The Fair Lady's Burden
[Explicit][Quelaag's Sister x Multiple]
[Emotional Abuse]
(I wrote this to torture a bunch of anons on /vg/ once. Enjoy)
Week One
It has been some time since the vile spider was slain, but the Hooded Wanderer was still frightened to enter her den by himself.
The den was a vast space of discolored stone and webbing. Broken egg sacks hung from the ceiling and clung to the walls, their contents spilled long ago.
Quelaag, that had been the demon's name. Since time immemorial she had haunted the lowest levels of Blighttown, always on the prowl, always ready to cut down any who stood in her way. The vile spider had killed many of the Wanderer's allies over the years. Their sacrifice still stung his heart.
Armed with only a rusted falchion, the Wanderer snuck further into the abandoned den. He scaled the stone stairway and ducked into the sunken tower, ever fearful that some new monstrosity might creep up on him and end his life. He kept alert at all times as he crept forward on his toes.
Then, he heard it.
A sound, a miserable and repeated sound that seemed to echo throughout the tower. It was very faint, but when he strained to focus he could just barely make it out: Crying. Someone was weeping softly nearby.
The Wanderer searched the tower for a few minute, but his efforts bore no fruit. Wherever this crying was coming from, it seemed that it was invisible to the naked eye.
A chill ran down his spine. Had he encountered a ghost without even knowing it?
Fearful, the Wanderer crept backwards, falchion drawn, until finally he bumped into a wall.
Glancing at it, he could have sworn that the crying was coming from behind this structure. Feeling foolish, he drew back his blade and prepared to strike at the wall, if only to silence that damned weeping!
As he struck, his blade passed through the wall-which had suddenly become translucent-as though it were less material than a cloud. Staring in disbelief at the gap where a wall had once been, the Wanderer gingerly stepped through the aperture and glanced around the tight hallway. There didn't appear to be anything of value here, just a broken barbed sword and an old bronze ring.
He pocketed the ring and turned the corner before nearly yelping in surprise.
Against the wall, almost fused to it! was a great white spider, its milky eyes staring meaninglessly into the void, its bent and feeble legs kicking impotently.
But that was not what shocked him, no, for atop the spider's head was a beautiful woman.
She was pale, paler even than the alabaster spider, and her eyes were shut tight. Her thin platinum-blonde hair flowed outwards like silk. Her arms were clasped, as if in solemn prayer. She was entirely naked, her pallid breasts were firm and totally exposed to the elements. They were not especially large, but they were not small either.
The Wanderer's gaze instinctively lowered, but there was nothing beneath her waist. Where her genitalia should have been, there was only the lazy spider's sagging head. She was a woman without legs, a half-formed creature, fused to this strange beast and left alone to rot within this bizarre sanctum.
The Wanderer swallowed and glanced over his shoulder. He half-expected Quelaag to rise from the dead and strike him down, but of course no such thing happened.
Instead, he found himself entirely alone. Alone, save for the beautiful woman before him. He noticed with a sudden spasm of predatory glee that she was positioned exactly at his height. It would be easy to reach forward and embrace her.
The ring in his pocket hummed. A magic ring?
Temporarily distracted, he fit it on his finger. Nothing appeared to happen.
Shrugging, the Wanderer unbuckled his trousers and let them drop to the floor. He was already at half-mast by the time he reached the strange spidery woman. She didn't react to his presence, didn't even seem alive aside from the occasional shuddering breaths she took.
The Wanderer reached out and put his hand on the woman's shoulder. She recoiled instantly, hands still clasped, but there was nowhere for her to go, no place she could run to.
Eventually, she stopped cowering and assumed her original position as though nothing had happened.
Her lips parted.
"Que...laag...?" she spoke, mournfully.
Deciding not to respond, the Wanderer instead gently-but-firmly undid the woman's clasped hands. He placed his throbbing erection into one of her palms.
She remained still, frozen stiff with surprise at this new stimuli-perhaps the first contact with another person she had had in millenia.
