In the Sun-tower of Old Hell’s New Capital, beneath the suspended mass damper, near on to five score souls had convened around long tables and benches for a grand feast. It was sweltering hot. The air overhead seemed itself to sweat, blue with tobacco smoke and aswirl from cries of “Ho!” and raucous laughter. On the tables, plucked at by hands unconcerned much for hygiene but very much the dibs, greasy roast, vats of mushroom soup, pickled lizard eggs, sheaves of unleavened bread and dried algae were liberally served on wooden and ophite trays. In the gathering hall’s murky heart, over the incandescent firepit, a whole, skinned carcass of a cave bear revolved on an iron spit, looking argumentative about the whole “apex predator” thing.
The feast’s invitees were meat of a different cut. The outcast Oni, if they sobered, filed down their cranial curlicues and generally gave themselves to reformation might – just might – aspire to be somebody’s footstools in New Hell. And, in New Hell, footstools sat around the middle of the food chain. The earth spiders in their droves, the hobgoblins and otherwise assorted, minor youkai playing their horned neighbours’ second fiddle were as good as butt-cushions themselves. The only rational excuse they were here was that the Oni were ill disposed to bear, and somebody else had been brought along to eat it. Here and there, shifty, slitted eyes flitted between it and the untouched algae.
And, there was alcohol everywhere. This comprised pitchers, boxes, decanters, cups, gargling mouths and the floor.
The Kishin chief, Suiki, prime of prime, the daemon of Chikata, lash of New Hell and the hallowed Yama, issued a growl almost of begrudgement at his solitary table. He wasn’t good on small talk or statesmanship or even spearpoint diplomacy. Surreptition, though; now, surreptition was a Kishin’s knife. No hunter of immortals held long onto their head without a dash of eighth circle chicanery. Suiki knew where he was even – and in fact best – when others didn’t.
This was presently of some advantage since, where Suiki was stationed, something rather unthought of had recently occurred.
The ascendant goddess of New Hell, her motley divinity, Hecatia Lapislazuli, had taken a lap for a seat.
This should have turned heads, even coats. Wars had been waged, never mind ended, for lesser heavenly favours than that of a goddess’s warm behind.
And yet, the reception went on. Unchanged in volume. Or hue.
Nobody bled, at any rate.
Suiki growled a second time. Not the most surreptitious of his arsenal, yet he poured all of his tenuous relief into the utterance. Its backwash crashed lengthwise the crest of the goddess’s gingery head, whence her divinity had removed previously the polos crown occupying it as a rule. The carmine-black orb of the Otherworlds, one of Hecatia’s trinity of devices, floated now abreast its sisters Moon and Earth on a span of golden chain attached, because no goddess carried herself without some crank to jumpstart a man’s fascination, to a cordovan choker on her sunburnt neck. The very neck Suiki was breathing down.
There was something to say for this circumstance. It was, first of everything, that the blessed lap had obviously been Suiki’s. It was also that a thick atmosphere fogged over as well a divinity’s mother wit.
It was not what the divinity would say for it. What she did, was, “And why so glum back there, Suiki, dear?”
Growl the third vacated Suiki’s baritone throat, no more chipper than its overtures. Truth in Hell was, his peace-form’s humanoid palms were itching with nerves. Suiki vised them, in what he considered to be a pregnant display, around the table-top’s edge. The goddess Hecatia knocked one of her wrists on one of his own in a familiar way with, what he felt was, just as much expectancy. Orichalcine bracelets, his and hers, a matching pair, jingled their concurrence. The Kishin looked to his, until a better word occurs, manners… and let go.
It was all, the highway pileup of it, little to his cheer. The regimented, martial realms of Suiki’s mind rankled at the sotted Oni, the rancid smoke, the cyclopean damper sphere aloft looming like irony waiting to befall, the stench of lawlessness and clammy skin rife in the hall. He chafed at the skin, too: swathes of it flashing through the gloom in amounts which should uprightly have remained private. The loosed hair and bared chests, and not every one male, were the bilious horse in the wreckage.
Other than which, the Kishin had maddened at the eminent deity of New Hell leaguing together with their lowliness. The madness had bodied forth in the most scandalous of shapes: stiff and bellying, jutting out of the zipper in the gaudy, snakeskin trews Suiki had donned at the goddess’s bidding (not to say “caprice”), and half-draped by the varicoloured, tartan skirt which had earned Hecatia one of the sobriquets. It had its own take on everything, did this madness, writ in swollen veins on every erect inch. On those, especially, which remembered still the grip of Hecatia’s slim, domineering fingers digging them out of their cramped oubliette and kneading them into tentative firmness. They lay now, those long, lucky inches, athwart the boon of the goddess’s derriere: a handspan-and-a-half in the middle of two handfuls.
“Once again—” eked out Suiki from within his fortress of discipline, “—this is deeply, profoundly malapropos, my lady Hecatia.”
The redhead divinity in the Kishin’s lap tossed her lofty head. “Tsk, tsk,” she said and, when it is said she said it, she did say it. She pronounced it tʌsk.. “And tut-tut. Ti apogoítefsi, Suiki. What was it I told you about ladying it up with me? For shame…”
Yes, Ma’am. For that, agreed the Kishin chief’s inner sergeant. He rattled his larynx like a jerked hound. “… This is,” he mustered anew, “very unseemly, la— rngh, Hecatia.”
“So stiff,” complained the goddess, “and yet… so stiff.” There was a pause cut out for a corroborative laugh, yet none came forth to patch in. Hecatia made the sound of a woman not quite scorned, but a fair bit snubbed. Suiki, it was signalled by a heated, backwards peek, standing next in line. “Would it destroy you to?” she wished to know. “No. Never mind, you grouch. This is Hell yet, this place,” she reminded pointedly; “and, remind you me, who is the law in Hell?”
“Old Hell,” amended the Kishin; “the Nether Realm no longer.” Then, amending his wellbeing at its large, he obliged, “… You, Hecatia. You are righteousness and justice.”
“Then I judge this just right,” said Hecatia, dropping the axe on that neck of the debate.
An afterwit of which, she pushed her G-string-clad bottom even harder at the source of Suiki’s stiffness. The smoothness of their skin and the sultry heat of her buttocks rubbing up against its length rushed from its underbelly up towards Suiki’s, seizing muscles and speeding blood along the way. The goddess’s tented skirt tickled his concealed mace-head while conflicting orders wobbled up to it from his clenched loins. The Kishin chief tugged severely at the collar of his upper wear, which could otherwise pass, sans the gleam and glitter, for a snazzy evening shirt. Sequins crinkled in a veritable orgy of fashion, drowning out the gulp of Suiki’s trepidation plunging to meet his libido halfway.
There was a metaphorical crash and, on the bench of his struggle cart, the Kishin thumbed the reins of truth.
Hecatia Lapislazuli was not, per se, his goddess. Nor did he owe her reverence in any evangelical sense; further still, since she rounded out to about sixty percent of women he’d spoken to from the same end of the figurative sword, the other forty being his manager Yama, he’d discovered her close colleagueship to be a treacly if precarious thing. They weren’t kindred, no; although, neither had they to be. Their common interest and surveyance of Gensokyo had alone brought to the chief Kishin the goddess’s summons to attend her in her manor on the sulphur lakes of ancient Tartarus. Only afterward of several such war-council-and-biscuits meets would it dawn on Suiki that the New Hell’s dark horse had never said whence she’d learnt the site of his latest hunt. A couple more yet, and he’d consent that with a total three pairs of eyes it was two chances in six that one would be weather-kept on Hell’s bureaucratic hurricane.
There had been, anyway, a consensus to those not uncongenial meets that, owing to his now-familiarity with Gensokyo’s underside, it’d behoove the chief of the Kishin to accompany the esteemed deity of his eternal workplace on her tour of Hell’s whilom estates.
Outnumbered, outranked and, above everything, outtalked by the over-clever Hecatia, it’d been everything Suiki could do to fall in.
Into where it was he had fallen was fast becoming evident. He was, of course, wised to the irony. Neither was he blind to the droll retrospect of it having now brought him to the act called, in the main by the single minded, hot-dogging a woman’s behind. Suiki wasn’t humourless; after all, he had told everybody ever to allege him of such that he passed his humours right merrily after a keg of beer. The joke had yet to land.
Out of consternation, he’d withheld it even so as he’d travelled the Kaian Passageway arm-in-arm with the Hellenic goddess who, were his experience any telling, was genial and not wholly humourless herself. A head-and-shoulders taller even in his manlike peace-form, Suiki had hovered thusly at Hecatia’s side, a guardian angel in silence if not utility, as they’d taken pitiful stock of Hell’s former facilities far beneath Gensokyo.
He’d found across those hours, had the hapless Kishin, that the Lampads’ torchlight and the soulfires of Hecatia’s home had done her round, unmilitary bits no such favours as tiptoeing and rummaging among the marble ruins had. And how. Suiki had seen women on their knees and scrabbling in the dirt; never, however, a goddess… and never in a skirt so short and unruly as Hecatia’s. And the Kishin, who’d until then believed skirts to hold whatsoever no appeal, would have been grateful for the goddess and her education… but of for a teeny, tiny fishbone of contention stuck in his duteous craw.
