Tag: transgender

1799 06-89 Protect me, Channah!
1800 06-89 Channah shields Penny from the storm
1801 06-89 Tarnished Savior
1802 06-89 Scarlet Angel

PREVIOUSLY:  Penny is isolated without being able to sense anything about space, time, the world, or even her own body.  She is so isolated she wonders if she even existed or if her memories are the imaginations of a momentary consciousness flickering in nothingness.  NOW:

The first moment was overwhelming.

As everything returned, she felt completely overloaded by light, sound, smell, taste, feeling, gravity, movement, her frantic heartbeat, her panicked breath.

Data crashed in, fired like musket balls and flung at her like buckets of scalding water, crushing her from all directions at once, as if her entire existence was being obliterated by fire.  There was so much of it that when the assault began it meant everything and nothing at once. 

She had been searching for a whisper or a flutter of distant candlelight, any tiny thing to break the nothingness.  And instead, she had been hit by thunderous screaming and a burst of direct sunlight straight in her eyes.

It all happened so fast, after the utter stillness of before.  But it took a moment for her brain and body to accelerate and re-synchronize with the raging torrent of water and the speeding avalanche of life.  She experienced that glacial moment as forever, and it would stick with her always, even as she struggled to remember already, what the utter stillness and absence that had preceded it had really been like.

Then her body and mind started processing data again, remembering they had once done so normally and routinely, and falling back into their well-worn tracks to move forward.

She felt the sharp tug at her bottom and then the gentle, warm hand between her legs removing it and casting it away, as the last of the wicked plug left her behind, ending her total violation and occupation, even as it allowed her to start trying to process what she had been through, in a way she hadn’t been able to reach when she was… gone.

Next, seconds and minutes later, she started making sense of everything else.

The smell of frankincense, myrrh, opium, and the very very essential and musky scent of one unique woman, maybe even something too deep for conscious awareness, embraced Penny with the certain knowledge of where she was, fundamentally and totally:  Domina!   She was with, held close and tight by, her Domina.

That was the essence, the meaning, of everything.  Of being back:  She was safe, back in the arms of her Domina.

She moued in joy and relief and safety and love.

From that core of certainty, her awareness felt secure enough to widen back to something like normality. 

She was lying on her back on a soft, warm bed, cradled in her Domina’s warm, gentle arms.  The air was hot and moist—hell insistently reminding her where they were, even before the low, distant roar of a thousand worried voices and the clanking, booming jangle of the band faintly sounding at the very threshold of perception, told her she had not moved too far.  Persuading her she had not been away for too long, no matter that it felt like a lifetime, the wall between before and after that… whatever it had been, so massive and high she could not even see back over it to gauge how different her place was now.

She felt her Domina’s cheek against her forehead; Channah’s reassuring arms and breasts cradling her neck and shoulders; Channah’s silky smooth dress against her bare flesh; Channah’s legs wrapped protectively around her bare ones; Channah’s boots resting on Penny’s bare feet and ankles, possessing her in a profoundly comforting way.

She was safe in the arms of her Domina, and to Penny, in that moment, they were nothing but loving and assuring and inspiring and protecting her, like a mother and wife and nurse all wrapped up together as one.  Then her brain sighed, putting all the comparisons together:

Duh.  Like an angel.

No.  Not just like one.  Whatever had happened to her, however she had fallen, Channah was an angel, and no one had ever felt that truth more strongly than Penny did in that moment.  Penny’s heart leapt as she realized she, literally, had a guardian angel!  Penny felt the full and wonderful import of that now, a feeling of peace like she had never known before.

“Domina!”  Penny sobbed, immediately crying, finding her arms and using them to roll slightly to her right.  With her left arm (her right arm trapped between them), she hugged her angel with desperate joy.  She wanted to wrap all her limbs around her Domina, but after what she had been through, the fact Channah was controlling her and constraining her—and Penny could feel her mastery—was the most reassuring and wonderful feeling in the world.

Limitations of any kind were real; they were the certainty confirming she was not alone and nowhere.  She could remember their absence from her banishment, more keenly than she could remember anything specific about what the banishment itself had felt like.  But that—that horrible interruption in her existence—was the last thing she wanted to think about now.

She broked down and wept, chest heaving, wracked with sobs, in Channah’s arms as her Domina wrapped and swathed her reassuringly, comforting her with her warmth, and her protective envelopment, and her throaty murmurs of reassurance:  “It’s okay, baby.  It’s all right.  You’re back here with me, darling.  That’s all that matters.  My sweet girl.”  She kissed the top of Penny’s head, sliding against Penny’s hair and the sense of softness from her lips even touching Penny’s skull.  She had one arm under Penny’s head and shoulders, and Penny burrowed her face into the crook between Channah’s breast and arm, staining her beautiful brocade with Penny’s salty tears, Channah not caring in the least about clothing no matter how precious, when her little girl needed to be comforted and welcomed back.  And Channah’s voice and manner and words and gestures and even excited heartbeat, everything about her, confirmed that, how true her compassion was.  “My little honey bear.  Oh… ohhh, my little darling.  There, there.  You’re safe.  You’re safe in my arms, sugar.” 

One hand held Penny’s shoulder firmly, while the other patted and stroked Penny’s back and side.  Meanwhile, Channah’s booted feet wrapped themselves around Penny’s naked ones, her upper heel hooking around Penny’s ankles and gently pulling them on top of her other leg.  Penny leaned in harder to her, face buried completely in Channah’s breast, wrapped in and enraptured by the sweet, distinctive perfume of her amazing body, the totality of her presence, the bliss of being in complete communion with her. 

Channah’s dominance over Penny, in every category that might be compared—spiritual and physical, emotional and rational, sensory and force of personality—was total.

And Penny knew it, deeply, profoundly, and intensely, in that moment.

Physically, as an angel, Channah was unnaturally strong and magnetically attractive, while Penny was, ultimately, only human; something paler and less than the stuff of heaven itself.

Mentally and emotionally, in addition to whatever undoubted angelic or demonic superpowers of hypnosis and seduction Channah had, she had hundreds of human lifespans’ worth of experience and practice, versus Penny’s worldly body and single life that were only just getting underway in earnest.

And Channah was in her own element, one she had centuries of familiarity with; while Penny was just returning from a place more distant than she could have conceived of before, a place that made Fang’s heteraslakos in the Hell of Lust, seem as familiar and nostalgic and homey as the half-remembered, more-imagined gentle Buckinghamshire countryside where the person Penny had once been, innocent little Pen, lived with his parents before their deaths.  Before Cambridgeshire and the manipulative demons, before Venice and his cold aunt, there where he had been whole, a child cared for as a child actually should be cared for, with the parents every child should have.  After what she had just been through, in the preceding moments, and even in the past days of her hazing, lying here in sweet Channah’s arms truly felt like the soft, pastel imagamemories of early childhood.

Situationally, of course, they were in Channah’s world—literally, an entire world owned and ruled by her—whereas Penny was not merely lost, not merely out of her bailiwick, she was outside of the very world she had grown up in.

Channah had brought Penny here, surrounded her by what Channah wanted surrounding her, even dressed her—when she had still been dressed, and in a way, now that she was completely vulnerable and naked—exactly as Channah wanted her to be.  This place, that Channah seemed to know well—to thrive in—that was somehow very important to the succubae, could not have been more alien, or less comfortable, let alone natural or connected, to Penny.  It jarred with her soul like a sword being scraped blade-edge-down against a stone.  In sum, Channah had Penny exactly where she wanted her and how she wanted her.

Channah was even fully-dressed, assertively to match her personality, whereas Penny wore nothing, as naked and vulnerable as a newborn baby in her mother’s arms.  Well, Penny wore nothing that could protect her or strengthen her or help her; she had only Channah for. that.  The only thing on her body was her master’s tiny cage, binding her and marking her as Channah’s virginal property.  And there was the only thing, the terrible thing inside her, which her mind could not even bring itself to think about but she felt as a great unsettled discomfort, reminding her of her vulnerability:  Channah literally held her and controlled her, inside and out.  As she had definitively demonstrated by sending Penny away from everything with an embarrassing and uncomfortable, but ultimately simple, plug.

Channah and Penny were so connected, so completely bonded to one another, that they seemed to feel it rising, not merely simultaneously, but together, as one:

Even as Penny’s heart leapt with the urge to kiss her Domina, she felt the hand that had been soothing her back brush lovingly across her ribs to take her chin, and gently, gently lift her face to Channah’s, giving Penny’s abashed eyes time to gather their courage and rise, until…

Their eyes locked, their hearts and breaths synchronized, and while Penny’s mouth opened in wordless,  silent, passive amazement and awe, Channah spoke and acted assertively, for both of them, as seemed only right and natural from now on, whispering:  “Oh, my rhythm.  My basis.  My love.”

