. She prided herself on having degraded her body in every sexual and narcotic manner known to the world. It made her feel incredibly special, smug and sexy knowing all of the very many delightfully naughty things she had done. Now that feeling was evaporating from her. All her seductive exotic sexuality was draining away leaving her feeling frumpy, mundane, boring.
“No!” she said to herself. “This cannot be! I must be corrupted! I must be defiled!” She hurled herself at the closest person, which was Magnus – staring wide eyed and uncomprehendingly at the sudden reversal in fortunes of the sisters.
“Fuck me! Fuck me NOW!” she screeched, leaping at him, fingers tearing at his codpiece and trousers as she shed her own robes rapidly; no subtlety, no seduction, just a desperate, bestial need.
Magnus grunted and snorted, and with a deep throated bellow he began to respond, frenziedly helping her to remove trews and undergarments from his genitals as he shoved his chair backwards to lie on the carpeted floor. Close to him were the two henchmen who had helped escort the witchfinder to the room. The dark lust seemed to take hold of them as well and they grunted and groaned as they also began to remove their clothes.
Magnus’s penis was only half hard when she dug it out, but it seemed pleasingly to be even larger and more thickly veined than she remembered it. DeLor stuffed it inside herself manically, thrusting as hard as she could with her hips to push it in more deeply. With a dark joy she felt him gain in girth and hardness inside her as she massaged his testicles with one hand, and her huge breasts with the other. It was beginning to feel good now. Soon she would be filled with hot semen, defiled and enriched with sinfulness once more. The two henchmen closed in on her, animal desires clear on their panting, snorting faces. She beckoned them closer. Anointing her anus with excess fluids seeping from her coupling with Magnus, she grabbed the one approaching from behind and thrust him in between her fat, round buttocks, squealing with malevolent delight as he penetrated her deeply on the first try. The other she grabbed by the swollen man-sacks and pulled down to her face, where her plush lips embraced his width and she brought him deep down into her throat. Violated from three different directions she lustfully thrashed forwards and back, pumping and engorging all three thick penises, stroking both her vast breasts, their nipples rock hard and erect with arousal, and the testicles of her impromptu lovers. All three sets of genitals were inflated to tremendous size now, and she was desperate for them to come, completing her growing orgasms and filling her with seductive decadence. Although she rode her hips and mouth back and forth with frenzied passion, still they denied her release while growing ever larger and harder. They were almost too large now, filling and overfilling her with swollen manhood, beginning almost to hurt from their great size. Something was wrong – she tried to pull herself away, managing to raise herself a few inches above the base of Magnus’s shaft, but the member was enormous now, swollen to obscenity, thronged with pulsing black veins, and far thicker at the tip of its girth than the base. Her strength failed and she collapsed back down onto him with her legs splayed, the great weight of her hips and buttocks forcing him deeper inside her than ever, causing a yet stronger wave of pressure inside her abdomen and a moan of surprise from her. For their part, Magnus and his henchmen were mastered utterly by their desires, themselves unable to stop or even think beyond the level of beasts, grabbing every pleasure for themselves without restraint or control. The huge penises began to tremble and vibrate, becoming hot with pent-up pressure. Their testicles were rock hard and swollen to the size of watermelons. Delor tried to scream, to squeal, but her mouth and throat were entirely stuffed full of man-meat. Groaning wordlessly with horror, she heaved and rocked helplessly back and forth upon them, completely out of control, the heat and pressure inside her building to terrible, unbearable levels, until with a desperate shudder they all came simultaneously. Sister DeLor’s orgasm raged out of control as vast amounts of hot, thick, tainted semen squirted into her with incredible force. Every cavity, every bodily orifice, was swollen up with the huge volume, and yet still they could not stop coming, penises throbbing over and over and over again, the pressure building and building and building, inside DeLor and inside the genitals of those desperately attempting to service her. All four of them groaned and writhed in an unholy fusion of ecstasy and agony until with a hideous wet noise, everything just burst apart, erogenous zones rupturing in a torrent of thick, sticky fluids. The sudden shock was more than their abused bodies could withstand, and mercifully they all died virtually instantly.
While this was happening, Sister Sahje had fled the chamber for her own quarters. Like the others, she could feel the hideous goodness welling up inside her. Unlike the others, she had been in the service of the powers of hell for many decades, and the sense of horror and disgust was even stronger. Her connection with her bound demon was failing, her fabulous powers and dark secrets becoming diminished. She must find a way to reverse it, a counter-spell. She must save the great work for which she and her allied demons had laboured mightily. The dark destiny for this land must not be denied! She reached her room, which contained now the largest collection of unholy lore in the country, having been added to by the resources of the sisters over the duration of her residence. Great pestilential tomes bound in human skin stood resplendent on large shelves. Vials and pots of sinister ingredients were placed on tables. On the floor was a massive ornate pentagram marked in blood and red wax, surrounded by dark runes, seeping demonic energies from the many blasphemous rituals she had performed here.