It had been, every loose stone of it, a reminder of failure. Of Hell’s – to have allowed the Oni to infest and desecrate its once-holdings, and… far, far down the chain of consequence, Suiki’s own. That of the hunt. The reaping. His cosmic purpose.
Succinctly, the failure which had brought a hitherto unimpeachable Kishin executioner under Hecatia Lapislazuli’s blistering scrutiny.
Why it’d incorporated straddling his lap and picking his dick out of his pants in the middle of a party – and to what end – was an ongoing study.
It’d taken no more nor less than one stray soul’s spying them in the rubble of the Old Capital for the news to echo all the way to the New; and, sooner than either of them may reckon with a tactical excuse, the goddess and her Kishin escort had been ushered by the locals to an impromptu, yet uncannily lavish and well-found reception. The simplest conjecture being that the Oni and their neighbours partied just as naturally as they breathed, and in about equal divisions. There’d been fire and bad ale before there’d been chairs. There’d been casual brawling and innocent wagers even before.
Suiki had eyes now for none of the aforesaid. His inbuilt pair was occupied presently with the physiological realisation of a critically neglected, male instinct being, not to lay it on thickly, sandwiched between a keenly attractive and infinitely high-class woman’s ass-cheeks. They weren’t ass-cheeks apt for this purpose; bluntly, they had at most a quarter-grip of Suiki’s not inconsequential girth to show for their labours. But, there was a hot, sweaty stickiness between them which could’ve given baby oil a run for its money. They clung to his ridged underside like Lampads to cotton candy. Suiki received a nerve-pulsed missive from the top end of his business that, were he but to secure the prospecting rights, it’d gladly plumb the stuffy valley for an even stickier yield.
Already, it was greasing its spade-tip, staining in the process the lining of Hecatia’s prized skirt.
“—to Suiki,” crooned Hecatia, with a decent amount of malice forethought. “Hallo, hunk?”
The Kishin grazed his attention upwards whence his meaty spire was being given a butty lean-to to where a goddess was rubbing the back of her head on his shoulder – and became aware of a gap in the scenery.
The gap was wedge-shaped, down inside Hecatia’s collar and deep enough for a double hot-dog with sauce-space aplenty left over. The round, creamy slopes on both its sides were runny with perspiration; and, despite that the goddess had shrewdly kept on her black for the sweat-wringing climes of Old Hell, there was no misidentifying the twin, nubby peaks in the shirt’s two, most mountainous regions. Suiki bridled, downstairs most of everywhere, as he grasped that nobody must have clued the ageless, Hellenic goddess in on the invention called the brassiere.
There was a discerning, mischievous smile, and Hecatia’s middle and index fingers were hooked with purpose under the shirt’s loose collar. The gap grew precipitously before Suiki’s riveted eyes: out and out and out it stretched… until, none too soon, it encompassed the whole, lurid vista of Hecatia’s nude, sweaty bust. The Kishin’s Adam’s apple bulged at the plain view of the goddess’s cerise-pink and completely erect nipples: both plumper and pointier than their impression had betrayed. A large, pore-pitted areola supported each, perched atop a sumptuous, supple-looking breast apiece, both of which wobbled heavily in counterpoise as their owner wiggled left to right – and again in reverse – on her bumpy seat.
The flash lasted no longer than its namesake; and Hecatia let the shirt snap flush again around her breasts, adding now a picturesque crease to the landscape and an even sharper incline to the edge of her skirt.
“Today,” the goddess magnanimously explained, “I elected I had best not wear any.”
The Kishin chief strove not to make a balloon dog of his brows.
It wasn’t such a vile thing, having a woman flagrantly flirt with him precluding interests of self-preservation, and Hecatia had been shooting him the proverbial winks ever since their passing of the Kaian turnpike. That notwithstanding, current events went quite a sight further than what Suiki might gloss over as the goddess being her famously personable self. He suspected, for better or for worse, he was being charmed.
He didn’t like it one bit.
He liked it lots of bits – and was ashamed of every one.
The heavenly, redhead seductress must have read his heart – or otherwise divined from his dick flexing in the cleft of her ass – that she was seeing moderate success.
“Goodness, but you are into me,” she cooed, a smutty grin moulding each syllable. “Was beginning to have my doubts, here.”
Suiki plunged his stale airways with a vengeance. “… Were you? Never questioned it for a bit myself.”
“Suiki,” Hecatia had the good graces to chide and not thunder, “in the months I guested you, I have never once found your eyes wandering below my neckline. That can give a woman cause to distrust her staying power.”
The Kishin, sieving his memory, recalled many a verifiable and, indeed, attention-begging neckline. A sense of integrity imputed to him, in fact, an explicit instance of Hecatia descending to meet him at the war table in her study with nothing else on except bed-hair, a half-buttoned dress shirt and the neckline contingent therein. Suiki dismissed it. It was not a part of the conversation.
He ensured so doubly by promising, “On my vow and the Yama, you are a captivating woman, la— eh, Hecatia.”
The goddess cocked her de-crowned head. “Never knew you Kishin to take vows. Would it or would it not make you an oath breaker?”
The current holder of chiefdom over New Hell’s dread soul-hunters barked off a derisive laugh ahead something kicked him in the hindsight. The laugh rounded out, albeit sounded now as if it didn’t want to be caught fraternising with its owner.
In the visceral language of the allegorically-inclined, he felt the jab. It left him feeling, in the less airy vernacular of those so-treated, a bit deflated.
“… I am a Kishin,” he put forward nevertheless. “You are a goddess. The ascendant, the mightiest. The Yama bow to you. This thing… it is not done.”
And neither had he to expound whatsoever on what the thing was, since Hecatia may very good feel it, bellying, all along her butt-crack. There was another twirl of the goddess’s noble noggin, and Suiki realised somewhere in there was an eye-roll.
“Take a look,” she demanded with an expansive gesture which, were this a myth of old, could’ve meant the origin of a whole, new world; “a good, close look with those judicial eyes of yours, Suiki. Where are you? Where are we? What manner of place? See. Then speak to me of being done.”
The Kishin chief, committing malpractice under his breath, listened – and peeped lengthwise the gathering hall as if he feared it’d peep back in revenge. Which it wouldn’t even so, what on account of Hecatia’s little showcase being nowhere so bodily as the happenings around and atop the other tables.
There, saw Suiki, at one too nearby for his like, a female youkai of blond hair, elfin ears and a vocal disposition was being bent over the table-top: her black, skin-tight leotard tucked into her cleavage, leaving her cute, modest bust to shake for the bystanders’ ogled appreciation. A hobgoblin, as dog-faced as they came and standing on the bench with his loincloth around his ankles, reined the elf-woman’s arms from behind: jostling her back and forth to smash her ample rear into his waist and dangling paunch. Whatever stood in for the creature’s manhood must have evolved around its size deficiencies; the elf-woman was patently feeling each and every thrust: now hanging her head, now throwing it back in a drooling, white-eyed expression of female bliss.
A queue of the hobgoblin’s kin – and even one exceedingly patient Oni – was forming at their backs.
The heat of Suiki’s visual inspection could’ve burned the alcohol from any Oni’s veins, especially if he were in the queue behind it; and, really, he needn’t probe further for Hecatia’s meaning, but did so anyway.
Indeed, he hadn’t to probe whatsoever far, because the very next table over presented just as relevant of an entry. Another youkai blonde, this one with her long hair in a prissy bun and her huge, matronly tits extracted from her prudish dress, was on her knees: going throat-deep down on a groaning, writhing Oni’s tortured hard-on. Standing arms akimbo with his hind bared toward Suiki, the hale specimen of Old Hell’s non-native giants could do no more than gird his loins literally and strain to outlast the youkai woman’s intense, tip-to-root suck-job. Marks were, he weren’t ennobling himself much; come and tainted spit were oozing down the woman’s massive, pendulous bust, which Suiki may see swaying between the Oni’s knees, and dribbled to the floor from the ends of her fat, tan nipples. The fingers of the hand with which she wasn’t gripping the Oni’s glutes, keeping his dick captive to her slavering mouth, were busy instead under the skirts of her earthen-brown dress: vigorously preparing the place wherein, wisdom of these things supplied, she expected to relieve the Oni of the rest of his spunk.
Or, another think told alongside a gush of squirt spraying the floorboards, simply consoling the place the stupid, selfish brute hadn’t thought to request.
A third shimmer of towheaded activity (which indicated to Suiki either he or Old Hell itself had a preference) hooked the Kishin chief’s focus; although, this exemplar, he knew by her notoriety.
Yuugi Hoshiguma, the second of the Four Devas of Yatsugatake, who held the cast-off realm in an unsanctioned fiefdom, was meekly brushing aside the advances of a shorter-horned, yet certainly bolder male of her ilk. The flushed, maidenish Deva squirmed in the Oni youth’s half-embrace, nursing her drink and ducking every one of the pouty attempts to smack a kiss on her neck, cheeks or lips. The scene’s overall innocence was foxed a not insubstantial deal once the young Oni discovered somewhere unseen on Yuugi’s body a trouble spot which shocked the Deva’s spine straight and left her mouth an O of squealed outrage. The two tumbled end over end as the horny, horned youth pinned the stunned Yuugi like a championship wrestler, and they vanished under their table… whence, seconds later, ejected was a piece of what looked to be demure, feminine underwear.