Then, turning her head as she leaned forward, Channah crushed her lips against Penny’s and pressed her tongue inside Penny’s receptive mouth, just enough to make it clear she could and did rule even that place.

Literature Section “06-89 Channah & Penny 4ever I”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 89 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1754 words—Accompanying Images:  1799-1802—Published 2025-05-11—©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.


1732 06-86 Esmeray’s Torment
1733 06-86 Heathcliff?!
1734 06-86 Hong analyzes Esmeray like a bug trapped in a jar
1735 06-86 Hong’s Mercy

PREVIOUSLY:  Channah extended her arm straight out towards the tangled knot of clothed qahramanat and naked jawari, snapping her fingers decisively in command.  “Don’t you dare let the truth-speaker go.  Keep her here, in the hetaraslakos.  Do not break the ritual.  Bind her if you can, but I want her conscious and don’t you dare let her interrupt us again!  Then mount them both on the rails!”  “You biiiiiiitch!” Esmeray screeched, and “Yes, Domina,” Hong solemnly swore, and “Yes, My Liege!” the four naked girls imitated Fang.  NOW:

Hong commanded one of her girls in Mandarin, who ran to the other side of the platform while Hong and her other three Hongettes struggled to wrestle the howling, flailing, fuming Esmeray over onto her belly so they could get her under control. 

“Get your filthy paws off me you gorillas!”  Hong’s eyes narrowed at the insult, taking it at first as racist, taking advantage of an opportunity to seize Esmeray’s arm in the first step of a wushu hold.  “Don’t touch me with your naked filth!  I promise god I will destroy the—the filth—AAUGH!” the last sound was more one of frustration at her inability to find words damning enough to express what she was feeling, than any reaction to the physical stresses being placed upon her.

Hong executed her arm-lock, twisting Esmeray’s arm upwards behind her back and eliciting a sharp scream of pain. 

“BIIIITTCHH!”  Esmeray screamed, which Hong understood, and then baffled her:  “Keep your naked monkeys off me!”

Hong was taken aback.  She was straddling the crazy gwáinòuh’s hips now, with her left knee on one side and her right boot on the other, rolling Esmeray’s bent arm away from its natural position and placing extreme stress on it, while her submissives—theoretically trained in the martial arts, but obviously not as seriously as Hong—were wrestling as ineffectively as Hong was fighting.  Honghua and Hongjiao were using every ounce of their arm strength to fight Esmeray’s powerful leg muscles, while Hongan was at imminent risk of learning how much stronger jaw muscles were than fingers, if she kept trying to hold Esmeray’s head still by gripping her chin.

Was Esmeray stupid?  Hong wondered.  Jawari were one thing.  Jawari could be little air-headed ninnies (and Hong often thought her girls were) as long as they were attractive enough and sporting enough.  And apparently, according to the screaming devils below, it was quite possible for qahramanat to arouse them while being completely out of their minds.  But a qahramanah could not be stupid—and she had not seemed stupid to Hong, at first.

Then, as Hongzhi hurried back into view, carrying her irons, which Hong had commanded her to fetch, it all clicked into place:  This woman, who hardly paid attention to a submission hold, and kept talking about naked monkey parts, shuddered and stilled the moment she set eyes on the irons.  Her language wasn’t about race.

“Please no.  Please, no!”  voice plunging from a scream to a frightened moan, resistance evaporating, practically limp in their arms, moving only her head to shake it, Esmeray pleaded.  “I’ll be good.  I’ll be good.  I promise, I’ll be good.  See?  See?  You can hurt me it’s okay but please don’t please don’t use—use those.  PLEASE!”

And as Hong put the pieces together, she shuddered, as if she had taken a sudden chill.  Hong was not shy, or delicate, or squeamish, or easily intimidated, or scared, or timid, or submissive—she had been a best-in-class alpha as long as she could remember.  Even her parents’ stories of her childhood portrayed her that way.  She had faced, and faced down, monsters and threats aplenty in her own life.  But the things she had seen, the women who hadn’t been as strong as her—like her own sister….  In an instant, Hong knew the essence of Esmeray’s story, and without surrendering her hold or her control, she eased back on the stress to end the deliberate pain.

She shook her head at Hongzhi to pause, considering.  Esmeray was acting as if she had finally figured out what Hong and her girls had known since the moment they’d first engaged:  clearly, Hong was the only decently-trained fighter among them; a match for Esmeray’s size and heavier than her jawari, who were deliberately chosen for being petite, among other stereotypically-female features the succubae considered predictive of success in the tasks they would be assigned.  But…

“I’m sorry.  My Domina’s orders were clear.”  She nodded at Hongzhi to come closer:  “To restrain you.”

“She said if—if!”  Esmeray wailed.  Hong was surprised she had had the presence of mind to register Channah’s words so accurately.  “She said she wanted me conscious and you daren’t let me interrupt her again, I know!  But she said to bind me if!”

“If I can,” Hong finished the sentence, adding reasonably:  “And I can.”

“No!  That’s not true!”

“You doubt my ability to restrain you?” she inquired, momentarily applying more pressure.

“No, no I don’t, I—oh, please don’t!”  And when Hongzhi reached toward her neck with the collar, she began thrashing and resisting again.  “Nonononononononono…..” the protest trailing off into a howl like a wolf, and then into crying.

Hong sighed.  She couldn’t take pleasure in forcing herself on a genuinely unwilling and terrified victim.  She wasn’t a soldier.  And if the woman kept making noise, she’d have to gag her.

“Hongzhi, stop.”  And when Esmeray quieted down, Hong offered:  “I suppose if you’re quiet and still, it is less likely to ‘interrupt’ my Domina than if you’re thrashing and wailing.  Therefore it may be difficult to bind you without interrupting Her more than necessary.”

“Oh, yes,” Esmeray agreed, sighing with relief.  “Yes, please.”

Hong stared at her shoulder blades for a moment and decided, reluctantly:  “Very well.  If you cooperate completely, I will keep my hold on you, not bind you.  But one single spot of resistance—”

“I understand.  I’ll be good Ms. Hong, I promise, I’ll be good.”  She liked that all right, smiling despite herself.

“Good.  Let’s see if you can get to your feet without your left hand.”  Hong stayed still a moment longer, emphasizing her control over the woman, then warned her girls:  “Keep a close eye on her—be ready to shackle her if we need to.”

“Yes, Qahramanah,” her girls nodded, as Hong stood, carefully, maintaining her hold as Esmeray struggled to her feet.

“Jongzhi, rest your shackles across my shoulders in case I need them.  I will walk her over to the display rails.  Please bring her jariya.”

As they started up the stairs, Hong asked:  “Are you afraid of heights?”

“No… not particularly.  Why?”

“Because some people become upset near the edge.  If that happens to you, I will have to chain you in completely, and gag you.”  As they approached it, Esmeray’s angle of view became steeper and steeper; and she was able to see devils who were closer and closer.  As soon as one of them spotted her, the volume of the devils rose again with excitement, and they surged forward like red cattle, packing tighter together than before, even as their agitation increased. 

Esmeray started breathing faster as the reality of where they were headed sank in more strongly.  But to her credit, she did not slow or even flinch.  She allowed herself to be walked to the very edge, where a series of rectangles, like half-height gates with a hinge on the left side of each connecting it to a support post, and a latch on the right side allowing it to be secured to the next post over, served as a low guard rail.

“Continue right up to the rail.  She ordered you to be displayed,” Hong explained pointedly, but not unkindly.  “I have to bind you to the rail.”

“No—”

“Look at it!”  Hong explained.  “It’s for your own safety.  But I can do your ankles only and give you the key so you’ll know you can get out.”  And then softly:  “That’s the best I can do.”

Esmeray hesitated, then nodded, a tiny nod of reluctant assent, as she stepped onto the bottom rail, pressing the tops of her thighs against the upper rail, her face set in stone as Hong knelt and secured her ankles.

Literature Section “06-86 Esmeray’s Torment; Hong’s Mercy”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 86 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1300 words—Accompanying Images:  1732-1735—Published 2025-05-08—©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.


