Diablo III: Heroines Defiled

“The shield’ll not fit through that space, nor the flail. Insur-nance, mayhap. Cause they ain’t got armor.” The words flew to the crusader’s ears on sails of alcohol-threaded breath. She had armored herself in full, abjuration against the knives and claws she had expected this broken crypt might produce. But the disused rectory basement offered a challenge that was more cognition than combat. She and her guide were faced with a partially collapsed passageway, its marble edifice cracked and denuded by thieves of any gems once inlaid in the Zakarumite glyphs.



“Insurance, you mean,” she corrected, staring at the crumbled passage. These were Zakarum representations, yes, but twisted and wrong to her practiced eye, that shadowy creatures danced in the background of the engravings. The flaxen waterfall of her platinum hair was tied back, and her eyes missed nothing. Her guide was a man perhaps ten years her senior, and 200 pounds her heavier. The ring of sweat around the collar of his doublet was already growing in the infancy of their expedition. The crusader knew him only by his first name, Dasken, and had introduced herself as Ariel.



“And this is the only entrance to the deeper halls?” she asked. Dasken scratched his neck and the accompanying accumulation of stubble. He’d seen perhaps thirty-five plantings and harvestings, ten as the custodian of the temple grounds, but looked older in his unkemptness. “The other’s collapsed,” he replied. “An’ I dunno how they get in. I know where a body can go to tip a couple of bottles, when I hear a purse-string unwind. But I ain’t no detective.”



Ariel leaned forward to peer into the darkness beyond the rubble. The hallway was almost totally blocked, save for a waist-height passage in the middle, and beyond that passage lay an antechamber where suspicious voices had been heard, chanting the forbidden rites of old. Yet her physical training had sculpted her body into a shape ill-suited to crawling and squeezing through tight spaces. And an invocation of wrath was liable to bring the entire works down upon them.



“Tighter than a virgin’s slit, it is, ay?” came Dasken’s voice, bemused. “But I guess my stick n’ berries aint’ the tool for this job.” Then, after the obligatory laugh: “Course, maybe in your hands I’d rise to the challenge!” More liquor-soaked breath crept past Ariel’s perfect nostrils, and the light in the chamber flickered as her companion’s chuckling caused his torch to waver. The crusader wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes. Where his eyes might roam as she made her form slim enough to navigate the tunnel, she’d not know. Yet, in her youth and enthusiasm she would gladly suffer the indignity of his glances for a chance to cleanse the Zakarum of betrayers.



Ariel bent forward and took a long look at the dim area beyond the roughly cylindrical passage in the rubble and crumbled stone. She thrust the torch through the cramped opening and it emerged into the room beyond after about twenty inches. Tellingly, she could make out braziers against the far fall that contained embers of recent lighting. “It is narrow,” she announced, passing the torch back to Dasken. “But it opens into a larger room. My shield will not fit, nor my pauldrons, nor my greaves. But the flail I’ll not chance to leave behind. Once I’m safely on the other side, you’ll slide it through to me.”



Dasken nodded, and he seemed on the verge of laughing, as if he were looking forward to watching her attempt to squeeze through the eye of the needle. “Aye, miss. I’ll send your weapon through as soon as you gain the floor, I will.”



“And the torch.”



“And the torch, aye.”



She began to unsnap her armor then, for its encumberment would not allow her to traverse the portal. Sheet after sheet of dark steel fell from her body to reveal a form no less exquisitely forged than the armor being shed. She wore a singlet of silver and grey, with a cruciform emblem stitched across the front. It covered her from neck to mid-thigh, but was slit up the sides as far as her waist, so as not to restrict her stance. Further, it had no sleeves, and the arm-holes were generous - more allowances made for comfort in a garment never meant to be seen. Especially by a fat, leering catacomb tout with a brewer’s breath and a rapist’s grin.



Her arms were sleek and fit, her alabaster skin itself a flawless immaculation, her shoulders showing light muscle from her training. Her neck was slender, her jawline a gorgeous angle, her lips generous. Hers was a gifted face, matching beauty of the heart with beauty in form. And Ariel boasted not just beauty but bounty. As the youthful crusader lilted forward to unsnap the steel upon her thighs, her chest fell heavy inside the her tunic, weighing it down with twin outlines the proportions of which were large, round, and delightful to imagine.



