Incest/Taboo The Devil's Pact

I looked one last time at Master, drinking in his form. Then he was gone, vanishing down into the alley, the soldiers giving chase. "Please, be safe, Master. Be safe."

My heart thudded in terror. Tears fell down my cheeks. Behind me, gunfire erupted. I shrieked. "Please be okay, Master. Please!"

I pumped my legs as hard as I could, my lungs burning with exertion. I had never run so hard, so fast, in my life. I gasped for breath. Everything burned. I pushed through it, forcing myself to keep going.

But I couldn't keep it up. After running six blocks my legs felt like solid lead and my sides ached. I just had to stop. I bent over, grabbing my knees while I tried to catch my breath. Sweat poured off my forehead, stinging my eyes. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.

"We have to keep moving, Violet!" Desiree panted. I jumped, glancing behind me. I didn't even realize that my sister-slut had been running with me. "They're coming!"

I glanced behind me and saw soldiers in brown camo running down the street. They were still two blocks away but covering the distance between us fast. We were in a residential neighborhood. Sixty- or seventy-year old houses, most looking rundown, crowded the street while the residents stood on their porches, watching both us and the soldiers in confused amusement.

"Popo's coming for you, White girls," a Black woman yelled from her porch. "Get 'em!"

"There!" Desiree pointed at a barely-paved alleyway and took off sprinting.

Fear gave me a second wind, and I chased after her. She crashed through a gate in a chain-link fence, the metal rattling. I was right on her tail. We ran down the side of a house and came out on the next street up. There was a loud, crashing sound of metal splintering wood off in the distance where Master ran.

Stay safe, Master, I prayed. Please stay safe!

We cut across the street towards a faded-yellow house with a white picket fence around it. We ran through the gate, the paint peeling, exposing grayish wood. I panted as we ran down the side of the house into the backyard. My sides were killing me, and I felt like throwing up. My thin top was wet with sweat, sticking to my boobs.

Desiree marched up to a clothesline and ripped down a dress.

"We need to change," Desiree panted, her nut-brown skin flushed with exertion. "We stand out too much dressed like this."

I flushed. The tube-top I was wearing was so tight, it was practically a second skin, and my sweat made the red material slightly transparent exposing my nipples and areolas completely. I took the dress from Desiree and pulled it over my head. It was too big for me, the skirt fell down way past my knees. It was so loose and baggy I felt like I wore a tent. It was so unlike the tight clothes I had grown used to wearing since I met Master.

There was a crashing sound, and I turned to see two soldiers walking down the side of the house, aiming their big rifles. Desiree froze for a moment, a second dress in her hand. She glanced once at me, smiled, then took off running towards the other side of the house, shouting loudly, her exposed tits bouncing. The soldiers cursed and chased after her, leaving me frozen in the backyard.

They must have thought I lived here.

"You need to move, Violet," I hissed at myself as I stood rooted in place, fear gripping my entire body. "She drew them off so you could escape. So keep moving! Find someplace to hide."

My head whipped back and forth, searching for anything. There was a back gate. I ran through it into another alley. I scanned it, trying to regain my breath. I heard booted footsteps and ducked behind an olive-green, plastic trash can, trembling against it. I curled up into a ball, sobbing silently. My muscles were cramping, and I started to shake.

This could not be happening.

This was worse than when the SWAT team attacked us last June. I just wanted to stay where I was, hiding behind the trash can. I didn't ever want to leave. I didn't care that it smelled bad, or that the gravel was sharp and poked my side. It was safe. I was safe.

"Save me, Master," I whispered, clutching at the choker about my neck. "Please come save me, Master."

Gravel crunched. I flinched. Someone was approaching.

I curled up as tight as I could, taking only the shallowest of breaths. My heart was hammering loudly in my chest. They would hear my heart thundering away, I realized. It was so loud. Fresh terror surged through me, driving my heart to beat louder and louder. Please stop beating so loudly. But my heart ignored me and kept hammering away.

The footsteps drew closer. I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn't want to see what was coming. More gravel scraped and crunched as they drew closer. The soldiers were almost to my hiding spot. I would be captured. My heart was beating so hard I thought it was going to burst right out of my chest. The crunching footsteps were right next to me. I was found. They had caught me. I tensed, waiting for the blow to be struck, the bullet to be fired.

