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Watching the paladin has become a favorite pastime of yours.
His loyalty to his dead god is amusing. The way he wanders this part of the realm– your territory–doing his good deeds and spreading hope amongst the denizens is almost cute. As if he thinks he has a chance of resurrecting his fallen deity with spun tales and slayed monsters.
The Iris would not be returning anytime soon. You had personally seen to their demise, after all.
Killing the god had been an unplanned, accidental endeavor if you were being entirely truthful. You’re uncertain if they were even wholly divine with how…easy it had been to snuff them out. But as a devil, your understanding of what made a god and what did not was severely lacking, and all that mattered was that you had taken care of a rather persistent thorn in your side.
The paladin had shown up not too long after. Following the last remnants of the Iris’s power, perhaps? It didn't matter.
You would break the warforged and take the utmost delight in doing so.
The swath of land you had claimed as your own a few months prior was less than satisfactory in the eyes of mortal nobility. The soil was poor by way of farming, the forests were small and yielded soft wood that made for unstable homes, the beasts that roamed were hardly worth the hunt with how little meat and fur they yielded…truthfully, the people of this area were suffering even before your fiendish eyes turned this way. You can’t even recall what interested you to this pitiful piece of the mortal plane in the first place. Devils typically took a liking to a specific person, not an entire acreage of destitute peasants.
It had been boringly easy to dominate their feeble minds. This was a place the gods rarely heeded–not after the previous lord, a century or so back, had attempted to summon an aspect of some ancient and half-forgotten deity in hopes of ruling the land. One would think the gods would want to keep an eye on the denizens of the territory due to this, but once again. You were a devil. You were not privy to the whims of the gods.
The estate of that foolish human (who had been dealt with swiftly by a band of roving heroes) had been rather untouched for the last hundred years. The locals disliked coming anywhere near it for fear that the former lord’s maddened specter would haunt and curse them if they crossed the threshold.
Preposterous. The only thing capable of curses within these walls was you. And any devil worth their salt did not throw curses out with reckless abandon. It was simply untoward.
Nevertheless, you had made the abandoned estate your new home for the time being, and from there you had spun quite a delightful spell. Designed to entrap minds and make them susceptible to your sweet words, it had only taken a couple of days before the denizens of this realm were putty in your hands.
You suppose that’s what alerted the Iris to your presence. It truly is a shame how laughably effortless it had been to defeat them and siphon a small portion of their power. Just a sip–divinity, however insignificant and impotent, was richer than the finest desserts meant to grace a king’s palate. You preferred going about your days without indigestion.
And so it is a few weeks after the death of the Iris, which had subsequently been a few weeks after your acquisition of the mortal minds in the area, that the paladin arrives.
Sifting through their meager minds for his name had been simple. Ramattra , they called him. A warforged. You suppose it made sense for one such as him to be wandering these lands, since many warforged searched realms upon realms for a purpose. Even if his god was dead and gone, perhaps this Ramattra would have made his way here eventually.
It is a shame he decided to come to your domain, assisting the people with all matters great and small. You delighted in the punishment you were about to award him for such impudence.
After approximately one week after Ramattra comes to your new domain, you call him to the manor with a simple, yet elegantly worded letter. It is delivered to the one inn that remains, its ramshackle abode resembling a hermit’s hut more than anything. Peering into the minds of the people have told you that Ramattra promised to lend a hand into constructing additions to the building, remodeling it so that it becomes far more hospitable for the weary travelers that (stupidly) come this way.
Paladins and their oaths. They were almost as amusing as they were annoying.
You summon a dozen unseen servants with your magic and bade them to clean the manor up. Within a day the cobwebs are swept away, the dirt is removed and the marble floors shine once more as they must have a century ago. Broken furniture is repaired and reupholstered. Moth-eaten curtains are repaired, windows are scrubbed until the sun shines gloriously through the stained glass depicting hunting scenes and distastefully exaggerated heroic tales. Though the grim and unkempt halls had not troubled you in the least, you did admit you could appreciate the finer effect the overhaul gave.
The chamber you have discovered to be the former lord’s war room is by far your favorite. The unseen servants have outdone themselves, constructing a large and elegant chair that is quite obviously a perverse mockery of a royal throne. The grand, large table that was clearly the war council’s base of operations remains, though the servants have shoved it against the wall rather than it being the center of attention. The ornate fireplace roars with a crackling fire that brings a sense of nostalgia as you reminisce on the flames of hell, and a smoky incense fills the chamber with a delightful aroma of cinnamon and cloves.
It is in this room that you at last meet Ramattra, sitting upon the velvet cushion with all the grace and poise of one born into aristocracy. It was laughably easy to fall into the role, considering all the minds and souls you’ve broken over the centuries, all the personalities and hopes and dreams you have devoured.