“Is it true you Inquisitor types aren’t allowed to know the sins of the flesh, and all?” Dasken piped up, pocket-pooling himself none-too-subtly with the only hand he had to spare.



“I’ll not discuss it with you,” replied Ariel, crossly, and began to remove the armor along her thighs. As her leggings fell away they revealed thigh-high socks, this time in black, the soft but clingy fabric meant to spare her skin the chafing of armor, following the contours of her long legs and wrapping round her several inches above the knee. Her athletic hips were nearly as wide as her flail-wielding shoulders, and her behind jutted out into the flap of her singlet like two halves of the very moon that lit the Westmarch night.



“So you never had no boy you were sweet on, or the such? Ain’t you ever been curious?”



Ariel was bent over, unbuckling a steel legging, and spared her companion an impatient turn of her head. Her legs were ivory perfection in their thigh-high holsters, nearly featureless save for a cute mole that could be glimpsed on the bottom side of one buttock. “That’s no business of yours,” she said, icily, her stern tone making her sound older and more formidable than her 19 years.



Following the final kick that freed her shapely feet of their sollerets, she stared at him, daring him to say anything further. At first, the only additional remark he made was in the swelling of his none-too-recently-washed breeches. Then, free of her armor, Ariel rolled her shoulders and cracked her back, and stretched her powerful legs, one by one. Her hair fell about her shoulders now, mussed by the exertions of doffing her gear, and she was a very wild and beautiful sight.



“The last time I saw something with haunches like that, I was riding it to Old Travincal,” quipped Dasken, whistling at the girl’s thick, curvaceous behind.



Ariel allowed herself to take a step toward her portly attendant. Her eyes flashed as she did so. “You take liberties with that sailor’s tongue of yours.”



“One day I hope to show you just how many,” he replied, holding up one hand defensively. “But we’re stuck with each other for now, crusadrix - I the navigator and you the hand of vengeance. So allow me a small joke to allay my fear, ay?”



Whatever the reason for his jokes, bickering would not serve them - this she knew. Ariel walked over to the crumbled passage. The hole in the rubble looked smaller than ever - to enter it, she would have to scramble over a rising pile of tattered stone and marble to an opening at about waist level, and then crawl in head first. It was likely that the passage she was about to wriggle through had not ever been meant for human travel… but it was her only means forward, toward the truth of the Zakarumite cult.



“Here I go,” she breathed, more to herself than anything, and then pressed forward. She slid her head into the tunnel, and then her shoulders. Her body became alluringly serpentine. The stone on all sides was smooth, as if the passage were man-made. “It’s tight!” she grumbled, scrabbling forward, but running out of room to move her arms. It likewise became harder and harder for her legs to provide leverage. She considered backing out to go in arms-first, but her estimates told her that she must only be a foot or less from emerging onto the other side.



Bent over as she was, the undercarriage of her singlet was all that separated Dasken’s vision from every detail of her most intimate parts. His eyes were drinking her in, an act of visual intercourse so lewd it made a fingerbang look like a simple hello. He could see the soft swell of her pussy against the fabric of her singlet, and the delicious way her assflesh would tense and bounce as she moved.



“I’d drink my way through a tankard of your crotch sweat just to taste your cunt,” he muttered, fondling his breeches.



“Nnngh!” Ariel groaned with exertion, her forward momentum coming to a halt. “I’m almost through!” She raised her legs and straightened herself out, like a tapered blade. Much as she loathed to be touched by the fat bastard, it seemed the way forward, for she could hardly make much progress with her arms crushed against her sides. “Grab a hold of my legs, and push!”



“Hold on!” came the reply, and then to his credit, Dasken did shove - though not in the way she asked. She could feel his hands knead her ass and then grab her hips, and his crotch press against her behind… and the hardness of what felt like a rather impressive member pulsate against her as he pressed his girth forward with a grunt. Ariel slid forward, and felt air against her ears and neck as the front of her body emerged into the darkened destination chamber. Her chest poured through the exit hole as well. All that was left was to-



*CRUNCH!*



The crusader’s wide hips wedged tight against the entrance to the passage. Her well-formed shoulders slid to the edge of the exit side and then locked there, as her arms pressed tightly against her ribcage. She tried to move forward and her hips were just too wide. She tried to move backward, and her shoulders had the same problem.