"Quelaag...? Dear sister...?"
The Wanderer frowned. So, this woman was kin to the spider-demon that had ravaged the land. Now, her beauty infuriated him, conjured up images of his dead allies and all those priests and healing mages who had fled Blighttown long ago.
Furious, he grasped her wrist and forced her to jerk his penis. Her smooth hands were clammy with cold sweat, her slender fingers traced against his cock and only made his erection stronger with each unwilling stroke.
"Sister? Dear sister? What is this? It smells awful, Quelaag. What is this... Slimy thing?" she asked.
Grinning, the Wanderer grabbed the woman's other hand and forced them back together. Her clasped hands traveled over his cock, forward and back, until he was near his breaking point.
To avoid cumming too soon, he slowed her movements down to a crawl, then removed her hands from his penis.
"Are you still there? Quelaag? I have missed you..."
Unable to control himself, the Wanderer shoved his fattened manhood against the poor girl's cheek. He slowly traced his bulging dickhead along her face, until he reached her lips where he let it lay, throbbing.
He waited, patiently, like a serpent ready to strike.
Finally, Quelaag's Sister made a critical error: She opened her mouth to speak.
"Is this for me to eat, Quelaag?" she asked, but no sooner had the words left her lips that the throbbing penis was behind them, forcing its way down her slim throat and causing her to choke and sputter pathetically.
Tears ran down the poor woman's face as she feebly placed her hands against the Wanderer's heavy chest, trying in vain to push him away, to dissuade this strange sensation.
Cock in her mouth, she tried desperately to cry out for help, for her knights, for her servants, for her dear Sister, and finally for her long-lost mother. But each cry was muffled by the strange thing in her mouth, the slimy appendage that choked her and stifled her pleas for mercy.
By the end, the Wanderer had reached his limit. His hands were wrapped around the back of the woman's head as he crammed his penis further inside her mouth. The sensation was too much, the panicked expression of the blind girl with her tender eyes shut and her pallid breasts swaying with each motion, the incessant "gluk gluk gluk" sound emanating from her weary throat, it was all too much.
He came down her throat, groaning and almost-laughing as he thrust again and again, each spurt of semen given to the poor woman who had never known an embrace more intimate than her sister's hugs, each rope of cum enough to gag her and frighten her-she thought she might die.
But eventually the thick thing was removed from her mouth and she coughed up the horrible liquid that still lined her throat, that dribbled out and spilled across her heaving chest. She had swallowed much of it against her will. It had been the first thing she had tasted in centuries, and it smelled foul.
"Sis..." she coughed, sputtered, "sister... where are you...? help me!" she cried, but the Wanderer only paused to smack his meaty cock against her lips before departing with a wide smile on his face.
Week Two
The Wanderer returned again, this time with a bundle of humanity in store. But he did not plan to offer it to the poor woman, no, he knew of a better use for it. It appeared that, by using a humanity, he could restore all the semen within his body. This would allow him to ejaculate again and again, and he could think of no better receptacle than the lonely waif beneath Quelaag's Domain.
It was his first time returning since the initial encounter. When he pressed his bulging penis into the woman's hands, she hesitated, but did not attempt to fight back.
Once more he guided her, showed her how best to please him. After a few minutes, she was stroking the tip with unusual finesse. After a half hour passed, she was back to sucking his cock.
Tears flowed freely down her face, but she did not speak. Some part of her seemed glad that the Wanderer had remembered her, that he had come back to see her. This strange ritual, he with his grotesque appendage, and she expected to stimulate it, this ritual was a disturbing far cry from the reverence and sisterly love she had once enjoyed.
But now all her servants were dead, and her sister existed only in the shadows of the poor girl's mind. Sometimes, she thought that Quelaag had abandoned her forever. And some days, she acted as though the two were together, lovingly embracing one another as-
-as the man pulled his penis from her mouth and came over her face. Her already-shut eyes were dampened by streaking semen, and she made a soft sound of concern as she felt something new: A pair of hands grasping her breasts.
