Sacrificed to the Demon (Beast Erotica)

Sacrificed to the Demon

Christie Sims and Alara Branwen

Copyright © 2013

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

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Ayra told the elders she was ready. She assured them that all the jitters she’d had since the time she’d been told she was selected were gone. She comforted her teary-eyed father, mother, grandmam, and several brothers and sisters. She told them everything was okay and she was prepared to meet her destiny. She even told her friends she wasn’t worried, and that she was comforted her sacrifice would help feed her family for many years to come. She even told herself she’d come to terms with her fate. Now, as she watched blue fires flicker in the brown sconces on the wall, and the massive pentagram smoothly carved into the circular ceiling, she wasn’t so sure.

It was three weeks ago when her family received the letter from the Order of Pontiffs, the governing body of the city appointed by the Great Hierophant himself, the speaker for the underworld. They’d sent her family a letter telling them that Ayra had been watched by several members of the Order for quite some time, and that they deemed she was the purest of all the young females in the congregation. Because of this, she was to be chosen for the great sacrifice. In return for their compliance, her family would receive a large sum of gold equal to twenty times what her father made in a year plowing the communal fields.

Her family was shocked and afraid. They would never give their eldest daughter over to the order for sacrifice. How could they even think it? But, no matter how shocked and revolted by the idea they were, they didn’t dare tell the Order no. Nobody told the Order no and lived to tell about it.

Ayra could have run away, but she refused to let her family suffer. If it was her fate to be sacrificed to a demon in order to maintain peace in the city, so be it. She resolved to face her fate with pride, even if icy fear drilled into her stomach, she was going to face her end with dignity.

The letter instructed Ayra to get her affairs in order and present herself at the temple in a week’s time. Poor farm girls didn’t have many affairs, so she just spent time with her friends and family. She did all the things she loved to do as a kid, run in fields, play tag, eat candy and stroll around the bazaar. She did everything she used to enjoy — except kiss a boy.

She liked kissing boys when she was a little girl. She and her suitor of choice would sneak out of the temple during church ceremonies, go around the back of the building, down a small stairwell and into a basement where they would share unbridled passion. Well, as much unbridled passion as a young girl and boy usually shared, which was limited to a small peck on the lips and a nice hug.

Ayra had never really been with a man, and that was the only thing that bugged her about the whole ordeal. Even though yearning for a traditional female role in the modern, enlightened theocracy was taboo, she secretly wanted to get married and mother many children. Her friends would chide her if she revealed this desire. Not that it mattered now anyway, soon, her thread would be cut by the fates.

She tried not to let it bother her too much, but the yearning of her unfulfilled dream twisted at her stomach. She’d never known the joys of mothering children or being with someone who would love her for the rest of her life. She’d never known the joy of being there for a little one who needed her. And she’d never known the joy of feeling the caress of a man’s flesh against hers.

She felt tingles fizzle to the top of her large breasts. A melancholy smile appeared on Ayra’s face as she looked into one of the flickering flames on the wall. At least her sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain.

Every three years, the Order had to sacrifice a young woman to the demon that watched over the city. If they did not, plagues and pestilence would rain down on the inhabitants and destroy them all. Her death at the demon’s hand would ensure life for everyone in the village, including the wicked Theocrats that ruled the city, and the rest of the world. On top of being a mere common sacrifice, she was a virgin as well. Virgin sacrifices usually ensured not only the city’s survival, but good fortune for years to come. It was lucky they’d chosen a woman such as her — lucky for the city anyway.

Ayra looked down at her wiggling toes, and let her eyes traverse the curvatures on her cream-colored skin. Once she’d presented herself to the temple, the Order stripped her clothes, bathed her, led her to this room and tied her to a stone slab in the shape of an “X.” Her arms and legs were separated and bound against the cool stone with cold, iron chains.

The chains clanged as she tried to wiggle and get comfortable. The stone sent little chills up her spine. She chewed her plump lower lip and raised her head to stare at the dark entrance a few feet away. She was told the members of the Order would walk through that door when the ceremony was about to begin.

Her lush brown locks folded in on themselves when she rested her head against the stone headrest. The air in the small room was cool, cool enough to entice her nipples to stand erect. The coolness of the stone seemed to press into her firm buttocks and spread throughout her body. Her muscles were twitchy and restless against the smooth stone. The cold gathered into her stomach and was stirred by the fear and dread that awaited her.

Ayra didn’t know what was going to happen. She asked the Order about it, but they didn’t say. All they did was prepare her body for the ritual. Everything she’d read said the ritual required the life of the one being sacrificed, but the sources didn’t say if there’d be any pain or not. She hoped there wouldn’t be, but she had a feeling that was a false hope. She knew the Theocracy enjoyed torturing their enemies, so their demonic masters were probably just as sadistic.

She tried to think of things to take her mind off the sacrifice, but nothing would worked. She riffled through thoughts but nothing would take hold, nothing would block out her fear. Then she came across one: a memory of a summer eve six years ago.