“Dasken! You need to either shove me through, or pull me out!” Only silence came from behind her. Even Dasken’s questing hands were gone.



“Dasken, answer me!” she growled, her voice growing more frustrated. Her eyes, slowly adjusting to the dim, made out the bottom of a stone fountain or basin, just inches below her chin. It became clear - the passage she had jammed herself into had been an aqueduct of some kind. She was a fearless young woman, so it would be wrong to say she was fearful. Still, every danger sense she possessed had started vibrating.



Her hands were locked at her waist. Her feet couldn’t plant to get any leverage behind her. She was stuck fast, her hindquarters at the mercy of a lecherous guidesman, her head protruding into the blackness of a musty antechamber. Her ears listened desperately. She heard nothing. Nothing, for minutes on end. Until...



The patter of feet. Dancing, capering feet. The smacking of lips… the low cackling of idiot laughter. Not from behind her, but from the area in front - the room used by the alleged cultists. After a few moments, the blackness was cut by the light of torches, and she knew she was not alone.



It was a foul being bearing the torch, it’s red-skinned body stunted and of odd and twisted proportion. It was humanoid, but short in stature and thin of limb, with facial features satyr-like and vicious. In the light of its torch she could make out a horned head, large feet and hands, a gaping mouth from which barely-intelligible babble fell in a constant stream. It wore nothing but a tattered and soiled loincloth, a depraved creature with depravity in its wild eyes. Yes, the rumors had been true - the milk of the Zakarum had gone sour and black in this crypt. The priests were in league with the Fallen, the foul, half-smart zealots of the burning hells.



She was trapped. Rendered impotent and vulnerable. A lioness made lamb.



More Fallen entered the room, bringing more torches, and lighting braziers. Some carried axes and serrated blades, but they did not end her life with them. Rather, they surrounded her, ringing the stone basin below her chin and gazing down, their smiles betraying intentions as foul as the stench of their unwashed bodies.



“You’re far too trusting,” came a voice from behind Ariel, at last. Dasken. And his inflection carried none of the hard-scrabble bumpkin sound that it had just a few moments ago. No, this voice was articulate, clipped, and cruel. A puppet master’s voice. “And now, look at you. All of that secret training, years of instruction, for what?” He laughed, then. A taunting sound. “You’re at our mercy. Like a dog. A worthless, rutting, mongrel dog.”



“Traitor! I do not fear death!” she defiantly replied. “Even if you take my life, in the end, the cleansed Zakarum will silence the legacy of Mephisto and his brothers!” Her voice didn’t waver. Nor did her resolve. And yet…



There was a tear of fabric as Dasken ripped the undercarriage of Ariel’s singlet away, exposing her in every detail. Ariel yelped - she could not help it. The air of the crypt was cool on her blushing sex. Though she knew little of carnal matters, she had heard rumors of the depravities of the cults - half-spoken, half-understood whispers between the girls of her order.



“You think you are brave,” spat Dasken, slapping the crusader’s round ass, causing her flesh to jiggle, before kneading her buttock with one grubby hand. His fat, sweat sodden midriff pressed against her behind as her perfect assflesh slid through his oily grasp. “But you know nothing, bitch.” He slapped her again, harder this time, and groped her lewdly with two hands, separating her huge butt-globes to reveal her pink asshole and puffy, swollen pussy.



As if on cue, the Fallen surrounding Ariel’s trapped head and neck began to close in on her, until they formed a tight circle. All she could do was crane her neck away, waiting for a killing blow that would spill her lifeblood into the bowl-shaped recess below. None came. Instead, her defiant expression was soon assailed by a ring of bulging, hide-wrapped Fallen crotches. The air seemed almost to waver with the smell, a mix of rotten pubic hair and decades-old unwiped piss. It reminded her of barns… styes of pigs… the jungle-juice scent of her brother’s unwashed sheets, multiplied by a thousand.