Instead, it was the lightest of touch.

Cautiously, I cracked my eyes open to see a young woman smiling down at me with warm, blue eyes and a friendly smile. She held out her hand and relief flooded through me. I wasn't caught. I hesitantly uncurled, grasped her hand, and she gently helped me to my feet. I hugged her gratefully, tears running down my face.

I wasn't caught.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," I whispered over and over.

She just held me for a moment, not answering, then led me into her house.

Mary Glassner

I'm captured, Mare, Mark sent me. Keep going. The Nextels are going to be compromised now. Keep going. Be safe! I love you.

"No, no, no!" I groaned. This couldn't be happening. I'll save you, somehow! I thought back. We're racing to the airport. Just hang in there. I love you!

"47," I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking. "Mark is captured. The Nextels are compromised."

"I understand, ma'am," 47 replied. Her hand shook as she picked up her Nextel. "47 to all units, communications no longer secure. I repeat, communications not secure."

Then she tossed her Nextel out the window as we raced down the freeway.

Mark was captured. My mom wrapped her arms around me, holding me to her. Suddenly, all my emotions were pouring out of me as I sobbed into her breast. She stroked my hair and rocked me gently, just like she did when I was a child.

"Oh, Mom, what am I going to do?" I cried.

"I don't know," she whispered. "We will figure it out."

In thirty minutes, we reached Boeing field. I sobbed the entire way. We passed through the security gates and raced to the hangar. Our flight crew was waiting. Once we bought this plane, we moved our pilots, Joslyn and Lydia, here just in case we had to flee to our bolthole.

Lydia was waiting outside for us. "Miss," she greeted, her face pale with fright. Like all our close employees, Joslyn and Lydia were bound to Mark with the Zimmah ritual. "What is going on?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but more tears leaked out of my eyes. I couldn't bring myself to say what happened. Mark was captured. What was I going to do? I just climbed on board the plane and sat down in First Class, pressing my face to the cold window.

I love you, Mark, I thought to him. Stay strong! I will find a way to save you. I just wished I believed myself.

Love you, Mark sent back. I could feel his fear.

Everyone else was boarding. Mark's mom Sandy squeezed my shoulder before she found a seat next to Betty, her girlfriend. My dad and mom sat next to each other. Mom was still naked from our lovemaking. Hell, I was too. There hadn't been time to get dressed. All I had on was my wedding ring, my locket, and my protective amulet.

"It'll be all right," Missy, my younger sister, promised. She grabbed my hand, squeezed it, and kissed me on the forehead. Then she sat down next to her boyfriend Damien, who looked so young, his face so pale.

Mark's sister Antsy and her girlfriend Via were the last of our family to board. Only Shannon and her fiance were missing. But they were in Chicago attending a conference for George's job. The sluts boarded next. Lillian sat next to me, her arm going around my shoulder.

"It will be okay, Mistress," she whispered. I wished I could believe her.

We waited for Squad E to arrive. They managed to get clear of Thun Field ahead of those soldiers and arrived ten minutes after we did, piling into the plane. Lydia closed and sealed the plane's door. Then she sat down in the cockpit, its door left open. I could see inside as the pilots turned knobs and pressed buttons.

The plane lurched backward, and then we were taxiing to the runway. We had to wait for other planes to take off before our turn. My stomach twisted, fearing that any moment the military would show up. When the engines revved and roared louder and louder as the pilots throttled up for takeoff, I let out a sigh of relief.

We had made it.

Then I was shoved back into my seat, and my stomach sank as the plane raced down the runway and leaped into the air.

We're in the air, Mark, I sent to him. Your mom and Antsy are with me.

Good! I could feel the relief in his thought. He was worried about me. I wanted to cry again. Why should he be worried? I wasn't the one captured by our enemy.

The plane banked, turning to take us to Kansas and the decommissioned missile silo that was our emergency bunker.

There can be no doubt that she fled in the wake of Brandon Fitzsimmons attack. The supposed "goddess" ran like a coward, abandoning her husband to his torment.

—excerpt from The History of the Tyrants' Theocracy, by Tina Allard

Mark Glassner - Tacoma, WA

A soothing, cold wave of relief washed through me. Mary and my family were safe. That was one less thing to worry about.