1727 06-85 In the Realm of the Senses
1728 06-85 In the Realm of the Spirit
1729 06-85 With a Devil on both shoulders…?
1730 06-85 The Maddening Discordant Orchestra
1731 06-85 Frenzy

PREVIOUSLY:  Penny has been completely deprived of all sensation—vision, hearing, smell, taste, and feeling; even their auxiliary aspects like balance and orientation and the awareness of her own heartbeat and breath.  Outside her isolation, the world moves forward, with Esmeray trying to murder Chastity for defying her and disrupting Channah’s spell.  Trying to recover, Channah has just put Chastity’s earplugs back in, cutting him off again.  NOW:

Fang crouched over the effectively-mummified Penny, with her hands steady on Penny’s ajna, the third eye in her head, and muladhara, the basic center of trust in her root—or as close to them as her hands could be.  Channah and one of Hong’s girls knelt on the restrained Chastity.  Hong and her other three jawari struggled to restrain the still-livid, almost-rabid Esmeray.  Like Penny and Chastity, when she could keep her skirts down, Hong almost appeared to be fully-dressed, if sweaty and disheveled with a whore’s slightly smudged makeup.  Unlike them in one respect, the plunging neckline of her cheongsam had already been ripped open, revealing the inner edges of her breasts in a manner that would have been most fetching if it weren’t for the exigencies of the moment.  Hong’s girls were disheveled, and naked, from head to toe, even their cages discarded on the other side of the platform with nothing to interrupt their shiny sweaty perfect cinnamon skin except the marks Hong had made on them with her fingernails and her stiletto heels.  All of them had been forced to interrupt their own ritual to come running to the aid of their overlords in separating the murderous Esmeray from the rebellious Chastity, while the band played on, in accordance with its standing orders, to doggedly play until they were told to stop no matter what they saw or heard or felt, no matter what happened to them.

“Those fucking little bitches!  And of all the times for this!”  Channah spat, furious, astonished, and amused all at once, and shaking her head ruefully.  Yet for all that, she couldn’t help but reveal the genuine, sharp concern beneath:  “How is she?!”

Fang, like Chas and all the others, would have known who she meant, even if she hadn’t been caring for her.  “She’s fine,” Fang assured her Queen soothingly, still snickering herself, meeting her Master’s eyes insistently to convey her seriousness and certainty despite the irresistible lightness of her mood.  “Everything is fine, My Liege.  I promise!”

“Then why are we both laughing?”  Channah threw up her hands in exasperation as she stood, flicking her head at Hong’s girl and watching from the corner of her eye as the girl hopped to her feet and darted to help her sisters, her little noodle flopping irrelevantly.

“Because it’s funny!”  Fang laughed merrily like bells pealing on a sweet summer day.

“It fucking is.  It really fucking is!  Isn’t it?”

“IT IS NOT FUNNY YOU INFERNAL WHORES!”  Esmeray screamed and spit.  Only unlike Channah, Esmeray was so out of her mind there wasn’t anything figurative about the spitting.  “Bintāni al-haram!”

Hong and her girls gasped, mortally terrified to be so close to the woman, even in her vicinity, their eyes fearfully sidling to those of Channah and Fang for their reactions, to see if the five of them should dive down the stairs back to the protection of the castle in pursuit of minimum safe distance, or if they should continue to hold the defiant madwoman down.

Channah and Fang looked at one another in a shock that rapidly dissolved into even harder laughter, trying and failing to appear stern and judgmental, slowly shaking their heads in wonder, their eyes alight with gaiety, sharing an intimacy that was rare and profound because they found themselves in such a rare situation it was fresh, taking them back to their own youth.  Esmeray, an even more rare specimen than Penny:  A human, throwing the truth of what they were in their faces in an almost naïve attempt at disrespect, instead of hiding and burying that truth, which every human who knew or imagined the ancient succubae dreaded in their heart in the dark of night.

Without looking away from Fang quite yet, Channah extended her arm straight out towards the tangled knot of clothed qaharamanat and naked jawari, snapping her fingers decisively in command.  “Don’t you dare let the truth-speaker go.  Keep her here, in the hetaraslakos.  Do not break the ritual.  Bind her if you can, but I want her conscious and don’t you dare let her interrupt us again!  Then mount them both on the rails!”

“You biiiiiiitch!” Esmeray screeched, and “Yes, Domina,” Hong solemnly swore, and “Yes, My Liege!” the four naked girls imitated Fang.  And that was the last Channah paid them any mind, the sound of them fading as Esmeray’s speech devolved into a profane mishmash of bastardized Turkish and Arabic that almost complemented the discordant, insistent music of the band.  Below and all around them, incredibly, the roar of the damned had grown even louder than before, louder than either Channah or Fang could remember hearing.

The moment was so real and genuine, Fang felt comfortable breaking through the centuries and millennia of formal fealty that had calcified their once-passionate relationship, the bond they’d shared before they understood their new reality, even back before their Fall, to tell her what she needed to know:  “It’s kind of your fault, Channah,” she laughed.  “Stop, and experience!”

“But Penny—”

“I’m telling you, she’s fine,” Fang assured her master, understanding Channah’s concern.  Every moment she was cut off from her own metabolism, Penny was at extreme risk:  In life, her soul needed her body, inhabited her body; and her body incarnated her soul.  With the connection interrupted by the Ajna-nerve wall, Penny’s mind could go mad—a typical mind would have already—and her body could die.  They couldn’t do anything for her mind beside monitor it, because the wall was something they were doing to it already.  The most powerful sorcerers debated whether a soul in this state even was alive, but agreed that at best it was on a knife’s edge.  But what Fang could do—and was doing—was reassuring Penny’s body in her absence, persuading her Penny was alive, that she was alive, reminding her heart to beat, her lungs to breathe, every cell and organ of hers to continue going through the motions necessary for life.   Indeed, the actions arguably constituting life. 

That was what Channah had been doing when Esmeray lost her shit, throttling Chas and bowling Channah over in the process of her violent struggles with the thrashing, desperate, senseless Chastity.  A particularly violent jackknife by Chas had thrown Esmeray full-on into Channah’s back, impossible to ignore, impossible even to weather, knocking her away from Penny and breaking her sacred contact.

Back in this moment, frowning curiously at Fang, Channah did make herself pause to experience this moment, this place, comprehensively—with her full complement of outer senses, and also with her third eye, taking herself out of her narrow focus…

And gasping. 

“Yes!”  Fang nodded excitedly.  “Discordance… on a potentially astrological scale.”

“Yesss….!”  Channah agreed, breathing faster, practically leaping to kneel beside Penny, opposite Fang, restoring her connection to Penny, and joining Fang’s consciousness and hands at Penny’s ajna and muladhara.

“Feel her, Channah!”

And then Fang saw something she never saw.  Something that no one saw, not from the Queen of Lust:  uncertainty.  Almost fear.  In this moment of connection, Channah whispered her confession, as she needed to:  “I’m not ready!  I don’t feel ready—”

“My liege, you’re ready,” Fang assured her, moving the hand on Penny’s muladhara to be on top of Channah’s so she could give her a reassuring squeeze.  “She’s ready.  Finally,” she widened her eyes for emphasis, reminding Channah how long she had been working towards this.

“But—we haven’t even shared solitude—”

“Then do it now,” Fang urged her.  “Use the wall.”

“How can I know she’s ready, when I couldn’t even—”

Fang nodded with understanding.  “The one thing you can’t do, in all of hell and Earth, because it’s beyond your comprehension.”

“But then—how did Chava—?”  She shook her head uncomprehendingly. 

“Maybe she didn’t.  Maybe it was Penny.  Most likely, it was just an accident.”

“Our plan—it’s hubris.  Madder than Esmeray!  Pure good can never surrender to pure evil.”

“We know that.”  Fang struggled to conceal her exasperation.  Of course, it was the steadiest of all who didn’t, perhaps couldn’t, really internalize the doubts until the moment of crisis.  “You know that already, My Liege.  And that’s not what we’re doing.  We’re just doing what can be done, the closest we can come.  A makeshift bridge.”

“And if it doesn’t work—”

Fang laughed at Channah, to show her the absurdity of the last-second surfacing of doubts they had harbored from the very start.  “You know this.  Then we start again.  Or if we can’t make it happen, we wait for it to happen again.”  She shrugged and smiled, the immortal’s joke:  “It will give us something to do.  It will happen.  Again, and again, and again.  Every one of our enemies has found one—”

“And ultimately failed!”  Indeed, it had been their very success in the attempt that had been their undoing in the world.

Which was why Channah had waited for so long before she even considered it.  Perhaps it was the only reason the Succubae alone still roamed the Earth:  because demons could not understand the good, and therefore struggled to use it instead of corrupting it.  Fang honestly didn’t know what the correct course of action was.  After so many millenia, she wasn’t even quite sure she cared.  She was pretty sure the High Coven, maybe the whole Court, had agreed to go along out of some brand of inertial boredom or simple fatalism, rather than a careful analysis of their enemies’ mistakes and how to avoid them.

Fang shrugged, doing and deciding what she urged Channah:  “It is a mystery.  It will always be a mystery.  You must know even better than me.  Experience it and tell me—is this the best moment we are likely to have?  Or not?  Decide, don’t decide, roll the dice.  Time and heaven don’t care.  Only we do.”

Literature Section “06-85 Penny’s Astrological Discordance”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 85 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1653 words—Accompanying Images:  1727-1731—Published 2025-05-07—©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.


