Stories – Page 5 – The Remainderman (Frank Speech)

07-06 Bathing in Chastity’s Fountain (abridged version)

2025-07-072025-07-07 admin

*2009 07-06 This must be a happy family in paradise*

Explicit version containing orgasm and ejaculate themes at 07-06X Bathing in Chastity’s Fountain at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY: After a week of brutal wedding and coming-of-age hazing by the succubae, Chastity and Penance are finally enjoying their true honeymoon with Channah. NOW:

Before they had even finished bathing, Channah had Chastity writhing helplessly on a flat rock in the center of the pool, like a fish out of water or a sacrifice on an altar. With a final, devastating look, she said: “Stay. And don’t you dare, you know.” Chastity made a strangled cry that caused Channah to shiver with pleasure as, still laughing, she turned to her second victim.

Penny looked much more nervous than Chas, and much more nervous than she had when she first stepped into the water. But Channah knew how to handle her: with authority and strength. She didn’t even try to direct Penny verbally. She simply pulled her close, chiding her instead: “Ap ap,” she shook her head. “None of that. You’re coming close to me for your bath, young lady.” Sensing her embarrassment and feeling her excitement, Channah warned her: “Deep breath!” and then pushed her head down under the water, holding her a beat or two longer than necessary to make her hyperaware of how much stronger Channah was, and how completely in charge she was. Channah was pleased to feel that Penny had sunk below the water and was trying to stay there obediently, trying to be a good girl and cooperate rather than resist. Pulling her up and spinning her ‘round, again like a puppet by moving her rather than by using words, Channah warned: “Close your eyes sweetie so you don’t get any soap in them.”

Channah started by repeating her actions with Chastity, washing Penny’s hair, face, and arms, before folding her arms at the elbows and placing her hands at the back of her head.

“Stay still, just like that a moment, honeypot, while I check on your girlfriend,” she instructed, before turning and lazily running her soapy fingers lightly up the insides of Chastity’s thighs and further, laughing with pleasure as the girl shivered and shook and whimpered. “What a passionate girl you are,” she murmured. “Now be still, be good, and just watch.”

Turning back to Penny, and turning her around so Chastity, by raising her head and looking down between her legs, could see Penny’s face and breasts, Channah pressed up tightly against Penny’s back and bottom, making her gasp and whine, ooching her forward until she stood at the edge of the water between Chastity’s legs. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Channah cooed encouragingly, reaching under Penny’s arms to stroke her temples and then trailing her fingers her cheeks and neck and shoulders. “With all that soap on her face, forcing her eyes closed and her mouth open to breathe? Doesn’t she look hot?”

“Yes,” Chastity whimpered truthfully, as Penny moued indignantly.

Channah took this as her cue to grab Penny firmly in front, watching Chastity’s eyes grow big as saucers, as she scolded Penny: “Shush, my prudish little Princess. Nobody’s talking to you, and nobody wants your opinion. Besides… your face does look beautiful, whether you’re comfortable with the fact or not. You look like you—” She broke off as Penny moued again, an angry protest, spoiled by the sharp, breathy sound she made a second later as Channah played gently with her for both girls’ benefit. Leaning down, she whispered into Penny’s ear: “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Domina!” she whimpered, nodding helplessly.

Channah nipped her ear before continuing, setting her chin against Penny’s hair and looking at Chastity again, even as she continued to caress Penny, softly and gently: “We definitely need to clean these, don’t we, futa? Do you know why?”

She shook her head and whimpered a negative sound.

“So we can enjoy how sweet they taste!” Chastity groaned and Penny moaned, while their Master gleefully elaborated: “I’m gonna get soap everywhere… make them slippery and… ooh! What’s happening?” She giggled, Penny’s bright red cheeks obvious.

“Here,” she whispered again, into Penny’s other ear. “I’m going to give you a boost to help you get up on this rock on your knees, okay honey?”

“Yes ma’am,” Penny agreed, sounding nervous.

“Get ready to jump, little bunny, on one…” she ran her soapy hands down Penny’s sides plunging into the water “two…” where they cupped the bottom of Penny’s cheeks. “Three! Jump!”

Penny rose up and Channah helped her settle down slowly onto the rock. Then Channah slipped clockwise around Chastity’s foot and, from her position by Chastity’s hip, reached over Chastity’s leg to take Penny by the back of her head, pulling her downwards. “Let’s take your weight off those knees, sweetie,” she suggested gently. “That’s the way, lay your cheek down on Chastity’s tight tummy and… oh, my, your, you know, are really on top of, you know, aren’t they?” Chastity made a long, agonized groan as Channh’s hand, pressing down hard between Penny’s shoulder blades, ended the younger girl’s instinctive attempt to rise back up off her friend. Chastity started panting loudly, prompting Channah to warn her, trying to sound stern through her amusement—“Don’t you dare, Chastity Batonnoir! She’s not even clean yet!”

But it was too late. Crying out and apologizing—whether to Channah for disobeying, or to Penny for involving her, was unclear—“I’m sorry! I’m—sosorry!!!” Channah held Penny’s chest down, continuing to fight Penny’s efforts to rise up on her knees again. But she let Penny raise her head so she was out of the way. Penny looked alarmed, like maybe she’d done something wrong, and it was all Channah could do not to laugh out loud.

Literature Section “07-06 Bathing in Chastity’s Fountain”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 06 of Chapter Seven, “Channah’s Slavegirls: Pawns of the Court of Lust”—Abridged 914 words::Explicit 1063 words—Accompanying Images: 2007-2010—Published 2025-07-06 (p.m.)—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Stories

07-05 In the Bathing Pool

2025-07-062025-07-09 admin

*2003 07-05 Salamacis finds Aphrodite’s sons bathing in her lake*

*2005 07-06 Aphrodite’s new daughters celebrate their transformation*

PREVIOUSLY: For seven days and nights, Chastity and Penance have been tormented, tested, pushed, and bewitched by the succubae and their human operatives, leaving them feeling rootless, lost, malleable, in need of comfort, and desperate for love. Now, finally, Channah gives them what they long for, introducing them to her private mountain vale. NOW:

Beyond the hot bath, the forest stream, and the washing-pool was a breathtaking vista, revealed between the high greyish-black cliffs to their left and the forest canopy to their right. Channah’s vale ended in a low rise of rock, its lowest point the drain and surface level of the bathing pool. Beyond it were a line of jagged mountain peaks; and, as they got closer, opening out below before the distant peaks, a deep and wide valley thousands of feet below them.

“Remember how everything in the vale looks,” Channah cautioned her girls—as if, they imagined, they could ever forget! “This, exactly so, is the way I want it. I gave my gardeners and servants the week off. Mainly for privacy, so we can enjoy the true, intimate seclusion our marriage entitles us to—something that is among the most difficult things for me, as a Queen, to obtain. Priceless! You cannot imagine the constant attention of flatterers and wheedlers, or the freedom of being alone with my loving wives.” She sighed, squeezing them both as she continued to guide them, past the hot bath and over the stream on a little bridge. “But partly, I confess, because it turns me on to see my play-partners working and serving me.” She shivered anticipatorily, leaving them in no doubt how much she meant it. “It’s almost better than sex, which is saying something for a succubus,” she drawled. “So expect to spend some time each day cleaning and caring for my paradise. Obviously,” she shrugged, “You’ll do the cooking and laundry as well,” she purred at the thought, her eyes dancing. “And I will sit and watch you sweating in the warmth of the afternoon sun. Oh, yes, you must do the hardest work in the afternoons…” she cooed, running her hands over their shoulders and backs. “You simply must…” she bit her lip, and shook her head, as if to clear it.