The heavy oak doors swing open, seemingly of their own accord, but you know it is the work of the invisible manifestations of magic that make up your unseen servants. The paladin strides into the chamber, heavy, metallic steps clanking and echoing off of the stone walls. The first thing you notice about him is that he does not wear armor but instead a rather ragged set of robes, worn thin from travel and fabric faded from the sun. The second thing you notice is his size.
Ramattra is massive. He is easily over six feet tall and is rather filled out, especially for a being made of metal and wood. His shoulders are broad, his hands are large, and his thighs could crush a tree between them with ease. He has a silver and purple sheen about him, but his faceplate is mostly white, save for the crimson glow that burns from the slitted optics that act as his eyes. Tendrils of thick black cabling, reminiscent of hair, tumble from his head and down his shoulders.
You have seen other warforged. Mostly in passing, you admit, and never up close like this.
Ramattra makes something stir deep within your core. You want him. Oh, do you want him. He needs to belong to you. You want to break him, to ruin him, to make him yours –
You force the surge of devilish greed and desire down as you steeple your fingers together, crossing your legs and leaning forward. “Well met, Sir Ramattra,” you greet him, voice remarkably steady and cool despite the ache that throbs viciously between your legs. “I have heard much of your deeds from the people living in my domain. I thank you for your good will and courtesy.”
He holds a staff in one hand. Its design is unique, bearing a resemblance to Ramattra himself, with a violet and black orb hovering within a curved hook. It pulsates and glows briefly as Ramattra’s large hand tightens its grip around the base of the staff, and the human form you wear nearly dissipates in a rush of craven hunger as you imagine that hand on your hips.
Ramattra bows his head, a brief and almost performative action. “Your kind words are appreciated, my lady.” His voice is deep and vibrates through his chassis. It is sonorous and husky at once. There is a mournful timbre to it that makes you lick your lips ever so slightly, makes you want to arch your back like a cat and command him to whisper sweet platitudes in your ear.
You do not.
What kind of devil would you be if you gave into every base desire before you allowed yourself the thrill of the chase?
“As I am sure the people have told you,” you say as you lean back against the throne-that-is-not-a-throne, back straight and head held high, “this land has suffered greatly since its last lord and sovereign decided to blaspheme against the gods one hundred years ago. I have struggled in my efforts to…heal the hurts caused by this disturbing event.”
Or at least, that is the compulsion you placed within the minds of the poor folk dwelling here. In reality you could care less how they fare, as long as their pathetic lives bring you some scrap of entertainment.
Ramattra cocks his head as his optics remain trained on your face. You can feel him analyzing, observing your every breath and small movement as a wolf studies the patterns of its prey before lunging in for the kill. “I must confess I was unaware of the state of this domain and its people,” he says, and the way his head subtly turns to and fro alerts you to him studying the chamber in addition to your person. You know he takes stock of the displays of wealth in the room–fabricated by magic, of course–and the way his metallic frame shudders ever so slightly almost makes your lips stretch into a wicked grin.
How disgusted he must be. To have lived among the squalor and desolation of the people who struggle to survive, yet stand here surrounded by baubles and trinkets and decadent affluence that spits in the face of those who have never known comfort.
You delight in his loathing.
“My journey brought me to this land for another reason, my lady,” Ramattra continues, and his attention turns back to where you sit on the throne, rapt with attention. “The disappearance of my patron. I sensed their presence in this area before it completely vanished.”
You feign ignorance and innocence and tilt your head questioningly, allowing your eyes to widen and your face to settle into an expression of intrigue. “Your patron?”
He nods. “The Iris. The being that took pity upon all warforged after the great war we were created to fight in ended. Some of my kind are like myself and have devoted our entire existence to serving the Iris as thanks for their benevolence, and my connection to them is perhaps one of the strongest out of all my brethren.” Ramattra takes a step forward towards you, and you suppose the way his form hulks and his optics flare scarlet is supposed to be intimidating, but all it does is to further serve the ravenous urges coiling within you. “Your citizens informed me you may know what happened to them, being the lady of the realm.”
Tell him , your fiendish heritage hisses within your soul. Tell him everything, throw him into despair this instant, make him suffer and grieve and then TAKE HIM FOR YOURSELF.
Your self-control is something to be admired. For you simply give Ramattra a sad smile, shake your head, and say, “I am terribly sorry, Sir Ramattra. I’ve heard nothing of a lost god within these lands. But,” you clap your hands together and step off of the throne, crossing the dais it sits upon so that you stand before the warforged face-to-face. You summon an air of virtuous grace, sweetness lacing your words and coating the poison hiding on your tongue as you take his free hand in both of yours, admiring how small and dainty your human flesh appears as it cradles his robotic servo as a child handles a cherished toy.