“I bet you knew a boy, before the inquisition’s fools took you in,” offered Dasken, and the shuffling of his breeches could be heard as they dropped. Ariel’s eyes widened as what felt like a greasy, leathery gourd was slid up against her pussy - his grotesque penis. “Did you imagine what it would be like with him, I wonder? How chaste, how smooth and silken his skin, this innocent lad of yours…”



Ariel could feel the boils and fibrous bumps on her tormentor’s cockflesh as it teased her pussy lips and slid against her asshole. It was enough to make her vomit, it was so disgusting.



“Shut up! You cannot hurt me!” Ariel cried defiantly, and the flare of her nostrils brought a fresh waft of demonic sack-stink into her sinuses. “You cannot!” But she had imagined her first kiss, and her first love, and the perfumed softness of it all, the unspoilt handsomeness of his face, and the vigor of his body… it was nothing like any of this! Those sweet memories were being steamrolled, corrupted by the forest of smelly cocks in her face.



“Defiant until the end,” laughed Dasken, and she felt him drool on her ass, a warm, slimy rivulet against the thick swell of her flesh. At the same time, the Fallen gibbered and capered around her, the braziers casting them in ghastly light. One produced its penis directly in front of her mouth. It was oblong, thin at the base, fat in the middle and then tapering again at the end, where a blackish-red droop of foreskin dangled off of the bulbous head. Flies buzzed and lit on the stinking organ.



Ariel turned her head this way and that, straining her neck. In the end, though, she had nowhere to go. The slobbering, gibbering satyr took a pelvis-protruding stance, its buttocks grinding against each other like red stones, and howled with pleasure as it jerked off. Within moments, lumpy ropes of greyish-yellow ball chowder began to explode into the platinum blonde’s horrified face, covering her features in seconds. She made a noise that was something like a sob, and Dasken laughed again, slapping her ass two additional times, even harder than before.



“We have no gentle kisses to give a traitor such as you. Only a humiliation that will make you forget your dreams of childish love, and wish for the feeling of my fat, diseased cock, scraping out your insides!” He surged forward and his boil-covered box-beater, nine inches and thick as an arm, ripped into Ariel’s virgin cunt.



Ariel gagged as the ring of Fallen around her jerked their heavy, oblong penises in her face, and her body jostled against its stone prison as she was raped. The first Fallen’s orgasm had been copious beyond belief, a dozen ropes of curdled ball-filth painting her face and cheeks, sliding down over her lips and into the basin below. “Nnngh! It stinks!” she choked out, dry heaving. Tears welled in her eyes, mixing with the seed of her rapists. Her bubble-butt bounced against Dasken’s gut as the ugly, smelly catacomb guide thrust enthusiastically into her hole, lubricated by his own pre-cum and her unwilling biological reactions. Ariel’s stormy eyes grew more avid with each passing second. “Just kill me!” she yelled. “I won’t give in, so just kill me!” Her eyes were wide. Two Fallen grabbed handfuls of her platinum hair and wrapped it around their cocks, jacking it up and down their shafts. It immediately became stained with the grease and dirt on their shafts.



Nobody paid her request any heed.



“Shut up, stupid!” growled Dasken, and slapped her ass even harder, five times, causing her body to shudder and her flesh to jiggle as he pumped away at her teenage twat. “You cunt! You whore! You worthless, cum-eating sack of shit!” He punctuated each denigration with a thrust. Palm-prints began to appear on Ariel’s flawless white flesh. “You’re going to be our example! To discredit your order of heretics and traitors!”



Ariel shook her head. “No, I won’t!” she cried. The two demon cocks on either side of her face had been joined by four more along the front. The circle was now six, and the way the creatures seemed to know no intelligence, no empathy, turned her stomach. All they seemed to know was to despoil, to defile, to ruin with their big, foul lengths of meat. Though each Fallen was shorter than a human male, their putrid penises were easily a foot long or more, and as thick as Ariel’s bicep. Each protruding pole was decorated with a leathery pair of low-hanging, nasty balls. The girl could sense the virile, baby-making weight of them as they stretched the scrotal skin downward with the volume of their bubbling loads.



“Ugh!” was the only sound her cum-slick mouth could produce, and soon two or three of the sweaty Fallen ballsacks were being rubbed all over her face. Ariel began to cough. The leathery scrotums were mottled with filth. The beasts forced their balls against her lips, making her kiss them, and up under her nose, giving her no choice but to breath in their essence or suffocate. And all the while they were gibbering, laughing, and jerking off in the lunatic torchlight. For the first time, she felt her mind start to unhinge.



