She: Chamber of Desolation



Suggested Audio Candy


[1] John Carpenter “Wraith”

[2] In This Moment “Sick Like Me”



I have just awoken in a place which fills me with immediate trepidation and, my nostrils, the pungent stench of human degradation. It is dim, dank and the reverberation of constant dripping and wavering manacles provides incessant audio accompaniment that I could really do without. I am offered no visual inkling as to my whereabouts due to being optically gagged by an unyielding velvet scarf, pulled taut so as not to divulge my dire predicament. I’m fully naked; that much I can calculate with ease. I can feel a palpable haze as it brushes against every fine strand of exposed body hair.

This soiled setting appears to be stuffed with suffering; I can hear a faint stir of echoes as they ricochet from the cold, moist surfaces. My hands are bound behind my head, every tendon aches from the rack-like efficiency in which the shackles have been applied. But there’s no pain…not yet. Nothing tangible anyway, just stern consternation and infinite confusion. My ankles too are bound; I feel the coldness of coarse iron strapped around them, complete with jangling chains.


I am open to the cruel elements, that much is clearly evident. My meticulously pruned genitals dangle freely without restraint, tasting the palpably foreboding atmosphere lingering around them. All the while I yearn for harsh torment, expectant of some form of imminent and agonizing punishment. Nothing is forthcoming however. When alone with your thoughts in a predicament as ominous as this, it’s alarming how rapidly your feral instinct kicks in. We are, after all, just animals. Humans share the identical survival code as any other of God’s little creatures, so the heightened adrenaline causes such intuition to surface. I hastily determine that I am, in fact, not going anywhere. I’m captive, only marginally against my will, but whoever has concocted this cruel incarceration has not deemed it necessary to as much as blemish my bare flesh, as yet anyway. After minutes of immobility and that still prevalent dripping audio before me, I begin to piece together my muddled memories of the preceding events.


With the force of a tsunami it hits me; I was aboard a train bound for the site of the infamous She. Once there I would be conducting an exclusive conference with this mysterious thorned rose. I recall stepping from the carriage but, from the moment my foot touched the earth there’s nothing; no recollection of how I made it to these infernal co-ordinates deep within such a malevolent hell hole. There is no tang of Chloroform or verification of any form of struggle. It is as if I have arrived of my own accord, no foul-play evident with the exception of the fact that I have been harshly stripped down and detained as if snarled in all-encompassing gossamer.

Distressingly, a distant wail is emitted, and it’s initially unclear as to whether it is in fact a human cry. It is closely followed by a lengthier moan, gargling as if excreted by a throat clotted with crude cruor. It then converts into something resembling a groan of dark gratification, meshed with easily identifiable death throes. And then, silence once more, deafening quiet, with the exception of that faucet-like percussion. Still denied requested pain, I drift steadily into blissful unconsciousness.


Whilst out I consider why I am here in the first place. I was desperate to hold communion with She; many men would give their lives to be in my position and about to see this salacious siren in the flesh. Nobody knows what exact breed she is; some say that she is vampiric, others suggest a black soul trapped in-between dimensions. The jury is out as far as I am concerned; all that I know for sure is that few men return from confab with this cruel vixen. The opportunity to break bread with She was just too tantalizing to pass up. I just had to get the scoop. These and a thousand other thoughts fly about my head ad hoc as I enjoy the temporary quietude.

When I eventually come to, it is with a considerable jolt. Like a dreamscape in which you’re perpetually falling, I am evicted from my oblivious sanctuary with far more spite this time as the fetters have now been replaced with carnal restraints. Numerous antagonists now pin me to the once consoling pillar of captivity. I can discern lengthy nails holding me in place, each puncturing its place of attachment, and these hot spots are in copious positions up and down my naked torso. Any endeavors to break free would prove futile, but potential escape plans have now been substituted for sinful curiosity.

I feel emissions of tacky crimson glugging forth from these plentiful fresh-formed cavities. My once malleable skin is now punctuated with a multitude of glaring fissures, each stinging with ecstatic agony. The blood loss from my many perforations is beginning to bring on concerted wooziness, my eyes flickering in and out of focus as I frantically attempt to make out the magnitude of my predicament.


Once they have acclimatized to the meager lighting a horrifying image becomes all too comprehensible. Those deathly howls of mortal desolation I was unwillingly made privy to earlier appear to have been discharged by a fellow sufferer, hanging just within eye-shot. He looks to have been embalmed whilst still cognizant, his eyes sewn shut and waxy fluids jutting from both sealed hollows.

His wilted stripped cadaver is littered with yawning lacerations, some reaching marrow and, congregating around his feet, is a pile of giblets which have presumably been drawn from the crude incision around his left kidney. Poor bastard looks like he really felt death’s icy pinch and looks no more tranquil in death than he sounded toward the agonizing end of his pitiful life.


