Steam Ch. 03

Story Info
Demon sex, mind-control blowjobs, intrigue and murder.
13.3k words
4.83
13k
9

Part 3 of the 3 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 01/15/2014
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axmanjack
axmanjack
21 Followers

Hey, this is the third chapter of a multipart story. It's pretty long, so if you're into short form stories this may not be for you.

I update sporadically.

Look for the next chapter sometime in the next few months!

*****

Weightless clouds of cold mist float with all the tinkling brilliance of ice cracked by midmorning sunbeams. Impossible birds flutter in the deep periphery, scalding whiteness clear with every nervous wing beat. Their chirps are the deep bass thrum of rubber hammers on steel-plate bulkheads, filtering cold through the gravegrass at the pond's edge and eddying the water. Light flicks in warm fractals off the pond and carves away warmly at the shadows marring Pram's face. Nothing smells like motor oil. Everything tastes like rain.

Her unshod feet press down the angel-hair flowers, their thin, wavering petals sitting still on the air. They would beg had they throats to scream but she passes unperturbed, walking further and further till she meets her reflection at the water's edge. Wind whispered words lick at the corners of her ears but find no purchase. The heat dream around her glows with the oil slick brilliance of a dying coal lantern. Mt. Granger corkscrew-curls its way into the sky at the far edge of the pond.

Windswept quandaries of the unseen voice far beyond the pale edge of Dementia beg for palaver and she ignores them with quiet, maternal patience. Fingernails at her back, dragging gently down supple flesh sans any foul ideation. Fever cracked and crumbling from the ship rot, they find no purchase and fall away into the reedy stillness of the dreamscape.

At the edge of the pond, she finds a single, fat flower, one score and nine petals finding equal footing in gold about the circumference. Pram plucks the flower and it twirls with ballerina grace in her fingers. It grows heavy on the third turn and flattens and thickens until all the green and gold fall away, leaving only the thick, burnished copper of a gear. It slides from her palm, fitting flush into the loamy earth beside her feet. It turns.

The dream shatters, twisting out of focus as some godless machine roars to life beneath her feet. Dirt explodes upward as the clockwork floor roars to life, greedily crunching away at the forest floor. The pond bubbles into steam and puckers as it's sucked away into the depths of the machine. Fire bursts from the floor and all is consumed. It burns away her thin, cotton dress, leaving her naked. The flames invigorate her.

Where once the forest stood now rises around her a clockwork cathedral. Garish red light glows from the furnace mouths set into the walls. Gears and clockwork and pistons fire and screech and whirr around her in obscene cadence. Sulfur stink fills her nose, bites at the end of her tongue. Glyphs of dried blood wind their ways up her arms and legs. A throne waits before her. She steps forward.

"For some," speaks the crone, the windswept voice no longer bound to silence by the rules of Dementia. "This world is a nursery, a playground to leave before conquering the world." The crone hovers alongside Pram, her toe tips brushing along the hot, flat steel floor. The path they follow is coal black and inlaid with gold sigil work. Along either side, rails buried flush with the floor. "Be the babe, or the bottle."

Black smoke coughs out from vents beside the path. Specters, half-seen, wander aimlessly through the choking fog. Some draw close, close enough for Pram to see.

A black-haired man carries a silver-haired baby swaddled in the smoldering remnants of a red cloak. A tarnished blue covers one of his eyes, the other eye stares grimly forward.

A hooded man drags Bennett's corpse along the ground by a noose. Bennett's eyes are white, his mouth, toothless. The noose is woven from ivy, and the hand holding the rope is tattooed in blood. Pram catches the figure's attention, and he shrugs and moves away into the smoke.

A face, gaunt and pale as death rests above the smoke. It watches them pass, saying nothing. Pram can feel the crone shuddering.

The path ends before a massive throne of carved rock. Stars shine down through the roof, bathing the occupant in starlight. A demon sits before her, staring beyond her into the darkness. He is glorious. Massive. Pram's body aches at the sight of his cock, resting like a tired snake on the seat between his thighs, clad in the same polished copper scales as the rest of his skin.

"Wake the beast, magus," the crone whispers. "It is your duty."

Pram ascends the gilded stairs and stands before him. Even asleep, his body radiates heat like a furnace. She runs a hand down his abs, over the deep ridges of his leg muscles. Her mouth waters and she kneels, pulling his cock to her face. He stiffens in her hand, his erection brushing her cheek as he hardens fully.