“Please, feel free to stay within my estate for as long as you’d like. It would please me to no end to reward you for your efforts, and perhaps I may be of assistance in finding what happened to your patron!”
His hand–no, servo, you remind yourself as the details of warforged anatomy surface within your mind–is warmer than you expected it to be. Not as warm as a being of purely flesh and blood, but not the chill of a mithril sword as you initially had thought it would be. And you can feel him through the contact–you can sense Ramattra’s life force as it thrums beneath the metallic surface, taunting and teasing you as it begs you to taste it as you had sipped from the cup of the Iris’s power.
This game you had decided to play was going to drive you mad.
Ramattra does not answer you immediately. Instead he simply stares down at you, his faceplate unreadable as there is no nose to scrunch up, no eyes to narrow, no lips to press in a thin line. You expect him to pull away from your grasp, to back away from you and call you out on your bluff, to see through your lies and fallacies and summon whatever vestiges of divine power that remain within his body in an ill-advised attempt to slay you.
He does not. Instead, the paladin allows his servo to remain in your hands, and he gives you another cursory bow of his head as his voice rumbles throughout the chamber. “Your offer is appreciated, my lady. If it is no trouble to you, I would be glad to take advantage of your generosity.”
The smile you give him is one of genuine joy and glee. You almost pity him for not seeing through your (rather obvious to you) ruse. Perhaps the warforged has simply not had many dealings with devils and demons and the like?
You instruct your unseen servants to show him to the largest of the guest quarters, though warforged don’t exactly use a bed as most organic beings do. He does not question you why none of the citizens of this domain have found work inside the estate to earn a wage, and you know your compulsion has worked like a charm. The mortals most likely already answered his query, giving responses that they feel unworthy to step foot within the manor and would rather do their best outside the estate to carry out your efforts to bring the land back to some semblance of its former prosperity.
Whether Ramattra truly believes it or not, you do not know. For the time being it does not matter.
A month passes. The two of you settle into a vague routine. Ramattra goes out into your domain and continues to help the denizens however he can, returning to the manor by evening to join you for a (one-sided, considering he does not eat) dinner where he regales you with tales of whatever good deeds he’s accomplished that day. You, on the other hand, laze about and imagine all sorts of scenarios in which you dominate his mind, destroy his spirit, and devour his very being.
He thinks you’re researching and investigating the disappearance of the Iris. You give him vague answers, always apologetic and full of unknowing woe. Only once do you sense his suspicion get the better of him; only once do you feel him casting some sort of spell on you, one that compels you to tell the truth and stop dancing around the subject like a court jester. Unfortunately for Ramattra, you are able to shrug off the magic as if it were nothing but a passing breeze, your fiendish abilities stronger than his divine gifts–that were slowly but surely depleting the longer the Iris remained dead, and the more he tried to use them to help others.
You are not so arrogant that you imagine you could fend off his divine gifts if the Iris was still living. In truth, the happy accident of you killing them and taking just the tiniest ounce of its power was probably the only reason why Ramattra could not see through your deceit. In fact, perhaps that’s what makes it so easy to bluff and manipulate your way around the paladin. He is drawn to that speck of essence deep within you that once belonged to his patron deity, even if he can’t tell that it’s actually coming from within you and no longer lives within its original owner.
It has allowed you to slowly spin layers upon layers of subtle compulsion magic upon him. Spells not unlike the ones you’ve casted upon the people of this domain in order to bend their minds to your will, to make them believe you are their beloved lady and mistress. Every night before he takes his leave, you take Ramattra’s servo in your hands and thank him for his aid, for how deeply he cares for the people of this realm and how far he is going to help them make their lives better.
A lie. A lie that sends your magic into him, twisting and curling around his soul. Each touch ensnares him further and further into the spell, clouding his judgment and beguiling him to your whims. He becomes…softer. Eager. Almost desperate. The stiffness dissolves into a restless warmth. He does not even bother to hide the way he leans closer to you at times, the way you feel his servo on your shoulder when he bids you goodnight and how his touch lingers.
Had he been flesh and blood, you know you’d be able to smell the way he craves you. You know you’d be able to taste the tantalizing flavor of his want with every passing glance, every murmured greeting that betrays the longing you have instilled within him.
You almost feel guilty. Almost. But alas, no devil has ever had a true conscience, and you are not going to be the first one with that most illustrious honor.
Exactly one month and one day after your meeting, Ramattra comes storming through the receiving room’s doors like a storm at sea, all bluster and wrath that emanates from him in palpable waves.
“The Iris is dead.”