The bottles violently tipping atop brooked scarce any doubt that Yuugi wouldn’t remain a maiden very long. If she’d ever been one to begin with.
Suiki felt a startled tug from his loins when Hecatia, commandeering again his unanimous attention, rose then nestled farther up along his lap.
Whether she’d destined for the process to run Suiki’s inglorious hard-on beneath her crotch and up between her thighs was the goddess’s design alone. The thighs scissored anyway around his enthused girth: soft as comforters, porcelain-smooth and muggier than a cup of steaming milk-tea. The Kishin blanched then reddened again, somehow inside the same blink. Then went still.
“Well? What is it you see, Suiki?” prompted Hecatia from under his chin. “What are these things before us?”
Suiki mulled it like shipwreck wine. “… Sin,” he determined, staunchly ignoring the exploratory, kneading motions of the hellish thighs. “Sin, wretchedness and intemperance,” he rattled off. Then, with a set of the jaw like an icebreaker, he steeled his own temper. “May I, Hecatia? Why, this? I am not… opposed, not consummately, but here—”
“Ah, Suiki, Suiki,” chided the goddess with what could’ve been maternal forbearance if she hadn’t been giving him tentative, intercrural sex under the table in the midst of a party. In Hell. “This is what I drove at just then. So stiff. You said it yourself. This is no more our Hell; we are only eel-spotters among the dregs. Have you not heard the saying? When in Rome…”
“The one what fell?” wondered the Kishin.
The sally’s punishment was a harsh tightening of Hecatia’s thighs.
Suiki may only rehearse his earlier, growled repertory as the goddess’s body heat suffused his lower wards by way of his irredeemably merry manhood. Now, in fact, the close quarters had given it the grounds to strut its stuff, it pumped into Hecatia’s hot, inguinal clutches the pent-up envy of watching his inferiors squeeze the reception for all it was worth. The naughty redhead must have sensed his natural lube slicken her skin or if nothing else then his hard-on twinge in between her bunched muscles, because, having steadied herself first by the Kishin’s haunches, she lifted her two, exquisite legs together in parallel like so graceful a yogini. The haunches clenched, jittering, once Hecatia dropped her legs, thus her thighs, back down the length of Suiki’s rearing, spewing trouser snake.
Then, to his guilty pleasure, she did it again. Then one more time. Then a bunch more. Suiki huddled forward, the roiled instincts urging him to commit the smell of the woman who was jerking him off to memory. She smelled warm and amoral: a bouquet of sweat with an undertone of recent – or imminent – sex. It was the smell she’d worn when she’d met him in the bed-hair and the dress shirt.
The snug, slippery gully in the goddess’s lap was rife with Suiki’s avowed lack of opposition by the time her arms’ balance had flagged from the effort; and, bereft of their support, Hecatia’s hips skipped forward, landing the front of her silky G-strings astride the overgrown base of the Kishin’s sturdy, vein-streaked shaft. There was a startled, girly gasp, a moment of mutual consternation… and then came on the traditional sound which preceded as a rule a deity contemplating – and, more often than not, deciding on – mischief.
Hecatia’s was a pensive “Mmm…,” chased by the rustle of her feet stooping to the floor.
Suiki queried his enduring conscience while Hecatia’s crotch was ridden up his entire, towering length to perch, wetly, smack on the dollop of pre-come on the tip of his glans.
It said: I’m out. That bear probably put up more of a fight.
What, though, it packed away for the trip was the parting cop of Hecatia’s fingers bumping his shaft as she reached beneath her skirt to tuck the slimy, intervening fabric out of the way. Suiki’s furious hard-on stiffened even harder at the vague touch of her bare cherry, mounting in its readiness to engender what at least one of them would come to regret in the ethical hangover of tomorrow. That fate, read Suiki in the Hecatia’s ribbing, backwards peek, had his name perma-marked all over. Of course it did, too. Gods did not get hangovers.
Still and all, if he must face court martial by his Yama for liaison with his better, he would not take it, as it were, lying down. He snuck a hand under Hecatia’s hovering ass to hold his bucking erection at stud, so that the goddess may easier aim its engorged head at her honeypot. Hecatia, confidently, did just so. Suiki could feel the damp heat of her womanhood yawing open. He felt the warm trickle of her arousal on the side of his shaft before his glans was wedged between her plump petals to plug the leak.
The full, corporal weight of the divine derriere was brought to bear on their coupled genitals: peeling the skin bark from Suiki’s wood and leaving his stark crown in the raw grip of Hecatia’s carnally swollen labia. Common sense, which undeterred by his mystic origins the Kishin still had in encumbrance, told him grappling his superior by the hips should have been preceded by a date or a formal note at the extreme least. Yet, Suiki’s soldier’s hands spoke one language only – and it wasn’t that of romance.
Hecatia turned a flushed, smirking cheek, laid a palm on one of them, and spoke fluently to the very same tongue.
“Go on, you stallion,” she spurred him on. “Make me. Here, or carry me to those guest rooms on up. You know you want to. Make me fuck you.”
Suiki imbibed her racy, pheromone-laced scent through flared nostrils. He did. He did want to. He would. It took whole three, frenzied heartbeats for the suggestion to blow away the tiny Yama fuming and stamping her foot on his shoulder. The Kishin chief did not murmur his apologia because he was, after all, technically on leave; over and above, he’d long speculated he could never be absolved of coveting a luminary the likes of Hecatia. He’d had ample opportunity to face it down – owed, in particular, to having coveted Hecatia for the heftier part of several months. Since, or abouts, when the goddess had first leaned over her scrying pool to gaze into Gensokyo in that outrageously stretchy shirt.
He’d dreamed filthy, filthy dreams about that shirt.
There was an implied weakness in the fact, but Suiki turned a deaf machismo. His dick as the sliding rule, he coerced Hecatia’s phenomenal ass back down to his lap.
Token, coquettish resistance was mounted by her hips, checking his labours, though failed utterly to outlast her glazed petals straining to glide past the ridge of his broad glans. A discerning palm was smacked over the first, inadvertent moan Suiki’s entering girth extorted from the goddess’s antsy, keyed-up body; the eight successive, no less lusty inches ratified the caution, squeezing under Hecatia’s choker a trailing, muffled whine as they passed unbendingly between her labia – plied her hidden entrance – and bit by bit topped up her tight, soaked womanhood. Where discipline was concerned, Suiki fared below her par; every crease and rumple of Hecatia’s hot, wet sex scraped away cruelly at his exposed tip; every fit of her cramped, overeager insides wrung her walls around his shaft, slowing his conquest of her netherworld to a gruelling, jaw-clinching crawl.
Gravity and a deity colluded for once in history; and Hecatia dropped her hips, ass and mussed skirt down the last, home stretch – suddenly hilting the Kishin’s man-meat, sans the bit buried in his zipper, inside her divine, half-god-baby-maker. A shudder of virgin-like surprise, and the goddess slumped – like a tipsy, fidgety drunk – backwards against his barrel chest, gasping for the smutty air between her fingers.
Suiki curbed his own, seething arousal with a near-mythical effort. The drawn-out penetration could’ve folded a Yama’s moral spine into an accordion; the weight of Hecatia’s fabulous ass in his lap, married to the earlier titillation from her hands and thighs, had the Kishin’s dick throbbing top to bottom in her constricted passage, teetering on the edge of an explosive, premature orgasm which would see his daemon jewels drained straight up into the goddess’s questionably fertile womb. From his bald head to his nethers, and from the ram-horned one on his shoulders to the same, too, he could feel Hecatia likewise coming to terms with the reality of the sex: squirming and stressing all over him in spates of feminine pleasure.
A woman he’d crushed on, or New Hell’s premier deity; Suiki had never featured either as capable of committing the obscenity where they tipped back their face to grin cockily at a man whose dick should in no dimension ever have touched the air they breathed, let alone the taboo place where he might plant his corrupt seed. With a terminal skip of the heart of those who hadn’t on their lives pictured themselves in a terminal situation, Suiki realised he’d somewhere in the fervent proceedings moved one of his taloned hands on to roughly cup the goddess’s happy chin. The delicate, despotic fingers previously employed in suppressing her voice were laced now through his own: guiding them away, downhill, to where Hecatia’s breasts heaved from the quickened, aroused breathing.
Suiki detected just a soupçon of a vengeance in the way she clasped his hand around one.
The shirt-wrapped mammary – soft, malleable, larger than any of Hecatia’s three chained spheres – crowded his palm, the fabric sticking his sweaty skin to its pliable contents. Something in Suiki or, more to the thrust, in Hecatia motivated him to rearrange his grip: gathering up the tit-flesh from below and shifting his thumb and index finger to the acute protrusion on the front. The Kishin pinched the stiff, clothed nipple and, as he did so, found out what Hecatia Lapislazuli sounded like when in mild distress. He got an excited little thrill inside.
