New story: Tetranomogon


Posted by Theophilous Bolt on July 13, 2001 at 07:39:42:

I've been away on business and pleasure, but I've not been idle. A new story for you to work yourselves into a lather for. All of my usual kinks are well represented, plus some new ones.

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Party at the Tetranomogon

Stelle thought the toughest part would be getting down off the end table. That turned out to be easy, the sides and three legs covered with raised runes of unknown origin. Probably wasn't even really an end table, things were screwed up like that at the Tetranomogon, the party between worlds. It was a fabulous scene. Gods, demi-gods, demons, devils, demi-urges and entities all abounded, here to live and unlive it up. And Stelle, but only because her date brought her. He was a sorcerer.

She didn't completely believe he was a real one instead of a goth-pretend sorcerer until he shrunk her to the size of the mouse and set her on the end table. Stelle thought it was to show off to some of his sorcerer friends, or maybe they were gods, or maybe he was just drunk and felt like it. It was really cool at the time, and she got off on the way he held her in his hand, drunk on power and the strange brew the partiers called beer but wasn't. Then he got distracted and set her on the end-table thing and wandered off.

Now she's bored and lonely, the party winding down. Just a few people left in the main lounge, where she was. So over the side, careful not to let her dress ride up too-too much as she stepped on the raised ridge of the first rune. Easier than climbing down a ladder, done. The carpet was something else though, springy and shaggy, her heels kept getting caught up. It was too much hassle to unzip her boots all the way and then carry them, only to have to zip 'em back up later. They were a tight fit on her leg, and the zipper required some finagling at times. Best to slog on through as-is.

It was turning out to be a long, long march. She didn't know where Prestimon had wandered off to, so she checked the side alcoves one by one and it was slow going. It was really cool how everything loomed up and around her, and she felt dainty stepping around tremendous cigarette-butts and past furniture the size of an office block. Dainty. Petite. Pretty. That's how she felt. Stelle half-hoped that Prestimon would keep her this way. Every mage needed a familiar, and she'd be ten times as cool as a cat or owl or something. He could keep her on his shoulder. Or in his pocket. Stelle smiled at the naughty thought of what she could do in his front pants pocket. She smiled and ran a finger under her studded collar, and imagined a fine golden chain attached to it.

All she needed to do was find him and flirt with him. He gets off on attention, she knew that. Like she gets off on power. He was the alpha-male type of her little goth clique. That was power. He was a real-live sorcerer who hung out in places like this an could work cool magick. That was power times ten. And since she was only four inches tall, he was as powerful as a giant. Prest-o held her in his hand like she was a doll. That was power times a hundred. If this wasn't love, it was close enough for her.

Yet another conversation nook turned out to be a bust, huge hooves and sandaled feet with wings growing out the ankles were intertwined and words were being whispered that caused the air to turn different colors. No good. Another nook, and stiletto heels as tall as she was, three pair, nervously tapped and fidgeted next to a pair of eagerly bouncing wolf paws beneath immaculately pressed pant cuffs. Not here either. Stelle hoped to god he wasn't passed out in one of the restrooms. There were six of them, and she figured out the Mens' and Ladies' symbols, but wasn't too sure what the tentacle one was all about, or the one that was a math equation.

A huge and friendly face abruptly lowered itself before her path. He grinned sloppily, and said, "Lemme buy ya a drink!"

The face disappeared, and she tilted her head back to watch the body it was attached to straighten itself, a middle-aged man in a suit with what appeared to be a woman made of fire hanging off his elbow. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a condom packet, which he cut open with a pair scissors he unfolded from a pocket knife. Snip! He cut off the tip of the rubber, the reservoir, and dunked it in his beer with the tweezers from his knife. Stelle and the fire-woman were laughing hysterically at this point, and she delightedly took what had to be two pints of brew in a latex cup from the proffered tweezers. They shared a toast, where she briefly wondered if there was any lubrication or spermicide on the condom, or if the beer was just this nasty tasting, and then Stelle resumed her hunt in high spirits, sipping the "beer" as she went along.

Last alcove, and damn good thing as she was good and tipsy after downing the last of her drink. Here they were. Thick lug soles the color of tar, attached to broad-toed boots of black leather that faded to the orange and red and yellow of dyed flickering flames three-quarters of the way up the shaft. Black whipcord zig-zagged across itself up dozens of gold eyelets, cast, she could see from her new vantage point, in the shape of tiny screaming skulls, up to the knee where it was looped and twisted and twined into an elaborate Celtic knot. Nothing so mundane as a bow for these boots. The boots of a sorcerer.

She sashayed a swaying line between the legs of the small table toward one of them, and noticed that its mate was a fair distance away, as he had sprawled himself out on the low couch. She ran her hand along the smooth black leather, appraising it like she would a fancy sports car. It was just as good as one. It meant status and power, and she felt wet as she felt the heat and subtle movements of the man beneath. A real, live man, one she had fucked no less, taller than a skyscraper and able to make reality sit up and beg at his whim. She looked up to see his eyes flick down toward her at her touch. He could feel her, all the way down here. Wow.

