Inf. Ink, Inc. - Ch. 002

CHAPTER TWO

Bad Necromance

Pointed nails traced up Bierkhan's thighs. His eyes rolled up and his head flopped back and banged against a spike of his black throne. Hexley pretended not to notice as he winced and rubbed at his skull. Efficiency, that was key. No time to worry over bruises. Let's get that soul bound, Hex.

Without ceremony, she yanked down his pants, to find bright orange briefs with fashion-forward, black, tiger slashes across them, and a wide waist band that read "jHUNG-L LORDE" in a bold font. An imported brand? Probably a knock off.

But knock off or not, the flashy fabric was strained to its max. She freed the poor thing inside from its prison, and a respectable, hefty, double-fistful sprang out. Well then! A challenge, but nothing too unmanageable. Sometimes, she knew, Big Bad Evil Guys could go to unthinkable lengths to achieve... unthinkable lengths.

She glanced up. Bierkhan was panting, gazing down at her with an unfocused look to his eyes. He was really taking this hard. One might have expected a more dominant persona, even from such a new Dark Lord. Was he, perhaps...?

"Darling." She wrapped a hand around his shaft, and leaned forward, resting her cheek against it. A little whimper rewarded her. "Tell me this isn't your first time. Be honest love. I'll know." She squeezed a little.

More whimpers, but otherwise no response.

"Bierkhan, oh Dreadmaster mine, are you a virgin, little love?"

A pause, and a slow nod.

How delightful. How very delightful. Mastery of a small realm, hordes (or at least some amount) of undead at his command, and never had he ever?

"And would my little virgin like to come for me?" She slid her face up along his length, so her lips rested just over the end of it. "Down my throat?"

Bierkhan shrugged, and looked away, cheeks beginning to blush. Adorable, simply adorable. This would be so very easy.

She licked, just a flick of tongue across the tip, and his head fell back again. "No, darling, my eyes. Watch my eyes. It will be better that way."

He did. It looked as though it took an effort, but he brought his evil eyes to bear on her own. Then slowly, ever so slowly, she parted her lips and slid down, letting his cock spread her mouth wide and fill it, sliding back over her tongue, and seamlessly down into her throat, until her nose was buried against his stomach.

Their eyes were still locked. Hexley winked hers, and Bierkhan's rolled back in his head. He began to shudder. He began to quiver. A harsh moan grew in his chest. His cock swelled and grew harder in her throat. Hells below, was he already about to--

And there it was, hot cum flowing out of him and straight down into her stomach. The rigid shaft pulsed with each blast, and his body writhed on the throne before her. She could feel his soul binding to the contract, the link growing firmer with every throb. At length, he relaxed, and she let him slide from her throat with a slick, sucking sound and a pop, the last of his cum drizzling down from her lower lip.

It seemed almost... no not almost, it did seem unfair for his first time to be so short. And Hexley too, didn't she deserve something for herself? More important still, the chapter was just getting going; surely to end things now would be... premature.

"Dreadmaster, would you--I'm sorry, darling, are you awake?"

A faint nod came from the necromancer. He half looked as though he would need to ply his dark skills on himself.

"Well, my love, it's within my purview to give you a second round. As..." She brainstormed possible explanations other than pity and her own horniness. "As an indication of the goodwill of Inf. Ink, Inc. towards this new partnership."

A limp arm lifted and gave her the briefest of thumbs ups. That worked. She bent his cock to the side and let go. It twanged side to side, still plenty hard. Time for a ride!

Hexley climbed up on the throne, one foot on either side of the half-comatose Dark Lord. She had intended to make a show of this, but his eyes were closed, so without ceremony she pulled off the lacy, red thong, and knelt down astride him.

His torso still trembled between her thighs. She pressed her slickness against his stomach, and slid back until she felt the hard shaft pressing against her tiny skirt. Leaning forward, she licked and toyed with his lips until he parted them. Succubus and necromancer pressed their mouths together, soft at first, then hard, sucking hungrily at one another.

She ground against his shaft, letting it slip up under the skirt and press between her executive cheeks. Up along that length she slid, until the tip pressed just against her wet lips. Then, in one decisive motion, she slammed down, taking him fully into her pussy. The heat of his cum-slicked cock was infernal.

He moaned loud into her mouth, and she began to ride. Up and down, long strokes, fast and rough. She had come in a thousand different ways, with a thousand men and women and others; this time was for the pleasure of this sweet little virgin Dark Lord. Faster, deeper, harder.

He was rousing now, the green light filling his eyes. Her passion awoke something in him. Suddenly, he stood beneath her, his powerful hero's physique now apparent, and pulling out, bent her over the throne. Hexley was only surprised for a moment, as her face was pressed against the sex-warmed seat. Then a devilish grin was on her lips. Oh, this boy learns fast!

A hand pushed down on her back, pressing her lower. He grasped her hips and tugged them up higher, and threw her skirt up, exposing her to the dank air of the room. Looking over her shoulder, she could see him gazing down at her holes with green-eyed hunger. Which would he choose? The answer was swift and decisive.