He got another one inside of her once the goddess, in a comeuppance more double-edged than a throwing star, mashed her skirted butt into his waist: not taking him any deeper, but reminding him wilfully where he was and why the aforesaid was no more an option. Apart from that prod of divine retribution, Hecatia raised her arms over her head and looped them behind Suiki’s tendinous neck. The brash, black shirt stretched even tauter around her gorgeous bust. The hand the Kishin had kept reining the goddess’s hip felt the fabric hitch up, exposing thereby Hecatia’s slim, flat navel.
So it was… excepting, of course, right down the middle, where it was bulged obscenely from the bulk of Suiki’s enclosed manhood.
Should anyone look, and they altogether shouldn’t if they were attached to their limbs, then they may see without the aid of second sight where the pair of noble visitors were engrossed to the hilt in emulating local customs. Should they look now, they would see the bulkier, redder of the two tucking the other’s shirt down, unthinkingly accentuating even more her densely-packaged bust.
She would not mind, either, grinning toothily at his crusading for propriety.
“Suikiii,” she’d tease him. “You’ll tearrr iiit. Want me to throw you into Hell?”
With a pronounced reluctance (and he pronounced it rrgrʷ), the Kishin renounced the goddess’s clothing in favour of folding his arms about her uncovered belly. Hecatia cackled, albeit nestled graciously into his caregiving.
“A soul of myriad disparities, you,” she crooned, “aren’t you, Suiki? Are these women at large you toady to so eagerly, or just me?”
The question had a needy wife harmonic to it that buckled Suiki’s nous, wherever that was. “Only—” he croaked. “Only… you, lady Hecatia.”
“Cease,” reproached Hecatia. “No ladying. We are fellow eel-spotters today, remember, Suiki? You do not shove your cock in or grope a lady like you did, anywise; that is the road to Hell.”
The wife was being needlessly vulgar, but Suiki complied. “A sin. Irreverence. Yes.”
“Just so,” she agreed. “Just so, Suiki. Mm. Then, with that in view… you must be over the Moon to have decided you’d come with me today.”
He let the charges of agency slide. “Not sure I could accurately piss in the Sea of Tranquillity from way up here.”
“There it is!” cheered Hecatia. “There is the chief Suiki I was warned about. Those bodily humour jokes. I was dying of anticipation to hear one. Ti kríma. Honestly. Would that you’d approached that wicked hermit in kind, you could at least have walked away with a banger when she made a fool of you.”
Shame. That and a fair codicil of humiliation slugged into Suiki’s gut like a last night’s potluck backing up to haunt him – bitterer for all the more comfortable he’d grown with his recent lot. He did his eternal damnedest not to wince from the accusation. He was not mythologised right for more than one emotion at once; you had to be a human for this…
“Goodness me,” said Hecatia, knowing in her sardonicism. “This does bother you.”
Suiki, well, he had a sound by now for these circumstances. “… It does not bother me,” he growled.
It did bother him, too.
Weeks of bleeding the aquifers of the realm’s mountainous region for the hermit’s watery grave. Sorcery applied to the paramount of precision. Surreptition, patience, inevitability. The quintessence of Suiki’s purpose and soul. His first, indulgently elaborate snare laid in Gensokyo.
And his first defeat.
It was the grim work of the Kishin to shepherd souls spread too thin for their lifespans toward virtuous reincarnation. With sword, tooth and claw, if need be.
The wicked hermit had beaten him with a hairpin.
Suiki steered his thoughts away from the woman who’d shamed him toward the one doing so currently. “It does not bother me, lady Hecatia,” he repeated, in the slow, steady tenor of the wilfully guilty. “The usurper Seiga fled the reaping once. This lapse of mine, I acknowledge. Yet, I persevere. I learn. Her soul is forfeit; it is a question of how soon.”
The chief of the Kishin considered himself above being dressed down as a rule, yet it was difficult to defy the goddess who’d dressed him up beforehand just for the occasion.
“Suiki,” was her soft, but snapped, rebuke. “Grant us we drop this vocational posturing for now. Shall we? I am not your Yama; I am hardly your goddess, as a matter of principle. We are having sex; after this, we are going to retire upstairs to those private rooms they laid aside for us, and in fact we are going to have a lot more of it. I should therefore prefer you listen to and attend me tonight… as a friend.”
“A… friend.” Suiki was sceptical.
“A colleague eel-spotter. Or a sex-friend, if you must,” Hecatia allowed with goodwill. “I shan’t bemoan either. You are fine conversation when you aren’t sulking and, I cannot lie, a feast for the sensibilities even in those cases. I say, the number of times I wished myself in these formidable arms…!” She stretched all along his front, cuddly as a ruttish cat – as if to reward herself for a prayer heeded. The amorous shiver which raked her lithe frame from the upraised arms to the naked toes couldn’t have been feigned even if she’d demanded Suiki’s coin in advance. “And now, I know for a big, hard fact,” the goddess tacked on, “that you find me respectively attractive. I do quite cherish you, Suiki. Sex-friends, I expect, will suit us just fine; although, I do care for you beyond just your great arms and cock.”
Suiki let go amiss the tawdry compliment, even if his Suiki did not. “… I have no japes at the ready,” he confessed in return.
“You needn’t,” said Hecatia, fondly rubbing her wrists on the back of his neck. “Visualise, instead, your mug warping whenever we eventually touched upon our official agenda. You were in so increasingly many doldrums, I knew not which way to trawl for you. I’d all but accepted a japeless Suiki. To witness you like that, nevertheless – that was pitiful.”
A contrite rumble quaked the goddess’s Kishin body-pillow. “I had not prepared sufficiently,” Suiki insisted. “The error was mine. Come the next hunt, I will; this, I swear—”
“On the contrary, Suiki,” reproached Hecatia. She drummed her fingers on his nape, a petulant queen lecturing her serviceman paramour. “You had. You had prepared with sufficiency. I read your report; you were meticulous in every respect, every conventional angle. Oh, dread not,” she said, sensing him swell with airy suspicion. “Should you speculate, then no; I requested it from your Yama, everything on your precious legal. Pah. You and your Yama, all…” The jaundice in her voice could’ve made Suiki’s ancient, wrinkled summoner blush a juvey pink. “You trust the world is so ordered, so constant. That the mankind which you wean now will evermore remain the same, dumb harvest of millennia bygone. Same old blades, same old cuts. Your cycle, your… Saṃsāra… dulls your kind, Suiki. In dribs and drabs, a soul at a time, you twist complacence into a virtue.
“Then dawns on Gensokyo,” Hecatia went on, in a mood evidently superseding their sex-friendship; “and then and there, you begin dashing your heads against a wall. These souls will not fight you square; these souls will worm and cheat if it means they slip your noose. They will bend common sense and throw the gauntlet to reality itself if it should expedite their survival. This is what they are, Suiki; every wretched, stagnant soul in Gensokyo is a dying breed with centuries of practice unto itself. Clingers-on. Survivors in the meanest, basest sense. To those, you are but a tollgate on the road to perpetuity. A fatal tax to evade. And, if they must tunnel underneath you with a treasured hairpin for a shovel, so be it.”
“… What,” murmured Suiki, who would by now have felt very small but for the scale constantly provided by Hecatia’s maidenly body, “could I have done?”
“Nothing, Suiki,” pronounced the goddess, voice like the strike of a gavel. “That is the crux and the pick of it. The wicked hermit eluded you because you had not countenanced the craven strategy; because, as you are and have been, you could not have countenanced it. You presented this Seiga with a trap tailored against her strengths; a many-layered dome of pressurised water-walls she couldn’t pass all at once, was it? A poetic irony. Your sorcery contra hers. Just desserts, I shouldn’t wonder. Classicist to a fault.”
“I am a Kishin,” said the Kishin since antiquity, sensitively. “We—”
“You are old,” cut in Hecatia. “You are a sabre-toothed cat in an era of rats. You have never needed to run. You have never seen the earth you tread on as yet another venue of escape. Another wall to break down. With a magical hairpin at a pinch. Why should you have?”
There was a discreet impression this was not a question to be answered conventionally. One of those godly or, Hell forbid, womanly things.
Suiki’s augury was confirmed when Hecatia didn’t upbraid him for sleeping on her sermon. Soon, and she unwound her arms from his neck, tracing the crook of each of his own with an appraising hand until the double clasp at her belly: draped now by the lowered bottom of her shirt, yet resolute in its commitment. The fact broke her out in a relished little sound.
“We,” said the goddess then, no heavy weather made of veiling her zeal, “are going to change that, Suiki. I am going to change it, if I must drag you along by the pickle. It is the domain of the mighty to bestride the world at its large: from the highest highs to the lowest lows. Aloof grows apart; apart becomes outstripped. Here! Gaze, ye huntsman, upon these creatures you would indict for intemperance – and know them for who they are!”
Somehow, she sketched a subtle, Thespian flourish with her chin as she indicated one among the neighbouring tables. The Oni from the queue had attained his turn with the elfin woman, whom he was now breeding from behind with long, robust strokes. The leotard-clad, blond youkai endured the sex with an upraised face and gnashed teeth, thankful, in all likelihood, for her sizeable ass checking the depth of her prodigious partner’s full, liberal insertions.