“But not today. And not tomorrow. I know you sweethearts are exhausted. We have plenty of prepared food to last us a couple of days and everything is spotless now. So, the intensely sexual cleaning,” she emphasized breathily, pausing to kiss each of them, her anticipation making them want to serve her and turn her on, compounding their submissive natures, before she continued, “Will have to wait. A little spicy anticipation even as we indulge ourselves completely, playing with one another.”

Leaving them a moment, standing and staring dumbly out over the chasm in wonder, she stepped to a low chest like a coffee table between two chaise lounges, removing towels—which she set on one of the chaises beside their chastity cages—a bottle of castile soap, and some clean rags; before returning to them, setting the rags and bottle close to the edge of the bathing pool and removing their wrist and ankle cuffs, first Chastity’s, then Penny’s. She helped them and made them feel cared for by massaging their stiff shoulders and arms as they groaned in relief.

“Now,” she smiled coyly at the girls, “Kneel before me. Go on, I have to get ready to bathe, too!”

Looking at one another in delighted but nervous surprise, having never seen their own Domina naked before, despite the liberties they had been allowed with her, they knelt. Smiling magnanimously, she placed her hand on top of Chastity’s head for balance and insolently lifted her foot, presenting her boot to the two girls, who quickly worked it off. When they stopped, looking up at her expectantly, she raised a questioning eyebrow. “And my stocking and garter?”

Embarrassed, hands fairly quaking, they reached tentatively under her skirts to removed them, struggling not to take any unnecessary liberties by touching her skin more than necessary. Then, with her hand on Penny’s head, she lifted the other foot and they attended to it in turn. She then turned around and directed them to the hooks and clasps on her back where they released her dress, Penny gasping as it fluttered to the ground, leaving her only in her bra. The girls nearly hyperventilated at the sight of her bare skin. Looking back over her shoulder at them, and where their gazes turned and lingered, she smirked, enjoying their attention. “Go on! What are you waiting for?”

“Your permission” Chastity explained. “Your command,” Penny answered. As she laughed at them, they both, understanding they should not wait, tried and eventually succeeded at removing her bra. Ignoring them, she flounced into the water, up to her thighs, before spinning around, shivering from the shock of the cool water, and giving them a sultry look as she sank back into the pool.

“Don’t be shy, girls. Chastity, honey, can you bring the soap? And Penny, sweetie, the rags?” She laughed as they scrambled to collect the supplies and splash into the water with her. “Let’s bathe… Chastity first. Come here, darling.”

Pecking Penny on the cheek so she wouldn’t feel ignored, she turned to Chastity and, reaching below the water, found what she had expected. She stared into her wife’s eyes, smiling, until Chastity looked away, embarrassed. “Duck your head to get your hair wet,” she ordered, and when Chastity came back to the surface, sputtering, she was ready, her hands slippery with the Castile soap. “Turn around.” And then she began washing Chastity, sensually, hair and face, neck and shoulders, followed by her arms, humming softly as she felt Chas relaxing and melting under her ministrations.

There was a flat rock, about the size of a small bunk, in the middle of the washing pool, and she made Chastity climb onto it so she could soap her feet, her legs, her back, her breasts, her belly, and finally her clitty and bottom. She obviously enjoyed it the most when Chas did, squirming with nervousness and excitement as her hands moved over the girl’s most-sensitive parts. She lingered especially long on her clitty and breasts, enjoying watching Chas writhe and Penny shrink back nervously. Standing above Chastity’s head, she leaned over her, slowly rubbing soap into and around her nipples while making out with her, their heads facing in opposite directions, Chas moaning and arching her back. Last of all, Channah stood between Chas’s legs, pushing her fingers over Chas’s stiff, soapy flesh, locking eyes with her and drinking up every bit of Chas’s vulnerability and loss of control. She moved with a teasing, unbearable slowness, squeezing and tickling, giggling mischievously. Her delight increased in proportion to Chas’s desperation and frustration, and even Penny became lost in the drama, losing her own self-consciousness and staring with rapt fascination at the drama rising to its climax before her.

With consummate skill, Channah drew out Chastity’s passion until the girl started begging out loud, helplessly pleading for mercy, staring into and drowning in Channah’s sparkling, delighted eyes….

Literature Section “07-05 In the Bathing Pool”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 05 of Chapter Seven, “Channah’s Slavegirls: Pawns of the Court of Lust”—1148 words—Accompanying Images: 2003-2004—Published 2025-07-06 (a.m.)—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Stories

07-04 The Secret Garden Mouth

2025-07-042025-07-04 admin

PREVIOUSLY: For seven days and nights, Chastity and Penance have been tormented, tested, pushed, and bewitched by Channah, her succubae, her human operatives, and others, with every tool and tactic available, leaving them feeling rootless, lost, malleable, in need of comfort, and desperate for love. Now, finally, Channah gives them what they long for. NOW:

“You girls have done so well! I know, you’ve had a hard, challenging week. But I’m so proud of the way you’ve handled it! Handled yourselves! Now comes the part I’ve been wanting, even hurting for with you, the whole time. It’s been so… cutting and hard, watching you sweeties go through the trials and indignities of the demon wedding ritual. But you’ve made it through them! And now you will experience, even more than before, the intensity and ecstasy of demon marriage. A deep, special pleasure that requires more than affection to nurture and grow.”

“I don’t have a knife with me, or I would cut your bonds right here. I want to show you my paradise without any remnant of the pain from this world, but I don’t want to make you stand here in the dark while I go and fetch one. So I’m going to take you straight to the bath and free you there. Ooh… I don’t even want to interrupt our intimacy, but I want to make it perfect for all of us…. Let me show you our special and wonderful home. I love sharing this with you so much!”

Letting go of them both, and squealing excitedly, barely able to contain herself, she paused and looked back at them, her hands already pressing on the door, her body arched delightfully, a moment burned into all three of their memories. The girls would always remember her there, their bedraggled fairie queen full of incredible potential promise, self-assured and seemingly relishing everything life had to offer no matter how amazing or daunting, glowing like a saint and bringing light and life to the cold black honeycomb, her perfection untouched by her disheveled state. And Channah would always remember the naked, vulnerable, dependent, hungry, blind hope and faith and trust reflected in their shining eyes, and the raw need and desire for her, her comfort, her favor, and her love, emanating from her two most-intimate victims and lovers.

With a shudder, reflecting her own passion for this place, and her eagerness to share it with them, she pushed open the heavy iron door and admitted them to paradise.

Light cracked through the door first as it opened. There was something clear and almost hard about it, a momentary impression immediately overcome by the excitement and hope of a perfect early spring morning.

The air was cool and invigorating, fresh with life and fragrant with the smell of flowers and forest. The sky was sweet and bright and vibrant, energy practically radiating from it. Before them were vital and verdant trees, vines, and bushes, the encouragement of life, embraced by the solidity and nurturing reassurance of the Earth beneath them and, as they found themselves stepping out of a tunnel in the bottom of a cliff, behind them. The perfect black stones of the honeycomb ended abruptly as they stepped through the doorway onto a garden path made of what their tour guide called orange adoquin stone, perfectly fitted to one another with no visible grout between them.

The path divided immediately. It ran a few yards to the right along the bottom hem of the greyish-black volcanic cliff soaring above them, until—contained by a crenellation in the cliff wall, it was forced to bend to the left and disappear behind the trees.

Channah pushed the door closed behind them, sliding two heavy drawbars from holes in the cliff wall across the top and bottom of the iron door to secure it, latching them in place and making it impossible to open with anything less than a battering ram. Then she moved her hands quickly in the air before the door causing a brief glamour to sparkle and fade, suggesting even a battering ram might have trouble getting in.

