Doom Story Update

2k words

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“Nonsense,” she eventually said. “This mortal may be just as dangerous, but he is more like… the discount Slayer. He is vicious, but he bleeds and tires like the rest of us.”

“You are right as always,” the priest said. “I was only theorising.”

Twisting ramps and looming archways flanked the aisle she strode across, her hooves rubbing on a crimson carpet that decorated the citadel’s atrium. Eighty-two rooms comprised her fortress, and while she had mapped each one off by heart, she only frequented three or four. The arrays of torturing rooms, ritual chambers, and blood rooms that were crucial to keeping her kind from decaying in this alien dimension were beneath her, literally and figuratively, as most of those deplorable archways led to the underground levels where the possessed where quartered.

The upper levels were for her most trusted legion commanders and the proven elite, and they were accessed by a twisting staircase winding up the cathedral’s black heart. The echoing rattles of chains and screams of scuffling demons slowly diminished with each step risen, until silence reigned and Sharrya could hear her own thoughts.

Usually she would step off on the next floor and proceed to her war room, where should would plan for her next campaign. Her priest, ever the servile specimen, took the liberty of opening the door to said room once they arrived, but she responded to his assumption by continuing her climb.

“My Baroness?” he called after her. “Do we not plan to address the many issues plaguing us? The duty of Hell calls…”

“And I’ll answer,” she said. “after I obtain a shred of rest and quiet. The day has been long and tiresome.”

“O-Of course. Shall I send a report to your chambers later?”

“I will tolerate no interruptions for the next six hours,” she growled. “If I hear so much as a tap from your overgrown toes, I’ll kill you.”

That was the last thing they said to one another as Sharrya climbed to the next floor. Her cathedral was a hundred storeys tall, it’s inscrutable height designed to impose dread upon any who looked upon it. The only thing ‘imposed’ upon Sharrya in that moment was annoyance that the designers hadn’t seen fit to install a lift.

When she arrived at the appropriate floor, she stepped off, passing by a flickering scone as she moved through a short hallway, ended by a pair of doors built to accommodate her size. She shoved them apart, then snapped them closed behind as she stepped into her chambers.

Her private sanctuary was furnished with upscaled lounges cradled around a gothic desk, its surface strewn with a number of alien curios she’d absconded from the dimensions she’d warred upon. There was a claw made from a chitin plates in one display, a green crystal that glowed with an eerie energy in another, and a black scale she’d ripped from a rather savage winged reptile.

There was a mantle reserved for the dimension she was currently occupying, but she’d failed to find a relic worthy of occupying the exhibit. Perhaps Andreas’ helmet could fit the bill?

Huffing, she stalked passed the lunge, stepping round a writing desk messed with parchments and ink pots, a couple of its drawers half-opened. She’d been told once that putting her thoughts to paper was a fine way to reflect during her downtime – an event that had become more prevalent as of late. It was proof that not all of the priest’s words were just drivel.

At the far end of the room was a mattress resting on an upraised foundation, cornered with beams that joined the bed to the ceiling. Dark drapes could be drawn between the posts to provide privacy, but Sharrya had never needed them. This room was for her use alone.

Her hooves clicked on the black tiles as Sharrya turned, and plopped onto her bed in a very un-Baron like way, letting all the events of the day pass through her in a breathy sigh. So many clashing emotions battled in her chest. Anger, frustration, dread, confusion, but most of all, relief. Relief that this room was now owned by one who wasn’t twiddling her claws all day, writing nonsense as the war waged on without her input.

She stared at the chandelier suspended over the chamber, placing a hand behind her head and wincing as pain stabbed through her side. Her skin was still matted with scars from Andreas’ many weapons, but they would regenerate quickly now that she was within the unnatural energies surrounding her cathedral. Her wounds weren’t he only casualty of the day. Her gore nest was gone, a significant portion of her operations going with it, plus she’d loose standing with her legions once word spread that she’d been defeated by a mortal, yet she was giddy with excitement all the same. Never since her first journeys into the greater cosmos had she met an alien who could best her, not just once but twice…

“You’ve done irreparable damage to me, my forces, and undid months of corruption in the blink of an eye.” She placed a palm on her belly as tingles swept through her core. “You make me feel alive.”

The lines between war and passion were blurred in her mind. The two went hand-in-hand among her kin, and Baron courtship revolved around duelling with your potential interest to ensure they were strong and capable. During her ascent through the demonic ranks, she had drawn the eye of many prospective mates.

She’d been young, full of herself, and had passed from mate to mate just as Hell bounced from dimension to dimension. Good foresight on her part, as there had never ben time to court since she’d left Hell for conquest.

That tingly feeling continued its journey south, her loins experiencing a libidinous pang. To say she was pent up would be an understatement, and the tribulations of the day had only resurfaced such tensions. Six hours. Plenty of time to burn it off.

She slipped a finger beneath her loincloth, parting her thighs as she lowered the flimsy cloth, exposing her toned mound. Shfitng against the cushions, she wiggled the underwear gently down her legs, then kicked them away once it looped across her hooves.