“S-stop…” she stammered, not to anyone in particular. Her eyes were wide, and shivering in their sockets, as she was forced to make out with sweaty clumps of dick cheese. “It smells so fucking bad...p-please…”



Two big, smegma-encrusted Fallen pissholes were pressed up against her nose, then, one against each nostril, and their orgasmic cries deafened her, so she could not hear herself scream “No!” Ariel’s defiant eyes rolled back into her head with defilement as huge loads of porridge-thick cum exploded into her sinuses, and from there into the back of her mouth and throat. Fuck, it felt like the rancid smell of months-old sperm and piss was seeping into her brain!



“Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh…” was the sound that came from her twitching throat. Her ears tortured her with the sound of the huge, stinky penises firing up her nose, and then one into her mouth, and then three or four more into the basin below her head. SPLURT! SPLURT! It was a wet, explosive sound. As if the tips of their sour cocks were the heads of vomiting drunks, PUKING cum into her mouth, nose, and throat. And as more and more of the chowdery eruptions of wad filled her face, Ariel’s moans were replaced by the defeated glottal sounds of a cum-gargling slut.



It was minutes before the ejaculations stopped, so virile were her demonic tormentors, and Dasken raped her the whole time, calling her a whore, a fuck-bitch, a worthless toilet, and telling her all about how his seed was going to put a baby into her womb. “Your child will make a fine sacrifice to our allies in the Burning Hells!” he taunted, and then groaned and dripped sweat on her back as his smelly, unwashed penis flooded Ariel’s pussy with his watery seed. All the crusader could do was weep. She could feel each spurt of his genetic filth kissing her insides - could even sense the pimples and swollen boils on his cock bursting explosively within her womb, adding to the rancid, impregnating mix.



“N-not insiiiide!” she sobbed, and did so with a hanging head, staring down into a steadily accumulating basin of chunky sperm. A revolving door of eager, capering Fallen had filled it almost to the level of her chin, covering her face with their cum in the process, and they showed no signs of slowing down. Her hair was even falling into it, in places. Dasken’s cock pulled out of her pussy with a foul *SCHLORP!* noise and Ariel felt a rush of liquid creampie it’s way out of her ruined folds immediately, splattering to the ground. God, how much had he shot in her? She had never felt so utterly degraded.



The next five minutes were a blur. Her mind reeling, Ariel’s world became a semen-coated hell. The Fallen jerked off on her face and let the remnants drip into the basin below. They wrapped her hair around their shafts, and even used it to wipe their sweaty balls. They pried open her dazed eyes and ground their spurting urethral openings into her corneas. They beat her face with their cocks, smacking them against her lips. They erased her features with their endless cumshots, wiped her off, and did it again. The yellow, lumpy collection in the basin was now up to the level of her chin. The crusader had to hold her head up in order to avoid her mouth dropping down into it, and in doing so, caught a glimpse of Dasken emerging into the room from one of the side chambers.



There had been another way in, all along.



Dasken had changed into a tent-like ceremonial robe, revealing his true position as a cult leader of the Zakarum. In it, he looked less a vile drunk and more an intimidating and dangerous man. The Fallen seemed to recognize him as an authority, their sponsor in the realm, perhaps, and they parted as he walked to the cum-filled fountain basin where Ariel was stuck, her hair matted and stained, her face slick with sperm. Stray pubic hairs dotted her, and flies buzzed around the basin, occasionally lighting on her lips or cheeks, then taking off again.



“In the end, your faith and your mission weren’t worth shit,” he growled, and then spat in the defeated young woman’s face. “You will live out the rest of your days as as a birthing slave to the Zakarum, until you pass away.”



Ariel coughed and tried to raise her head. “NO!” she screamed, struggling feebly against her stone prison. “Please, let me have a clean death! Show me mercy! Please!” Her stomach turned at the defeated tone in her voice. She disgusted herself… and yet, she could not stop herself from begging. What Dasken had described was too terrible to contemplate.