His voice, so deep and delightful to your ears, is hoarse with grief and rage. You look up from the book you had been absorbed in, a tome regarding the summoning of demons that the previous lord of the manor had hidden which had become a source of much amusement with how inaccurate its contents were. Ramattra’s hair-like cabling spreads out behind him like a spider’s web; his already hulking form seems to have grown in size; the crimson glow of his optics burn like the eternal flames of Avernus, and he trembles with a fury that would strike fear into even the heart of a god.
“The Iris is dead ,” he repeats, forlorn, both servos gripping his staff as if it were the only other thing in existence besides himself. “I found–I found their body. Dumped with no ceremony off a cliff. They’re just…gone.”
Your eye twitches.
You distinctly remember asking your unseen servants to dispose of the body properly. You suppose you should not have entrusted something so crucial to beings of little-to-no intelligence and sensibility.
“It all makes sense,” Ramattra continues, speaking so fast you can almost hear the whirring of the gears that make up his processor. “Why I felt their presence go dark. Why my abilities have become less effective. I feel–I feel an ache inside me, where their presence used to be. It’s empty. I… I am empty. I am undone.”
You can feel his panic, his anguish as he drops the staff abruptly. It clatters to the marbled floor with a deafening clang, and Ramattra falls to his knees. The crash of his metallic joints hitting the smooth surface is even louder, and makes you flinch slightly.
He holds his head in his servos, body hunched and almost cowering as an aura of melancholic anger rises from the surface of his frame. You can’t help but breathe it in deeply–the malignant sense of corruption brimming oh-so-close, threatening to overtake the paladin in its venomous grasp.
This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.
“I cannot cast even the most rudimentary blessing,” Ramattra whispers, in a voice so low that had you not been privy to the hearing of a devil, you would not have caught it. “The simplest, most basic healing spells evade me. I-I have nothing left.”
“Oh, my dearest Ramattra.”
You get up from your throne and dismiss the tome with a flick of your hand. It disappears in a flash of cinders and ash, and the acrid scent of brimstone wafts through the chamber. Slowly, gingerly, as if approaching a wounded animal, you stalk towards the fallen warforged and stand before him, placing your hands upon his hunched shoulders. Even on his knees, in this engorged form of his, he is massive.
“How terrible. How ruinous it must be for you.” Your voice is gentle, picturesque and as calm as a moonlit night. You rub slow, soothing circles into his shoulders, your claws desperate to break free from the mortal prison you encased them in and rake across his back as you demand him to give in.
Patience, you reprimand your malicious instincts. We are almost there. Just a little more and he shall be ours.
“I must find them. I must find the killer, I must make them pay for the murder of the Iris.” His head jerks up and his faceplate is staring right at you, and what you wouldn’t give for him to have eyes so you could run your tongue along his cheeks and lick up every tear that would certainly be falling from them right now. “I will have vengeance .”
Vengeance.
It’s the way he phrases that word, the way his already baritone voice suddenly goes even darker, that nearly makes you come undone. You hiss between your teeth as they elongate into fangs, and you cup his faceplate in your hands, nostrils flaring as the shadows swirling within his soul hang with a heavy aroma of hatred and misery.
“And what of your oath?” you demand as you gaze into his optics, allowing your pupils to dilate into the black slivers of a devil. “Have you not sworn an oath to protect?”
“Damn my oath. Damn my purpose. I am reborn anew.” Ramattra growls, and it is a sound worthy of any beast that dwells amongst the hellfire of your former domain. It rumbles through his chassis, reverberates in your own chest, and sends a captivating heat spreading into your core. The ache that you have felt between your legs, steady and unrelenting since you first laid eyes upon the warforged, screams at you for release.
“Then swear an oath right here and now. A new one. Swear to me.” You remove your hands from him and step back, allowing the human illusion you have forced yourself into for far too long to at last fade. Your claws grow to sharp points along your fingers; your wings, leathery and batlike and of the deepest midnight black, spread out from your spine and flare out from behind your back. Two curved horns grow from either side of your forehead, a few inches long, the dark keratin coating the bone decorated with silver and gold filigree that belies your station as a high-ranking devil. “Be mine and in turn, I shall grant you a new purpose far more noble than anything the Iris could have given you.”
Despite the layers of compulsion and magic you have woven onto him for the last month, Ramattra still hesitates. The corruption has not fully taken hold of him and deep within his soul, there is still some small speck of goodness and virtue. You can feel his shock at your transformation, can hear the way he grunts akin to a flesh and blood being trying to catch their breath after a nasty surprise.
You push.
Your fiendish magic wraps around him, squeezing and soothing all at once as you extend a hand out towards Ramattra. A ring of obsidian appears on your finger, inlaid with rubies and etched with Infernal markings that denote your standing. “Swear to me, Ramattra,” you repeat, voice booming with command and authority as you lace the Iris’s power together with your magic, the spell growing stronger with every syllable. “I am your new oath.”