I lay face down on the street, a soldier's boot pressed into the back of my neck, the cold barrel of his M16 touching my cheek. My hands were zip-tied behind my back. A soldier shoved a disgusting rag into my mouth and tied it in place by a strip of cloth. 51 lay next to me, the butt of a rifle had slammed into her face, opening a gash across her forehead.

"Up!" a soldier shouted. The one standing on my neck released me and hauled me to my feet.

Several tan Humvees rolled up. I saw 27 in the backseat of one of the Humvees. Desiree sat next to her. But I didn't see Violet or Leah. Maybe they got away? Unless they were dead. I pushed that thought away as they forced me into the second Humvee. 51 was pushed in after me, her body leaning up against mine. Her eyes were dazed, unfocused. Blood trickled down her face

The Humvee drove back down to the courthouse. We passed columns of big, bulky armored vehicles bristling with weapons. Strykers, I think they were called, carrying infantry. More soldiers were guarding every intersection in teams of three. One would be manning a .50 machine gun while two more stood by holding M16s. In minutes, we passed the wreckage of the firefight in front of the courthouse. Some of the soldiers were clearing away the shot-up police cruisers, while others carried bodies to a waiting truck. And it wasn't only dead police officers they carried, but civilians who were attending the gun buyback and were caught in the crossfire.

More civilians sat on their hands in the square before the courthouse, watched over by dozens of soldiers. Some of the crowd looked scared, others were bewildered. They couldn't believe that US soldiers would attack them. That didn't happen in America. That happened overseas in some despotic country like Syria or North Korea. Not here. Not in America. A few had defiant looks on their faces, staring angrily at the soldiers. Off to the side, the media were guarded by more soldiers, but they were being allowed to continue reporting. I could see all the cameras pointing at the convoy of Humvees, ready to broadcast my humiliation to the world.

A bleak thought struck me: they would broadcast my execution, too.

The Humvees stopped in front of the courthouse, the door opened, and a soldier hauled me out. I saw his face. He was young, maybe eighteen, his eyes bright blue. There was a hard cast to his youthful features, his grip iron on my arm as he pushed me forward. I stood up straight as the eyes of the captured civilians fell on me. Shock and horror filled the faces of those who believed I was a god. Then despair filled their eyes.

Guilt filled me. I had let them down. I wasn't strong enough to protect them. But what could I do against an army? My greatest power was nullified by the Zimmah ritual. How could a Warlock put so many under his power? Every soldier I saw had their black aura fringed with a trace of red, the sign that they were bound by the spell. What could I do? What could Mary do? Despair crashed through my soul.

How was I getting out of this?

As we approached the courthouse, the glass doors opened and a short, fat man in an expensive, charcoal-gray, Italian suit stepped out. He was balding, his remaining hair gray. He had a burning look of triumph in his eyes.

Brandon Fitzsimmons.

How the hell had Brandon bound anyone with the Zimmah spell? His mother was dead. A male Warlock needed his mother to perform the spell.

Brandon wasn't alone. Flanking him were two women, scantily clad, who could be Mary's long-lost sisters. They were twins, with auburn hair, green eyes, and Mary's heart-shaped face. Other beautiful women, those who had vanished in the Midwest over the summer, lurked in the background. Brandon had his own harem of sluts.

At least I didn't kill their families or the ones who didn't please me enough.

"Kneel before your god!" the soldier leading me barked. Then he kicked me in the back of the knee. My leg folded out from under me, and I fell painfully to my knees.

Brandon stepped up to the microphone. "I am Brandon Fitzsimmons!" his voice boomed through the speakers. "I have defeated the false God, Mark Glassner!" He paused, his words echoing through the air. "I am your god and king! Worship me! Obey me!"

I could hear the crowd behind me change as his commands sank in. I glanced behind me to see all the fear, the despair, the anger melt away, replaced by peace. They all had black auras, and I could just make out a fringe of red. It was even worse than I could have imagined. He somehow was binding people to him without using the Zimmah spell. He did it just by speaking.

I was immune to his powers, one of the benefits of the Gift of the Holy Spirit Tiffany gave me. But Mary wasn't immune. She wasn't bound by the Zimmah spell to me or warded by Heavenly powers. She was vulnerable.

