Hypnovember 2022
Asmodeus part 1
by sentientscribble
Tags:
#cw:ageplay
#cw:sexual_assault
#short_story_collection
#ace
#amnesia
#body_control
#cw:death
#cw:pandemic
#dom:car_code_reader
#dom:f
#dom:god
#fae
#fairy_tale
#fantasy
#forced_toppification
#fungus
#horror
#hypnosis
#intelligence_loss
#magic
#masturbation
#mind_control
#mind_reading
#petplay
#pov:bottom
#public_play
#real_world_kink
#sub:f
#sub:m
#switching
#training
#transformation
#werefox?
#werewolf
#wet_dreams
#wishes
#zombies
“If I came onto you like this, you wouldn’t just drop me on the floor.” Azalea’s sloppy drunk and ugly crying. The O — officially The Original Hot Dog Shop, right on campus, open until 2 AM — somehow looks sticky, even the parts that don’t feel that way. The flickering fluorescents aren’t doing anyone any favors. “…I mean, not that you want to get involved in any part of this,” she continues, trailing off into mumbles.
I’d still say yes. I mean, not this drunk. But to sober Azalea, oh god, I’d say yes. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to say that.
Instead: “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
She shakes her head blearily. “Gotta keep looking. Not much time.”
I get her to her front door, and she stops and leans in, and oh god, is she going to try to kiss me?
Instead she presses a small piece of paper into my hand.
In the morning, she texts. “What did I even say last night?” “Nothing coherent. Don’t worry about it.”
I unfold the piece of paper. 10/26/22 stadium fire if missing call Ashley. That’s in six days. I think about calling Ashley now, like maybe this is some kind of crazy LARP or scavenger hunt. But that’s not what Ashley’s like. She’s nice; even now that she’s popular, Azalea doesn’t put up with mean girls. She’s just… popular.
On the night of the 26th, I’m hiding in the stands, all in black.
I know. I know. But on the 24th, Azalea looked as scared as I’ve ever seen her. On the 25th, like she’d gotten a death sentence. That morning, keyed up and wild-eyed, underslept, backpack full of rope and weird tools and what looked like a handgun, for fuck’s sake, all threatening to spill out when she went for her wallet.
So I’m here.
The big lights come on. Down on the field are six football players — five in a pentagon, one in the middle.
Two I recognize: Kryczek and Park. They’ve been in the news all year, like national news, even though our team normally sucks ass — half for their playing, which is better than it should be, and half for a fucking unhinged interview they gave about chastity devices of all fucking things. They swore up and down that cock cages were the secret to their success. Something about focus, and “energy.” The world had been laughing at them for the past month. Meanwhile they’d won every game.
No, I recognize a third player too. It’s Ashley’s boyfriend Cole, in the middle of the ring. He’s quaking, trembling so hard I can see it from the stands. And, no, something’s wrong with all of them. They’re flickering, like a film with every few frames missing. It must be the stadium lights, I tell myself, but I don’t really buy it.
Then, something erupts out of the ground. It’s as tall as the stadium itself, pure black, standing on two legs, with a head like a goat and upsettingly long arms. I don’t even think to doubt it, to question my sanity. It feels real, undeniably real, terrifyingly real — like its presence is a basic cosmic law, next to which the rest of us are silly accidents.
I can see the “energy” now, swirling around the players, glowing faint green. It wasn’t a metaphor.
“King Asmodeus!” Kryczek shouts. “We dedicate to you the power of our loins! Drink your fill!”
The green tendrils rise towards the demon’s mouth, like it’s the only thing they could possibly do.
Then, I SEE YOU BROUGHT ME SOMEONE, it says in a terrible voice — a terribly calm, inevitable voice, like something that was always going to happen. And it reaches down towards Cole.
Just then a huge noise erupts from the other side of the field — a generator starting up, then a whine of feedback, then a low rumbling buzz and the sound of a deep, ragged breath.
Under the far goal posts was a huge heavy-metal-concert stack of speakers. Four girls in black hoodies with guns drawn stood in front of it. A fifth — and oh god, it was Azalea — was duct-taped spread-eagled to the amps. A microphone was duct-taped to her face, and she was whimpering into it, her whimpers boosted into feedback-laced squeals. Some other device was duct-taped to her body, its head down in her pants, and she was beginning to scream now, and as the specific quality of the screams sinks in, I realize that it’s a Hitachi vibrator.
I’m on my feet and running before I’ve had time to think. Before I reach the field, another girl all in black tackles me to the ground.
It’s Ashley.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she hiss-whispers. “A bit late to try to help now.”
I fight my way free. Azalea’s already reached one shockingly loud orgasm, and is moaning and whimpering her way into the beginning of a second. If she’s one of tonight’s sacrifices, I don’t know how much time I have to save her.
Down on the field, the green swirling energy is thick and hot, and it’s pouring into Azalea’s body. The streams of it that were rising up off the football team and into the goat god’s mouth are rushing into her body instead. She’s hitting her second orgasm, and oh fuck, oh fuck, three is a magic number. What if that’s all it takes? What happens to her then?
I sprint to the generator, ignoring the guns. The guards are focused on the far side of the field anyway. Azalea’s body is pulsing with green light. Her eyes are glowing green. I shut off the generator, and she slumps towards the ground, now suspended only by duct tape.
Now, I have their attention. All ten guards have their guns on me.
Azalea tears herself loose from the duct tape. She looks powerful, terrifying. “Leave him,” she says. “The password is ‘queen of swords,’ I am Azalea Brian in my right fucking mind, and I say to leave him. Follow them.”
The goat god is gone. The football team is breaking out of their shock and beginning to flee. Girls in black hoodies with guns are in pursuit.
Ashley regards me for a moment. “Take care of her, dumbass.” And she’s off too.
Azalea is on the ground, sobbing, and I run to take her in my arms, still clinging to the idea I’ve rescued her from something.
“Why did you have to do that,” she says? She looks up at me, scared. Her eyes are throbbing green, so bright it’s painful. “What are we going to do now?”