She shrugged and smiled her beautiful smile. “I don’t require much, actual security. But I do value my privacy. It is more precious to me than you can imagine. And the three of us are the only people here in my mountain paradise. Do you feel the air? How thin it is?” And she enjoyed watching them breathe, eyes unfocused as they concentrated on feeling their breath in their throats and lungs. “If you don’t now, you will when you exert yourselves. And I mean for you both to do so,” she giggled, touching both their bottoms rudely and pulling them into her sides. “A lot. If you’ve never been at altitude before, you’ll feel you’re struggling for breath until your body adjusts. That will take a couple of days. We’re in a mountain valley—more like a pocket, a cauldron lined with cliffs, high in the peaks, with only two entrances, the honeycomb and a natural cave, both warded to alert me to any potential trespassers so I can know we’re alone and no one is going to come running to me with their problems and concerns. It calms me so much,” she sighed. “It’s the only time I’m really off work, in a way.” She shook her head, contemplating how busy she had been, and for how long.

And then she turned them gently to face the left branch of the path, causing them to gasp in wonder. It was a reaction she had obviously anticipated, and equally obviously, enjoyed. This way, the path descended gently and widened for a few yards, cliffs on the left and the dense, heavy forest on the right, until it reached a clear, beautiful pool in the rocks, fed by an irregular fountain of water pouring from a crack in the cliff wall and draining… well, it was complicated. And, just beyond that, a breathtaking vista.

There were actually three fountains and three waterways, a fact they slowly absorbed as she guided them down the path towards it, explaining, her hands protectively holding theirs. “They’re natural springs. The first one is my hot bath.” And indeed, they could see steam rising from the water where it emerged from the rock in a line with the surface of the smallish pool, a bowl about the size of a royal carriage with no obvious egress for the water. The force of the water entering at its margin caused its surface to ripple and bubble constantly. “The second is the mountain stream that waters my gardens.” It appeared to be the largest flow of water by volume, cascading down a spill of rocks to a narrow pool, more like a water trench or a troth, feeding a stream that disappeared into the woods. “And the third is my washing-pool, which all three of us need desperately!

Literature Section “07-04 The Secret Garden Mouth”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 04 of Chapter Seven, “Channah’s Slavegirls: Pawns of the Court of Lust”—1104 words—Accompanying Images: 2001-2002—Published 2025-07-04—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Stories

07-03 Ready for Love

2025-07-042025-07-04 admin

*1999 07-03 Let’s get this party STARTED, bitches!!!*

PREVIOUSLY: For seven days and nights, Chastity and Penance have been tormented, tested, pushed, and bewitched by Channah, her succubae, her human operatives, and others, with every tool and tactic available to the succubae on Earth and in Hell, with the twin goals of perfecting a decade of training and preparation while bringing them mentally to their current state: uprooted, lost, malleable, in need of comfort, and desperate for love. Having taken them—figuratively and literally—through hell, Channah ushers them now to her paradise. NOW:

Channah was still fully dressed, wearing her customary, splendid scarlet court gown and tall black shiny high-heeled riding boots, the same things she had worn since they left Fensmere and Earth this morning, which seemed like a lifetime ago now. Or, at least, she wore the scuffed, dirty, oily, torn, abraded remnants of the clothes she had donned at Fensmere, insofar as they remained after the orgiastic, satanic rituals at Chang’an, the skyride across the Hell of Lust, their impromptu performance at the satanikoklus, and whatever she had got up to while the girls were tethered in the honeycomb at Sademtsaowah.

Her girls were stripped, covered in so much oil and filth and dirt that they had caused the soiling of her own clothing, Kadidia’s and Esmeray’s clothing, and several square yards of the ritual site. Their bare skin was marked with scrapes, minor cuts, ligature marks, and, more heavily, with bruises, some smoldering and purple, some still fresh and angry and red, from their training and discipline over the preceding seven days and nights. To any observers, they appeared to wear only their collars, short leashes, navel rings, and the ropes binding their wrists. Not readily visible, but certainly of equal importance in their experiences, were the four items—in addition to the roots of their navel rings—buried deep inside their bodies: two plugs in their ears depriving them completely of any ability to see, hear, taste, or smell anything outside their own bodies; and the twisters and triggers that rested, churned, or swam by turns, at Channah’s command, inside their guts. But even with all that, what they and she were surely most-conscious of at this moment, was how thoroughly (with the sole exception of their primary sexual organs hanging as obsoletely as appendices from their crotches) their bodies had been transformed from the male bodies they grew up with to their new, ultrafeminine curves.

She held their leashes over her shoulders, her hands in front of her belly, using their chastity cages hooked to and tangled in the leashes like handles for better leverage, casually forcing them to rest their chins on her shoulders and to awkwardly scramble, their shoulders and chests pressed tightly against her back, behind her. She expected them to accommodate her own brisk and confident walk with theirs, and they were certainly in no doubt about that. She was, after all, their superior. She could feel the tension and stress in their bodies as they tried to keep their balance, keep their soft bare feet away from her boots with their sharp heels, and keep up with her using only their sense of touch.

She was snickering, well-pleased with herself and already teetering on the tingly edge of arousal when she led her girls through the honeycomb and up to the iron door separating it from her retreat.

Gently pushing Penny up against the door, she put her hand up tight behind the girl’s soft hair to protect her from the door behind her, knowing she was about to startle the girl. Only then, did she brush her lips across her young wife’s, refusing to let her pull back as her instincts tried to do when they felt an unexpected touch on such a vulnerable and personal part of her body. Resting her lips softly there for a moment, while her girl calmed down, Channah pushed her tongue into Penny’s mouth, feeling her relax and wondering if she could tell it was Channah once it penetrated past her lips. Perhaps she recognized something familiar about the feel or taste or smell of her, or perhaps even her kissing style. Knowing Penny, she suspected she could. Not because she obeyed the unspoken command to admit Channah’s tongue, but because she responded almost immediately, kissing back with a palpable enthusiasm, even of the closest thing to aggression Penny was capable of, making a soft moue of relief and welcome that warmed Channah’s heart despite herself.

Then she laughed, as Penny pushed herself forward and even flicked her tongue against Channah’s. Pulling on Penny’s hair as she laughed at her, she broke their kiss, softly pecking at the corners of Penny’s helpless mouth as if to tell her that was enough. Next, she turned around and relaxed back against Penny, smooshing her between the hard iron behind her and the soft swells of Channah’s buttocks and shoulders, really pushing into her so she knew she was being held in place and not forgotten, giggling and shivering with pleasure as she felt Penny’s lips and tongue begin attending to the sensitive back of her neck and shoulders.

Pulling Chastity in close to her, slowly enough she could tell it was a gesture of intimacy, she repeated the same soft initial brush pass she had used to signal her intentions to Penny. Chas neither pulled back nor immediately reciprocated, but instead hesitated a moment before kissing her back, confidently but less ardently than Penny. Raising her hands to Chastity’s ears, she removed her plugs and pocketed them, hearing Chas’s whimper of relief as she regained her senses.

“Domina!” she gasped, her voice somewhere between a whine and a moan, before pushing forward against the older woman and almost attacking her mouth. She laughed as she returned the kiss, carelessly using Penny as her cushion, hardly thinking of her as she focused her attention on Chastity, running her hands through her oily hair and over her dirty skin with gusto. Earthy and about as far from neurotic as one could be, Channah was not fazed by anything as minor as a sloppy encounter. In fact, she could even relish a bit of the funkiness and imperfection of the world because it was so visceral and real, especially when she knew the chaos and disorder was of her own causation, rather than reflecting any lack of attention or respect for her, coming from her partners.