Then something catches my eye beyond this hapless fatality. A hefty wrought iron door opens at the far corner of the room and a shadowy figure appears to glide in clothed in a lengthy veil. I immediately feel a twinge of stimulation running through my shaft, causing the residual sanguine fluids in my agony-riddled body to relocate. A mesh of foreboding and arousal causes my heart to commence beating at an escalating rate of knots, and I start to become rigid. The figure ghosts across the space with no dearth of sophistication; teasing, tantalizing. My serpent-like fastenings have begun to mutter hungrily in a tongue impossible to discern. In addition to the clasps which pierce my yearning flesh, I now feel a far less stinging sensation.

I feel bare flesh pressing against my framework, accompanied by sensual groans of dark gratification. Tongues both sides slide from my shoulder-blades, along my neck, before nestling inside my earlobe, whispering incoherent verse as they delicately nibble the soft skin around it. The incisors feel razor-sharp, but do not split the membrane. The ratio of pleasure to pain has begun to shift, despite the fact that I’m losing blood at the tempo of a menstrual marsupial, and I’m actually growing accustomed to the sensation.


In an instant my roving eyeballs make contact once more with the cloaked shadow which stands, nay hovers, noiselessly before me. There is a sudden gust of wind blowing in from the side, even though I cannot discern any windows. The draft is sufficient to blow open one side of the robe, revealing supple curves clearly belonging to a female. She is evidently unclothed as there are glimpses of bared flesh emanating from the side of the textile. One more current of air carries the linen off into the dimness, landing a few feet back in a pool of intestinal fluids and harshly sheared appendages.

My attention returns to the beautiful darkness directly in front and my bulging peepers begin to register the striking naked form of my accepted antagonist. I start at ground level; her feet are perfectly proportioned and immaculately pedicured. As a self-confessed ‘foot man’ I’m fixated momentarily, before reluctantly moving my gaze leisurely northbound. I try to take in this glorious skin-buffet which fits like a fine silk glove around her slight frame. My testicles throb wildly and there’s an acute ache stretching across my entire groin, bringing with it illicit glee. It’s counter-balanced by lightheadedness from the loss of two, maybe three, gallons of blood.


As my mesmerized eyes journey steadily upward, they widen further still. Long slender pins, totally unblemished and exquisitely hand-crafted, are adequate to cause that spasm once more, only this time my pulsating girth is beginning to swell. As I reach the inner thighs and drink in the sight of her magnificent shaven centre, I reach full mast. My foreskin pinches as it struggles to contain the erect member within and it appears still to be rising. Her navel is both toned and yielding and a little further up are a brace of resplendent organic orbs, perfectly symmetrical and vertically poised, two delicious ripened cherries perched atop them. By the time I reach the shoulders and lower neck it suddenly becomes apparent. I know these palatable curves and the soft brunette hair that curls around her chest plate. I glance upward again, this time hastily and receive grateful confirmation that my estimations are correct. I made it to my interview after all, the unmistakable beauty before me is indeed the succubus I seek.


I’m staring death in its beautiful face and, I have to say, it isn’t at all like I envisaged it to be. There are no gnarly skeletal features, sunken eye sockets or rows of rotten teeth; instead before me stands a being that resembles more of a seraph than anything else. I’m under no misguided preconceptions; I anticipate enduring comparable degrees of mortal anguish to the other poor bastards who tasted her sweet suffering before me. However, those warm silken lips and stunning probing eyes have lulled me into a false sense of security, as if beckoned by the exquisite harp rhapsody of a siren.

The smarting pain has subsided, momentarily at least, replaced by a consoling warmth, in spite of the frosty chill in the air which takes my breath away. My trepidation has been exchanged for melancholic curiosity; I desire schooling on this delicate darkness, what stokes her dark soul’s fires and what agonizing bliss has she got in store for the Keeper of the Crimson Quill? I am not imprudent enough to envisage safe passage from this discourse; my expectation is for a cruel pitiless reprisal, likely concerning the drainage of any residual bodily fluids and callously extracted teeth in a hamper. The circumstances I find myself in would cause most mortal men’s bladders and bowels to excavate where they hang but Keeper finds it all terribly appealing. More to the point, as far as potential demise goes, should the last sight I witness be this voracious vamp’s watertight pelt-blanket then I will count myself providential. If anything, it would be one item ticked off from my bucket list.


There doesn’t exist the slightest imperfection; her breasts are of faultless dimensions and fashioned meticulously by whomever her architect may be. Her neckline is soft and intimately kissable but the reprimand for doing so will likely be stern. Bring that severity I crave; it would be justified purely to taste the flesh once. My vista keeps flickering between her chest-plate and, southward, her hospitable naval, perched a few inches from her sleek, moist centre which glistens at the hub and throbs with a welcoming sexual enchantment, in turn causing my love-spheres to bloat, along with my raging member. Once more my hazy gaze returns to her unwavering eye-contact and I procrastinate no further, proceeding with my primary poser.


Click here to read Discourse With The Succubus




Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill


Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2015





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