Pram twists her face, running her jawbone along the shaft until her lips meet it. She parts her mouth slightly, kissing its flank. The demon shudders. It draws in a long, sucking breath. She moves up his cock, kissing and sucking her way to the tip. Her tongue snakes out from her lips and she licks up the other side of it, stopping at the tip to swirl her tongue in long, slow strokes around the head. One of his hands clenches, unclenches. His wicked, talon-like fingernails scratch channels into the armrest.

She takes his dick into her mouth as far as she can go, her soft brown lips pressing against the shaft with every long, slow suck to the top. He is hot and thick in her mouth, a bar of sun-heated steel in the back of her throat. She moves her hands to his thighs, massaging them and then grabbing on to his hips to keep her rhythm. The demon's buttocks clench, pushing his erection harder into her mouth.

His hand finds its way off the armrest and onto her back. Heavy and smooth, it moves down to her butt and squeezes hard at her ass cheek. Pram moans with his cock in her mouth, arching her back to give him better access to her bottom. His finger, twice the width of a normal man's, finds her pussy and pushes against it. She gasps, stopping for a moment to breathe with a muffled "mph" around his dick. His fingernail, not sharp enough to hurt her, slides inside of her easily, the rest of his finger following.

Pram pulls her mouth away from his cock, it's too much. She wraps her arms around his lower torso and squeezes, pulling her breasts up the length of his member and letting him finger her deeper. He obliges, pushing his finger the rest of the way in and curling it to push against her special spot. Pram moans and pushes up on her tiptoes in response. She can feel him chuckling through his chest.

His other hand curls around her chin and turns her face up to his. The demon is insanely handsome, with the carved face of some ancient general and the full lips of a sneering playboy. He picks her up easily and pulls her mouth to his. They kiss deeply, his long tongue slipping into her mouth. She knows what's coming as he shifts down in his seat and her body screams for it. In a second, her pussy is resting just over the tip of his cock.

The demon presses against her without pushing in, teasing her. Her ass rests cheek-by-cheek in his wide, strong hands. Her hands grip his arms just above his elbows. She begs with her eyes. He obliges.

His cock, terrible and hot, fills her to bursting as he slowly, slowly slides her down on top of it. Pram's head falls forward and she gasps. The runes of dried blood on her skin crackle and burn with white fire. Sparks build and fall away from the sigil work, bouncing over the demon's chest and thighs. He slams her down the rest of the way onto his cock and she leans back and screams in ecstasy.

Pram's legs go numb but move in time regardless with the demon's arms as he pulls her body up and down. Her skin glows with white fire. His hand massages her left breast hard. It hurts in the best way possible and she covers his hand with her own, placing her free hand on his shoulder to steady her. She closes her eyes and loses herself to the rhythm. She feels his hand wrap around her neck. His thumb presses against her throat. She gasps. He growls.

The demon spins her around on his lap, entwining his fingers in her hair and pulling with his elbow buried in her back. She gasps and opens her eyes. White fire pours from her face like water, scorching the ground and filling the air with wisps of smoke. It crawls along the path, burning along the runes, up the walls and on to the mad geometry of the ceiling. Pram sees the Flower of Life bloom in radiant circles above her as she comes all over the demon's cock, her thighs buckling under the pressure of the orgasm.

He stands, feet splayed apart and, holding her by her stomach and throat, begins fucking her harder. Air-starved tears run down Pram's face as his grip tightens, but she doesn't want him to stop. One last, hard pump comes and she feels his cock flex against the walls of her pussy, and then the molten steel pouring of his seed inside of her. He doesn't stop fucking her and she comes again, the white fire of the runes spreading to her entire body in a single brilliant explosion.

In the sudden burst of light, she can see the floor of the chamber is littered with the rotting dead. His cock goes slack inside her and falls out. She feels hot, viscous fluid running down the inside of her thigh. He drops her to the floor and she falls through it and into the darkness beyond Dementia. A voice in the black. Then nothing.

Pram coughed and sat up too fast, smacking her forehead against the ceiling of the drive chamber. It rang with a loud bong that resonated into her own skull.

"Ahh, fuck," she said, laying back and rubbing her forehead with her palm. Soft grey light from the runes' afterglow lit the inside of the drive chamber just enough to see. Pram scooted down and booted open the hatch with her feet, trying to blink the sleep out of her eyes. Brilliant yellow light pierced the shadowy interior of the chamber. She must have finished the overcharge early.

