PREVIOUSLY: Channah, a Queen of Hell, for reasons of her own, has married two human transgender girls she is taking through the Hell of Lust to reach their honeymoon destination. But before they get there, she’s going to test their exhibitionistic limits. NOW:
As Fury, Channah’s steed, powered the ascent of their chariot into the sky, the screaming of the demons and devils below rose to a new and more-frantic pitch and they began jumping and then trying to climb on top of one another as if to catch hold of a chariot rim or axle, even after it would have been clear to any rational mind that doing so was impractical.
As the chariot surged and rocked, the girls screamed, braced themselves harder, and began gulping wine. Sipping proved impossible because they knew they daren’t risk spilling wine on their gorgeous white dresses, so they had to wrap their lips firmly around the bottlenecks before tipping them up.
The chariot was almost immediately the height of three men above the ground, then six, then nine, then quickly a height greater than either of the girls had ever experienced or even imagined. With a wide-eyed slack-jawed glance at one another they raised their bottles for another drink. Penny was hardly able to open her eyes, and yet at the same time unable to resist the queasy thrill of taking in the dramatic scene unfolding beneath her. As they rose in the air it seemed to grow slightly less rotten with brimstone and the sand, mercifully, seemed to have been left behind closer to its home in the shifting dunes.
Everything grew smaller and quieter below them, and soon they were able to see a greater distance, down and from horizon to horizon, than their eyes had ever encompassed before. The sheer dimensions of it were overwhelming enough by themselves. Channah’s realm was revealed as a burning red desert of such scale the mind wanted to reclassify the fantastical and utterly-unique volcanic rock formations that punctured the sanguine powdered sea as commonplace and fungible; a set so numerous, surely not one of them could be truly matchless.
The black rocks now looked like holes through the floor of hell into a bottomless black pit below, distinguished only, if at all, by their outlines. At the same time, almost every feature within the glowing burnt-orange sand flattened and blurred until it looked like an endless and monotonous moth-eaten rug thrown over the abyss. The tiny red figures shrank and merged until they were only visible where they clustered around the satanikoklus, and then the figures themselves were lost behind the waning light of their torches. Then the stone walls and the activity within them became a mere abstract pattern of whites and crimsons interrupting the bloody endless orange, with the ruler-straight stone road like a latitude line under them, pointing the way for Channah and Fury. As they got enough distance, the girls realized the main road did not end or even bisect the satanikoklus. Instead, it passed some distance, perhaps leagues, from the satanikoklus, to and from destinations unknown in either direction, with a shorter road of slightly-brighter (new?) stone connecting the square in the settlement to the main road.
There came a point when the ground seemed so far away, so remote and unreal, that the fear of falling subsided. It wasn’t imminent or even tangible enough to register as a real thing, and so it became a mere idea. Even though they could feel the rapid motion of the chariot, it didn’t correspond to any infinitesimal change in their position above the landscape, and this detached their senses from the earthbound world below, bringing them into another: the serenity of space.
They kept expecting to reach the stars and perhaps the moon. Surely they would get close enough to them to really comprehend them and study them in detail, up close. But no matter how high they rose in the hellish sky, there was nothing to see. Not one thing, not a star, not a reflection, not a half-sensed motion detected from the corner of an eye, to break or even vary the endless inky blackness, leaving it without form or dimension. The mind—or was it the body?—even yearned for the maddening sand to hit it again and help make things more real. The moment the ground ceased to be relevant and real, acrophobia was replaced by a weird stomach-churning juxtaposition of claustrophobia and agoraphobia, their physical forms unable to tell if they were alone and separate from everything in a petrifying unreachable nothingness, or drowning in a terrifying, unrelenting, crushing ocean of darkness.
They had no reference-point, no reality, except the hollow chariot they sat in, one another—who they could bond with in mutual fear—and the self-assured woman riding her horse in front of them, leading them without any apparent hesitance or doubt to the safety and certainty of her chosen destination. Between draughts of wine, they held hands for comfort, daring to allow a few inches of space between their bodies and the firm chariot walls so they could feel the comfort of one another’s hips, sides, shoulders, and warmth. And their eyes locked on the woman—their woman, their Domina—they knew and understood and, well, trusted with their very lives, wishing she were sitting here between them with her arms around them, laughing at the pliant and accommodating world she seemed to live fearlessly in.
They were so disconnected from the landscape below that at first they didn’t even notice their Queen was leading them back down into hell. Chas squeezed Penny’s hand firmly, bringing her attention back to her own physical senses, and startling them into realizing they had actual, useful information for her again. Penny swallowed and looked backwards, daring to move despite her body’s demand for the security of perceived stability, and could not recognize anything behind them except the white line of the road disappearing into sand, long before it reached the horizon.
As the desert shrank before them, and its features expanded and swam back into focus, they immediately distinguished a pattern of stone and fire and eventually movement up ahead of them, at the point where the direct line of the straight road from the distant satanikoklus ended, before splitting like a “Y” and proceeding at different angles to the horizons ahead of them.
Literature Section “06-61 Hella Honeymoon XVII”—Part 61 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1026 words—Accompanying Images: 1589, 1591-1592—Published 2025-04-13—©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.