1713 06-84 Abandoned after serving her purpose
1714 06-84 Poor Chastity:Used, discarded, and forgotten

1715 06-84 Death is the only angel coming for you
1716 06-84 You’re one of us now

PREVIOUSLY:  Chastity has been completely deprived of vision, hearing, smell, and taste, disoriented with her hands tied behind her back and left lying on a platform knowing only that there is no way off it without risking death or serious injury.  After provoking Esmeray beyond reason, and being rescued and temporarily restored to hearing by Channah, who explained Esmeray would be allowed to spend her rage on Penny, Chas is put back under.  NOW:

Would they really let Esmeray hurt Penny?  Not injure her—Chas couldn’t believe that.  Because it would interfere with Channah’s mysterious plans.  But cause her pain?  Oh, yes. 

It was one thing for Esmeray to take revenge on Chas.  She’d expected it.  Shite, for reasons Chas didn’t fully understand, she’d egged it on.  Long ago, at grammar school, she’d discovered her ability to take pain was greater than others’, so much greater it gave her power against her bullies and could even make her an object of a twisted kind of respect.  But Penny was, if anything, the opposite—more vulnerable than most.  Weak, sensitive—easily hurt.  And she who was the most susceptible, had done nothing to deserve what was coming to her.  Chas felt bad, her cheeks reddening under her bonds with her shame.  A sharp, unambiguous moral shame that didn’t feed into her dark side at all.

She tried to scream in frustration and rage, imagining what was happening to Penny right now because of her.  She shook her head because it was one of the only things she could do, even as she felt hands taking hold of her collar.  Angrily, impulsively, she pulled away from the hands, refusing to cooperate.  And when they took firmer hold of her, she resisted all the harder, jackknifing and twisting her body over onto her left side to wrench away from them. 

Now two pairs of knees dropped on her, one from each side—one on her shoulders, their owner fighting with her collar; a second dropping on her hips.  Chas had the crazy thought that if she resisted hard enough, the hellspawned demons would all be so busy with her, they couldn’t hurt Chas.

When the person on Chas’s hips tried to seize her leg, Chas raised her knee sharply, jerking away and then kneeing that person in the arm or hand or somewhere, hard.  At the same time, she tried moving her head and shoulders to deny access to her collar to the first attacker.

More hands seized Chas’s leg, two or perhaps three people wrestling to hold it still enough for them to do something they seemed intent on, with her ankle cuff; while the person kneeling on Chas’s shoulder shifted, so they had one knee on her shoulder and the other on her head, pinning it to the ground. 

And now they had her, good and proper. 

At her neck, fingers tugged and worked at her collar.  At her ankles, fingers tugged and worked at her cuff.  A second after that, the person kneeling on her shoulder started jerking Chas’s collar, not to get her to move—how could she?—but simply to hurt her and threaten her again.  And at her feet—they’d attached her ankle to… something.  A chain?  And they were using it to force her right leg up in the air, away from her left leg.

Chas was so busy defending her neck and ankles she let her attackers realize before she did, that opening her legs had created a new and much worse vulnerability.  The hard toe of a boot (Esmeray’s, she wondered?  Perhaps hoped, meaning her ruse was working?) slammed into her crotch, causing her to flinch—ineffectively, because she could go nowhere, let alone defend herself—and scream—again, ineffectively, because she could not even make a sound.

She could do nothing to the world, or to her attackers, not even compete with the other noises she knew they could hear but that were denied to Chas—their own speech, the roaring of the sea of devils and demons, the madness of the band pounding on their drums and discordantly screeching on their strings.  All she could do, was hurt.  And this did hurt, in a really terrible way, causing her throat and stomach to clench and spasm with a reflexive urge to vomit.  Which really scared her, because it shoved all her anger and frustration aside to make room for the sobering realization if she threw up in the mask, it would drown her.  She could die.

Between the extreme pain, the shock, and the fearful reckoning, she was distracted and limp for long enough for them to work on her other leg cuff and finish whatever they were doing.  A second later the knees lifted from her and even more hands rolled her onto her stomach and yanked her legs up behind her, bending her knees.  Something was controlling her ankles, pulling them both, in the same direction and with the same amount of force.  Something she eventually worked out was a bar securing her ankles at opposite ends, restraining both of them with one another but at a distance of about a yard from one another, making movement of any kind awkward.  It also gave her attackers new leverage in the form of clear, solid purchase:  something they could hold onto and force her to move with.  And they used it to bend her legs at the knees until they could secure Chas’s wrists to the center of the bar.

At that point, effectively hogtied, they had Chas right where they wanted her.  They didn’t have to hold her down any more:  her body secured itself.  She could no more easily move around, than a fish could maneuver itself after being taken out of the water.

Everyone climbed off her, then she was roughly picked up and unceremoniously carried, like a sack of potatoes, to wherever they were taking her.  At one point she was almost thrown from the hands onto a metal surface—or wood, except she hadn’t seen any wood up here—but definitely too flexible and resonant for stone.  Even her hips and shoulders could sense enough to know that.  Then she was picked up again and moved a bit further. 

Her anger and frustration had reasserted themselves as the pain in her testicles subsided from a blinding white agony to a grating throb.  Now, just as they returned, like companions more reckless than Chastity herself, they were shoved aside again by panic at the realization that as far as she could tell, she was being carried in a more-or-less straight line on a platform that was very limited in size.

They must certainly be reaching its edge.  She’d gone too far.  She’d pushed them too far and they were going to throw her off it!  It was a traitorous thought; a foolish one her mind tried to reason her out of:  if they were going to kill her, why would the Queen of Hell have married her?  Why would they have rescued her and raised her–? 

But she was too close to the eye of the storm to quite believe she mattered.  Chas knew.  No one knew that better than her, she who was nearest of all to Penny, almost her twin, made to appear her twin without being it and remaining, instead, her pale shadow.  Thank goodness, Penny didn’t know, the silly little cow!  But Chas knew, how could she not?

Everything was about Penny.  Channah was obsessed with her.  The other succubae were focused on her—not lovingly, but in a dangerous way.  Penny mattered.  In her weakest moments (and this was one of them) it hurt her so much—scared her so much—that she only mattered to Channah, to their Governess, maybe to existence itself—because Penny did.

And that made her vulnerable.  She knew it, of course she did.  In her heart, she was afraid she only mattered at all, to anyone, because of Penny.  What would happen when she outlived her usefulness?  When Penny was… ready, or whatever she was supposed to be?

What if that was right now?

What if Chas had pushed the envelope too far, and Channah had decided to wash her hands of Chastity?

Maybe Chas had even given her a perfect excuse, the one she was waiting for, to tell Penny Chastity had deliberately caused Esmeray to torture Penny?  If they wanted to get rid of Chastity without upsetting Penny, she might as well have issued them an engraved invitation.

They were going to throw her off the edge!

Literature Section “06-84 The Agony of Chastity”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 84 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)— 1360 words—Accompanying Images:  1713-1716—Published 2025-05-06—©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.


1708 06-83 Fear of Falling
1709 06-83 Into the Abyss
1710 06-83 The Fear Unto Death
1711 06-83 Helplessly Entombed
1712 06-83 Sweet Dreams of Scarlet Salvation
1713 06-83 Can You Be Saved by a Fallen Angel?

Explicit version containing anal themes at 06-83 The Unconditional Surrender of Penance Batonnoir at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY:  Penny has been completely deprived of vision, hearing, smell, and taste, disoriented with her hands tied behind her back.  Walked to a waist-high guardrail along the edge of the castle parapet, she has just been pushed over it.  NOW:

Penny screamed ineffectively, silently, unheard even by herself and alone in her silence, as the combination of the shove in her back and the yank down on her leash propelled the top half of her body forward and down, and her center of gravity out beyond the rail, out beyond the relative safety of the edge, over the abyss.

As her head and shoulders plummeted down, gravity and the bar at her hips lifted her feet from the solidity of the platform and she went flying!  Inside her guts, the blind eel that dwelled there somehow connected to her emotions, and spasmed violently.

Until a moment later a sharp pull on her ankles stopped her from falling further.  It was so solid, so unyielding, her mind recognized she had not been caught by human—or even demon—hands.  Her bonds must have caught on something!  But that half-thought was about all she had in her and her body was out of control already, her deliberate mind having shut down and ceded control to the basest and most animal instincts, things so deep and distant she could not even recognize them as parts of herself.  Like foundry workers around an exploding furnace they were shouting soundless orders and alarms, flashes of sweaty muscles and hurrying silhouettes and panic-filled eyes rolling in trapped sockets, they made her body jerk and twitch in every direction, trying to free a hand, trying to catch on something else besides her ankles, trying to fall feet-first, trying and failing to do something, that would make a difference long after her will and intentions had shut down and closed their eyes, bracing for impact.

She flopped and jerked and twisted like a fish tumbling out of a net onto the deck of a boat.  In her absence, her body was trying to exert any slight degree of control that would allow it to survive and choose, if not with any specific haven in mind, simply to change what was happening already through no decision of its own.  Her body would take any fate other than the one her mind had told it to expect.  And her body would not give up, even without her mind to help.