“… This one,” confided Hecatia, savouring the lewd display together with Suiki, “has been tasked with safeguarding the bridge which anchors this realm of the Netherworld to the Otherworld above. Hers is an ignoble yet necessary function; ruling out her watch, mortals might enter and leave Old Hell willy-nilly… and what Hell would it be then? Take, second, the corpulent one there—”
Hecatia’s chin designated the adjacent table, where the orally-fixated, youkai matron with the bun and drooping bust had ultimately prevailed on her match to reciprocate and mount her properly. Suiki ran this up his flagpole which, irrespective of his shames being disseminated, hadn’t surrendered an inch inside Hecatia, and caught it out flexing at the sight of the curvy, blond, youkai strumpet laid out lengthwise the bench and wrestled into a savage, full-body-contact, mating press. The heel of one of her cutesy, platform shoes walloped her Oni squeeze on the small of his back even as they were watched, prompting him to pump faster and then, going by his stopping dead with his belly moored to hers, to make the chubby, youkai female into a future mother in revenge.
The also prospective mother in Suiki’s lap laughed as only a goddess could laugh. The effect was rather like his pride unravelling. “You fancy that one, do you?” she needled. “Old-fashioned in sensibilities as well. Tut-tut. I’ll give her, though, she is a bona-fide Venus of Willendorf, for real… Well. Never mind these or her other, primary attributes, and you’ll find she is the mastermind engineer of this secret city. This brilliant tower, most of all. What would’ve taken humanity months of computations and mechanised labour, this earth spider and her brood raised up in mere weeks. And then, the Deva, Yuugi—” Hecatia spoke over Suiki’s eyeing the damper sphere overhead with renewed suspicion, “—her, I needn’t introduce. Shouldn’t. You two are nearly of age – figures of legend.
“Are these not chiefs and notables, Suiki?” posed the goddess. “Are these not mighty characters? And yet, they’re here, eating, drinking… mingling with the dregs. Why do you feature that is?” When no answer could be hammered of his cold imagination, Hecatia changed her tack. “Why does Hell let slip its hounds, Suiki?”
This, the old Kishin recognised. “To keep mortals in line.”
“To do something naughty,” disagreed the goddess. “To apprise themselves of the flock; to learn their foibles; to lull attentions and forge false alliances. These,” she encompassed the victims of their voyeurism with this simplest of terms, “do not rule Old Hell, per se; that function is prescribed to another. And yet, they do own it; they do know it, Suiki. Highs… and lows both. The reason you failed in harvesting the hermit Seiga,” said Hecatia, crisper, “was because everything you’d acknowledged were her highs. Those skills of hers, those Taoshi arts which had hoodwinked your colleagues. You had wholly overlooked her lows. The skulduggery, the trapped-rat mentality. Gensokyo is a warren of rats, Suiki. Your big, sabre cat fangs… will do you no good. You need to learn how to dig.”
Suiki chewed on this, a furrow for a brow and what could be called a picture for a face if the artist were furiously practicing shadows on that day. Anybody else, he would have banked the fires under their feet himself for gainsaying the reapers’ schooled traditions. From Hecatia, he wanted it to be bankable.
With a jarring of the ego contingent in such things, the old Kishin realised he did not tolerate or respect Hecatia. Not just. Gods of the old world, he liked her. He’d never considered it along these lines when in her home, where stiff “on guard” had been his default – but here, out of the abatis of duty and away from the all-reflecting mirrors of the Yama, the word came to him as naturally as sneezing. The repartee, the love for the self-made, the solidarity which she extended, almost casually, across all barriers of protocol… They were catching. He had heard this whispered of her motley divinity: that you found yourself craving to serve her despite her eccentricities or the dress code. Suiki had been served instead: tea and biscuits first, then his own pride; but, for all that, he wished for nothing more now than to show Hecatia her grooming of him hadn’t been in vain.
That was a lie. The talons of his sword-hand gently grazing the bellied region of her stomach where they were tied up in decidedly not a god-and-acolyte but a man-and-woman business laid it bare.
“… Is this to show me the lows?” asked Suiki, of the inside of Hecatia’s dainty earlobe.
“Thiiis?” crowed the goddess, swatting ineffectually at the side of his face. “No, Suiki. This is because you have not once throughout our acquaintance shown me the due attention. You loggerhead.”
The Kishin counted his fortunes. Then wagered them all. Karma no longer applied to the damned anyway. “Heca,” he hazarded. “I have wanted to do this with you since day one.”
His winnings were a cackle and a propitious pat on the cheek. “Who knew! You can flatter.”
“… Since the sleepwear day, then,” Suiki chipped in. “Truthfully.”
“That worked, did it? Mmm. Should have worn the babydoll,” she mused aloud. “Could’ve sped matters along. White, pink or black; which should I have picked? All sheer, by the way: like a bride’s veil.”
Suiki performed the downturn of the nose proposed to him by the previous minutes and, with fanfaronade shocking even to himself, suggested: “A bride’s veil instead, please. I’ll loop on a tie.”
More worryingly than if she’d laughed it up and down and every which way, Hecatia didn’t. “Hmm. I shall take that under advisement, chief Suiki,” she rather promised. “In the meanwhiiile,” she moved on, all her coloured, fanciful self again, “did you notice? We are being perused. Apapa! No peeking. You’ll frighten them.”
The days of scrub on his jaw were smushed in the goddess’s cheek in what would’ve been a sacrilegious way, had Suiki been the force behind it. As it was, it was merely reformative.
The train of thought slammed into the mental bumper block, causing him to halt with a face full of Hecatia’s rare, red hair. The redolent, altogether floral overtone, shampoo and perfume – excessive through it was – didn’t prevent Suiki from drinking the goddess’s aura by the lungful. More than everything else underway, having her scent shunting through his nostrils reminded the Kishin the keenest in which explicit brand of activity he and Hecatia Lapislazuli, the ascendant, were currently embroiled. It was “interclass, interracial sex in a public space, in purview of strangers.” The Ten Kings alone knew what sentence this one carried.
For the span of a single, slow exhalation, he spared a solitary concern for his future. The next breath, the chief of the Kishin found himself afoul of a fantasy of yanking his trews down to feel Hecatia’s plush, sweaty ass directly on his skin and to introduce the final half-inch and the base of his shaft to the lips of her womanhood. He didn’t mention these things because he was, at his core, a warrior. His body – via its distinct parts – did the declamations for him.
Hecatia’s coyly wrote back, hugging eloquently all around his stiffened length, before the goddess focused them once again on concurrent intersocial quandaries.
“Well?” she said softly. “Whatever do we do, Suiki?”
“… With?” he asked.
“For,” corrected Hecatia. “For the spectators, who else? We have two, unapologetic pervert brutes over there, ogling us,” she explained; “left out of the action, I believe. No one on their poles. Seem very well aware where you’re— a-hem, what we’re up to. One of them’s leering dead at me. If you haven’t… I may have a proposal.”
The Kishin cogitated, then gave the primacy in this area to she more deserving. “Your will?”
“My will,” aggrandised Hecatia, “rules firstly that you sit astride the bench and spread your legs. It’ll be easier to have sex with some more wiggle space. Then, pull up my shirt.”
Suiki, who’d by that piece of advice had already a foot slung over the aforesaid bench, completed the turn in staggered freefall. “Your… shirt?”
Hecatia’s leg swung to join Suiki’s, a quintuple of bare toes with varnished nails on end, leaving them in an attitude close to that of a couple riding a (wooden) horse without a saddle. “The very one,” said the goddess. “Take it off of me altogether or pull it up; I’ll pardon the impiety. Show the louts what great titties I’ve got… and then grab me like you own me. Show them I’m screwing nobody tonight except you. That I’m yours and yours alone to profane.”
Suiki sucked his teeth. “… Could we not kiss, as a substitute?”
Hecatia froze. Much the same did Suiki, hearing the words desert him in the middle of a self-possessive scrap.
“… Suiki, nooo,” said the goddess, melting first, in a low vibrato which could’ve meant “yesss” and sounded about the same. “No! Not in front of the plebes. I’ll kiss you – anyplace and everyplace you’ve dreamed – but later, in our rooms. I dressed to be lusted for today; I want one of these lummoxes at a minimum to conk out in a couple of hours weeping he shall never have me. Indulge a woman’s sport, Suiki.”
The old Kishin forwent to comment, not least because he was presently occupied slotting into his stratified worldview the knowledge that a cardinal deity of New Hell had apparently an exhibitionist streak in her ruddy head. He remained occupied, or at least contriving to look the part, even as his fist was crushed around the bottom edge of the boldly emblazoned shirt and lifted it, cavalierly, up to the goddess’s chin.