In a flash, he stuffed her pussy full once more, driving, thrusting, slamming into her. His balls slapped again and again against her clit, bringing her passion ever higher, forcing her ever closer. He leaned in over her back, and growled in her ear, "I'm gonna crack you open, you little slut."

That did it. She came. Waves of pressure rode her up and down as she squeezed and clamped against his hardness. Then the wet heat of his orgasm splashed out within her, each rough thrust filling her with a soupy, gushing mess.

They collapsed together on the black-spiked throne, sweat and cum and souls all mixed.

Where had all that come from? He was a Dark Lord, of course, but just moments ago he'd seemed a blushing virgin. Then a beast had awoken. It seemed Inf. Ink, Inc. had had been correct to see promise in this young upstart...

---

Bob and Bob stood motionless for a long moment. Bob looked down at Bob's pelvis. "No bone for you either, huh?"

"Cut it out, will ya? Wasn't funny the first time."

"Puns are all we have left, Bob."

The two settled back into silence, skeletony wistfulness no doubt filling their empty skulls.

---

Hexley ought to have packed it up then, with efficiency and professionalism, but something about the Dark Lord made her linger. There was an undefined exceptionalism within him, she could feel it. He just might be the next big thing. Continent level big. But first, someone needed to fix his style. Too 1980's. So, snuggled against him on the wide seat of the throne, she made her pitch.

"Honestly, Bierkhan, this place needs a renovation. Something with color. It's drab, and it's dated, darling, dreadfully so."

The necromancer stirred, drifting up from his post-coital, necromantic fugue. "Hmm? Nonsense. It's called 'Gothic annihilation'. The décor, that is. The throne." The necromancer sulked. "It's very 'in' right now."

Sore spot, seemed to be. But Hexley wasn't one to back down, especially not on questions of style. "Gothic asphyxiation, more like. Have you considered natural lighting? Windows won't kill you, love, that's vampires. Know your sub-genre."

Bierkhan pushed away from her and stood up, glowering darkly in the sickly glow of the braziers. "Natural lighting?" He sneered as he spoke, his voice a growl that matched the sinister energy of the room. "Do you think I care about such aesthetic trifles? I deal in undeath and torment, not--" He coughed.

"That villain voice too, I was meaning to say. It does you no favours." Hexley held him in a reproachful gaze. "It's unnecessary melodrama."

Bierkhan was still hacking away violently. He grasped at a little bell beside the throne. The moment it rang, a side door sprang open, and a man in a poorly-sewn skeleton costume scurried in with a tiny silver platter and rushed up the steps to kneel, presenting the Dreadmaster with a single cough drop.

Hexley stared, aghast. "And why, may I ask, do you have cosplay skeletons on staff?"

Bierkhan squinted at her, cough slowly subsiding. "Eh? Cosplay?" He glanced down at the black-clad man, his eyes narrowing. "Hmmm. Sorry Hex, would you mind handing me the 20-sided die from the little shelf the author just invented, conveniently under the arm of the throne there? Should be near the front."

Bemused and confused, she reached under and found the little die, black and hollow, with glowing green smoke drifting out through the cut-in numbers. She handed it over.

"Thanks. I'll only be a moment." He rolled. Two. His eyes snapped up to Hexley's, then down to skeleton-suit man. The tray was shaking now in the black gloved hands.

Something about all this was very odd.

Bierkhan looked back to Hexley, indignation etched across his heroic features. "Cosplayers? How dare you! My servants are all formed from the tattered remains of my fallen foes, mighty and--" he stifled another cough and popped the lozenge in his mouth, sighing in raspy satisfaction. "Anyway, they're all real."

The skelly-man sighed, bowed, and scuttled away.

Well, if Bierkhan wanted to play at true overlord status for now, let him. He was a one-dimensional character so far, a little half-pint of a villain. But there was plenty of time for growth, especially as a necromancer. Eternal time, even. For now, as long as he moved the plot along through the scene, he was playing his part. But even so, the complete lack of depth, the shallow motivations...

Now where was she? Oh yes.

"But really, love, you might reconsider the stylistic choices. I shouldn't be telling you this, but the bosses at Inf. Ink, Inc. have great hopes for you. They think you might really have what it takes to do some seriously malevolent domination. And after your performance on this throne?" She slapped a hand against the damp surface. "I'm inclined to agree."

Bierkhan choked.

"Again, darling that voice! It needs to go."

Bierkhan kept on choking

"You see what I mean? Think about it; you can't monologue if your voice gives out every few lines."

Yet more choking.

This wasn't right. "Bierkhan?"

He clutched his throat, staggered from the dais, and tumbled down all twelve steps like a melodramatic sack of polyhedral dice. A long, slow wheeze escaped his mouth, and with it the lozenge, dripping a black, oozy substance onto the tiles. That also didn't seem right, did it? Either that right there was a cursed cough drop, or he'd just choked on a plot twist. Hexley felt his soul, bound to her as it was, leave his body and speed on its way to headquarters.