When they finally came up for breath, she giggled, stroking Chas’s cheek softly and saying: “Penny’s turn. Here, come to me.” She wrapped her right arm around Chas’s head and pulled it in against her breast, forcing Chas to follow as she turned back towards Penny, managing to reach both of Penny’s ears, remove her plugs, and transfer the plug from her right to her left hand without ever releasing, or even loosening, Chas. Pocketing the plugs carefully, she purred with happiness as Penny crushed her lips against Channah’s.

“Oh, oh, oh, mm…” she murmured around their kisses, sensing again how much more desperate and hungry Penny’s kisses were than Chas’s confident and content ones. “It’s so nice to be missed and wanted. I love you girls.”

“We love you Domina!” they both cried, pressing on her with enough force that she backed into the wall beside the door with both girls’ weight squeezing her in a way she found delightfully affectionate. After a couple of moments, she loosened her arm and moved her hand so she was now holding both girls by their hair, allowing Chas’s face up and startling them—again without allowing either girl to even think of resisting—by pushing their chins and noses against hers, flicking her tongue across both of their mouths at the same time, their faces fitting against one another like three pieces of a pie.

Pausing, she scolded them: “Where are your tongues? Don’t be shy. You’re sisterwives now! You don’t have to enjoy kissing one another, but you absolutely, positively can never be hesitant or reserved about kissing me, just because you’re sharing me!” Then she dove back in, her aggression, and the size of her tongue, coaxing her girls into responding. Laughing again, she murmured: “We are going to have the most wonderful week together…. Do you want to see my home? Well… you’re my wives, aren’t you?” she gasped, sounding surprised, as she realized: “That makes it our home, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Domina!” they agreed, happy and warmed by the idea.

Literature Section “07-03 Ready for Love”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 03 of Chapter Seven, “Channah’s Slavegirls: Pawns of the Court of Lust”—1330 words—Accompanying Images: 1984-1988—Published 2025-07-04 (early a.m.)—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Stories

07-02 Honeycomb Funhouse Mindf***

2025-07-03 admin

*1984 07-02 Into the Labyrinth–We can fly!*

*1987 07-02 The World Turned Upside Down*

*1990 07-02 Good girls get dunce-boxed forever*

*1993 07-02 Here there are worlds and worlds and worlds…*

PREVIOUSLY: Channah had shaken Chastity and Penance to their cores by binding them and then stripping them of their senses one by one—sight, sound, smell, taste, and then—finally, with triggers inserted inside them, even touch and their awareness of their own bodies, leaving them completely isolated from the world, themselves, and reality. Now, only hours later, she has triggered the girls’ PTSD by leaving them kneeling naked, hands tied behind their backs, collars locked to rings at floor level, and alone in the eerie Honeycomb—vulnerable, bound, hitched, and stripped of their senses of sight, smell, hearing, and taste. They remained connected to the world, and to reality, only by their sense of touch and their awareness of their own bodies, and trapped in their fear, uncertainty, and inability to resist anything else she might choose to do to them. NOW:

Channah had, quite willfully and naughtily, allowed herself to become distracted, first by her castellan and other officials, then by her petitioners, and finally by a lover. She spent most of her time on Earth, and even the time she had for hell had to be divided among different castles by the global nature of her responsibilities. Inevitably, on the rare occasions she did return to Sademtsaowah, when she finally did reappear, she was besieged by the attentions of those she had ignored for far too long.

She had tried to assure them she would be returning next weekend, with her new brides, their qahramanah, and even Kadidia—all of those big draws for her curious officers and staff—but they had heard her promise how quickly she would be back so many times, they discounted her assurances to near nothing. This time, they would see she meant it. As much as Fang’s exhaustion concerned her with the possibility something similar could happen to her, she didn’t expect the girls could ever release that much sado-sexual sorcery again. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying to make it happen, she thought happily.

She had told her two girls she would leave them kneeling on the hard stone floor, virtually mummified and immobilized, for about half an hour. In the event, it was between four and five hours later that she finally returned to the honeycomb, casually chatting with the guards posted outside, for a moment before proceeding inside. Entering it, as she finally did, she brought light and noise to what had been a perfectly dark and silent space. But of course, her girls could not be aware of that, with the plugs she had placed in their ears and more-importantly, the triggers she and Kadidia had pushed up inside their bellies. She could strip them of their remaining sense, and indeed their connections to their own bodies, with a thought, anytime she wished; and she was confident they suspected and feared that to be the case. Still, there was no way she was going to give them the satisfaction or certainty of confirming or denying it categorically. Let them feel the creeping uncertainty and loss of confidence in their own awareness of reality, and the limits—if any—of her power that came with such profound uncertainty about something as fundamental as their very connection to the world.

Walking around behind her girls, she stood for a moment and regarded their beautiful backs and hips. They were gorgeous, two of Channah’s best creations, submissive, feminine, eager to please her, kneeling there with their legs spread revealing their little hints of wannabe manhood below their taints—not men. They would never be men. That was never in the cards for her little futas—never had been. Femmebois.

Both girls were showing signs of physical distress, shifting almost constantly, rearranging their legs, even daring to break position for a moment to straighten one leg and then another, pointing and stretching their toes like ballerinas, inadvertently shifting their hips like whores. Penny was shivering slightly, a function of temperature but even more, Channah judged, of anxiety and dread. Chastity moaned and whimpered, little sounds of her own distress, even panic. Chastity seemed to be even more-affected than Penny had been, about the trigger.

Channah felt herself becoming aroused and reflected, not for the first time since she had broken them, how much she enjoyed their sexual ambivalence, and how muc h they made her appreciate her own. It was a combination, she speculated, of their appearance, their submission, the fact she couldn’t drain them without throwing away decades of her own hard work, and the fact she had made them, thought by thought, feeling by feeling, experience by experience, even hip by hip and breast by breast. Oh—and the maddening, fascinating technical “virginity” of her number one whore. And the fact the little bitch’s personality had, so far, made her act and feel almost like a superior little virgin, no matter what Channah subjected her to.

Usually, as much as she enjoyed the transgression of penetrating a boycow, she enjoyed being a woman so much it made her one of the straightest succubae around. And, of course, she reflected smugly, she liked the fact that no one else on Earth or in Hell ever had to compromise less than she did. That was always a fucking turn-on. Something that, she could perhaps admit to herself, had discouraged her from experimenting with her staff side as freely as she might otherwise have done. It almost made her resentful of her girls, for forcing her to abandon—or at least suspend—that conceit, even if it was at her own choice to fulfill her own ambitions. She want to punish them, for making her compromise her own rigid, dominant femininity; and she couldn’t help the feeling they were asking for it, the little two-faced strumpet-prigs. Among a species more sexually-ambivalent than almost any other, being ultra-, exceptionally-, uncompromisingly- feminine was a badge to Channah of her own uniqueness and power.

All of which kind of pissed her off. Well, really pissed her off. At them. Again. The whiny little straitlaced better-than-thou virginal sheltered taffeta-girl wimps!

Regarding their insolent buttocks thrust up at her like challenges—or at the very least, invitations—she felt herself breathing more heavily, her forehead and coccyx twitching with the rising urge to strike and penetrate them both here. She could hardly imagine how badly they would freak out to feel her pushing lube into their sphincters, reminding them of the last time they had thought themselves senseless until she showed them what it really meant…

“Fuck!” She shivered and rolled her eyes, turning away and forcing her thoughts down gentler courses. She should have done these things on the heteraslakos if she were in the mood for it. And she could always do it next weekend. Or the next. Or the one after that….