Dasken just laughed at how pathetic she sounded, far from the ball-busting bitch she had been when she’d arrived in town. He produced a blade from his belt and wielded it. “I’ll give you the death you desire, within the hour, if you agree to be baptized into the secret order, as we all are, here,” he taunted. He knew it was a total affront to everything she believed, and would break her heart and soul to become a disciple of Mephisto before her death. Ariel burst into sobs, now, dripping tears into the cum-filled basin as her chin clipped the surface of the muck.



She did not answer. After a moment, Dasken shrugged. “Then you shall be raped by every demon here,” he said, his voice disappointed, and learn to feel pleasure as misshapen offspring slide from your destroyed cunt.” He snapped his fingers at the Fallen, who gibbered and laughed, some of them moving to the side-chambers, no doubt making their way to the other side of the passage, where her cunt and asshole were suspended and vulnerable for anyone to use, as much as they wanted…



“WAIT!” she moaned. “I’ll do it! Just please, promise I will be dead before dawn!” The last scintilla of her belief and dignity left her, leaving a bare shell. Dasken laughed again, and reached out to grab her by the hair, lifting her wide-eyed head away from the mess below.



“Repeat after me, bitch.”



“Yes.”



“Father of Hatred, hear me now.” He plunged her face down into the basin of thick, smelly cum. For five seconds, then ten. Bubbles and muffled gurgles came from her submerged face. The Fallen surrounding them cackled and danced. Then, at last, she was pulled up, looking terrified, spitting out a mouthful of clumpy sperm.



“F-f-f-ather of...hatred… hear me now,” she stuttered, and Dasken slapped Ariel in the face, sending her cum-soaked blonde hair flying.



“Drink it or drown, bitch - the next time you go down, I won’t let you up until I see you swallowing!” Dasken’s face was furious, and he used as much force as he could to jam the beautiful teenage girl’s horrified face back into the filthy lake of demon sperm. She gurgled and blubbered again, for several seconds… but then her motions changed… she became still… and her throat began to work. Disgusting sounds came from her then, sounds that had only one meaning:



*GULP*...*GULP*...*GULP*...



The heavy swallowing sounds of Ariel taking mouthfuls of yellow, chunky, stinky ball-chowder into her formerly-virginal young body. The foul substance began to fill her stomach immediately, coating her throat and mouth, dominating her every sense with it’s smell. Satisfied, Dasken pulled her up. Ariel gulped down a last mouthful, drooled out some runny ropes of yellow crud, then repeated again with wide, empty eyes.



“Father of Hatred. Hear me now.”



“I bring you a whore’s mouth and a breeder’s cunt.” Dasken slammed Ariel’s head back under until she gulped four more times, then brought her back up.



“I bring you a whore’s mouth and a breeder’s cunt,” she repeated, no recognition or emotion in her gaze.



“With my left hand I pledge my soul to Lord Mephisto!” Dasken continued, and forced her head into cum-basin again. Ariel, now totally limp, took another four or five swallows of Fallen fuck-sauce, gulping them down with no further hesitation. When her cum-soaked face was pulled back out by Dasken, she immediately parroted his line:



“With my left hand I pledge my soul to Lord Mephisto!”



Inside, her waning heart shattered completely. She had spent her entire life learning about the dangers of corruption in the Zakarum, and how she should be vigilant against the evils of Diablo and his brothers, specifically Mephisto, who had once corrupted the Zakarum at Travincal. Now, she was nothing but a group toilet for the cult she’d pledged her soul to destroy. It was the ultimate indignity. Nothing else mattered, and the spark of life and youth that had made her such a formidable young woman was extinguished. Her eyes went dead, her gaze unfocused. All that remained was the physical.



Dasken nodded with approval. “Consider yourself baptized, bitch - in the cum of your former foes, no less. Now, suck their cocks.” Ariel showed none of the defiance in response to this remark that she had shown up until her ‘initiation’. She simply opened her mouth and, when the first disgusting Fallen penis was pressed against her pretty lips, a 14” monstrosity with a turban-like foreskin, she bobbed her head and used her tongue as best she could to service it. The Fallen danced and howled in amusement at her dead-eyed acquiescence.