Yes, this was very, very not right.

Silence.

One of the braziers flickered out, embarrassed.

---

"Say Bob, wasn't the main point of signing him so that the licensing corporation could gain partial rights to all subsequent conquests?"

"Sure was, Bob." The skeleton nodded sagely. "Looks like they've lost their investment on ol' bargain-bin Sauron."

"So now they're responsible for his soul, but they get nothing out of it?"

Bob grinned. (He was a skeleton, he always grinned, but this was a grinnier grin than usual.) "Well, that Hex girl, she got something out of it, seemed like. Right out of his--"

Bob fixed his sockets on Bob's. "Don't do it. Don't say--"

"Out of his bone."

"Damn it Bob, if you only have one joke, we'll never make it into chapter three."

Bob shrugged his shoulder bones. "Eh. I figure with Bierkhan gone, we're probably not long for the narrative anyway. Let's face it, skeleton side characters rarely make it past their introductions."

Bob hung his skull, mumbling. "I don't know, I'm hoping we have a chance to be fan favourites..."

---

Not good not good not good not good. This was very not good. First assignment as a Sexecutive, and what had she done? Got the BBEG killed, that's what she'd done. The young idiot was a necromancer, that was the irony of the whole thing, hadn't he set up a failsafe? A death ward, plot contrivance, anything?

She looked down at the half-naked corpse below her, and slumped lower in the throne.

There was paperwork to file. A literal dark lord's realm worth of bureaucratic shuffling. The soul transfer wouldn't even be the hard part, it'd be the narrative lag. Stories didn't like it when important characters died off-cue. Authors might find it funny, but audiences can be fickle.

Back at Headquarters, they'd be receiving the soul soon, and they'd know she'd bunged it all up. What to do, what to do? She leaned back in the throne, staring up at the ceiling. The scent of cum still lingered in the back of her nose, and the wet drip of it pooled between her thighs. At least one thing had gone right. Though technically speaking, it had gone in and out, rather than right. Whichever way it had went, it was time now to pick up the sloppy pieces.

The tower trembled. Hells, what now? Was this a collapse-when-the-BBEG-dies sort of tower?

Above her, bright green runes ignited along the arches of the high ceiling and smoked, moodily. The braziers glowed green to match, and crackling flickers of magical static flew forth and stitched themselves together in the air, linking each flame to the next. Where had this flair been for her visit? Had he saved all this for his death scene like some edgy theater kid?

The boss music began to play again. A little message glowed into existence on the arm of the throne:

"PARTY OF FOUR APPROACHING. BOSS FIGHT IMMINENT."

Oh.

"Hells. Devil nuts and fiend tits." Hexley rubbed her temples and looked down at Bierkhan's crumpled corpse. "Darling, it was so thoughtful of you to last as long as you did, at least the second time. But let's be honest, this is the climax I really needed you for."

The heavy doors to the adventurers' entrance crashed open, and the party exploded into the room in a confused jumble.

First through the door was a young woman with bagpipes and little in the way of clothing. She ran in and stopped, gawking across the floor at Hexley.

Next came a young man with shaggy hair, in tight-fitting black leather with daggers in his hands. He looked about wildly and scuttled up to crouch just behind the piper.

Third in was a cat girl of some sort, in long blue robes. Or, possibly just a woman with a cat-ear headband? Hard to tell from this distance. She ran in, ran left, ran right, and stopped back where she had started, next to her friends. Her hands burst into a blue glow.

Last came a huge, hulking orc, with a massive wooden shield in one hand, and a giant butcher's cleaver in the other. He stomped in roaring like, well, like a huge, hulking orc. He charged forward with his shield up and his blade held high, and smashed straight into his assembled party. He came in like a wrecking ball, and he--he wrecked all three.

They fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and squeaking bagpipes. The doors clanged shut behind them with a boom that echoed through the hall.

Hexley stared in disbelief for a moment at the heap of adventurers. Succubus, exit stage left? But first, she needed her clipboard. That was essential. It still sat far across the room on the desk. And the party was rapidly disentangling themselves.

The rogue was gone already. Wait, no, there he was, hiding behind the Orc now. The blue-robed mage had stumbled to her feet. The presumed bard stepped forward.

She wore a tiny skirt in the same plaid as her pipes. It made Hexley's own apparel look modest by comparison. Actually, it was less a skirt, and more a wide, floppy belt. Long red hair streamed down over her shoulders, providing more coverage than the tiny crop-top that pretended to cover her tits. Well darling, when you look like that, it's malpractice to hide yourself away in the fine print.

The red-haired bard squawked once on the pipes, a musical war cry, or possibly the grisly torture of goose. Pointing to Hexley on the throne, she cried loud to her little band. "On, my Four Players, on! To glory, and the death of the necromancer!"

The orc raised his cleaver once more, and charged.

Think, Hex, think! What does a Sexecutive do in this situation?