But she’d already pushed her girls harder than she’d pushed anyone she wanted to be genuinely intimate with before. And she needed them to be intimate with her—needed them to love and trust her and depend on her. She had to rein herself in and give them love they could understand. Love they were more than ready for. Love they did need, and maybe she wanted, just for a little bit—just for fun. Only, she’d made them such perfect demon-bait… too fucking perfect… Only, they drove her so crazy—

Roughly and impulsively, allowing herself to womanhandle them and leave them helpless and lost to sate her own desire to punish and dominate them, she unhooked their collars from the hitching rings. She enjoyed very much how startled and fearful each girl was at the first touch, shocked to feel evidence of anyone else after hours of being lonely and abandoned, even if they had spent those hours pining for her. They were uncertain who was unhitching them and what they would be subjected to next. They had no idea, and no way of finding out.

She yanked the girls to their feet by their shortleashes and, after she was sure they both had enough circulation and feeling in their legs to keep their feet, casually draped the leashes over her shoulders, pulling their chins down right beside her ears and shivering with the feel of their soft skin and softer breath. Pulling and holding the shortleashes tight, she forced the girls to follow her closely while trying not to trip over their Domina or their own feet. She giggled, feeling them struggle and try to move cautiously, fearful that their next step might be on a painful or treacherous or difficult surface, as she led them back into—and through—the honeycomb.

Literature Section “07-02 Honeycomb Funhouse Mindfuck”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 2 of Chapter Seven, “Channah’s Slavegirls: Pawns of the Court of Lust”—1240 words—Accompanying Images: 1984-1995—Published 2025-07-02—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Stories

07-01 The Chamber of Torment III (abridged version)

2025-07-01 admin

*1980 07-01 Massively- (Magically-) Enhanced Interrogation*

*1982 07-01 Aww! He looks so sad and pathetic!*

Explicit version containing gore, graphic violence, and enhanced interrogation themes at 07-01X The Chamber of Torment III at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY: Channah and Rivqah are interrogating Gasparo Orseolo in the Chamber of Torment, the nighttime nerve center of the Venetian Republic. In another part of the Palace, Chava waits nervously for further instructions with the ensorcelled child, Pen, trying not to think about how much time is passing. NOW:

“You evil little roach. You will be spending eternity with us, in hell.”

“No! No, I am a pious man! A churchgoing man! I was confessed just this morning!”

The two succubae laughed vindictively. “And you were torturing prisoners again before we found you tonight, weren’t you?” Channah observed. “Even under your church’s absurd superstitions, you are no innocent. You’re not even good.” She peered at him—into him and through him—with narrowed eyes, ignoring his blubbering protests, before nodding. “Damned as Judas, your filthy, tarnished soul is.”

“My priest—”

“Legerdemain!” Rivqah roared with amusement.

“Prestidigitation!” Channah concurred. “There are no magic spells that can save you from your Maker’s judgment. Your soul is as you have fashioned it. Old men in dresses, chanting and making hand gestures, cannot alter or hide the filth on it—within it—from God.”

“God is merciful!” This idea seemed to incense both of the succubae, but he was doubling down before he could even consider whether it was wise or not: “He will forgive me!”

After taking her own peer at his soul, Rivqah exchanged a wry glance with Channah. “I wouldn’t count on it,” was all Rivqah said.

“I’m going to ask Rivqah to come find you—what’s left of you,” Channah decided.

“Yesss!” Rivqah hissed, her eyes dancing with delight at the prospect.

“And then we’re going to hang you up again and have another little chat,” she nodded to herself, her voice dripping with malice. Channah laughed. “And down there, we can leave you in exactly this position as long as we want. You’ll never pass out or rest. Not in hell. I’m so going to hope you remember this. Enough of it, anyway, to appreciate how right I was, and how wrong you were. So I can really gloat and rub it in.” And seeing his frown of uncertainty and doubt, she shrugged. “It’s true! And quite irritating. You damned little ants can be quite disoriented and overwhelmed by hell. The red shades can’t remember anything specific about their lives. They’re consumed and defined by their lust. White shades,” she pointed to him helpfully “—that’s going to be you, loser—may remember a few details of their Earthly lives, sometimes many of them, or maybe nothing at all. That’s why I had to come interrogate you here, to learn what I need to learn before you forget it.”

“You’re mad! You can’t just—just question me, inside the Doge’s own palace! The guards—”

“Oh!” She and Rivqah smirked at one another. “I see.”

“Are you, perhaps, hoping for a rescue?!” Rivqah snickered.

Channah disappeared and reappeared a foot to the left of where she had been.

“Wha–?!” the Capo gasped, and even Rivqah—the swordswoman—was clearly taken aback by the sudden shift, although she quickly covered up that reaction.

And then, just as suddenly, Channah was standing two feet to the right of where she had been.

“I can stop time itself, Gasparo. And move through it.” And as she saw the hopelessness she had been looking for, creep into his eyes, she laughed throatily with satisfaction. “That’s right. We have all the time in the world we could ever hope for. But if you don’t cooperate with me, I won’t do that. I’ll loiter here, until another Lord of the Night or a night watchman appears with another prisoner to torture, and kill them. Who do you imagine would win, in a contest between us—your army and navy of Venice? Or my demon warriors?”

“Hail, Mary, full—”

“Oh, stop it, sinner!” she laughed, slapping Orseolo brutally across the face, more-than-incidentally pulling on his arms and eliciting another cry of agony from him. “You can’t very well be answering my important questions, when you’re chanting and whimpering, can you? No.”

And when he started up again, not quite rationally, she appeared thoughtful, moving counterclockwise around him until she stood by his left leg. With more force than Orseolo could have imagined, she twisted as hard as she could. With a scream ending in abrupt silence, Orseolo was knocked out from the pain.

He was awakened again, by a ladle-full of cold, stale water (again), hanging in the strappado—again—in the Chamber of Torment, wracked with pain. Again.

“I think we’ve established your leg isn’t dead yet,” Channah reminded him, as his eyes blinked and tried to refocus on the world around him.

“Not dead—what?”

And she barely poked it, eliciting another scream, this one not ending in abrupt unconsciousness.

“Your leg is still alive. But the tourniquet will kill it soon enough.”

“Tourniquet?!” he looked down and wailed again in horror at the rope constricting his left leg. “Oh no,” he gasped, panicking, head twisting back and forth, eyes rolling in his head. “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no….”

“You won’t be bleeding out on us, Gasp-o,” she assured him. “Sorr—eee. But after we kill the leg, we’ll have to continue above the tourniquet. So….” She leaned down and tugged his chin to the left so he couldn’t avoid her eyes. She smiled brightly. “I’d best take advantage of your shattered knee right now, hadn’t I? How did you first come to suspect Anzola was ‘possessed’?” And then she dug her thumb in , shuddering with pleasure as she watched him cry and shudder.

Literature Section “07-01[X] The Chamber of Torment III”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 01 of Chapter Seven, “Channah’s Slavegirls: Pawns of the Court of Lust”—Abridged 896 words::Explicit 1121 words—Accompanying Images: 1980-1983—Published 2025-07-01—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Stories

06-128 The Chamber of Torment II (abridged version)

2025-07-012025-07-01 admin

*1976 06-128 Channah & Rivqah show their cards… and their claws*

*1978 06-128 …and I bet he can take it all the way up to HERE*

Explicit version containing gore, graphic violence, and enhanced interrogation themes at 06-128X The Chamber of Torment II at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY: Channah and Rivqah have just killed two Venetian soldiers and captured two Venetian officials who were supervising their torture of a Venetian prisoner in the Room of Torment of the Doge’s Palace. Now one of Venice’s 3 Capos—who rotate responsibility for day-to-day management of Venice—awakens to find himself bound and hanging by his wrists, which are tied behind his back, with his knee shattered, learning that his captors know him already. NOW:

“Finally. You find yourself in the place you most deserve, Gasparo Orseolo.”

The capo couldn’t conceal the uneasy alarm in his voice. “How—how do you recognize me?!”