Pram climbed out of the chamber and stretched, trying to shake off the bizarre remnants of the caster's dream. Dreams and visions were common during long, demanding casting sessions, but it had been a long time since she had had one so bizarre and out of her control. Her face flushed with guilt at how good she had felt and her hand found its way between her legs. She bit her lip and sighed. She shook her head to clear it.

What in the fuck am I doing? She asked herself.

Pram decided to bury the memory by getting to work, pulling a reel of hose from a compartment on the wall and spraying down the compartment. Blow off from Steam Training heat filled the compartment with ash, and it was her job to spray it down after each session in the tank. A few minutes later, the job was done and she was halfway finished forgetting the bizarre dream. Her stomach growled.

"May as well get something to eat," she said to herself, rubbing her stomach. Pram popped the hatch on her storage locker and dressed. The feel of her watch against her wrist wasn't as calming as usual. She frowned and got ready to leave the compartment.

Something about the ticking, she thought.

"...and a bedroll," said the supply worker, dropping the heavy, wet-feeling mat onto the makeshift table in front of Sylvia. She pawed over top the gear, trying to look as though she had any idea what she was looking at. The dented silver mess kit, hanging off a ring on the side of the pack was the only bit she honestly recognized, though bedroll seemed self-explanatory.

She had never camped as a child, she thought, running her palm over the moldy stitching of her new sleeping gear. The moment of pride she had felt telling Foucault she would rather be a janitor than turn her arms against her people had begun to fade as her life became steadily more awful. She cursed her pride, and then thought better of it, puffing out her chest and slinging the load over her shoulder.

"You need to sign for this," said the supply officer. He set a steel clipboard on the desk in front of her. Sylvia had to lean awkwardly to the side to scrawl her name on the correct line.

"Thanks, new blood," he said, pulling back the board and double-checking it. "You can go."

Sylvia smiled and turned to file into the ranks of red cloaks beginning the day's march out of the castle. That was her rank now, new blood. Inductee. Low man on the totem pole. She hadn't exactly been royalty on the Turandot, but being a Steam Trainer could hardly be considered roughing it.

One of the other inductees, some other girl, had been called up after she turned down Foucault. Sylvia had caught a glimpse of her, essentially glowing in her new clothing, sitting on her own horse in the front third of the formation. Prestige and rank carried the privilege of walking toward the front of the formation, where the ground hadn't yet been torn up by the ambling horde.

Sylvia's foot hit a rock embedded in the thick mud. Her ankle twisted over it and she fell, hip first into the cold mud. Her face hit with a smack. She could feel it creeping into her mouth, taste the grit of the little bits of sand and rock. Soldiers chuckled around her and kept walking. Maybe, she thought, she could just lay there forever until she passed away from starvation and embarrassment.

Somebody pulled her roughly to her feet and palmed the mud on the right side of her face off of her eye. Through the muddy gauze of tears in her eye, she could see it was one of the other survivors, a sandy-haired man. He pulled hard on the straps of her pack, tightening it against her shoulders until it hurt, then turned her around completely.

Her torso jerked back and forth as he rearranged and tightened and torqued up on whatever miscellaneous fasteners he could find. She stared out into the snow-capped horizon, mortified, trying to blink her eyelashes free.

"There," he said, turning her back around to face him. Bluish eyes... northern?

"Thanks," she muttered.

"Yeah," he replied curtly. "Keep your pack high and tight on your back, and walk through the mushy stuff with your legs apart a bit. Stay balanced, yeah?"

"Yeah," she said, but he was already off. She looked around. Only the empty, broken castle was left behind her. A fat mound of snow sat atop the fire pit. The very back of the formation, she thought.

The walking was easy enough, save for the slippery bits. The army followed a long, sloping spiral down the side of the mountain. Through the buildup of mud and ice, Sylvia could sometimes see the flat grid work of heavy stone cobbles, the same color and cut as the ruined castle. A road, more ancient than she could imagine, carved from the side of the mountain. Without it, they would have surely had to climb.

The icy road wound its muddy way through the mountains, dipping down the side of one and curling round the waist of another. It was an intricate, stony ribbon twinning effortlessly through the pass. Going uphill would be harder, Sylvia though, but not by too much. The grade was almost nonexistent, though getting through the thick ice without a pyromagus would be nearly impossible.

