Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,
Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.
- Paul Laurence Dunbar
I came to consciousness in a cavernous room lit with guttering torches stuck into holders on the walls and fitfully smoking braziers in the corners. "Alas! Imprisoned by feminists once again," was my first thought upon waking. It seemed I was securely manacled to a large rough slab of what first I took to be white oak, but on closer examination of the grain it seemed more likely to be burr oak or perhaps even live oak, which is native to the southeastern portion of our land and is unique in that it is an evergreen variety. But whatever kind of oak it was it had a plethora of splinters, a trait of which I was immediately made painfully aware because I was stark naked in my shackles.
Looking around the room as best I could I beheld naught but flickering shadows and a massive wooden door whose grain I could not make out. I heard the scurrying of small creatures at the sides and back of the slab to which I was chained, but try as I might I could not catch a glimpse of them. From the scuttling noises, however, I judged them to be rats, most likely Norwegian rats which are native to...
My rodential revery was interrupted by the creaking of the door to the chamber as it slowly swung open on its rusted iron hinges. From the darkness of the corridor beyond emerged two ominous figures dressed in loose fuligin cowls with great oversized hoods covering their features. From their diminutive stature I thought them to be either human women or members of a vicious strain of pinheaded dwarves from the dank forests of Galleria. I hoped for my sake they were pinheaded dwarves.
The two creatures slowly approached my slab. I squirmed uncomfortably at my naked state then immediately stopped this as my pale and clammy flesh was pierced by a score or more of sharpened splinters.
"Who are you?" I croaked. "Why have you shackled me to this slab? Where are my underpants?"
"There will be time enough for your questions later," the shorter of the two figures said in a honeyed voice that dripped with silky cruelty and caused a quiver in my ungirded loins. "But just so you know, we burned your underwear and then disinfected the fireplace. Shub Niggurath, man! Don't you know how to use a washing machine?"
"Great," I thought. "Human women. I am lost."
At that the two females dramatically cast aside their robes. The smaller person that had spoken earlier proved to be a flaxen-haired woman who I judged to be in her early thirties. She was dressed in a black leather bustier upon which eldritch symbols were daubed in a crimson substance that I could only hope was a particularly whorish shade of red fingernail polish. I also could not help but notice to my increasing discomfort and embarrassment that the woman was what the natives of the Sonoma region on our west coast call a "total vixen." Besides the arcanely-decorated bustier she had on black leather hot pants with a small pocket in front that contained a silver mark from Draconia minted in 1634. Her stockings were made of a sheer black silk that made my tongue ache with desire; these in turn led to the tops of feminine footwear roguishly known in some circles as FMBs. These boots were also black, and had dark purple and red piping on the sides and 3-inch titanium heels. The heels on the boots alone were enough to make a lesser man quake with trepidation. I am made of sterner stuff however, as was becoming painfully obvious.
Moving my eyes at random about her body to avoid further betrayal of my rising interest, I noticed that the blonde's shoulders were lightly sprinkled with freckles, her luscious full breasts rose and fell in her bustier with each panting breath, golden baubles adorned her petite porcelain ears, and she was inexplicably wearing what seemed to me to be a lime green golf visor. At that point her moistened scarlet rosebud lips opened to say,
"Knock it off."
To emphasize this the woman smacked her palm smartly with a Ferragamo leather quirt that I had somehow failed to notice earlier. As my passion subsided somewhat I resolved to state her age as 24 should I be put to the question. This was not a woman to be trifled with; I felt certain of that.
My petite blonde succubus suddenly seemed to notice her golf visor. She quickly doffed it and tossed it out of the scene with some slight embarrassment.
"I am Mistress Kristen," she said in ominous throaty tones. "You may have seen my name on a deliciously wicked line of underwear. You will address me as Mistress when I allow you to speak. And this is Mistress Eva, known as Eva the Excoriatrix. She is a wife, mother of seven children, has PMS, and in general is not someone with whom to fuck. You will not address her at all if you value your future reproductive capability."
At these words I tore my eyes from the blonde and stared at the other woman, who to this point I had not noticed in my feverish state. This second woman was a tall full-figured brown-eyed brunette who I observed to be sneering at me with some disdain. To merely call this newly-beheld goddess an incendiary bombshell is akin to saying that the voice of the infamous bard Gilbert Gottfried is only slightly annoying. The woman was wearing a short chain-mail bodice cunningly crafted from tiny circlets of silver; beneath this she had on a black lace bra that somehow both lifted and separated and ultimately did little to conceal her succulent breasts. Her voluptuous hips were encircled by a wide leather belt upon which were set rubies and garnets, and into this belt were thrust two coldly gleaming silver flensing knives. My dusky co-captor was also wearing diaphanous pantaloons as might a houri. and it seemed to me that underneath this sheer confection she sported a black thong that may or may not have had tiny silver studs embedded in it. As I was trying to determine if this was indeed the case by careful scrutiny of her nether regions I heard a menacing growl form in the back of her throat. I quickly decided to avert my eyes.
"Fellate me how you will, I shall never succumb to your wiles, foul creatures of the night!" I cried valiantly. "And by the way, nice tits, both of you. Damn."
"Naughty, naughty boy," purred the blonde demonette. "So flippant. So in need of tutoring...."
At this point my cat licked my face and I sat up straight in bed. "Mimi, go away damn it, leave me alone, I was just getting to the good part!" I moaned in anguish. "There was diaphanous, there was voluptuosity, there was even a Ferragamo quirt!"
Alas, I never made it back to sleep this morning. But you better believe I'm going home for a nap this afternoon. I fully expect to expiate for my impertinence several times over.