Hecatia’s “titties” didn’t flop out or – by virtue of firmness and having already been largely unconstrained – do any such spectacular thing. Still, they proved to be a spectacle themselves out in the open: round, lush things, gilded by perspiration, shiny in the lambent glow of the firepit. Their cherry tips stood on ends – like perky little rubies ensconced in red velvet cushions – anxious to be trained for the breastfeeding forthcoming to their owner should ongoing affairs proceed. Sweat had beaded out on the swollen areolae: crystal-clear, an advance stand-in for the milky future.
In a redo of events not minutes old, and causing their heroine goddess to jolt straight under his touch, the villain Suiki cupped one of the soft, pale titties from below in his bronze palm. Out of its thin, black casing, the breast yielded easily beneath his fingers, the doughy flesh filling out the gaps and overflowing at so little as an ungentle squeeze. The decency of Hecatia’s sex-bulged tummy was given the provisional fig once Suiki’s inner sergeant had determined one handful to grade below satisfactory and done it in terms so pointed that Suiki was momentarily stunned to find himself groping the no-longer-so-coy goddess like a probationer on his first slip out to one of the New Capital’s gentlemen’s clubs. The hard, sweaty nubs of Hecatia’s nipples arose as the natural focus; and the Kishin rolled them between his thumbs and index fingers, now pinching, now pulling on them as a cow’s udders, causing the goddess to contort from the waist up from the wicked stimulation. Again. And again yet, but harder. No milk was forthcoming, no matter how big her puffy areolae swelled – but something else was.
The warm, slippery walls of her honeypot nearly throttled the bare head of his dick as a stifled, randy cry filtered through Hecatia’s gritted teeth. Suiki brought himself to what he prayed (to Hecatia) was a tactful and not a foolish halt. The goddess’s nipples throbbed between his fingertips.
“… Ssstraight,” she spoke at last, a-grin peering back, “for the weak spots, ah, Suiki? Popo. A real… mmm, slayer of old maids you are. You strapping black-heart.”
“As good paint a target on them, yes,” quipped Suiki, from some reservoir of humour he hadn’t yet sweated out into his sequined shirt. “Telling, how you squirmed, too.”
“A goddess does not squirm; she moves in ecstasy,” dramatized Hecatia. “Anywise. Wait until you’ve touched some of my weak spots down there if you deem this is telling. I am going to leave your pants a mess when you pull out… Speaking of which sorry fate—” she began saying, and Suiki held very fast.
It was a pretty pass when a woman of Hecatia’s gauge promised to make a mess of any pants, let alone the pair she’d put on you first and foremost. The goddess’s left hand was propped upon one of Suiki’s thighs, angled steeply down in their faux-horseback position; the remaining, meanwhile, went under the pleated skirt to adjust there something the Kishin should have asked she remove before the shaft of his dick had gotten lastingly in the way. Hecatia shook her lovely hair behind her shoulders, sparing only a glance for the state of Suiki’s lineaments. They had more grooves in them than not one ravine.
They held a brief conclave with their bodies, but needn’t to speak in order to know what was coming next. Namely: themselves.
“… I’d have asked,” said Hecatia, an underbite in her tone, “whether you ought to move or I, but… it’ll be more spontaneous, I think, if we work out a rhythm – don’t you?”
It should be quite difficult not to think – uniquely so with a succubus like Hecatia thinking out loud at you – but not for a daemon of Suiki’s breed and depleted finesse. For just the skin of a heartbeat, he’d thought he would enjoy working out anything with Hecatia, not least their abdominal muscles. Then, he realised he was crossing his arms below her bust, filling his open palms with a tit each, and tipping the slighter goddess precariously forward. Hecatia’s hands smacked the bench in a panic, even though Suiki held her easily safe from faceplanting. And firmly in place.
“… My,” breathed the goddess, all sly naughtiness. “You are a stallion.”
Suiki leaned heavier on her. “And you are my mare.”
It was the most irreverent thing to say. But it was the right one.
It picked the Kishin to bloody pieces, how quick she’d come to own the worst of him.
The conniving deity relaxed in his bear-hug; and, slowly and in the best interests of husbandry, Suiki unyoked his virile loins from Hecatia’s stuck-out ass. The long, blasphemous minutes he’d spent sheathed, erect, pushed up against the goddess’s inmost reliquary, had inundated his dick up and down in warm, slippery secretions. Nor had Hecatia overdrawn her forecast; the Kishin chief hadn’t to see to feel the dribble of fluids from his exiting shaft, leaving already a smarmy puddle on their bench. The precious, inner lips of her womanhood stuck to his length, trailing, polishing every purple vein to slide free, but even so they couldn’t staunch the fruits of his fooling around with Hecatia’s breasts. The pre-come oozing from his tip was not conducive, either. His trews were as good as condemned.
For cause of this and none other, no sir-ee, did Suiki unlock a half of his rutting hold; for nothing else but tidiness, he winkled the buckle of his belt and wrenched his pants down to half-thigh together with the undershorts, which Hecatia had already tucked down from his dick through the undone zipper. This, of course, had the misfortunate effect of baring Suiki’s rippling glutes for any discerning youkai lady to see – but was not the point.
Neither was then burying his hard-on – now to the meaty hilt – back inside Hecatia’s treasured womanhood, but nevertheless that was what would happen. And, while the orgiastic din of the reception dimmed in his pounding ears, Suiki embraced once more the horny, compliant goddess… and thrust in. Until the terminus. Until the cheeks of her divine butt were smushed into his denuded waist, and her delicate petals were wrapped flush around the very base of his throbbing, daemon erection. The slick, velvety walls of her honeypot, which had despaired to let him go, now welcomed gleefully the offering his raw tip brought all the way up to Hecatia’s sacred womb. Suiki ground their engorged, coupled privates together, promising nothing short of a felonious impregnation – and heard the redhead deity whimper her wordless consent. Her varnished nails raked his forearms in a thrill.
An articulate erratum did come, though no sooner than another six strikes of his hips on her naked ass.
“Suik—khiii,” was its strangled, needful rendition, “ssstraighter up… hold me, straighterrr up. Please.”
Her voice could have greased a greater Kishin than he. And there were none.
Suiki hoisted her up, almost upright, squeezing her tits and giving her secret lips a thorough taste of his whole length. Hecatia went rigid in his arms – then flopped when he penetrated her once and twice more, on general principles.
“Thhhere!” she half-gasped, half-moaned, and Suiki rued being denied the visual component of her foxy face. “Mmmake this damned cock of yours push into my pussy like that!”
“One of those— ghh, of those weak spots, ‘sit?” he managed to ask. Then, twinging end to end from prying apart her muggy depths, he fulfilled her wish. “… Like so?”
“Yesss,” purred the ageless, Hellenic goddess, “évge, like that, fuck me like that! Mmmy nipples, too; wub ‘em, rub my nipples!”
The Kishin chief, prime of his ilk, swallowed with a click in his throat. He didn’t dare – or desire – to release his grip on Hecatia’s tits, but a clumsy reconfiguration of the fingers saw them into a place where they may conceivably give her motley divinity the nipple-tweaking she pined for. His hunched cast let him to leer past the rolled-up shirt or to sniff the nape of Hecatia’s neck with abandon, by turns. Out in the southern reaches of his eyeshot, what had the marks of another bid for the goddess’s wicked fancies was being furtively conducted: a braceleted hand, tucking the front edge of her skirt up under its band. Showcasing the steamy place where she and her gifted, Kishin escort were, in her own terminology, fucking. He ignored it, hunkering to kiss the goddess’s half-revealed shoulders.
And he kept fucking her – not having sex, but fucking like he determined inside to fuck the hermit Seiga, should their Ways cross over again – ruthlessly slamming his nude waist into Hecatia’s soft tush and what she’d dubbed his “cock” down to the swinging jewels into her swamped “pussy.”
Carnal pleasures were something seldom entertained in Suikiville, on the grounds of most women recipient of his attentions ending up, as it were, soon losing their heads. When souls were your principal matter of focus, it was all too simple to never mind the packaging they came in. Now, Suiki commended anew those self-obsessed humans who had equipped him with everything standard for one of their male number. The rucks and rumples of Hecatia’s hot, honeyed femininity made sticky love to his pumping shaft on each compulsory retreat – and raised Hell under the sensitive ridge of his glans on every forceful reinsertion. The goddess moaned sultrily in his arms from the treatment, refined but unmistakable in her joy, tightening up on him with an irregularity which made each next moment of the frantic sex a surprise. The triad of orbs – by this point the only overt signage of Hecatia’s divine properties – hovered around them, eerily immobile despite the heavy and, uncannily, soundless yanking of their golden chains. Suiki, the daemonblood momentarily washing over his loftier faculties, bit the clasp of the choker affixing them to Hecatia’s unassailable neck.
The blessed metal burned, but not enough to hurt. Unable to destroy it anyway, as daemons were wont to do, Suiki resorted instead to wrenching it backwards in his teeth – choking the goddess up.
Hecatia gurgled her dismay… and then, promptly, screwed her shuddering womanhood down his waiting dick by herself, begging more.
This time there was an audible “love you” shape to the growl he poured down her flushed earlobe.
“Offf course you lllh—lloh—love me,” tittered Hecatia; “everybody doesss! Or dies. You’re just the one who gets to fff—uuuck me into the bargain.”