It was several seconds before her reason could realize she still wasn’t falling, and work out they must have chained her ankles to something when they spread her legs.  With another lost expression, Penny sobbed and fell limp and ragged, her waist and her very life held by a solitary narrow iron bar, her momentum over it checked by her ankle cuffs, her arms still bound behind her back, emphasizing their uselessness and Penny’s own ineffectiveness as a living thing.

Penny screamed.  Penny screamed and wept, shaking and sobbing, her sense of balance telling her gravity still roared and slavered for her, wishing to snatch her away like the jaws of a wolf.

At first, Penny hardly registered, hardly had the room to register, that her dress and underskirts had been thrown over her head, before she was shocked and focused by something cold and hard and wet.  And the instant it touched her—

She felt absolutely nothing at all.

Nothing.

At.

All.

Not her own weight, lying on the narrow bar and tugging on the ankle chains.

Not voracious gravity, trying to devour her.

Not the hot and humid air pressing tightly around her.

Not her own heartbeat.

Not her own breath!

Not even the darkness and silence of her world.

A-B-S-O-L-U-T-E N-O-T-H-I-N-G-N-E-S-S.

And so Penny learned what complete and utter forlorn terror really was.

Was she dead?!

She must be dead.

But even death shouldn’t be so lonely and isolating.  So… naught.

She knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would go mad.  And not slowly:  soon.  Maybe she already was.

Her mind was certainly thrown to mad thoughts without anything real to anchor it in any way.  Thoughts like these, that were real because they were the very world she was experiencing, raw and immediate, nothing esoteric about them:

What was happening to her body?!  Inside her own body?!  Her mind knew because it remembered.  When it was aware, it had rarely even realized how thoroughly it knew it was alive every second.  It felt its own breath, felt its own heart, sometimes even heard them or felt the rise and fall of its chest; sometimes smelled and felt the slick moisture of its own sweat.  Now, she could not even tell if her body—if she—was still there, or had ever really been there.  She didn’t know if she had ever even had a body at all.  Perhaps it had all been her imagination.  Or was her body being destroyed, inside and out, continuing the assault every sense she’d had, had been screaming at her to report?  It had to be; her senses were gone, unless reality was actually gone—and she had no way to tell.  Was she even now, falling towards the sea of devils and demons below, who would tear her to pieces for all eternity, over and over again?  Or had she died, and these were the last seconds of her consciousness, mere seconds stretching and lasting in a final desperate effort to cling to life?

She couldn’t say which was more disconcerting, more upsetting and unreal:  the loss of her body, or the loss of her world.  Because without her senses, she had nothing.  She had imagined she was lost with the mere departure of her sight, hearing, taste, and smell.  What she wouldn’t give to return to even that half-state of being!  To be without even touch, even balance?… Without anything, really.  Without the senses she had taken for granted, and the things they brought to her, reality itself did not exist.  She felt no gravity, and it was gravity that had connected her to this world all her life, like an umbilical cord to her mother, without her even realizing she felt it:  a sense of up and down, right and left, solidity.  Without the pull of the world she was utterly untethered.  There were no people.  There was no sun, no wind, no earth, no wind, no fire, no air, the very elements themselves dissolved, if they had ever existed at all.

Oh, Domina!  She thought, her mind crying where her body no longer existed to weep.  Her Domina! 

For the first time in her life, she felt a perfect clarity, a perfect certainty:

Penny knew, absolutely knew, with every shred and fiber of her being, that only her Domina could bring her back from… if she had had shoulders, she would have given up and shrugged.  She was nowhere.  There was nowhere to bring her back from.  But only her Domina could pluck her out of this absence and bring her back to reality, the world, her sweet smell, her soft skin, her warm love, bring Penny back to Penny herself, from this awful nothingness.

Oh Domina!  Please please please please please please bring me back to you!  PLEASE don’t let go, I know there is a golden spiritual umbilical thread between us, connecting us always, unbreakable and forever!  There has to be one because I need it, I need it so badly I can still feel it, because it’s the only thing that exists for me here!  The certainty you care about me is complete.  I don’t know why, I can’t understand your ways and wiles, and—and maybe I don’t need to.  A part of my soul knows I probably don’t want to.  But do need the fact that I know.  That you cared about something you perceived in me, with senses I don’t even possess, senses that must be able to find me now!  I just need to know you are going to bring me back to you!

You’re going to bring me back!  And that’s what I want, more than anything, to be back in your world, back at your feet, back where you want me.  Back where I BELONG.  I know it now!  Please hear me!  I’m sorry for having been so slow and suspicious.  I’M SORRY!!!  PLEASE!!!

I love you!  I need you!  I am NOTHING without you!  Not without you!

Please….

Literature Section “06-83[X]-The Unconditional Surrender of Penance Batonnoir”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 83 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Abridged 1374 words::Explicit 1538 words—Accompanying Images:  1708-1712—Published 2025-05-05—©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.

1704 06-82 You can always kill him for the affront later
1705 06-82 So stupid!  He brought his junk to a knife fight!
1706 06-82 And then, she starts tugging on it!
1707 06-82 Sympathy from the Devil

Explicit version containing themes of arousal, afterglow at 06-82X The Real Punishment of Chastity Begins at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY:  Chastity has been completely deprived of vision, hearing, smell, and taste, disoriented with her hands tied behind her back and left lying on a platform knowing only that there is no way off it without risking death or serious injury.  But now her tormentor is choking her.  NOW:

Chas’s tormentor doubled down, tightening the noose and jerking Chastity’s head back and forth as if trying to snap her neck, using the leash to drag Chastity tight up against her so she could pull even harder.

Like a stone being shot from a sling, panic rushed forward overtaking her as her situation sank in.  Utterly and rapidly purged of every thought except for survival, she began kicking and thrashing—the only two things she could do—trying to ignore how much it hurt her own arms and hands, trapped behind her as they were on the stone, hoping against hope she might throw off the leather strip that was killing her, instead of helping to break her own neck by putting more stresses on it. 

Choking, gasping, except for the pain in her hands, her arms, and her neck, her entire world was limited to rapidly-blooming terror and the struggle to breathe, even the peripheral pains starting to fade as her attention and her world narrowed and narrowed down to a few inches under her jaw, her burning lungs, and her panic.

Her resistance started to weaken as the energy drained from her muscles, not even adrenaline able to replace what oxygen-deprivation was taking until she became vaguely aware, in some remote part of her brain, that there were hands and other bodies all around them, even on top of Chas, pulling on his would-be murderer’s arms, fighting with her for control of the leash, and trying to loosen it.

After what seemed like forever, the leash loosened and Chas began gasping, her lungs heaving with effort to catch up, her awareness rapidly expanding back to include the knee of one of her rescuers on her chest, restricting her lungs, and her tormentor’s legs and boots kicking her as she was dragged away.

Insofar as Chas could tell, she was now alone with the woman on her chest, who slid off to kneel beside her even as she unwound the leash, leaving only Chas’s collar around her neck and her breathing unimpeded. 

A moment later, she felt fingers at her ear and motion inside her ear canal.

Sound exploded back into her awareness as the plug was removed:  closest and loudest, laughter.  Laughter!  She recognized Channah’s voice—the woman kneeling by her—and further away, she thought she could pick out a couple of other familiar voices.  Hang’s?  Fong’s?  Despite only having just met the latter two, she felt hurt and betrayed by all of them, and if she’d had the emotional reserves for it she would have been outraged.  Somehow, the fact she knew some of them, even if slightly, made the feeling of betrayal worse and intensely more personal than with respect to the voices she didn’t recognize. 

Instinctively, Chas tried to protest.  But although she caught herself uselessly trying to talk through the gag and the spell, she could not really muster the intensity of indignation she felt the situation deserved because she was too exhausted and her nerves were too shattered.

Somewhere in the direction she had been dragged, Chas recognized Esmeray’s voice.  Screaming:  screaming with rage and fury and the kind of indignation Chas could not muster, all tinged with something Chas’s heart still had enough bandwidth to recognize as a cousin to her own instinctive panic.  Practically spitting, the bloodlust Chas could hear directed at her, doused her own feelings of being slighted like a tubful of ice water poured over her body.

Surrounding Esmeray, there were a cluster of winded voices of people trying to subdue or remove her, some barking orders at her, some trying to reason with her quietly, but most of them, Chas was sure, tinged with some mild shade of amusement over her act of attempting to murder Chas.  Below and behind all the other sounds, the roaring, raucous ocean of the damned not only continued, but had surged, their howling seeming to be at the highest and most frantic pitch Chas had heard yet.