The women laughed. “We don’t ‘recognize’ you,” Rivqah assured him.

And Channah explained: “We came for you. We picked a night when you would be on duty here. Because we want to know what you know. Well…” she exchanged an amused glance with Rivqah. “That’s half the truth. They say if you want a thing done right, you should do it yourself. But that’s why I keep charge of training my operatives: to make sure every one of them is trained right. If all I wanted from you was information, I could have sent any one of them here for you tonight. Instead of honoring you—and indeed, all of Venice—with my esteemed presence, and that of my Duchesses, in this little backwater.”

“Backwater?! Duchess—” the Capo looked genuinely incredulous and confused, as well he might. Venice was one of the brightest lights in Latin Christendom, and (in his relatively seasoned and well-informed experience) Duchesses were ladies rather than thieves and assassins. “But—what could you possibly want from me?!”

“24 Sha’ban, 921.”

“What?”

Channah made a circular motion with her hand. “Ahhh…” looking mildly frustrated, she shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter to us.”

“What you would call, um… Wednesday, October 3^rd, anno Domini 1515,” Rivqah clarified, with exaggerated formality.

“Thank you, my dear.”

Orseolo looked discomfited, nervous, and uncertain. “October… October two years ago….” His thoughts were slow, even stuck.

Channah let him fumble around for a moment, her eyes flat and hard. “This one, for your sake, I hope you can remember: Anzola Ipato.”

Orseolo gasped. “You—you are what, her sisters? I promise you—I swear to you in the Lord’s name, the Anzola Ipato I knew, she was not your sister!”

“Oh, yes she was!”

“No, I swear it—your poor sister had departed before I ever met her. The Devil had already taken her! Her body was a vessel for him when she was brought to me. I swear it! Three patricians swore it to me and I confirmed it.”

Both women were incensed, stepping forward, faces contorting with rage. “Liar! She was no devil!”

The Capo’s voice rose several octaves, as if they’d already castrated him: “I swear it! The Archibishop himself confirmed it! Her flesh was scarred by Holy Water—it evaporated on he—”

“You threw holy water on her?!” Channah’s hand shot out to seize his jaw and pinch it, hard, impossibly hard for what Orseolo imagined to be a frail woman.

He was baffled and scared; their reactions completely inappropriate, indeed illogical. “I don’t—I don’t understand, I’m telling you—we tried to save her! We did everything we could to expel the demon from her!”

“You did expel the demon from her, exorcist! And with it, extinguished her ability to live and move in this world!”

“What–?!” No one had ever been more baffled than Gasparo Orseol was in that moment. “Praise be to the Holy Mother Church!”

“Fuck and damn the Holy Mother Church!”

“Who are you?!” He wailed.

And with a sly glance at one another, for his reward, they showed him.

It took him a moment to wrap his mind around what he was seeing, the horns rising from their foreheads, their teeth and fingernails sharpening and lengthening, their skin taking on a ruddy hue under the olive one, and even—though he didn’t spot them until later—their tails extending under their skirts to swirl and brush the floor. But as soon as he did begin to try and make sense of the insensible, to the succubae’s delight, Orseolo started quaking and blithering Catholic incantations: “Hail Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art th—”

“You honor the mother of your lord by urinating?!” the demonesses laughed.

“Wh—what?” Orseolo looked down and sobbed to see the evidence of his own shame on the platform below him. Then he noticed a second puddle, much larger, and of a much darker and stickier liquid, on the same surface but much nearer to his head than his groin. What attracted his attention was movement, of another dark red drop plummeting past him to land in the puddle. Gasping with shock, before even thinking how much sudden motion would hurt him, he craned his neck to look up, his screech of pain turning into a prolonged scream of terror at the sight of his Lord of the Night hanging half a dozen feet above him by the very same rope.

The two demonesses chuckled and shook their heads. “We haven’t even started to torture him properly yet!” Rivqah clucked her disappointment.

The demonesses simply enjoyed his horror and shock, drinking it in and appraising it with experienced eyes for perhaps 2 or 3 minutes, until he came back to them, and to the room around him, well enough to start thinking and calculating and—this was the sweetest to them—hoping and praying as desperately as he was fearing and dreading, all at once plunged into a complex mixture of emotions and thoughts.

As his eyes came back into focus on Channah’s, Channah asked him conversationally: “You’re an experienced torturer. What are the advantages of the strappado?”

“Wh—what?”

“Over, say… the Judas seat. Or…” she raised her hand, holding an exquisitely-detailed and -inlaid dagger with a radically curved blade. “a simple blade?”

“I don’t—I—I—”

“Oh, I am disappointed,” Channah professed, shaking her head and frowning. “First question, and a simple one. And not even a state secret, by any stretch of the imagination. And you can’t answer it. It’s so easy: Longevity. Specifically, yours.” She shrugged. “Relatively speaking, of course. You know you’re going to die where you hang, don’t you?”

“What?” he barked hoarsely, like a small dog kicked in the stomach.

“You’re never going to leave that rope,” she explained slowly, as if speaking to a small child. “Not inside your body, anyway. Never going to know another second free of pain.” She tut-tutted, as if there were something about the situation she regretted, rather than relished. “Never going to be happy again.”

“Hallelujah, I will when I join my Lord—”

And here both of them laughed, a sharp, mocking cackle with a supreme confidence that rattled the Capo. “Oh, is that where you think you’re headed?” Channah could barely contain her mirth.

Literature Section “06-128[X] The Chamber of Torment II “—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 128 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Abridged 1087 words::Explicit 1200 words—Accompanying Images: 1976-1979—Published 2025-06-30—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Stories

06-127 The Chamber of Torment I (abridged version)

2025-06-292025-06-30 admin

*1973 06-127 We’re gonna fuck you up so hard*

*1975A 06-127 Before: You’re just WOMEN!…*

*1975C 06-127 After: … for whom I have only the utmost respect!*

Explicit version containing graphic violence, gore, and enhanced interrogation themes at 06-127X The Chamber of Torment I at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY: Channah and Rivqah have just killed two Venetian soldiers and captured two Venetian officials and a Venetian prisoner being subjected to strappado, in the torture room of the Council of Ten. NOW:

The prisoner continued to moan and struggle, but the other sounds—sounds of movement and violence—abruptly ended. Channah had already begun to move to her left, keeping her arrow trained on one Venetian official while remaining mindful of the second official face-down on the floor before her with his arms extended to the sides. Cautiously, she darted a glance toward the middle of the room, nodding with satisfaction to see Rivqah was the only figure standing.

The two of them remained motionless and silent, eyes on their respective prey, listening intently for any sound of alarm.

The Capo began: “What is the me—”

“Shh!” Channah hissed, with sufficient force, and a gesture from her bow, that the Capo fell silent while the interlopers listened for a beat, two, three, four, and five.

Channah flicked her eyes back to the middle of the room, meeting Rivqah’s, and raised her chin questioningly. Rivqah shook her head slightly in response, and both women relaxed.

“Stay still until we get to you,” Channah barked at the two men in front of her, watching the Capo’s eyes widen at the sound of her voice, while Rivqah sheathed her sword and returned to the wall, unwound the rope, and let the prisoner down. He groaned and wept in an odd, sobbing combination of pain, and much-greater relief from the weight finally coming off of his arms. Still holding the pulling end of the rope, she released the man’s arms from the hanging end, and helped him off the platform to a standing position on the ground.

“Thank you! Thank you!” the prisoner wailed gratefully. “My arms—please—for the love of God—” the man pleaded, sincerely, turning his back towards her.