Prestimon was speaking in a language she couldn't understand, but it sounded like business, so she took a couple of steps back to get a better look at him. Tight black leather pants tucked neatly into the top of his boots, and a black leather belt painted with hot-rod flames that was fastened by a gold demon-skull buckle. He wore a formal tuxedo jacket with long tails that hung over the edge of the couch, but his chest was bare underneath, inscribed with a collection of tattoos representing a strange symbology. He was in great shape for a guy who spent all his time reading and going to clubs. Stelle supposed it must be a spell, and made a mental note to pester him to put one just like it on her.

Stelle was bored. Drunk, horny and bored, she felt absolutely ignored. Yap, yap, yap, and hey! He was talking with a chick! She felt her eyes narrow as she realized that the chick was a miss-thang type of hottie. Skin so pale it looked blue, long platinum blonde hair, eyes that glowed blue where they should be white and white where they should be blue. Huh. Nice sandals with the thigh-high straps, sweetie, straight from some stupid dragons and dwarves and elves story. Hey! Lookit the ears! She was an elf!
Stelle gradually got more and more pissed off, convinced her date was snubbing her for an elf, of all things! This was not to be tolerated. She marched right back over to his foot, and gave it a ferocious kick, boot meeting boot with a resounding thwack!
"Hey!" she shouted up at him. Her toes hurt from the impact, but he didn't seem to notice, or he didn't care, which was worse. She stumbled her way to where she could get a better view of his face.
"I said, hey! Hey! Prestimon! Yo! Down here! It's me, a'right? So cut the bullshit session! Hey! At least put me on the table! C'mon, please!" she shouted up at him. He ignored her. This made her go ballistic. Stelle can and often did develop a vicious temper while drunk, and she was sloshed but good.
"Hey! Fuckwad! Ditch santa's helper over there, she can go fuck a hobbit! Yo! You hear me up there? You're here with me! Me! Not her. Me! You listening? I saaaid, you listening?" no response. So she shouted louder.
"You're a fucking piece of shit, you know that? You shrink me, then you ditch me, what the hell is up with that! Hey! Hey! Pay attention to me, asshole!" no response. So she got nastier. Every ounce of venom went into her voice.
"You know what? You know what, Prest-o?"

Response.

Prestimon quirked his lips in a small sneer of irritation, then casually lifted his foot and let it fall on his date with a thump. Stelle gave a small squeak of a scream as she was driven to the carpet, muffled out of sight beneath a size 12 boot. It took all of a heartbeat, and he didn't even pause in his negotiations with the Faery Princess.
"... when you'll gain back your power, eight fold. It's not a transferrence, it's an investment. You'll be watched over while the rite proceeds..."
"You stepped on her!" said Princess Veaana in astonishment.
"Mmmm?" he paused with mild surprise.
"Wasn't she your date? I don't speak mortal tongues. What did she say to you?" the Princess' eyes were glued to his boot. The sorcerer shrugged expansively.
"She was just irritating, nothing much."
"And you stepped on her! Simply because she annoyed you!" Veaana could not hide her shock.
"Tch. I haven't killed her..." It was then the sorcerer read the truth of the situation. Nipples erect against the diaphanous, silken toga, long fingers slowly rubbing the inside of her thigh, higher and higher.
"... yet." his voice became seductive, arching eyebrow raised as he gave the princess a sinister wink and a knowing smile. "Hmmm, how shall I kill her? Hard and fast, or should I take my time with her?"
"I can't believe you'd just go and... ah... what's hard and fast?" asked the Princess. Prestimon leered evilly as he ground his victim into the carpet a bit, feeling the soft bits of her catch on the rubber lugs of his sole, listening to the sound of muffled screams and a tiny dress shredding... and the princess' breath catching.
"I simply raise my foot, let her get a look of her doom and then stomp down. A little scream, a loud crunch, and a splatter of flesh, blood and guts." he said.
"Gods, that's brutal! You'd do that to a person?"
He simply nodded.
"You'd do that to your date? Just for kicks?"
Another nod.
"You... you... you're horrible! An absolute monster! I can't believe you'd... ah. Hmm. Is that the worst of the two options?" asked Veaana, trembling on the edge of the couch.
"Oh, no. The other option is much, much worse." replied the sorcerer.
"Show me." she pleaded in a breathless voice.

Stelle knew when she saw the light of the dim overhead lamp blotted out by a big black boot that she went too far. She forgot how he felt about his nickname, especially in public. She cried in real pain and even more real terror, pinned to the soft carpet. She was bruised, and had sprained her ankle for sure, and one of the rubber lugs on his bootsole was digging into her gut, making it hard to breath, another had pressed flat one breast to her chest, and that hurt most of all. She cried in humiliation as she heard his voice turn from all-business to a silky seductive tone she knew all too well. It was turning her on despite the pain and the embarrassment. Seductive, and evil now, and she wondered what they were discussing. Then the bootsole began to move, shredding her dress and bruising her breast and chest to the bone while she screamed louder than she thought possible. Oh, they were talking about her.