“Are you all right?”  Channah asked, still laughing, resting her hand lightly on Chas’s neck in a form of attempted comfort.  And then, before Chas even realized she was grunting and snorting insensibly Channah reminded her:  “Sweetie, you’re going to have to nod or shake your head for me.  You sound like—well, like a gagged woman trying to talk.”  And she laughed a bit harder.

Assessing herself, Chas decided that despite the soreness of her neck, the post-adrenaline jitters, and the even deeper bruises to her psyche, she was physically more-or-less intact, and she managed a nod.

“Good.  That’s good.  Are you able to breathe and recover?”  Chas nodded again, almost feeling cared for until it occurred to her Channah was making no move to remove her other earplug or otherwise release her.  “I’m glad, wifey dear.  I told you, I have plans for you, darling.  You need to take better care of yourself.  Do try to remember none of the other women on this roof are your wives or girlfriends, and it’s not all about you.  It’s best for everyone if you try to please us instead of thinking of yourself.  Understand, honey?”  Chas nodded, ignoring his burgeoning outrage as he concentrated on trying to figure out what it was important for her to know and understand for her own survival.

“You’re not going to like what comes next either.  But we’re all going to enjoy ourselves more than enough to keep the damned in a lather.  And Esmeray’s anger… lust and anger, that’s all the damned can feel or understand.”  Her voice fell, to something like hushed in this environment, expressing wonder:  “They’re going mad!  That’s all they are, now… wanting what they can’t have.  Don’t you dare tell Penny yet.  She’ll put it together fast enough anyway and I need her strong.”  She patted Chas’s forehead protectively.  “But as much as the thought of your suffering satisfies my own urge to teach you a lesson, it’s counterproductive out here.  The power we take from the damned is spiteful lust, so you  won’t be able to share in that power.  Oh, well.  More for me!”  She practically giggled.

She leaned close to Chas’s ear, and kissed him on the earlobe, and then between her temple and her ear, making Chas shiver with delight.  “You and Esmeray, together… you’re an emotional firestorm, the two of you.  So think about this:  Because I can’t trust Esmeray to leave you alive, I’m going to have to give Penny to her today, and she’s going to take out all the rage and upset you can hear from her, on Penny.  You did that to your sister-wife.”

And with that, the plug was pushed back into Chastity’s ear, and her world was plunged back into near-perfect stillness.

Literature Section “06-82[X] The Real Punishment of Chastity Begins”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 82 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Abridged 1132 words::Explicit 1290 words—Accompanying Images:  1704-1707—Published 2025-05-04—©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.


1693 06-81 Yar dee har!  Ye’re a fine prize, lassie!
1694 06-81 Bosun, I’ll guard this prisoner in me own cabin!

1695 06-81 Mayhap the flat of my scimitar’ll hasten your step
1696 06-81 Option B?  A long walk down a short plank, missy!

PREVIOUSLY:  Penny has been completely deprived of vision, hearing, smell, and taste, disoriented with her hands tied behind her back and left lying on a platform knowing only that there is no way off it without risking death or serious injury.  NOW:

Penny had no way of knowing how long she’d been left alone and abandoned.  Half an hour?  Less?  More?  But lying without any sensation other than the warm—actually, closer to hot—stone beneath her and the steaming air around her, and without any company other than her own fears and anxieties, made it feel much longer.

Suddenly—finally!—a boot pressed against her temple, pushing until she turned her head and bent her neck in the way her unknown master demanded.  When her master was satisfied, the boot left her alone and a second later fingers brushed her hair toward the back of her neck and jiggled her collar.  She figured it out only as the fingers withdrew:

She was being leashed.

A moment later, she was yanked, if not brutally, then much harder than necessary, even the sound of her choking stifled by the magic entombing her senses.  Was the magic acting on her senses?  Or the air?  Could her tormentor hear anything from her mouth?  Or could she (or he) choke Penny to death unintentionally, simply because she couldn’t hear Penny’s struggle to breathe?

Yanking Penny’s leash again almost immediately, her master demanded Penny move immediately.  She wanted Penny to move faster and more effectively than she was managing to do with her hands behind her and her senses gone.  Penny tried, but her leash holder was so intolerant and impatient!  With great difficulty, and doubtless damaging her white gown, Penny made it onto her knees, gasping around the gag for breath, and tried to stand.  But with her hands tied behind her, nothing to lean against, and the high heels on her feet, she couldn’t quite get enough balance to stand. 

She choked and sputtered almost soundlessly as the leash was jerked back and forth by her frustrated master, and then she was struck across the cheek, a blow so fierce it made her head ring.  A second attempt to stand failed, and she desperately ducked her head in fear—not enough to evade the blow, but just in time so it landed on her temple instead of her cheek, dazing her and knocking her over.

Scrambling desperately and whimpering in an ineffectual attempt to plead for mercy, she tried to shield her own head by pressing it down against the stones to give her the lowest profile she could possibly assume, and to limit whiplash or injury from any further blows when her skull was so close to the stone.  Frantically she kicked off her high heels, hoping it was the right decision and one that would lead to less hitting rather than more.  With them off, she struggled to her feet as fast as she could, in a race with the leash her master was dropping over her neck like a noose, soon pulling Penny directly by pulling on the actual collar with one hand, and a second hand that had caught the collar from both sides of Penny’s neck.

As Penny got to her feet, she tried to stand and felt her master’s resistance until she realized she was meant to stay bent way over.  Was this Domina Fang?  It somehow didn’t feel like her steady and subtle hand.  Did it?

Only when she had satisfied her master by her stillness that she had learned her place was remaining in a crouch was she pulled, still rasping for breath around the gag, the collar, and the length of leash, her stocking feet on the stone, towards… wherever she was being taken.

Why were they moving so fast?  Maybe any speed was too great for comfort when nearly insensate but surely they couldn’t be in so much of a rush after leaving Penny lying there for so long!  Penny became nervous that the person hustling her would let her pitch off the side of the platform from carelessness, and tried to slow down, only to be jerked forward all the faster.  Finally, really starting to worry, she was slowed down and then brought to a halt.  After a moment of stillness, the hands moved her forward again, but with less force:  what she interpreted as a signal to move forward carefully.  Was she being urged straight to the edge?!  Probing forward, her toes bumped into metal.

She stopped in confusion, was urged forward again, felt more deliberately with her foot, and confirmed she had reached a barrier of some kind.  What did her master expect her to do?!

The hands loosened on her collar and leash, and she felt the person brushing against her shoulder and head.  Then a yank on the leash again, from above and in front of her, and she figured it out:  it must be stairs.

She raised her foot, daring to straighten just a bit so she could raise her knee, and set her foot down on a stair.  She was meant to climb a staircase!

That indicated they were either at the jungle gym or the pool, she thought.  Surely not the pool—she’d drown—

But nobody was waiting for her to have a think.  Another hand slapped her, hard, on her bottom and she made her way with difficulty up one stair, feeling her feet press into a metal grate as the stair took her weight.  Then when she was urged forward, she took another stair, and a third.  The metal grating cut into her soft feet uncomfortably, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to stand on the metal for long.

She hadn’t noticed stairs specifically when she’d first glimpsed the structures around her.  How high did these go?  And where, exactly, did they lead to?  In the event, she stepped up six times before being pulled forward again across a short platform.  Just when she started moving forward more naturally, she was jerked to a halt with a punishing yank.  It was so forceful—was it desperate?  Had she been about to walk off an unprotected edge of some kind?

She was granted a moment’s worried stillness, then a pair of hands coming from the opposite side of the leash-holder, gripped her, one on her stomach, the other on her buttocks, guiding her forward until she bumped into a horizontal bar that hit her right around the tops of her thighs.  Pressing her hips forward against the bar to signal she should remain where she was, tight against the bar, the hands moved to her left ankle and tugged her by the cuff to make her spread her stance.  Obeying, she felt tugging on her ankle cuff until her legs were fairly wide apart.

Now she felt a boot against the back of her right leg and complied fearfully with what she knew was expected of her.  When her legs were spread far apart, at least 3 feet apart or even more, the boot was withdrawn.

With a moue even she couldn’t hear, Penny knew she had been spread against a railing—but not where, or why, or what would come next.  She panted, trying to get her breathing under contr—

A hand shoved her between the shoulder blades, jerking her forward.  Reflexively she tried to straighten back up again, only to be shoved a second time, this time the hand remaining in place, feeling her master step up against her, pressing against her leg and hip, reaching forward—

Then the leash pulled her collar sharply down, and Penny realized the person to her right had threaded the leash under the railing while a second firm hand of the person behind her, joined the first on her shoulder blades, pushing her firmly and insistently forward. 

Penny started leaning forward, not sure how she was supposed to keep her balance if she had to lean forward too far, and then panicked when it hit her:  both her tormentors were on this side of the bar, trying to get her to bend forward over the far side of the bar.