Emotionlessly, Rivqah spun him to face her and pushed him backwards to the wall, where she tied the lifting end of the rope back to the ring in the wall, and then tied his arms to the ring, ignoring his sad and pitiful whimper. “Do. Not. Try. To. Escape.” She commanded, staring into his pain-wracked eyes with her own, ice-cold ones, satisfied by his brief nod and hanging head.

“You’re women!” the Capo cried out in surprise, and then humiliation immediately turning to a hard, contemptuous rage. “Just women!”

Rivqah had already moved to join Channah, stepping around the table and grabbing the Capo by the shoulder of his expensive robe.

Imagining he saw his chance, the Capo cried: “Let’s take them!” as he spun towards Rivqah, who stepped back—yanking him off-balance by tugging on his robe—even as she executed a side-kick into his knee, the Capo fell to the ground, never to stand again. When Rivqah pitilessly dragged him further towards her, to pull him out from behind his table, the twisting and turning of his ruined knee elicited a sharp scream and then silence as he became unconscious.

The Lord of the Night, gamely—or, perhaps, with a foolish, misplaced, misogynistic self-contempt—responding to his superior’s cry, pulled his arms and feet in towards his body, gathering himself to rise to his feet. His effort was killed instantly and decisively by Channah’s boot, which she raised and slammed down on the back of his head, knocking him unconscious, his arms and legs falling slack with the rest of his body as blood pooled on the floor.

Channah and Rivqah exchanged another glance and shrugged, like: “well, so much for them.” Then they both turned their faces toward the prisoner to make sure he wasn’t trying to take advantage of the ruckus to get loose. If he’d thought about it, maybe even tested his bonds in the initial seconds after the Capo cried out, he wasn’t doing so now. Now, he was looking towards them, appalled, his face whiter than the rest of him, shrinking back towards the wall as if it might shelter him.

When the Capo stirred back into consciousness, light reaching his eyes through his fluttering lids, he felt cold water rapidly warming on his face, the room swimming slowly back into focus.

Blinking, he found himself facing two of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life. Despite the sweat on their faces; despite the tangled state of their black hair after peeling off their hoods and masks; and despite their middle age—thirties or forties, he guessed, although it was hard to tell precisely because their olive skin glowed with the vigor of youth, even as their dark hawklike eyes regarded him with the cold, acute scrutiny of the most hardened and wizened crones—the two of them were unimaginably lovely. So lovely, in fact, they made the most expensive courtesans and the most-desirable debutante noblewomen of Venice look common enough. “Angels…” he gasped before he was entirely alert, even as he was noticing the wood-paneled wall and the shocked, terrified prisoner pressing himself tightly back against the wall behind them.

Memory came flooding back as his body alerted him to the most extreme kind of pain, more than anything he had felt since he was shot fighting the Turks over a generation ago; more than he could have even imagined before that injury. His knee, shoulders, elbows, and wrists stung and burned worse than any sting or burn he could conceive of.

“It hurts! It hurts worse than I—” he screamed. And as full recollection reminded him where he was, he screamed again, twice as terrified to see the corners of the women’s mouths turning up, delighting in his cries.

“Angels…” the swordswoman, now holding an empty ladle, returning it to the water bucket near her feet, sneered.

“Of a kind,” the archer smirked. “You are surprised to be in pain? You know where you are, yes? Where we found you?”

“The Chamber of Torment,” he sobbed.

“The Chamber of Torment,” the archer practically purred. “But not your usual seat. Capo.” The word was spoken with all the venom and hatred of a viper.

“My arms! My leg—” and then he cried in horror, memory and recognition finally completely returned.

“I think you’re a little overdue for this chair, don’t you?” And with a vindictiveness that shook him even deeper: “And unlike the… I’m going to guess, thousands of others who came to sit here before you, you came into this room voluntarily, didn’t you? Like you knew you deserved to be here. Gasparo Orseolo.”

Literature Section “06-127[X] The Chamber of Torment I”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 127 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Abridged 1067 words::Explicit 1173 words—Accompanying Images: 1972-1973—Published 2025-06-28—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Stories

06-126 Death in Venice (abridged version)

2025-06-262025-06-24 admin

*1970 06-126 Lord of the Night’s last moment of contentment*

Explicit version containing gore, graphic violence, and enhanced interrogation themes at 06-126X Death in Venice at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY: Channah and Rivqah are concealed on the stairway, just below the floor line of the interrogation room of the Council of Ten, seeing one of their primary targets—a Capo of Venice—and a Lord of the Night before them, but aware from the noise that someone was being tortured beyond their line of sight to their left. They have agreed Channah will break right and Rivqah, left on the count of three. NOW:

Three counts later, Rivqah exploded up and forward, Channah nearly on top of her, so close if either of them had slipped the momentum of the other would have taken them both to the floor. Other than their boots drumming on the wood, they remained silent until they were noticed. It was the Capo who, frowning with irritation wondering who would be barging into his domain creating work for him, flicked his eyes towards them first. Channah, her metabolism and nerves on overdrive, imagined she could actually see his eyes begin to widen as he saw her coming out of the darkness, barreling towards him, the plague-mask magnifying his shock and alarm, forcing him to deal with two different surprises at once.

To further throw him off-balance, Channah let out a blood-curdling scream, echoed a second later by Rivqah. The Lord of the Night spun around to identify the threat, wide-eyed and empty-handed, just in time to offer his crotch to her. She accepted his invitation with alacrity, and with a violent kick containing every last bit of adrenaline and seething rage she was feeling. “Stand and surrender!” she demanded of the Capo, her arrow pointed straight in his eye, and he did, immediately, his hands shooting straight up in the air. Thus tamed, she looked down and kicked the howling magistrate: “Take your hands off your cock and spread them where I can see them on the floor!” And when he didn’t immediately do so, she barked: “Do it now, or I swear I’ll nail your head to the floor with my arrow!”

With a frightened wail, he extended his arms, not perfectly, but well enough.

While Channah had charged forward, Rivqah had pivoted to the left, immediately spotting more-or-less what she had surmised would be awaiting her: a big, burly, hirsute man with olive skin dangling from a rope tied tightly around his wrists, behind his back, dangling above a waist-high wooden platform spattered with blood and sweat. The rope went straight up to the high ceiling at right angles to the horizon, almost two stories high, then through a heavy iron ring embedded in the ceiling, and back down at an angle to where the other end was tied to another iron ring embedded in the wall at about chest height. His figure was sandwiched between those of two rough, thuggish, laughing Venetian soldiers, their red cuirasses set aside for ease of movement while they worked their prisoner over. One was hanging like a monkey from the long rope, near where it was tied to the wall, jumping up so that when he fell back down again, the weight of his body jerked the rope hard, making the prisoner cry out. The other was using a long staff to hit the prisoner whenever he saw a moment of vulnerability, adding a horizontal dimension to the vertical dance called out by his partner on the rope.

The two goons were clearly cannon-fodder, without any knowledge of interest to the succubae; and that near-instantaneous appraisal signed their death-warrants. With no value, they were only threats. And she saw no need to tolerate extinguishable threats.

Stick-boy was armed and standing, on balance, and thus the bigger and more-immediate threat. But she could hardly reach him without passing and exposing her back to unarmed monkey-boy; nor could stick-boy reach her for 2-3 seconds. Even if he was capering about idiotically now, monkey-boy would become a threat immediately if he could produce a knife from the back of his belt.

In any event, she moved to the left first, slashing monkey-boy’s neck and watching with momentary interest as his stupid grin collapsed into what Rivqah judged was a far-more-comical look of surprise. His last act, sitting dejectedly on the floor like a child’s sad, discarded, stuffed monkey, was to try and stop the blood pouring from his neck by clapping his hands over the gash in near-imitation of the Confucian maxim to speak not what was contrary to propriety. Sadly, it was a finale without an audience, because before he could complete the gesture, Rivqah was already turning and raising her blade defensively to meet the second soldier.