She unceremoniously lifted several of the larger, older tomes from their shelves and hurled them into the pentagram. There she sat cross legged and desperately scanned through the thick pages, muttering to herself and groaning with discomfort as the radiant sensations within her spread. She could not concentrate with the goodness in her body corroding the long-cherished evil – she could not even think clearly. She began tearing off pages from the tomes that did not contain what she sought, crumpling them into balls and shoving them up inside herself as deeply as she could reach, trying to gain some relief from the tainted pages and unholy inks as they violated her flesh. It was not enough – she needed more dark power, far more. She turned to the darkest, most forbidden pages of the blackest, most powerful tomes in her possession and began to chant incantations, her voice unsteady at first but picking up speed and cadence as she got into her stride. With a thrill she could see that it was working. She still had the power. As she chanted the most forbidden, the most obscene, the most blasphemous infernal phrases she felt the familiar sensations of demonic presence. The room seemed to darken, strange smells and noises abounded, vapours and fumes began to flow from her mouth, her anus, her vagina as her body became a conduit for all the powers of hell. ‘Yes!’ she thought to herself. ‘More power, more magic! I shall drive this pathetic taint of goodness from me in a tsunami of superior darkness!’ She increased the intensity of her chanting, rocking her hips around in pleasure as the magical energies built up. She was not even concentrating on a particular spell now, reading passages and sections at random, ad-libbing infernal commands on instinct. The stone floor beneath the pentagram where she sat seemed to ripple and become warm. She could feel the presence of many demons on the other side now. She giggled with delight at the strength of the malevolent, sorcerous powers present in the room, and exhorted them to come in further, to breach the boundaries between worlds, shatter the defences of reality. The smoke emanating from her body began to glow in the darkness, forming into forbidden symbols of utter ruination in red or green misty light as the demonic cacophony grew. Sahje felt unnatural flesh against her legs and buttocks and crotch. Unholy heads and faces were beginning to arise, coming through the unstable floor of the pentagram beneath her. Demonic tongues began to lick and probe at her flesh, penetrating her from in front and behind. Hands covered in fur, scales, and smooth bulging, muscular demon-flesh stroked and caressed her lower body.
“Yes! Yes! More! MORE!” she shouted, unable to concentrate on her chanting over the intense pleasure and relief as infernal energies washed over and through her, restoring her evil and banishing all traces of godliness from within her. Now to save the nuns, destroy that meddling witchfinder, and set things back on the path that would glorify her!
It was only when she tried to move, to stand up, that she realised what she had done. Her legs and bottom were sinking slowly into the circle. The demonic hands that had caressed her most tenderly at first were now grasping more firmly, pulling downwards, sensing an opportunity to feed. She tried to struggle, but the unholy limbs were thick and strong, empowered by her own sorceries to a dark puissance.
“No, no! I didn’t mean…I am your…I cannot…aiiiiieeee!” Her scream was abruptly cut off as the infernal forces pulled her entire body through the pentagram and down into hell. The surface rippled one more time, and returned to stone. Of the sorceress Sahje, there was no trace.
Emelda Laiske, Abbess of St. Arrissa’s, sat alone in her innermost chamber, her robes soaked in gore, her whole fat body trembling with indignation, fear, rage, incomprehension, and a growing gassy, bloated feeling inside her.
“No! My Sisters! My precious sisters! You – you horrible little man! You cannot stop me! I will rebuild, get new sisters, stronger, better…I will…urrp!”
Her stomach seemed more swollen than ever before, even though she had not eaten for several minutes. It churned and rumbled, pushing her breasts upwards and stretching the fabric of her generous robes. The meat that she had lodged in her throat had now worked its way down, and once again she belched forth a wave of stinking, smoking orange foam.
“Give it up, Emelda. Let the evil leave you. You cannot win now, but you may yet avoid death if you listen to me.”
“Never…NEVER! Uurp…ack!” Emelda felt pressures building up inside her, pushing now at every orifice, seeking release. She instinctively felt that what was billowing forth from her was pure evil, reacting and foaming with the holy water she had imbibed. She would not let it leave her. She was powerful, mighty, god-like. She would not abandon all of this! With a tearing sound, her robes ruptured sharply, falling away to reveal swollen pink flesh and over-stretched undergarments already digging into the expanding curve of her belly.
“Aaaargh! I’ll finish you yet! You won’t escape! Guards, servants, end his life! Kill him!”
But all the servants had fled in terror and despair at the hideous fates the Sisters had suffered. She was alone with the witchfinder.