Terror shot through her.  She was at the very edge of the platform, being asked to lean forward over its edge, above the red sand and howling devils far below them!

Now instinct and raw fear combined to cause her to resist with all her might, shaking her head and making incomprehensible, frightened noises of protest as she tried to fight.  The woman behind her responded by shoving back all the harder, even as the woman beside her pulled down on the neck chain using her full weight.

Penny was crying now and shaking her head violently and making muffled sounds with as much force as she could muster, rapidly burning air faster than she could replace it, every inch of her body resisting as strongly as she could, even as pain shot through her neck and back, but moving with such an instinctive sense of survival that she managed to resist her two larger and stronger masters, until the woman behind her changed tactics:

She moved to Penny’s other side and shoved her fingers with their sharp fingernails between Penny’s collar and neck, grabbing the collar in her fist, and helping to pull it down with one hand, while her other hand rapidly went fishing under Penny’s skirts. 

What was she doing?  Was she going to lift Penny off her feet and make her lose her balance?!  Penny tried to screech, only serving to wind herself faster, as the clawed fingers of the woman’s right hand clenched around Penny’s purse, her fingernails digging into the sensitive flesh even as her fingers clenched around them, as hard as she could, crushing Penny’s shameful little testes.

In the next moment, three things happened simultaneously: 

First, Penny came close to unconsciousness as extreme pain exploded from her crotch, straight up her spine towards her head, making everything turn black for a second and making Penny pray she would be knocked out so she didn’t have to feel any more.

Second, Penny screamed in terror, the lonely kind of scream nobody else could hear, using up the last of her breath.  And third, the shock of the pain caused Penny’s muscles and control to fail her utterly for a moment, her resistance collapsing just long enough for the hands to cause her to pitch forward, her body tipping over the bar and her feet coming off the platform beneath her as gravity became her third master, pulling the top half of her body forward and down and pulling the bottom half of it over the bar after it.

Literature Section “06-81 The Perils of Penny”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 81 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1747 words—Accompanying Images:  1693-1696—Published 2025-05-03—©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.

1681 06-80 Perpetua and Felicity bring down the Colosseum
1682 06-80 Joyous Martyrs or Perverted Servants of Hell?
1683 06-80 With the fierce passion of St. Perpetua
1684 06-80 Gladiatrix and Martyr

Explicit version containing masturbation, orgasm, asphyxiation themes at 06-80X The Splaying of Chastity] at Patreon.com/TheRemainderman

PREVIOUSLY:  Penny’s and Chas’s wrists are restrained.  They have been completely deprived of vision, hearing, smell, and taste, before being spun until losing their balance and sense of direction and falling onto the hard stone platform.  NOW:

Chastity lay on the stone, breath quick, heart beating rapidly, every fiber of her being focused on her periphery.  Like a bullseye lantern sweeping across a dark room, she scanned her own skin, from cute blonde locks to painted little toes, waiting for first contact:  anywhere, anything, stimulation, a signal that it was starting, and the first hint of what it might be.

She could not see.  She could not hear.  She could not smell.  And for good measure, she could not even taste.  They had taken everything external away from her except the warm stone beneath her and the hot, moist, still air around her; the air that pelted every inch of exposed skin with specks of sand every moment without the air itself joining.  That was her entire world.

There was fear; but her elevated pulse wasn’t entirely about fear.  She remained buoyed by the boundless, youthful expectation that what was coming would be better than before.

She had fallen on her back, shoulders and head raised on her elbows, legs spread wide, and she hadn’t bothered to think about her modesty.

When the first touch came, it was a soft kick to her side.  When that produced no response, it was followed by a harder and more insistent kick, immediately repeated, prompting Chas to struggle to roll herself over onto her front.  Next was a kick to the bottom of her shoe, repeated again until she moved it, bending her knee and then in response to a blow to the other sole, moving her other knee.  The kicks were repeated until she lay on her knees and her shoulders, one cheek pressed against the stone, like a frog with its arms tied behind its back. 

Someone lifted the back of Chas’s gown, pulling it up like a curtain until the entire dress, causing Chas a quick shiver.  She next felt the boots that had been kicking her sliding up the outsides of her calves, before being withdrawn.  A moment later they returned, this time between her legs, nudging her insistently to force her legs apart, the woman’s—she assumed it was one of the women—standing behind her, legs pressed against her hips. 

The woman did something with Chas’s chemise, the light linen smock under her dress—Chas couldn’t quite tell what, because it was such a light garment and only one among the many she wore.

The next thing she felt were fingers, insistent fingers, tugging fabrics around her sacrum and yanking them down around her knees.  Chas groaned, startled again by how much weaker and deeper her own voice sounded when every noise outside her body was taken from her absolutely.  She felt fabric being stuffed between her panty strings and her hips, before being used to tug her panties down.

Then the hands were gone, abandoning her back to her isolation, causing Chas to croak out a useless, drawn-out sound of protest.  How long would she be left here this time?  An hour?  Or only—

—a moment.  She was kicked in the side again and obediently rolled back over onto her back, like a dog being trained in the kennels.

Lying flat on her back hurt her arms and with a nervous swallow, she worked her elbows up towards her shoulders with difficulty, raising her shoulders again. 

Hands finished removing her unnecessaries.

The she felt boots between her legs again, pressing.

Chastity grinned, her skin tingling with anticipation…

Nothing.

Nothing happened.  Her smile faltered, and blurred into confusion and disappointment.

They’d left her!  For the first time she thought of Penny, her friend—and felt a stab of jealousy.  Were they turning their attention to her now?

Don’t ignore me!  Her mind hollered uselessly, so thoroughly separated from the world around her it could only express its longing with a rather desperate-sounding and ambivalent grunt of protest.

Finally it came, a testing of how easily he moved from side to side, to confirm what the carelessly-named Chastity already knew.  She felt her lips tightening again, in another pleased, only-slightly-guilty smile.

The hand withdrew and Chas moaned in disappointment.  Then gasped when two hands returned, tentative hands, not assured ones like the first.  These made no contact whatsoever with her skin; they were hyper-careful.  Chas felt no warm palm resting on her leg, no stray fingertips brushing the pulpy flesh at her base; only its housing being shifted, first to one side tentatively, then a second time, decisively, straight downwards, making her moan breathily.  Chas gasped as she dared to hope she knew what it portended…

Small movements around the place where the parts of her Svadhisthana device met.  Yesssss!  Chas sighed raggedly with relief and breathed even faster, panting, rolling her hips in silent entreaty for more attention, waiting to feel more aggressive hands…

Where were they?  She moued, only half-hearing the sound herself, the part inside her head, nothing after it left her body.  She brought her knees together and up to her chest, frantically moving them, breathing harder, unsure if she could even press hard enough.  Any second, she expected hands to stop her movement, prevent her from continuing; and when they didn’t come, she began hoping she could make it—

—she finished!  She just barely managed to, enough for relief but not satisfaction. She longed for the velvet glove of a woman holding him the way he was meant to be.

She could hardly remember the last time she had been left in such a place of gratitude and dissatisfaction.  Even as she felt the comfort of the afterglow, if she could have cried out properly, she would have remonstrated with fate and demanded a do-over!  She wanted more…

Literature Section “06-80[X] The Splaying of Chastity”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 80 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Abridged 948 words::Explicit 1199 words—Accompanying Images:  1681-1684—Published 2025-05-02—©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.


1666 Ring around the rosies, A pocketful of posies
1667 06-79 Ashes, ashes, We all fall down

1668 06-79 Beltaine! Beltaine!  I think I’m in twubble
1669 06-79 I trust you. Kinda.

PREVIOUSLY:  Penny’s and Chas’s wrists are restrained, and they have been completely deprived of vision, hearing, smell, and taste.  Penny is still trying to fully comprehend what the spelled panties have done to her.  NOW:

And it wasn’t just her sense of smell that had been taken from her:  she couldn’t taste anything!  She’d never even been aware her own mouth had a flavor until that was taken away.  Indeed, she could hardly even feel her mouth properly, her tongue insisting that it could sense the shapes of her teeth and lips, but the total absence of any taste insisted equally to her tongue that anything it imagined it felt was a lie, because her tongue was clearly not working at all.

Thus left without sensation except the nerves in her skin, Penny was left to consider the true and full meaning of being “senseless,” and wrestle with the idea that having her last remaining feeling taken away would be… unbearable.

And then she felt a pair of hands on her shoulders, urging her counterclockwise, insisting she turn where she stood.  And after she had turned, the hands continued to urge her to turn more, until she understood she was meant to spin like a whirling dervish, around and around, faster and faster, prodded and finally, even lightly slapped, every time she was too slow or stupid to please her master, wishing she could still taste the salt of her own tear dripping down over her lip to confirm she was still alive.  Her master kept spinning and spinning her until she started feeling so dizzy she couldn’t even keep her balance.