The sun shined bright in a clear sky. It was warm, but the heat of summer hadn’t quite taken hold of the land yet. Ayra and her friends were running through the fields, outside the city, like they’d always done after they were done with their chores, when their eyes fell on a farmhand tilling soil.

He was a large man, easily a head taller than Ayra’s father, with thickly corded muscles that shimmered with sweat. His skin was darkly tanned, and the muscles on his shirtless chest rippled with each movement he made.

The girls stopped their running and watched this smoothed faced, powerful man as he went about his work. His leg muscles bulged as he guided a plow pulled by a large, brown stallion. He stared at the ground, making sure the blade cut into the soil, unaware of the gaggle of gawking 13-year-old girls watching him.

Ayra had tingly feelings before when thinking about some of the other boys she knew in the city, but thoughts of them were nothing compared to the flowing river of tingles that fell from her breasts, down through her stomach and thighs when she saw that man. Her azure eyes followed him as he continued to lead the horse. His back muscles were jumbled and tight. His entire body looked like it’d been created by a master sculptor.

That night when Ayra was in the quiet of her room, she thought about the powerful man again. She imagined being pressed against his firm, muscled chest as his strong, calloused hands caressed her back. She planted small kisses along his chest as he tenderly leaned down and pressed his lips against her neck. He would take a small bite of skin between his teeth and gently suck, then work his way downward.

She then saw herself stand up on her tiptoes to give him a small kiss on the lips as his hands continued to work their way over her back. They took hold beneath her scratchy, sackcloth night shirt and raised it over her head. She moved her small hands over her breasts and pretended they were his strong, powerful palms pressed against her mammaries, and his powerful fingers stroking her nipples.

Moisture flooded into Ayra’s maidenhood, the same way it had done when she had imagined a night of passion with that farmhand six years ago.

A powerful, ringing sound of a gong shattered the stony silence of the room. There was a steady, somber sound of clicking coming down the hall.
Click-clack click-clack
, the rhythm echoed a foreboding song that danced merry fear in Ayra’s ears. The sounds grew ever closer until a shadow of a hooded figure appeared in the doorway.

The figure entered the room, a small man in a draping, red-hooded robe, carrying a lantern from his frail and wrinkled arm. The man started chanting in as deep and somber of a tone as his raspy, high-pitched voice could manage. Behind him came other figures, mostly men, but a few women as well, all wearing red robes and chanting in grim voices. Ayra tried to see the faces of those that came into the room, but they kept their skin hidden by their heavy clothing. Slowly the members of the Order, twenty by her count, took their places along the curvatures of the wall and continued their morbid chanting.

Once they all took their place, the members of the congregation held out their hands. Their chanting grew in volume, and the small figure held his lantern up. The small purple flame that burned inside of it flickered. It twisted and expanded into a writhing, dancing tongue inside the glass casing. The small man turned a little knob on the lantern and its glass door opened.

The flame shot out in many different directions, straight toward the robed figures, leaving behind a fading trail of purple. The flames reached the robed figures’ hands and halted. Small purple globes floated a few inches above the palms of the Order, save for the old man, who re-closed the lamp.

The old man raised his hands to the sky and his chanting grew in pitch. The other members mimicked his movements. A confusing cacophony bounced off the walls as the purple globes of flame floated toward the pentagram on the ceiling. The flames struck the symbol and filled the grooves with flame.

The chanting grew louder and the fires on the pentagram started to radiate. They slowly changed shades to orange, to blue, and as the chanting reached a crescendo, turned crimson. The tongues of flame expanded and began to cover the ceiling. Slowly it stretched across the stone, until the entire circle was hidden beneath a roaring sea of red.

The Order moved forward and closed in on the bound woman. She watched with wide eyes as they stepped forward, robes swaying to their movements. Beneath their dark hoods she could see their mouths a flash of lips and teeth. Their eyes gleamed in the red firelight. The room steadily became warmer. Ayra barely worried about the cool of the room anymore. It was becoming more temperate, about the same temperature of a nice, spring afternoon.

However instead of beautiful flowers and trees in bloom, there were red-robed figures swaying and moving their arms in a circle. They slowly tossed their heads from side to side. Their words were guttural. The syllables these people uttered burrowed into Ayra’s ears, forcing their way into her canal and making her skin crawl.

When the robed figures were only a few feet away from the bound woman, they stopped. They froze in place and fell to their knees. From the side, the old robed figure raised his hands to the burning ceiling once more.

“We invoke the ritual of the great below. Thunr, great demon and protector of Vijin, we implore your magnificence to come and collect your sacrifice, so that you may leave us in peace for three more years. Please come and partake of the innocent flesh we provide for you.” Were the man’s words not so vile, Ayra would have thought his old and raspy voice comforting.

The crimson fires on the ceiling roared and twisted into a cone pillar. They flashed silver and then faded into a charcoal black. The cone twisted once again, then opened as a flower does to the sunlight. From within the opening, a velvet black smoke curled elegantly downward toward the floor. All of the Order, including the old leader, took a knee.