"...but business before pleasure. About our transaction." said Prestimon, grinding another shriek out of his victim.
"Please, let me watch, and I'll do it!" the princess whined like an eager little girl.
"The power, first, and then you'll get a show."
"You are so cruel! You'd betray her for power?"
"Not just power. I get off on murder."
Veaana moaned despite herself, biting at her lip, eyes shining blue as she paused for a painful second in indecision.
"Here." said Veaana as she waved dismissively at him. His cock sprang to life as pure power flooded into him, a huge tsunami of inhuman mystical might that filled him, expanded his being, made him feel... like a giant. And so he was, for Veaana proceeded to shrink herself down to Stelle's size with the last of her power.

Prestimon repositioned his boot over Stelle so her head was peeking our from the tip, one cheek severely bruised. She was weeping, her eye-makeup a runny mess as she pleaded with a wordless cry to her tormentor. He was standing now, gazing down at her with amused contempt. Veaana stepped on the broad ridge of his sole and sprawled out on the toe of his boot.
"Shall I make her beg?" asked the sorcerer.
"Oh! Could you?" Veaana splayed her legs wide as she heard him give a sharp command, and the little thing beneath his boot began to whine and plead in her mortal tongue. Veana straddled the boot as much as she was able, pressing her body to the leather. She could feel the tendons and muscles move beneath the leather, warm with his heat. He was crushing the girl.
Princess Veaana arched her back and gently bucked her hips, trying with more or less success to rub her engorged clit against his leather, making love to his boot as he used it to kill the mortal. Her screams of passion were mocking, sensual echoes of Stelle's screams of pain and terror. She could hear the dull snaps and crunches of bones breaking. She could hear the heavy and liquid sound of flesh tearing as he ground down, his cruel rubber lugs tearing into her frail body... it sounded like a huge cock thrusting itself into a tight, wet snatch.
Veaana draped herself over the edge of the toe, and dangled an arm down to run a sympathetic hand through the long, curly hair of the sorcerer's victim. Poor thing was still conscious... she believed it must be because he's keeping her alive for his amusement. His cruel laughter reinforced this opinion. But it was coming to a climax... the immortal touched the lips of the human girl as her voiced was silenced by bubbling blood, and licked away the coppery, salty tang of the stain from her fingers as the light slowly faded from the pretty hazel eyes.

Stelle opened her mouth wide, wide, wide, her teeth stained crimson. Perhaps it was to try to take one last breath into her ruined lungs, or to cry out to her giant lover for mercy and succor. Either way, it was the end. The Princess felt the climax well up within her, and she writhed atop the boot, staring in fascinated horror at the face of the dead woman. Prestimon had just killed his lover because he know it would turn Veaana on. This thought pleased her no end, and she willed herself back to her normal size, only to discover she could not.
Licking her lips with concentration, the tiny Princess climbed his bootlaces like a ladder. She deftly avoided the intricate Celtic knot binding the boots at their apex, and dragged her body up over his knee and onto the glove-leather jeans covering his thigh. She crawled along it, wanton and submissive as a cat, pausing to press her body to its muscular length.
Veaana slithered down his crotch, and stood upon the couch, sandaled feet dimpling the soft leather upholstery, before the mighty bulge of his sex. Prestimon's cock was erect with sadistic satisfaction and the thrill of power, and quite out of reach. His balls bulged through the thin leather, mighty and vast. Veaana knelt before them, running her hands over their curve, pressing her tiny body to them. She licked the leather, inhaling deep as she smelt the musk of his arousal. She playfully tried to shift the weight with her insignificant frame.
Much to her shock, they did move! Wait, he was simply rising, the couch shuddering beneath her as he did. She lost her feet, falling into the impression his ass made in the upholstery, hot with his heat, heavy with the masculine scent. She rolled languorously onto her back, enjoying the visage of his mighty bulk above her. Then he sat down again. Before she could protest, her body from the waist up was pinned beneath his titanic package, the heavy balls pressing her deep into the couch, pinning her utterly.

The sorcerer looked down with a sadistic smirk as tiny legs, wrapped with sandal straps to where they disappeared beneath him, kicked wildly. He could feel her hands on his sack, pushing up, trying to escape. No good. She had foolishly given him all of her immortal powers, and he intended to keep them. Forever. He smiled wickedly as her thrashing grew weaker, her legs drumming frantically before spasmodically flailing. One last pressure as her whole body heaved up against his huge sex, and he came, orgasming in his jeans. She died beneath him, slowly suffocated and crushed, snuffed out like a mere mortal.

The sorcerer contemplated his next move, and decided on a bakcwater reality with no native magick. He could have a lot of fun in such a place with his newfound power. He stood, the body of Princess Veaana peeling from his crotch, the body of Stelle ground into human hamburger as he heedlessly wiped her from his sole, and walked out. Two had died in the pursuit of power, but that was par for the course at the Tetranomogon. Safety was for the strong.

T. Bolt