A bit slow off the mark, he had hesitated a beat or two as his mind tried to make sense of what was happening around him—precisely as the succubae had intended with their speed of attack and shrill battle cries. Rivqah met him halfway around the back of the dangling prisoner, seeing he had raised his stick over his head intending to bring it down on her head in a killing blow. Either he badly underestimated her, or the Venetians only used the staff as an implement of torture, for he was clearly not trained as a soldier to do battle with it.

She thrust her blade towards his heart, and he, to his credit, managed to check and reverse his forward momentum, even as he began turning the staff from its slow, clunky, all-or-nothing coup-de-grace position toward a more-convenient and better-balanced position that might actually serve him on both defense and offense. Alas for him, sound tactics had asserted themselves too late. Rivqah’s initial thrust having barely scratched his chest, Rivqah, snorting and spitting in frustration like a Tasmanian Devil, whipped her own blade back and, judging the guard’s stick moving fast enough to give him a good chance of protecting his neck or even chest, flicked the blade forward and in a downward arc, slicing open the man’s stomach.

Rivqah, something of a student of the human face—especially in battle and in sex—observed with interest as his face, too, began to transform in the moment of his mortal injury, from surprise and rage, to agony, fear, and perhaps just a touch of resignation. As if in slow-motion, his hands loosened and the stick began to drop out of his fingers as he reached to protect his belly, or perhaps to try and repair the damage she had done. A moment later, Rivqah slashed again, this time opening him up and watching with interest as he suffered the ignominy of slipping to the floor. Not to put him out of his misery, but to protect their mission and allow them to communicate normally, she stepped forward, sighing with irritation, and cut his neck wide open.

Just like that, the battle had ended as abruptly as it had begun a few moments before.

Literature Section “06-126[X] A Murder of Crows IV”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 126 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1072 words::Explicit 1163 words—Accompanying Images: 1968-1972—Published 2025-05-26—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Stories

06-125 A Murder of Crows III

2025-06-252025-06-24 admin

PREVIOUSLY: After eliminating the guards in the courtyard of the Doge’s Palace, Channah and Rivqah race along the loggia towards their assigned entry door near the front of the palace. Chava and her little boy separate from them near the middle of the palace, while Miryam remains behind in disguise, in place of the dead guards. NOW:

Channah and Rivqah didn’t pause until they reached the double entryway to the Stairway of the Censors. Checking quickly for any sign of movement or human presence, and detecting none, Channah pulled open one door even as Rivqah tumbled through it, landing on her feet on one side of the door while Channah tumbled to the other, both of them trying to minimize the time they would be framed in silhouette against the lesser darkness of the courtyard.

After a tense moment, scanning the darkness as quickly as possible—ideally, before any Venetian guards spotted them and attacked—they relaxed as soon as they determined they were alone here and undetected. The palace seemed quiet and deserted, except for muffled cries coming from somewhere up the stairs.

With a glance, Rivqah transferred her crossbow and bolts to Channah, drew her sidearm in her left hand, a falchion with a short curved blade, and darted up the right side of the stairway. Like most of Channah’s operatives based in the West, she was most familiar with the curved swords that dominated the wealthier, better-educated, more-civilized Muslim world most of them occupied. Channah herself was considering relocating from Cairo back to Constantinople; and normally used a shamshir. But the sight of such a blade would have attracted attention in Venice, so Rivqah carried the ancient Greek falchion, undergoing a revival in Italy and other parts of Europe. She had been trained in a wide variety of swords.

Channah waited, scanning and listening, until Rivqah reached the tenth step, then began moving up the left side of the stairs after her. Rivqah peered carefully around the landing at the top of the staircase, waiting tight up against the right-hand wall at the base of the second flight, while Channah reached the landing, sweeping broadly to the wall on the opposite side of the stairs and slipping along it to the far corner, crossbow trained on the top of the stairs, where the low flickering light of candles or torches coming from somewhere further on gave them the advantage, down in the darkness of the stairwell.

Rivqah then began moving again. As she approached the top of this staircase she moved to the left, motioning Channah to the right as she remained on the top stair watching to the left. When Channah reached the top of the staircase, she saw what Rivqah had seen: a third, short and much narrower stairway to their left. From here, the cries were much louder, and between them lower groans of pain were now audible, overlapping with two other, impatient voices demanding information and cooperation between the screams.

Channah slipped to the right, across the landing in front of them, crossbow aimed at the top of the third staircase. With another glance, and a slight nod, Channah raised her crossbow to the ceiling while Rivqah crept up the third staircase. If she fired into the stairway now, the only thing she could reasonably expect to hit would be her own sister. She moved to the bottom of the stairs, keeping only her eyes trained at the third floor. Rivqah ducked as she approached the top, stopping in a crouched position with her eyes barely above floor level as she scanned what she could.

With a glance back, she signaled 2 to the right, unknown to the left, suggesting she didn’t have a direct line of sight to the left without exposing her position to the two on the right, but there were voices coming from that direction. Not the best situation to face; but on the bright side, it wasn’t like they were interrupting a church service. The occupants of this room were torturing another human being, without any effort to muffle their screams. In her experience, most humans who hadn’t become completely inured to torture preferred to move out of earshot whenever it occurred, because they found it unpleasant. And the minority who enjoyed it were drawn to it like flies to manure; they’d be in the room, almost on top of it. All of that gave the succubae a lot of latitude for making noise. They could, quite literally, scream and still blend. Well, more or less.

Missiles? Channah signaled.

None to the right, unknown to the left, Rivqah responded.

Considering the width of the building, Channah couldn’t imagine there was too much open distance to the left. Still… She crept up behind Rivqah, pressing up against her back to see nearly what she saw in the crowded space at the top of the stairs. On the right was a long desk, three chairs wide, closed in front, with a candelabra sitting on it to provide light. Behind the desk sat a gray-haired man in elaborate robes of expensive fabric, talking to an equally gray but otherwise lesser man—in proportions, in status, and certainly finery—who wore a neat but simple and unexceptional robe, standing with his back to them.

The seated man, she knew immediately, was the Capo, a member of Venice’s ancient and privileged patrician class, rulers of the Republic for the better part of a millennium. Knowing from her mission planning, exactly who he was, she felt the faint ache of her horns, claws, and fangs straining to erupt, an instinct she was barely able to restrain in the nick of time.

The other man would have to be, she thought, the Venetian Lord of the Night for San Marco—night commander, judge, and all-purpose representative of the Venetian state in this district of the city during the hours of darkness. He had five counterparts in the other districts of the city; and some nights their business brought them together here. But evidently not tonight; if it had, they would all be gathered around that table, or outside the torture chamber altogether. If she’d seen this fellow on the street, she would have guessed he was a shopkeeper or clerk, perhaps a merchant on the make but not yet worthy of consideration for marriage into or other admission to the ruling class. She tended to doubt the Venetians would tolerate giving anyone other than a patrician the title “Lord.” So perhaps he was of an ancient family that had fallen on hard times.

Both of the men were old, for humans; and would be unlikely to pose a grave threat. They were both examining a parchment as they talked, so their attention was focused elsewhere. She doubted the standing man could turn around before she was upon him.

Leaning into Rivqah’s neck and enjoying the smell of her, she whispered “I’ll try to take both of them alive. You take the left; I doubt any of them will matter. If you need me, shout at me to turn.” Rivqah nodded her understanding, managing to tickle Channah’s cheek with her hair. With a final “on 3,” Channah slipped back to give her room.

Literature Section “06-125 A Murder of Crows III”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 125 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Abridged 1150 words—Accompanying Images: 1964-1967—Published 2025-06-25—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

Category: Stories