Suiki pulled out then roughly crammed the tip of his dick back up to the goddess’s baby-room by way of a reply. And on, from the beginning. No pity. A daemon may forget his strenuously reformed carriage with a creature as lewd and redheaded as Hecatia gingering him up. And this, a daemon had just done. Suiki strove not to dwell on it; if he did, he’d realise he’d confessed adulation to an unaffiliated goddess and done so in the middle of sex – rather than before. It was a raw nerve either way.
No less raw was the part of his manhood steadily knocking on Hecatia’s womb. Talk daemon shop all he might, his endurance had yet a limit. It was the curse of endurances everywhere, Suiki’s included.
He pulled Hecatia’s choker, twiddled her exposed teats, gave her dripping baby-maker a series of hard, ass-slapping thrusts – and stopped, berthed to the gonads and pulsing like her home’s own sulphur geysers. Then growled. A long, guttural growl. It was the laryngeal equivalent of a docking ship’s foghorn.
Hecatia’s response was appropriately foggy. “Hhrk. Nng… Coming, Suiki?”
“Nnnot… yet,” he rasped, salivating around the choker. Then sniffed, loudly. “Close. Get you… off, first.”
“Mmm. No,” opined the goddess. “No, hunk. Not likely you will.”
“Shush, yooou,” Hecatia puffed, but genteelly. “You’ll have me and my pussy to monkey with for the whole night after we’ve blown the scene. I’ll be mega put out, actually, if you do not make me cream myself under you once for each of my bodies. Twice per, would be favourite. You’ve it in you to; I know that. Here, though? I’ll not give these churls the redress of seeing a daughter of the Titans wet herself from sex. No way in… here.”
Suiki osmosed this bit of idiosyncrasy through the palms buttressing Hecatia’s titanic breasts which, he was adamant of this, she’d ordered herself be presented to the “churls” not a long while before.
“And me…?” he asked in a tone an Oni might take upon walking in on his keg-brother shagging a fat earth spider.
Hecatia groped behind and smacked his rear. “Get your edge off,” she urged him. “I can feel your loins quaking, Suiki. Then, if you so desire, we can snag a couple of drinks, go upstairs, and I’ll show you how a goddess pees. You lecher.”
The prime of the Kishin had long ago perfected the intellectual art of passing over anything and everything offered by those souls he was bearing down on at the time of the offer, but to insist would be over-egging the pudding. This had nothing to do with, metaphorically speaking, looking the gift goddess in the mouth – nor much the base area of his literal spine beginning to feel like aforesaid pudding. Apenantías, as her motley divinity had said on one occasion when he had called Gensokyo a tough nut to crack. On the contrary. Apparently, it was instead a wheel of cheese: easy to slice into, a female dog to pull out.
In a word and without distractions, Suiki damned well wanted to see what a peeing goddess looked like.
Two pounds of his reprobate, daemon heart, and the notion was shunted from the womb of his imagination to that of Hecatia’s by way of his hilted dick and a glob of fresh, rich pre-come. Worn through at the mores, upwise of Hell’s corporate ladder – but, on the flip side, in line with the rights of entry – to the proactive dismay of his pre-Hecatia self, Suiki manned up, so to say, and battened down for a future wherein he’d defiled a beloved, ancient goddess of a wise and long-departed people. Within its beginning moments, his stiff, ebullient dick was extracted to two-thirds, being made sticky, honeyed love to Hecatia’s brazen, clingy labia. Man-lube and ambrosia pattered on the bench – joined in an unholy, sacrilegious marriage. Another moment, and so were their groins – Suiki bottoming out the goddess’s receptacle so hard, his sack slapped her half-covered muff. Hecatia moaned, giggled and swore, somehow in the same breath – a sound which should’ve remained unuttered by any respectable woman, never mind a deity.
Suiki, neglecting the cautionary pang in his tender, throbbing glans, gave her another eight inches of cause to show her true, slutty colours to the world. His shone through together with, through the bronze of his peace-form’s skin, at Hecatia’s stammered encouragement. He emptied out then filled up her vagina to the puffy brim among the squelching of their mutual desire.
“Mmm. Come, come, cooome,” the goddess was panting, each comma now a kiss of her petals on the stubbled base of his dick, “ins— inside, gimme, gimme your, your spunk, you absolute, Hadean, mfff, beassst!”
And – with a do-or-die spurt frenzied, careless, womb-deep insertions of his aching, peaking dick – the beast, which Suiki in his daemon core was, did.
He tried to pull out. The Ten Kings help him, he really did.
Hecatia’d hold no truck with that. The first presage of his rash, breeding motions sputtering out saw her rear-end her fantastic ass on the coming daemon’s waist. Suiki’s paddle hands conspired with the deity – swapping out her tits for the childbearing hips as the orgasm smashed aside the abiding rank and dignity – to keep her tight, quivering baby-maker hostage to his rearing, ejaculating dick.
The first, pent-up rope of his thick, daemon seed had long been stowed securely in the goddess’s inviolate womb by when this happy fact had permeated Suiki’s scrambled brains. More only followed: each a one-two punch of excruciating tension then wonderful release to his abdomen. He disentangled his figurative plumes, straightening his back – aspiring, if nothing else, then to look imposing while shoving his trembling hips up against Hecatia’s like a younger, more callow Kishin might mash his against a Taoshi seductress’s. Throb after exhausting throb, he surrendered his virility to the goddess he had fantasised of stripping out of her gaudy shirt in front of her Lampad stepdaughters. Until the excess she could no longer accept was leaking out under her labia, oozing down his sack. He kept groaning and pumping, even so.
Neither was he, the chief of the Kishin, the only one possessed of a vestigial animality. Hecatia stretched in his hold, modelling her breasts and inoculated belly to anybody artistically intrigued.
“… Thiiis,” she whispered, unfulfilled but not vengeful about it; “I’ve flicked my bean all night long picturing just this. You owe me a bedsheet, Suiki.”
“And for thhhese pantsss,” slurred Suiki, flourishing the uncanny flowing ability of his humour.
Hecatia snickered. “And the one post of my bed is going to forever stink of—”
Whatever fragrant varnish had been applied to the bedpost, it’d needs await Suiki’s hands-on or, to put a point on it, nose-on inspection. The goddess’s costly attention snapped to something ahead of their table; a pair of somethings, they proved to be, once Suiki had woozily traced her gaze, his beaten manhood still pulsing in its defeat under her Elysian Fields. Oni, those were: an age-mismatched team, both male and, conjecturing from the rises in their togas, the peeping toms Hecatia had espied.
They perambulated round the firepit at robust speed, quickly attaining the honoured guests’ solitary table. There were what lesser creatures may construe as sly looks, whistles and exchanged cleverness. And then the younger, more vividly red and smoother-horned of the two ambled close, thumbing his belt with what he must have thought was insinuation.
Suiki’s muscles bunched in his arms… and then slacked like cut cords at the crackle of Chthonian energies along Hecatia’s nude, glistening skin.
The Oni youth, if he’d at all noticed, hadn’t the requisite throughput of blood to his brain to take the hint.
“‘Avin fun, miss god?” he asked, conversationally.
Hecatia tucked her hair behind an ear. Then granted, “We were, thanks.”
Suiki had to admire the amount of sweetener in her voice. It’d suggested she’d just had a surprise glass of Cretan Liatiko sent to her at a chic party by a secret and reportedly wine-versed admirer. Only, Suiki knew, Hecatia spat on Cretan viniculture and when possible the rest of the island as good.
The young Oni gave the goddess’s denuded bits a leer which didn’t employ any tongue, but which didn’t really need to. Its duties were done by his stepping over the bench to stand proud before Hecatia – and his tent before her bust.
“Name’s Wagyu,” were his words and, for penultimate ones, they weren’t the worst Suiki had heard. “Me an’ my keg-bro here, Gyutan—” here, he stabbed a claw at the second Oni, who jogged his oxen shoulders, “—was watchin’ you foolerin’ around on your own way ‘ver here. Not minglin’ with nobody an’ whatnot. Thought, we did, we’d clue yous twos in. On your, wossname, foo-pah.”
“Oho?” said Hecatia, each O edged and sharp as a chakram. “What would this faux-pas be, pray?”
The Oni glanced his friend-wise, savouring the perceived catch. “See, see,” he told the seething goddess level with his alpine nethers. “We are Oni here. Matters nay wot you are; thissis an Oni city. We do not lie, nor hoard. Wot we ‘ave, we share. Suchlike food, treasure, drink… or this.”
Affirming which, the Oni unfastened his robe, freeing his studded, brick-red erection—
—and then brought it down, with a ribald thwap, smack in the middle between Hecatia’s breasts.
Then, as if by the wheeze of Hecatia’s great-uncle, Cronos, time thawed, leaving Suiki drenched in the cold sweat of impending murder. Merely Hecatia’s ass pinning him to the bench stayed him from wringing the Oni’s soul out through his bunghole.
That, and the knives beneath the goddess’s next, pillowy words.
“… Tell meee,” she asked of the impetuous, youkai stripling. “When was it last you lot saw a goddess? A real goddess?”