All of what she could see was a jagged vista of mountaintops, stretching out into the grey mists of the horizon. Sunlight reflected in diffused golds and reds from the snowcaps, leaving the gray rocks beneath painted in blue and shadow. The army of Caan was a red snake, sliding its way down the mountain path.

Sylvia pushed forward to catch up with the blond-haired survivor. They had been walking for hours, and talking could keep her mind off the growing numbness in the pads of her feet.

"Hey," she said, surprised at how out of breath she sounded.

"Yeah," he replied, not turning to look at her.

"So, uh, where do you think we're going?" She asked. She forced herself not to sound winded while asking the question, which only made things worse. The word "going" nearly made her hack up a lung. If he noticed, he didn't show.

"East," he replied. "Far as I can tell."

"Why?"

"War, I suppose," he said. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his wrist, and then curled his thumb back under the strap of his pack. Sylvia did the same, and was disheartened to see her forearm caked with brown.

"With the Imperium?" Sylvia asked. She looked at the line of red stretching ahead down the path. Hundreds, thousands maybe, but the Imperium's volunteer forces alone numbered in the millions. "They don't have anywhere near enough people."

"Maybe," he said, "maybe not. None of this makes sense. We shouldn't even be alive, much less walking behind this formation wearing the enemy's colors." He shook his head, flicking a bead of sweat off his bangs. Sylvia couldn't argue. The whole situation was insane.

"Is this..." She started. "Is this all some sort of trick or something?" She glanced at him. "Are we going to die?" He paused for a long time. Without his voice, the only sound was the roaring echoes of thousands of feet falling in time.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we're probably going to die."

Sylvia stopped talking to him and looked at the footprint filled ground passing by quickly beneath her.

The formation stopped abruptly in front of her, a single word being passed quickly down the ranks. Somewhere in the far distance, something like an eagle screamed into the wind. The word, Caanish, just a few syllables she couldn't make out. The screech got louder. Dragon?

"Get down!" The blond haired man yelled, grabbing her by her pack straps and throwing her to the ground. Sylvia barely had time to see the entire line of red ducking down and as close to the mountainside as possible. The screaming grew louder, became soundless. It felt as though all the air in the world was being shredded apart.

"What's happening?" She tried to scream, but the air was sucked from her lungs. The noise became physical; it pushed them down into the mud. She turned to look at the sky and saw it, just a black flicker against the clouds. A dark blur gone as soon as it came. The noise hit its crescendo in a single, massive crack Sylvia felt throughout her spine. Then the noise was gone, replaced by some deep rumbling.

"What was that?" Sylvia asked, feeling panic rising up in her. A new round of shaking was beginning, somehow more forceful and yet much quieter than whatever had just passed.

"GET DOWN!" He screamed back at her, grabbing a handful of her top and pulling her in closer to the mountain just in time for her to see a boulder the size of a train car falling toward her out of sky. She screamed and crossed her arms in front of her face, waiting for the pain to come.

Instead, a sound not unlike an old, massive bell rang the length of the path. Nothing hit her. Nothing at all. She opened her eyes and looked through the space between her arms to see a few large rocks sitting three meters in the air above her. Just resting there, as though some invisible platter was holding them there. A physical barrier.

"Holy fucking shit," said the blond beside her. "Oh no fucking shit. What the hell?"

"Uh," Sylvia said, swallowing despite her dry mouth. "It's a barrier spell. Like an invisible wall."

"Uh, oh," he said. Another rock, nearly as large as the last, came out of nowhere and smashed itself to pieces in front of their faces. They screamed in unison. "Mother fucker, shit. That is impossible to get used to."

"Yeah," she said, shakily returning to her feet. Soldiers stood and brushed themselves off down the line, most of them just as shook up as Sylvia. "That was, what, a dragon or something? Like... a real dragon?"

"Uh, yeah," the blond said, getting to his feet as well. "That's about the closest I've ever gotten to a living one. They're the reason you don't travel in mountains like these during the day." He beat some of the dust off his cloak. "They're fiercely territorial, and they shoot around like that to cause rockslides to kill whatever's in their area." He swirled his finger around in the air. "Then they go and eat whatever's sticking out from between the rocks."

axmanjack
axmanjack
21 Followers