“Your cock stinks so bad,” she said, looking up at the demon with her empty brown eyes. Her tongue licked a clumpy, greyish deposit of smegma from the foreskin, lugging it into her mouth for her to chew on. “And you have so much smegma saved up.” She returned to licking the rim of the Fallen’s bulbous glans. The bestial creature surged forward then, pounding the crusader’s mouth and throat with more than foot of cock, fucking her face for several minutes, squatting on the basin’s edge and using her hair for leverage. Ariel lay catatonic as it was done, and when the orgasm came and the Fallen’s fat, low-hanging balls emptied themselves down her throat, Ariel made no movement as cum erupted back out of her nose and the tight seal between her lips and the monster’s cockflesh.



Ariel’s body hitched and she vomited a huge gout of clotted sperm back into the basin - her eyes still looking dull and defeated, more cumdump than human. Her upchucking lasted a good 30 seconds… every time she opened her mouth, a new explosion of ball-porridge seemed to be ready to splatter out into the fountain. Dasken slapped her face lightly when it finally seemed all had subsided.



“You’re a stupid piece of shit, aren’t you?” he asked.



“Yes,” she replied, without any sign of awareness. “I’m stupid. I love drinking sperm. I’m Mephisto’s property now. I’ll even gladly drink your piss.”



There was cruel laughter again, and then they hauled her out from her opening, the combined strength of Dasken and dozens of Fallen, combined with the proper leverage, proving up to the task that by herself had been impossible. They tossed Ariel unceremoniously onto the stone floor and surrounded her. Still wearing nothing but her torn singlet and thigh-high socks, her pussy was leaking cum and her face was covered with it. Her legs and arms were splayed out, and she seemed to have no will, no self-esteem or motivation left in her. She was shattered.



Her expression barely changed when over twenty huge penises were produced above her body, erupting with piss almost in unison, hosing down her entire body with dark-yellow streams of acrid, hellish waste. Her mouth remained half-open as streams poured into her gullet, and she swallowed mindlessly. Streams stung her exposed clit and soaked her tits, causing them to show through the fabric. Streams doused her feet. Her only response was to reach one arm between her toned thighs and begin masturbating pathetically. It was minutes later when the long, thick piss streams subsided at last, and she shuddered to a pathetic orgasm in the middle of the piss puddle, every bit of her soaked.



“How did it feel?” asked Dasken, brushing her urine-flattened hair from her face in a sick mockery of caring. “To have totally betrayed everything and everyone? To cum for the first time while being used as a toilet by your sworn enemies?”



Ariel, laying with her tongue out of her mouth, still shuddering from her first-ever orgasm, could not reply. One final tear slid from her eye, as if the last vestige of her humanity was escaping.



“Good,” she whispered, nearly gone. “So good, oh god, so good, praise Lord Mephisto, praise Him, praise Him-”



She babbled on, broken, barely paying attention to Dasken anymore, and so he shrugged and rose from her side as her sweet, 19-year-old voice continued, a sermon with no listeners. He turned to the assembled Fallen, and their Shaman leader.



“Do what you want with her,” he said. “I will let our leaders know the problem has been solved.” And so, the heavy-set man walked out of the room, leaving the mindless crusader to the Fallen. Ariel looked at their imposing, sperm-dripping cocks and fingered herself, talking to thin air, praising the Lord of Hatred.



One of the red-skinned beasts squatted on her face, giving Ariel a mouthful of it’s asshole. She continued to rave and masturbate, utterly mind-fucked, until the creature groaned lewdly and a long, unbroken log of shit began to pour out of its dilating orifice and down her throat, raping her to her core with an unspeakably virile, tentacle-like expulsion of waste.



The 19-year-old blonde girl, formerly the best and brightest of the Crusaders, gagged sluttily and bucked her hips. Fingering herself, lifting her tight, thick ass off the ground, her destroyed mind embraced her role as a shit-swallowing garbage pail for demonic underlings. In doing so, she pissed herself pathetically and lost control of her own bowels, voiding them even more copiously than was being unloaded into her, forming a winding, ascending pile of bicep-thick feces from two weeks worth of her very own constipated shit.



Dasken shook his head as he walked out of view. “Crusader? Pffft. What a disgusting, cum-guzzling, shit-eating, piss-wallowing turd mill.”



Ariel was never heard from again, and the cultists of Zakarum continued to operate unimpeded in the crypts.