The paladin breaks at last.
Ramattra surges forward, crawling on his knees to close the small gap between the two of you. He takes your outstretched hand in one servo–even tipped with claws, it is still dwarfed by his massive grasp–and brings his faceplate to the ring. Where he would have had lips had he not been a warforged, he presses the surface of his faceplate against the ring wordlessly, though you hear his voice thundering through your mind as clear as a bell.
I swear that I am yours forevermore.
You smile.
It is a smile too wide for your face.
Ramattra’s engorged form begins to grow smaller, returning to his normal size and stature. He remains kneeling before you, his faceplate still pressed against the ring on your finger, his servo still holding your hand as if he fears letting go. “Good boy,” you praise him breathlessly, pressing your thighs together as the pleasure of the bond now forged between you surges through your body. The pact slithers its way through your soul, down between your legs, adding more heat to the delicious fire that burns inside of you.
Oh, what fun you will have with him.
But first–
“Cast a spell, Rama,” you command him, eyes nearly fluttering shut as you savor the new taste his name makes as it leaves your lips. Your nickname for him, the one you’ve moaned into pillows as you pleasure yourself with your fingers, the one you’ve whimpered shamelessly as you grind your hips into the arms of your throne mere moments after he’s left your side.
To your utmost delight, it has a similar effect on Ramattra. He groans, the sound strained and struggling as he forces himself to get off of his knees. Through the haze of lust that is rapidly accumulating between the two of you, you almost miss the way he moves as if to pick up the staff he had dropped on the ground in his fit of grief. He pauses as he crouches down, remaining as still as a statue for an eternity of just a few moments, never breaking his gaze from you.
He does not pick the staff up. Instead, he straightens his posture, holds out his servo so that the palm is facing the ceiling, and makes a fist.
When he unclenches the fist, a viscous sphere of violet interlaced with veins of inky shadows hovers above his palm. It hums and vibrates with an ominous, malignant energy that makes you want to purr. He cocks his head at it, as if uncertain that what he has conjured is truly there, and you allow yourself to laugh in sheer delight as the vile magic confirms his full descent into darkness.
“You will never want for power with me as your mistress, Rama.” You lick your lips beckon him close with a hooked, clawed finger.
He complies eagerly, dismissing the ball of eldritch energy from his servo as he nearly stumbles to you, as if being dragged to your side by an invisible chain.
“Shall I give you a reward for swearing an oath to me?” you ask in a teasing, lilting tone, wings fluttering behind you as your words elicit a low grinding groan from his throat, betraying his want. Ramattra nods, quick and short and greedy as he looms over you.
“Please, mistress.”
You cannot suppress the shudder that racks your body at his new title for you. You like it far better than “my lady.”
You lean forward and stand up on your tiptoes to reach his auditory processors, your voice naught but a whisper, like the falling leaves drifting on an autumn breeze. You tell him your name. Not the fabricated, false moniker you’d conjured up along with the lady of the realm persona. No, you tell Ramattra your true Infernal name, the sound and syllables of it wicked enough to send anyone not protected by a devil’s pact into an instantaneous fit of madness.
Ramattra repeats your name with reverence. He says it like a pilgrim would a prayer, like a priest would as they supplicate their god.
But there is nothing holy about the way he stares at you with blazing red optics as you pull away from him and make a show sauntering back to the throne, letting the ash and soot of your fiendish magic eat away at the illusion of fine gown and accoutrement. There is nothing sacred about the way he gazes upon your naked flesh as you sit upon the velvet cushion, legs spread to bare the wet slickness of your sex to him. There is nothing divine about the animalistic, desperate growl that emanates from his robust form as he stands there, frozen, awaiting your command like the perfect servant he is.
You take one hand and slide it down your body, snaking between your breasts and journeying over every curve before coming to a stop at the apex between your legs. You take two fingers and spread them into a ‘v,’ placing them on either side of your sex and spreading the wet folds to show him the trembling, aching, craving slickness of your pussy that has not stopped crying out for him since he first stepped foot into this room.
“But perhaps this is a more apt reward for you, yes?” Your voice is low, sensual, dripping with wanton promises. “Serve your mistress, Ramattra. Isn’t this what you’ve been wanting for so long?”
“ Yes ,” Ramattra gasps out, and if he could breathe you know he would be choking on air as he rushes forward with a newfound speed. Once more he kneels before you, only this time he’s situated between your legs as if they were an altar. Without warning or waiting he plunges a digit into your folds, thicker and fuller than your own fingers ever could be. Your hips jerk as he curls his digit upwards, stroking the softness of your walls and slowly pumping in and out of your pussy almost experimentally, as if he is unsure that this is truly happening.