And at that instant, that very moment when her nerves were so jangled and confused she started to fall over, the hands were gone and she was on her own.

She careened, stumbled on her own high heel, and fell onto the hard stone, barely having the presence of mind to keep her head from cracking on the unforgiving, unyielding surface, even as her shoulder and back slammed into it.  She had no idea where she was or how she was oriented except her memory’s and body’s insistence she was still on the same platform where she had been bound.  But she couldn’t say whether she was facing the jungle gym, the bed, the glass platform, or the pool.  She didn’t even know if she was facing the edge of the platform, or the stairwell in the center.

She wasn’t even sure she could get to her feet if she tried, certainly not in high heels with her hands cuffed behind her back.  Not that she did try.  What was the point?  The very best thing she could hope for was to walk straight into the side of the pool or the crib or the jungle gym, and fall back onto her bottom again without cracking her skull.  If she was unlucky, she would walk off one of the edges of the platform and fall two stories to a likely death upon impact.  But supposing she survived the fall, she would be shredded or eaten or—whatever the hell devils and demons did to victims who fell into their midst.  The only way she could get off the platform without such a gruesome fate would be if she managed to find her way to the stairway in the middle of the platform.  But it was three flights—50 or 60 hard, steep stone stairs—down to the basement passageway, and she couldn’t even use her hands to steady herself.  She reckoned her chances of making it to the bottom without breaking her own neck at close to zero.

Slowly, glacially, the absolute certainty swept over her that she daren’t do anything at all except to keep breathing (and even that was at her masters’ pleasure!) and wait for her Esmeray’s mercy.  Hanim Qahramanah’s mercy, she corrected herself, mindful of how important it had suddenly become for her to keep the disturbing woman happy.  Penny didn’t even have the wherewithal to find her and beg her for guidance; she couldn’t sense her, she certainly couldn’t catch her if she dodged or fled, and she couldn’t even risk moving to search for her.

So she half-sat, half-lay there, on the stone, elbow throbbing where it had slammed into the hard rock, contemplating the depth of her plight.

Hanim Qahramanah left her there for what seemed like forever…

So she lay where and as she had fallen, shaking and weeping, unable to even hear herself beyond the gasping in her own throat and the humming vibrations of her cries through her own flesh.  She was pining and desperate for her qahramanah to come and touch her, perhaps even help her to her feet, or even use her as a footstool.  Or an ashtray—she would take anything!  She really needed Esmeray or Channah to touch her, pretty please with sugar on top!  To reassure her she wasn’t all alone and abandoned on what surely, must literally be,  this godforsaken platform.

But all she could feel were the stones beneath her and the hot, moist, still air around her.  All she could hear were the half-crying, half-gargling sounds she made in her own throat and strangled to death before they could escape from around her gag.  She smelled nothing, tasted nothing, saw nothing.

She’d never felt so helpless in her life.  Hanim Qahramanah let Penny contemplate how very, very deeply she needed and craved being mastered.

Literature Section “06-79 The Disorientation and Abandonment of Penny”—Part 79 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—879 words—Accompanying Images:  1666-1669—Published 2025-05-01—©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.

1662 06-78 It’s WAY too late for anyone to save you…
663 06-78 You belong to us now… plaything
1664 06-78 Oh, I’ll MAKE it fit…
1665 06-78 And then, I’m going to…

PREVIOUSLY:  For reasons of their own, Channah and Fang seem intent on training their qahramanat to degrade their jawari in front of legions of the damned.  Penny and Chas are already handcuffed, blindfolded, and gagged; but Channah and Esmeray are just getting started with them….  NOW:

Reliving the things that had been done to her, Penny made a quiet, desperate whining noise the rest of the world ignored, if it carried outside her body at all.  She had promised to trust.  She had to do that—had to trust in her Mistresses, and do what she had pledged to do.  Surely, that would get her through.  But why would it?  A traitorous part of her brain screamed that she had put herself into the hands of demons and madwomen.  A larger part told her she’d never had any choice in the matter.          

Heaven help me!

She made a whining noise nobody heard.  But she didn’t even know if heaven could hear into hell.  She sobbed, the sound immediately lost in the screaming din of the shouting devils and demons from below, eating sand again because Channah had stepped away for a moment, trying to tell herself she was grateful at least that being blindfolded, she no longer had to worry about her eyes.

Suddenly she jerked, feeling Channah’s fingers pinching her ear. 

“Be still!”  her Domina commanded her, an intimate whisper in her ear, as she pushed something through Penny’s ear canal inside her head.

As she did, that ear just… stopped.  More absolutely, more completely than Penny had ever experienced.  Unlike the thick, vague, bass sounds one could still hear in earmuffs or with hands over ears—suddenly, her left ear heard nothing.  The whole left side of her body felt—nothing!  Not a whisper.  She knew she still had sensation in her arms, legs, fingers, toes—but the totality of the silence on that side of her body caused her body to wonder, to demand, that the whole side of her had been numbed because nothing else made sense to it.

I promise I promise I promised….

When she felt Channah’s hand on her right earlobe, she jerked away, reflexively, even more strongly than she had before, crying out involuntarily, around her ball gag only to hear Channah laugh, quickly move her left hand under Penny’s chin, and pull her backwards and up into Channah’s shoulder. 

“Oh… it’s way too late for that, young lady.  You’re ours.  Body and soul.” 

And with that, she settled her hand against Penny’s neck to hold her tight, bit and held her ear in her teeth, enough to make Penny squeal in a painful protest, and used her right hand to press the second earbud in tight. 

Penny wailed in ineffectual, girlish protest, shocked as every scrap and hint of sound was eliminated from her world.  Her universe became instantly and totally silent.  It was as if she had been sealed away in a vault.  She was sure she was whimpering, but if she was, she could not even hear any hint of it through her own ears.

Her feet hurt, holding her weight in her high heels.  Her wrists were held tightly in the cuffs locked behind her back, her sight blinded by the blindfold, her mouth stuffed by the ball gag.  She was hyper-aware of the saliva gathering in her mouth, trying ineffectually to digest the heavy ball between her teeth; and of the fact that soon, very soon, she was going to start drooling, helplessly, like a dog. 

Smell!  She could still smell!  And Channah’s intoxicating, seductive succubus smell was perfect and brilliant, as if the scent of her managed to slip through the membranes of Penny’s nostrils and sinuses and seep straight into her brain, bathing and soothing it like a mother whispering to her baby at night…

Could she smell the sulfur of hell?  Yes, it was there, faintly; but like the sour under-note of a perfume, complemented and pushed to the subtle background by the sweeter and more-powerful notes of Channah, and Channah, and Channah…

There, down, far at the bottom, Penny found the subtle and vaguely-decayed smell of earth:  desert sand and black stone, perhaps mingled with a slight whisper of fungus lodged deep in the stones and their grout.

And she thought she smelled another, the scent of a person, hidden behind Channah’s at first, like a shy maiden in shadows behind her mother’s back, a musky smell demanding it be craved, a smell Penny couldn’t consciously remember ever smelling before, but suddenly identified because it was human and feminine and fiercely distinctive and she had been denied the benefit of most of her other senses:  Esmeray.

Now, still trying to recover some sense of normalcy and control after being deprived of hearing, Penny was turning her head from side to side and sniffing, trying to notice if there were any differences in different directions, and to confirm her memory of where she stood based on those differences.  But with Channah near—merciful as that was—there was no swirl of air or dust around them, nothing to bring more distant but localized smells to them.  If devils and demons had a smell separate from the brimstone and decay, she could not use it to locate herself.

It was at exactly that moment she felt it, fabric being pulled over her head.  A hood?  Really?  Wasn’t that overkill?  She already was unable to see or hear a thing—and as it came over her nose her shoulders slumped with the obvious realization.

It was a strong smell, a good one, nuanced and heavy and loaded with pheromones targeted straight at Penny’s deepest and oldest urges and memories:  Esmeray.  Esmeray’s panties, hung on her head.  She flushed as deeply red as she ever had, realizing what a stupid, helpless, pathetic idiot she was, and now looked like, dressed like a belle of the ball—the kinky bondage ball—in the middle of hell with a pair of another woman’s panties hung on her head like a scold’s bridle. 

She started crying, even before the next change, as whatever magic Channah had been talking about, or working, went into effect and she could smell nothing.  Nothing—immediately insisting to her brain she was locked in a clean, odorless, clinical space or Earthside desert.  In a way the silence and the darkness had not done, it fought; it persistently jarred, her senses fighting with her memory, the one insisting she was in a peaceful well-kept place on Earth, the other that she was on a sand-swept brimstone-stinking platform of Castle Chang’an in Hell, surrounded by her Mistresses and an army of demons and devils. 

Literature Section “06-78 The Sensory Deprivation of Penny”—Part 78 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1071 words—Accompanying Images:  1662-1665—Published 2025-04-30—©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.