The stranger was tugging at her nipples, groping her shamelessly as if she were a mere toy. He thumbed her areola, pressed his penis against her breasts, even suckled on her nipples like a greedy youth. Against her will, she gave out a small moan-just a little thing, a cry of dulled joy at the feeling of being stimulated, of being loved instead of used.
It made her ache, made her feel the phantom flickering of her female sexuality. She felt a need to touch a part of herself that was now long-lost and replaced by demonic flesh. He would inevitably stop touching her, move to manipulate her head to better service his cock. And then the flash of pleasure was gone, and all she could feel was the horde of rampant humanity gnawing at her insides, and the thick splatter of cum shooting down her throat.
The Wanderer came again and again, each time painting a different part of her body, as though he owned her. The Fair Lady said nothing, merely turned away and cried when another thick batch of semen coated her already-white skin.
Then, the Wanderer left again, and she was left alone, coated in cum.
Week Four
The Wanderer had not returned in some time now. New hands, unfamiliar hands, had claimed her as their own. There were perhaps four of them, though it was hard for the blind woman to tell.
They were unexpectedly kind at times. They brought water to cleanse her, rags to wipe away the soot and the stinking cum. But inevitably, they would always put their gross appendages in her hands and she was expected to draw out the pale seed within them. They used her day and night, never ceasing, never allowing for rest or recourse. Again and again they abused her throat, pinched her nipples (eliciting brief moments of ecstasy from the woman) before using her all over again. She accepted load after load, until finally she decided to smile.
Smiling, smiling...
Week Thirty-Five
By this point, she's sucked cock so often that it's the only thing she knows how to do. She waits in silence until she feels a throbbing penis pressed against her cheek, or slip between her praying hands. Always waiting, patiently and silently, always waiting for the next brief moment of stimuli. She only reacts to cock, only think of cock, only sucks cock. All the men have to do is extend their penises, and then she will gingerly reach out to lick it, then suckle on it, and then deepthroat it to completion.
The men found that they had to push against her body just to pull out. And sometimes, late into the night, she will reach out blindly in sheer desperation and grope the thin air, searching for another warm penis to pleasure, searching for genitalia, for the only connection to another living being that she understands. When she can't find a penis, she cries softly to herself-thinking that perhaps she has been abandoned forever once again.
She lives in darkness, her beautiful eyes closed shut to the world outside. Now, the only world she understands is a world of servitude, a filled with the sweaty aroma of cocks. The streams of semen she tastes a few times a week are the only pleasurable thing in her life. They came in ones and twos, sometimes more. Once, she had been given the honor of servicing fourteen penises in a row, among which was one extraordinarily long specimen that was different in shape and texture, but was no less aggressively lustful. Her throat was so tired by the time that the last man came that she was physically unable to ask for a sip of water, not that it would have mattered. She suspected that no one could hear her, or understand her.
The women made for the most concerning encounters. There had been only three, but the first time she sensed that unusual and familiar hole put before her, she had nearly choked from the panic swelling within her breast. She had no idea how to react to these structures, how best to taste and connect with them. In the end, she had simply groped it and, in a moment of immense immature delusion, asked: "Mother? Mother is that you?" and then her nose was pressed deep against the wild hair and she had nearly passed out from the howling woman's abuse. Yes, all in all she preferred the men. Even though she she knew not what they looked like, nor why they kept shoving these strange limbs down her throat. She knew in her heart that one day she would pleasure her last man, and then be left alone forever. The thought overwhelmed her, brought her to tears nearly every time, so she would redouble her efforts and attack these alluring appendages with renewed purpose.
The Fair Lady is rather quiet these days, though the squelching sounds of her thorough blowjobs and the unfiltered male groans of pleasure often emanate from within her cave. But every once in a while, when a particularly fat load of hot cum squirts out and goes crawling down her forehead and over her pale lips, she'll ever-so-slightly raise her voice and say:
"Sister? Oh, thank you sister. I love it, I love you. Thank you sister, thank you..."
end