You settle against the throne and let a hiss of pleasure escape your lips, moving your hand up slightly and fingering the nub of your clit as his digit sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your core. “Good boy,” you praise, bobbing your head in content appreciation. You let a little moan leave your mouth as you pinch and squeeze your clit at the same time he adds a second finger, stretching you most delightfully, and his other hand grasps your inner thigh as he spreads your leg further for a better angle.
“I have…dreamed of this,” the warforged between your legs admits, voice shaky with static as he fingers and strokes your cunt with practiced motions. “My kind do not sleep, but I swear to you, I have dreamed of touching you–of…serving you.” His optics remain on the site of your slickening, wet sex as his metallic digits squeak with every thrust inside you. “Gods, how I have wanted to touch you.”
He adds a third digit.
Bliss.
Bliss as the three digits inside your cunt stretch and stroke and dance along your walls while you furiously, fervently rub and pinch your clit. You burn with a heat that would incinerate any mortal being, beautiful flames that lick along your core and spur moans to drip from your lips. “And you,” you pant slightly, allowing your hips to buck into his thrusting, pistoning digits as your walls squeeze and suck them deeper inside your cunt, “can touch me whenever you want, Rama. You shall not go a day where you do not serve me. You will pleasure me every hour if I so desire.”
“Yes, mistress.”
His pace quickens at those words. You let out a gasping whine as a shiver runs up and down your spine, wings fluttering in surprise when all of a sudden his digits thrust in and out of you at a speed that promises to ravish and ravage you all at once. Your own fingers pause in their pleasuring of your clit as a wave of ecstasy overcomes you and you find yourself frozen, savoring the pleasure that you have desired for so long and gripping the side of the throne so hard your claws dig into the fabric. Ramattra takes this momentary distraction as an invitation and the servo on your thigh suddenly plucks your hand away from your clit, placing it almost lovingly on the other side of the throne. He begins to desecrate your clit himself, as if you weren't doing a good enough job of it, and pinches the sensitive bundle of nerves between two digits hard enough that the shock of pain mingles with the pleasure and almost makes your eyes roll into the back of your head.
He looks up at you at last, fucking your pussy with his metallic fingers with reckless abandon and abusing your clit as if it is the only purpose he will ever serve in his life. “Lovely,” he murmurs, voice twisted with sinful yearning–yearning that you spent weeks spinning into his very soul. “You are so lovely, mistress. I could watch you make those faces for eternity.”
“More, Rama,” you urge him in a low, demanding voice as your walls squeeze around his digits, grinding your hips into his servos. “Give me more .”
He falters, the adept ministrations upon your cunt and clit pausing, much to your disappointment. “Am I worthy?” he questions you, the righteousness of his former existence clearly still hidden away within him somewhere. It was cute, in a way. You suppose you could let him keep it for now.
You give him a nod, leaning forward on the throne and cupping his chin with one hand. A claw slowly strokes the hardness of his faceplate and the sinister, depraved instincts you have done a mighty job of holding back mourn how you can’t mark his supple flesh as you so greatly wish to. “You are worthy, my dearest Ramattra. My champion. My knight. I did all of this for you. All of this so you could be mine. So of course you are worthy of giving me,” you almost bite your bottom lip as the buzz of excitement courses through your veins, “ more .”
He doesn’t catch your slip-up–your near confession that you orchestrated the events of the last couple months so that you could corrupt him so thoroughly, killing his patron and taking their place.
He is simply too caught up in his desire to fuck you to notice.
You send a subtle suggestion through the bond of the pact between you two, the compulsion of the magic forming the thought within Ramattra in a way where he believes it’s his idea initially. The manipulation is necessary, of course, as it’s more fun this way.
“May I…” Ramattra lazily, painfully, deliberately slides his digits out of your cunt and you mourn the momentary emptiness despite knowing it won’t be for too long. He pauses as he thinks on how to word his request, still rubbing and touching your clit with lackadaisical strokes that make you want to sigh and close your eyes. “Might you allow me to sit there, mistress? There is something I’d like to try.”
You smirk and snap your fingers. In an instant, somewhere between the speed of a heartbeat and intake of breath, Ramattra is the one sitting on the throne. His robes have vanished into thin air and you sit in his lap facing him, arms hooked around his neck as you press your bare breasts against the ribcage-like texture of his chassis. “Like this?” you ask sweetly, knowing the wetness of your pussy is dripping on the metallic surface of his frame.
He nods. His head twitches slightly as he does so, as if the inner workings and mechanisms powering his warforged body are struggling to work. “ Mistress ,” he groans and growls and whimpers all at once, the amount of effort in that one word sending tingles throughout your body, “do with me as you please.”