“Must be a handful a’ centuries,” the other, sager Oni supplied, “discountin’ our lady Kanako in recency.”
Hecatia smiled. She smiled. Suiki felt it in his suddenly looser gut.
“Then yooou, Wagyu,” cooed the olden, Hellenic deity, gripping the Oni youth’s dick in both, steady hands, “will be the talk for the ages.”
Six heartbeats, innumerable ruptured eardrums and one irreversibly ruined evening later, Hecatia dismounted her Kishin escort with curt urgency.
A snapped curse, a flick of the cruel fingers, and she readjusted her G-strings over her dripping, thoroughly seeded pussy. Turned around, she performed much the same ritual on Suiki: tugging his underpants and trews up over his come-smeared, spent, yet mulishly undiminished manhood.
The chief of the Kishin started aware and, conscious of every set of female youkai eyes trained his way, stood to ease Hecatia’s frustrated work. And, since plainly she had forgotten in the flurry, he pulled her shirt down over her bared tits.
The zipper, cabochon button and belt all done up, her motley divinity licked the misplaced semen from her fingers and kicked at the thrashing, howling Oni to whom she had given the Indian burn to end Indian burns and a lifetime’s ego besides. Suiki, numbly, followed her suit, although softer – on the basis of sympathetic pain. He would still submit the Oni hothead for swift termination, no mistake. But he would do so civilly.
“Grab these, these and a few of those,” he heard Hecatia say and indicate some choice morsels from theirs and a neighbouring table. The latter’s occupants cringed away then pretended emergency social calls elsewhere. “… High time for that scene-blowing, I believe. Hope to HELL those rooms on up have plumbing.”
Suiki nodded and stalked off, feeling damp himself, to collect the goddess’s bounty. Hecatia waited him, smiling in a satisfied-but-not-satisfied way, by the unlit stairwell.
The foolhardy Oni bawled, inconsolable even by his grinning keg-brother.
The rooms had plumbing. That was more than could’ve been said of most of New Hell’s denizens, let alone their homes. It had put Suiki, as it were, in context.
Hecatia strolled out of the shower, nude, crownless, lazily towelling her hair – red again. The choker and chained orbs were gone; had been gone, in fact, no sooner than the doors’ shutting out the party noises below. Out of her clothes and bereft of her devices, Hecatia Lapislazuli was as much a goddess as she had always been – but also, in a hefty, recent addition, a woman. On the raised, western bed, lying naked on its thrice-changed sheets, Suiki felt atingle in areas which, he would have sworn, had been pressed and juiced dry across the previous hours. Tingly in particular was the part the blue-haired Hecatia had clenched her teeth on while squirting on Suiki’s face. That part still reported for duty, sick leave notwithstanding.
There was a phrase, “an apple never falls far from the tree,” and it was Saṃsāra’s own truth, except for Hecatia, for she was someway three trees rooted in the same, unliterary space. They were all Hecatia, which Suiki had learned the hard, wet, intimate way – but Hecatia with slightly differing tastes and experiences. The blue one had a filthy mouth which nonetheless loved being plugged; meanwhile the blond one had acted the unutterable prude all the while roughly milking his dick in the cowgirl position. The red Hecatia, whom Suiki had seen flitting in whenever their lips had been engaged (then, often, married), was the touchy-feely type: all misty-eyed and “kiss me while you fuck me.” The moment-to-moment manoeuvring between the Three had been an exercise.
Where plenty was no plague, two were still company. Three had been a crowd.
And yet… the chief of the Kishin felt easy. Not the ease of a concluded hunt; nor even the pretty break of his straitlaced, bossy Yama reminding him with an oh-so-tragically crooked brow that she was a person with quirks, same as he. Watching Hecatia, a woman adjudged inaccessible by most, himself included, perusing the room and its décor in the casual nude, knowing they’d not a thing to hide – else than the slew of things they by law must – was liberating. Similarly liberated was Hecatia, who tossed the towel onto the pile of sheets and clothing to be washed at the first convenient (i.e. when Hecatia felt like magic, which was “not tonight”) and faced the bedded Suiki with a re-enactment of the day when she’d first made his blood race everywhere it oughtn’t, except the shirt.
“… See something sexy?” she asked, tilting forward, one hand on the knee, allowing her cherry-peaked breasts to droop from their own weight.
Suiki sat up and, in somewhat of a metaphysical contradiction, lay in the bed he’d made. “Uh-huh. You,” he revealed. “Shirt is cute, but I like you in these new clothes especially.”
Hecatia sagged in silence. Then, at the speed of a sunrise, a grin bloomed out on her lips as if the goddess was genuinely pleased to have been stumped. “Myyy. Would that make me an empress,” she teased back, “or you – a fool? Never mind; I got that. For this and this alone, however, I think I shall give you a nice, wake-up surprise tomorrow, Suiki. Which me would you like to bestow it? I can be whichever for you.”
You are perfect like this, thought Suiki, his daemon side temporarily impinging on the post-coital Zen. Or was it? Anywise he hacked it, Hecatia was impeccable in the red. The dreamworld ensemble. His dreamworld, he would say, had he a romantic bone in his body larger than his funny one. Aloud, he volunteered, “Obeying local custom, lady Hecatia, I hereby select the blonde.”
Hecatia didn’t reply. Instead, as though sieving out of his remark some meaning he’d perhaps not, well, meant, she padded back into the bathroom. The Hecatia who emerged remained red around both the poles, but was possessed now of one of those flimsy, spa-resort-esque evening robes seen on some of the less flashy youkai males and females downstairs. This piece in specific had something of an adversity toward confining all of Hecatia’s femininity at once; it illustrated this defect additionally when the goddess stooped to kiss the sitting Kishin on the lips – and her breasts slipped completely free.
She tucked them in, negligently, and drew herself up.
“Sleep, Suiki,” she suggested, as though that was any feasible. “You need it, hunk; you’re turning ethereal at the edges. I’ll ill enjoy petitioning your Yama to re-summon you in the middle of your alleged leave. There’d be questions, you catch? We’d best not tempt those if we hadn’t. Gia to kaló sou.”
“… Will you be along?” asked Suiki, for want of witty greekicisms.
“Shortly,” assured Hecatia. “I’ll talk to the earth spider and be about.”
Suspicion skidded over the Kishin’s calm and – yes, that was – fatigue. The exit fee of divine attention. “… May I? Why?”
Hecatia Lapislazuli, inopportunely, folder her arms under her bust. “Simple,” she promised. “Simplicity manifest, Suiki. I don’t know very well that I’d be able to talk Junko into getting you that surprise, wake-up blowjob from two busty blondes, let alone by morning; but, I’ll bet you pearls to marbles, the earth spider’ll be down, and she’s available. That is first of everything. Secondly, I want to speak with the ruler – the real ruler – of this bayou of Hell. That mind-reader with the bland name, yes,” she overtook his rising questions; “and, while I can shield my mind, Suiki, I cannot have her plucking state secrets from yours. I’d leave you one of me for company… except I can’t. One supreme being per domain, et al., et al. So, you’ll need somebody else to steer you clear of trouble. And that one has indeed some body.”
Suiki was by no means a hypocrite; daemons who were quickly found themselves self-doubted to oblivion. He still loathed a bit that he didn’t loathe the sound of it even half that much.
Tactically, he said this: “… You have ruined the surprise, Heca.”
And, tactically, Hecatia responded via a hot look that said, in mute Olympian, “pray we do not ruin your dick, you jester.”
“She’s a through-and-through workhorse, when she isn’t… funning around. I hear, anywise,” vouched the goddess. “Trust me on this; if half the hearsay’s true, you’ll get off— I mean on, legendarily.”
Suiki shut his eyes and examined his future. It was blond and well-upholstered, and he conceded he could live with that. There was red further on; that was more important.
Hecatia’s was a study in the smuggest divine smiles ever conceived once he looked again. She knew she’d had him, bless her.
“Sleep now, Suiki,” she said, and this time it was not in the slightest a suggestion. “Sleep, my big, dumb Kishin. Rest.”
And Suiki slept.
Not right away; he’d had time enough to glimpse Hecatia’s re-forging of her crown, chains and orbs from lambent air, but was asleep even before one of his horns gored the bed’s pillows. He slept the sleep of a soul who hadn’t known a wink of it since its failure weeks beforehand.
And he dreamed of shirts so loose they required three goddesses to fill them.
>>41113 >May I ask why you chose said person as the viewpoint of this story? Threefold! 1) Needed a male PoV. As I’ve absolutely no grasp of Hecatia’s character, narrating from inside her head would have been excruciating. A blank-ish slate was easier, compared. 2) On that note, I get off on sticking to canon, and Suiki was right there in WaHH, a male character ripe for lewding. What’s more, they both have a vested interest in Gensokyo – practically a ready-made scenario for how they met. 3) Which brings me to the point that somebody who is old-fashioned and/or stuck in their ways is the perfect foil for Hecatia’s explicit desire to modernise and adapt Hell.
I can only apologise their relationship isn’t more personal or heartfelt, but I couldn’t picture either of them committing to anything serious before breaking this particular ice. Oh, well, maybe in a sequel someday…