She exposed pink, glistening flesh as she caressed her genitals, taking care to keep her hooked claws clear. A bead of her fluids wetted her finger as she dragged a digit up and down her puffy lips, Sharrya chewing her lower lip as her own touch sent sparks up her spine.

She mumbled some self-depreciating comment to herself as the pad of her finger brushed her clitoris, her hips rubbing together in time with her finger strokes. Rubbing one off alone was unbecoming of her. Current posting notwithstanding, she was a Baron of the ages, her name was known throughout countless dimensions. Baron’s would pay to sleep with her, yet her she was, all alone.

Closing her eyes, she focused on the shape of her bud, trying to conjure up a more erotic scene. She was back in the Shattered Peaks, leaping across a gaping crevasse that divided the lands between her clan and a rival’s. She was leading two dozen of her kin against two dozen others, Baron’s leaping out of trenches to meet her charge, countless fireballs crisscrossing the skies.

She was the tip of the spear, exchanging blows with Baron after Baron, before the rival clan sent out their own champion to subdue her. This imaginary Baron was thick with muscle and had short horns. She always liked how cute little stubby horns looked. His rippling muscles flexed as he harried her with savage attacks, enough of her blood spilling to make her lightheaded.

His fingers viced over her neck as he caught her in a grapple, choking the life out of her. Her gathered soldiers watched on with troubled expressions, had she met her equal?

Her imaginary rival growled as she kicked him the chest, grabbing his face and shoving him into the black dirt. He never pleaded mercy, even as she pressed her claws to his jugular, and she liked that about this would-be champion.

Her excitement mounted as she crouched over the muscular Baron, that itching need deep inside her being sated as she took the Baron right then and there. She tried to imagine the shape of his rod filling her insides, but the image was hard to sell if she couldn’t insert her finger.

She pinched an eye open as the far-off sound of screeching echoed up the stairwell, followed closely by a pair of rushing feet travelling downward. The cacodemons must be feasting upon another again. Either that, or her cathedral was under attack.

Who would be so stupid as to try that? She thought, chuckling to herself as she closed her eyes and continued to finger herself.

When she returned to her fantasy, it began to shift. Now she was back in these very chambers, only that demonic scream was much closer, its length drawing into seconds until the piercing screech was cut off by the crack of a gunshot.

Such a cue would have brought Sharrya straight into action, yet her dream-self could only sit up lazily, sopping hand poised over her drenched crotch, as the doors to her room were thrown open with all the force of a charging cyberdemon.

And yet, no demon had dared to intrude upon her most private of places. Emerging from the hallway beyond was Seargent Andreas. Was his armour black, or grey? Regardless, the ceramic plates clung to his diminutive, but developed musculature with a wonderful tightness, accentuating his build. His gauntlets were absent, the sleeves of his jumpsuit rolled up to the elbow, exposing his tanned skin. His eyes, as dark as his attire, looked her over through no visor medium, as his helmet was also gone. He’d never go without his equipment, but her imagination thought up the excuse he’d lost it somewhere along his ascent.

“Hi there, bitch of Hell,” he said, swinging his plasma gun onto a shoulder. His gaze wandered from her eyes, to her chest, and then settled on her crotch. “Someone’s happy to see me.”

Sharrya gawked, first at him, then at herself. Sher rosy folds were all on display for the human, the Baroness spread-eagled like some needy beast in need of a rut. Not the most inaccurate description, all things considered.

“Y-You…” She forced her lip to stop trembling, composing herself as she launched off her bedding, squaring off with the human. “Why have you come here? Tired of life?”

“Tired of you, you great, pink, bovine-looking dumbass. I never leave a fight half-finished.”

“Ever the poetic,” she said, conjuring two fireballs in her hands. She beckoned to him with the left. “You want an end to things? Have it your way.”

She tossed her fireballs across the room, sprinting across the tiles as Andreas hosed the room with plasma. She raised her arms defensively as bolts slammed into her front, leaving scorch marks along her forearms.

She did not falter under the barrage as he expected, Andreas dodging aside as she swiped at him with her claws, missing him by a hair’s inch. He stepped into her blind spot, suing his rifle like a club and driving the stock into her knee. She growled in pain as she sent him reeling with a backhand across his chin. Such an attack would have crushed his skull, but in her imagination, the blow only caused a trickle of blood to escape the corner of his lip.

He stumbled against her writing deck, his eyes flicking from her to the chair. He lifted the furniture by its wooden legs, arms bulging as he raised it over his head, crashing it over her waist where it shattered into several pieces.

Pain blurred her vision, Sharrya cracking her neck as her opponent drew a wicked knife from its scabbard, the same one he’d used when they’d first battled. The sting of wounds was vivid in her mind, her finger rubbing faster as her heartrate climbed.

“First you, then your whole base,” Andreas snarled. “Come on, you pink fuck.”

She met his challenged with a demonic growl, closing the distance between them in a blink. She seized him by the shoulders, tossing him like a sack of bricks across the room. One of the lunges snapped in twain as he landed upon its back, but even that wasn’t enough to dissuade the mortal, his eyes glaring up at her as he rose from the ground, wiping the blood from his face.