You do not have to be told twice.
There is a faint whirring from beneath you and you feel a hard, hot length emerge between your legs. You look down and nearly drool as the real prize of the hunt appears before you–his cock. It is larger than a human’s but not as big as an orc’s, and the tip is slightly spiked rather than round like a mushroom. The base is ridged and ribbed with a flexible, malleable appearance, and veins of scarlet bioluminescence glow along the dark gray surface. A sweet-smelling fluid, nearly as black as night, viscous and thick seeps from a small slitted opening at the tip of it. The appendage is slightly curved, vaguely like a shepherd’s hook, and you unwrap your arms around Ramattra’s neck as your hands travel downwards. You take the length between your hands, delighting in how it twitches violently at the simple act of you touching it, and feel the pulsating warmth beneath your skin.
You rub the leaking tip of his cock with your thumb and smear the sticky dark fluid from the leaking tip along the ribbed surface, coating him in his own slick. Ramattra shudders beneath your touch, his servos suddenly lashing out and grabbing the fat of your ass and holding you in place as you hear steam vent from his robotic form, a warbling and broken sound coming from his chassis.
Your cunt demands to be filled once more. His cock is perfect–it is quite literally like he was made for you. You give it a light squeeze, grinning when he bucks into your hands and makes that wonderful keening sound that spells out his desperation. “You want me to do with you as I please?” you ask him deviously like the devil you are, dragging the tip of your claw along the sensitive surface of one of the bioluminescent veins.
“Please,” Ramattra begs brokenly, his grip on your hips tightening as his optics blink and flash between pure black and the typical red. “ Please. Fuck me, mistress. I can’t wait any longer, I’ll go mad.” He bucks once more into your hands and his cock leaks more of the slimy, saccharine liquid. It drips onto your fingers, hot and sticky. Ramattra’s voice hitches up an octave, his words echoing strangely like there are a thousand of him speaking at once as he pleads, “ Annihilate me! ”
It is music to your ears.
“Since you asked so nicely,” you purr, and then lower yourself onto his cock. No, it is not as gentle and slow as that–you impale yourself onto Ramattra, slamming your hips down and shoving his length as deep into you as you can with one swift rocking of your waist. It’s even better than you imagined, even better than his three digits could have prepared you for.
You allow yourself to cry out as he fills you, your eager and ravenous cunt devouring his entire length and sucking him into your core. Ramattra groans and whimpers out your name as your soft, wet walls squeeze around his length. Your Infernal name makes you hiss and growl deep in your throat as you wrap your arms around his neck once again and situate yourself around the throbbing length of his cock.
“You fill me up so good, Rama,” you praise, grinding your hips as you start to slowly fuck yourself on him, eyes fluttering shut. The curvature of his cock makes it so every sensitive spot within your cunt is tended to, and the design of his robotic body works in a way that your clit rubs against a ribbed portion of his waist every time you raise your hips. “Did you dream of this, too? Of your mistress on top of you, of me fucking you?”
Ramattra cannot speak. He simply bucks his hips in a desperate attempt to match your pace, which has gone from leisurely to lightning-fast. You hear the melodic chorus of your sex and his fluids mixing together, squelching with every movement. Your nipples rub against the rough surface of his chassis, breasts bouncing with each lifting of your hips and grinding back down onto his cock like a stupid little whore. You become machinelike in your thorough fucking of his cock, the comparison not lost on you as you retain some semblance of awareness that isn’t focused on nothing but ecstasy and immortal pleasure. Your core coils and squeezes as you slam down, the sting of him stretching you a glorious burn that singes deep into your toes and fingertips. The ribbed surface and ridges of his cock add to the sting, to the pleasure with the slightest movement, and you feel as if your insides are going to be raw.
The bliss is indescribable. You have fucked many beings of all shapes and sizes. You have been fucked, on the rare occasions you deemed it necessary to embrace a more submissive side when bringing someone under your thumb. But this? This was an entirely new experience, something you couldn’t quite understand or explain.
The remnants of the Iris, perhaps? The god, the deity, whatever it had been, had been inextricably connected to Ramattra as his patron. So perhaps that connection, which you have so heinously twisted and corrupted, gives an extra layer of gratification when it comes to such primal acts as debased as this one.
For the moment, you don’t care why it feels so good with Ramattra. All you care about is the fact that it feels so fucking good .
Fire. Flames. Heat. You are a furnace, your blood surging and the scent of brimstone growing stronger within the chamber. You’re close, you can feel it, but then suddenly Ramattra gives a groan and thrusts himself upwards into you at an angle that leaves you breathless and snarls in a gravelly tone, “I’m going to cum, mistress…!”