With a shrill cry of fury, she seized the carving knife from a joint of meat on a table nearby and advanced on him, mad eyes gleaming. Although he was but a few paces from her chair, Emelda was having difficulty walking now. Her stomach was bloating up so taught and round and massive that she was struggling to move her fat thighs beneath herself to take her weight. As her corsetry and suspenders failed with a sequence of twangs of overstretched elastic, she slipped to the floor, panting, obsessed with keeping the expanding evil inside herself but determined to slay the cursed witchfinder that had dared to bring her down. She tried to rise, but felt even heavier now, her belly sloshing and creaking dangerously, slight dribbles of fuming orange fluid seeping from her vagina, anus and lips, despite her straining hard in an effort to hold it in. Then she remembered the chant that Septuthiroth has shared with her. She gabbled the heathen incantation desperately, over and over. A little more foam dribbled from between her legs – she pressed them together tightly as the spell began to take effect. Her vast swollen torpid mass gradually rose up from the ground. She cackled in insane triumph. She still had power. She would surely rise up and destroy her enemy. But the feeling of being grasped within a vast unholy hand was patchy now, unevenly distributed on her overstretched skin. She started to wobble, moving down and sideways as she desperately shrieked the incantation more loudly. The power was beyond her control however; she began to rotate in the air, her thick limbs knocking over tables and scattering half-eaten, gore-spattered food to the floor as her words descended into mindless cries of rage. The foam was beginning to squeeze its way out from her huge nipples now. In horror she clamped her fingers around them, stemming the flow. Her breasts swelled up further in response, scattering the last scraps of underwear across the room. The Abbess was almost spherical now, and began rotating faster and faster, unable to stop the unholy powers she had invoked, unable to bind them to her disintegrating will.
“No! No!” she wailed, “I am a Goddess! I am…hrrfh…hrffh…uhhh…perfect! I will live forever! I am…hrrrrmph…hrrrrrrrrrrrrnghp!”
As she spun faster and faster she lost control of her body. The foul orange foam flew from her like an unholy catherine-wheel, but the pressure was too great now, nothing could relieve it in time. With a final squeal of rage, her vastly corpulent body exploded in a shower of foam, filth and evil, further devastating the already wrecked room. The Abbess was destroyed!
The rest of the night passed slowly and painfully for the witchfinder. Strapped upside down, soaked in multiple layers of gore and noxious substances, still bleeding from the ministrations of Sister Horslip, he awaited the dawn.
His allies came at first light, as planned. While he had been sneaking around the Abbey earlier in the evening, before he had allowed himself to be captured, Absalom had obtained the help of the lowest of the nuns, and the slaves, those oppressed and unconsidered by the Sisters Superior. Those who hated them and would happily assist with his plan to bring them down. Together they had contaminated not just the wine for the Abbess and her elite sycophants, but the drinks for the whole Abbey. For those who had been downtrodden and compelled to serve the Abbess’s evil will by force and fear, the holy water had no effect. For those higher up in the order, those who had willingly obeyed evil commands and schemed to gain power and followed the ways of the demons, it induced a lasting sickness, and a sense of shame and regret. With no leadership, and the more senior nuns and mercenaries thus paralysed, the remaining witchfinders were able to take control with little real resistance. After freeing Absalom and tending his wounds, they began the long, onerous task of cleaning up the mess.
The Abbey had to be torn down, stone from stone, so that evil things might not come crawling back to a place so steeped in blood (and also so that the bodies of those sacrificed in abominable ritual could be retrieved and laid to rest). Of the survivors, the witchfinders had the grim duty of determining innocence from guilt, and dealing with those showing the taint of corruption appropriately. The remaining demonic tomes – all that they could find – were finally burned. The network of informants, agents and outposts of the Abbey was disbanded. The work was long, running into years, but finally the powers of hell were completely thwarted, their evil influence on the land undone in its entirety. The kingdom could move forwards in peace and prosperity — well, as best as could be hoped for, since mankind can make plenty of problems for itself without influence from beyond.
Of the Sisters Superior, their souls were consumed by the demons they had consorted with, the ultimate fate of those who dabble in such forbidden and abhorrent practices.
Except.
There was a rumour, just a shred of a hint amongst those few who claimed to have some way of knowing such matters (and such people, and their sources, can seldom be trusted), that Septuthiroth himself did not consume the soul of the Abbess, that, impressed with her aptness for evil and her loving embrace of his true nature, he spared her, and she was herself forged into a powerful demon, only the third time in the history of existence that such an event has occurred. That they now soar together on ethereal wings through the void, ever searching for another way to return to our world, just one soul with the right combination of power and vulnerability, and that one day they will succeed, and a new age of darkness will be born.
THE JUSTICE ENDING