It snaps you back to some plane of reality. “No,” you snarl yourself, moving your arms from his neck so that you can grip the sides of his faceplate in your hands, forcing him to look at you and only you. “You will cum when I say so, Ramattra. You are mine to command.”
“ Please .” So desperate, so quiet, so lost. You can feel his cock shuddering inside of you, twitching wildly, and the squeezing and coaxing of your pussy around him isn’t helping in the least.
You can’t very well tell him that you want to cum before him. It’s a matter of pride for you. So instead you raise your hips all the way up to the point where just the head of his cock is inside you, nestled snugly between your folds, and you can feel the pre-cum and mixture of your own fluids dripping down your thighs as you are suspended over his lap, claws digging into the side of his faceplate to the point where there is a small dent.
“Patience,” you soothe, and to his credit Ramattra does not try to shove you back down on him with a savagery that you half-expected from him. He remains still, though it must be driven him mad, as the ventilation systems within him are working into overdrive and sending out even more steam than they were when you were actively fucking him. You swirl your hips in a wide circle, almost in a corkscrew motion around the head of his cock, and give him a rather gentle kiss on his forehead that surprises you.
And then you slam yourself back down on him with all the strength your devilish form can muster, to the point where the head of his member pushes against the opening of your womb, and you let yourself go.
Your orgasm clutches you in its claws, squeezing your throat and lungs and spreading fire throughout your core. Your blood boils as the twitching, tense ball buried deep inside of you snaps at last, a strangled gasp escaping your open lips as your tongue lolls out and your eyelids flutter rapidly. Your pussy caresses Ramattra’s cock tenderly, zealously, as you force yourself to continue grinding and fucking yourself on him through the intense aftershocks of your climax.
“Now,” you tell him, your voice breathy and shaky and without any of the confident commanding inflection you had been speaking in only moments before. “Be a good boy and cum for me now, Rama.”
Ramattra lets out a wordless moan and thrusts himself upwards into you once, twice, three times. Each movement sends white flashes behind your eyes and you allow him the honor of whimpering out his name pathetically, like a virgin maiden would wail for her lover during their first night together. His servos on your waist, so big and encompassing, adjust you ever so slightly as he spills his seed into you, a strangled and almost smothered hissing sound coming from his vocal processors as he does so.
With how hard he is pressed up against your womb you can literally feel the viscosity of his seed seeping through that barrier, filling you core with a fuzzy and pleasant warmth that spreads through your veins and douses the harsh hellfire of frenzied pleasure. The curvature of his cock swells as he continues to pump the fluid inside of you, coating your trembling walls with sweet stickiness.
“Just like that,” you encourage him with a twisting of your hips, rubbing your overly stimulated clit against him as your cunt milks him of every last drop. “Yes, Rama, you’re doing so well, filling your mistress up with your seed.”
“Want to–” Ramattra shudders and his optics go dark for a moment, body sagging in the throne as he rests his head between the juncture of your shoulder and neck. His cock still twitches, though the outpouring of fluid has slowed somewhat, and his thrusts are very few and far between now. “Want to serve you like this forever,” he babbles, and the lewd confession is more pleasing than he could ever know. His words start to become incoherent, disjointed, bordering on pure gibberish as he moans, “I want…to be used by you…ruin me, mistress, I’ll do anything for you, I’ll…I’ll…I’ll…I’ll… I’LL …”
For a moment, you fear you’ve broken him beyond repair as he abruptly ceases repeating himself.
He stops cumming inside of you at last but he does not pull his cock out. You have to admit, you rather like the way he remains nestled snugly inside, reinforcing the notion you now have that he was created to be yours with how perfectly the two of you fit together. “I will protect you, mistress,” Ramattra whispers at last, and the servos on your waist slide across your back and suddenly he is embracing you, clutching you to his chassis, clinging to your sweat-slicked skin and cradling you. “I shall keep you safe, as I could not my former patron.”
The tiny speck of conscience, what you now suspect may be part of the Iris’s power that you devoured, rears its ugly head for a moment, and you consider telling him what truly happened to his god.
But splayed upon his lap, savoring the feel of his cock deep inside you, the moment ends as quickly as it had made itself known, and instead you simply pat the cabling of his hair and smile in quiet victory to yourself.
“I know you will, my sweet Ramattra. I know.”
A spark of an idea slowly worms its way into the recesses of your mind. Conquering the paladin had been easy, and far more rewarding than you could have imagined. With the Iris dead, there was an entire army of warforged without their god. Perhaps they would make their way here as Ramattra had, but you were certain of one thing.
They needed a new god.
Of course, Ramattra would be your most dearest champion; your most precious, beloved knight.
But the thrill of thousands of others like him at your beck and call? The luscious, almost heavenly allure of such exalted creatures bending to your every whim?
It was too delectable to pass up.