Mary, the Warlock is Brandon Fitzsimmons. Do not listen to anything he says. You cannot afford to fall under his power. His words bind people with the Zimmah spell.

I let Brandon's speech roll over me as Mary's reply came back, What am I going to do, Mark? I need you. I feel like I'm falling apart.

You have to be strong, Mare.

How?

You're the only hope we have. I need you. I love you. I know you can be strong! I believe in you! I had to believe in her. She was the only hope I had. And only if Brandon didn't immediately execute me.

Why are you comforting me? I'm the one who's safe. I should be comforting you. I could sense that she was calming down. I will find a way to save you, Mark. I promise!

The crowd hushed. I blinked and realized Brandon stood before me. I stared defiantly up at him. "You're immune to my powers, I see," Brandon grimaced, then glanced at Desiree. "And my wife, too."

"I'm not your wife any longer," Desiree snarled. The Zimmah bond chaining her soul to me protected her from another person's domination. "I dumped you for someone better."

"Quiet, woman! I'll deal with you soon enough." He motioned his hand, and a pair of female soldiers led her away. Then Brandon turned to another soldier. "Where's his wife, Lieutenant?"

"My Lord, two women escaped in the confusion, we are hunting them down," the soldier reported. "I do not think either is Mary. Both appeared to be brunettes."

"Dammit," Brandon hissed. "Did you secure that Gulfstream of his at least?"

"Yes, My Lord," an older soldier reported. He had eagles on his epaulets, so I think that made him a Colonel.

Brandon smiled, "Good, they're trapped in the State. Our troops are heading for the passes?" The soldier nodded. He must mean the passes over the Cascade Mountains to Eastern Washington. "What about his house? Did you find anyone there?"

"Empty, my Lord," the Colonel reported. "We missed everyone. The entire neighborhood was abandoned."

"Fuck! Burn the neighborhood," Brandon ordered. "And that damned tent where his worshipers meet. Kill any who resist. Find where his servants went! You'll find his wife with them."

"Yes, my Lord," the Colonel saluted.

Brandon turned to the crowd and took a microphone from one of the auburn-haired twins. "Here is your false God!"

A boo rose up from the crowd. Just an hour ago these people cheered me. I never realized just how frightening my powers were. In the hands of a monster like Brandon, a man who could so callously kill, it would be horrible. People would suffer.

Why wasn't one of the fucking Nuns trying to exorcise him? They wasted all that time with me. Who did I hurt?

A flash of Chastity and the other dead bodyguards shot through my mind.

"He is only flesh and blood! He is weak and was defeated by the merest fraction of my power!" Brandon continued. "Let me show you just how weak and human he really is!" He motioned to the soldiers.

They ripped the gag from my mouth. Two soldiers grabbed my head, prying my lips open. I fought, struggling to get free of their grasp, to close my mouth. I was strong, but so were they. A third soldier drew a knife. I struggled harder.

What were they doing?

I fought in vain to break free, to keep that glinting knife away from me. The third soldier forced his dirty fingers into my mouth, gripping my tongue. The blade flashed and blood filled my mouth.

"Master!" Desiree cried out, barely heard over the crowd's roar.

Disbelief almost drowned out the pain. They had cut my tongue off. How could I use any of my powers without my tongue? One of the soldiers held my severed tongue out to the crowd before throwing it to the ground.

I was thrown down onto my back. I grunted, choking on blood. Then the kicking started. Pain exploded in my back, my stomach, my legs. I curled up into a ball, trying to protect myself as booted foot after booted foot slammed into me.

I howled wordlessly in agony.

Over the pain, I heard Brandon's voice roar, "Mary Glassner! Your husband will be abused day and night until you turn yourself in. Submit to me and be my concubine, and your husband shall go free!"

Mary Glassner - Somewhere over Idaho

I was sitting in first class alone, save for my mom and little sister. I couldn't stand everyone looking at me so I ordered them back to coach. Mom and Missy ignored me, sitting with me and holding my hands. Back in coach, they were watching the news. I was the only one that couldn't watch it, the only one who couldn't witness what was happening to my husband. Everyone on the plane but me was bound by the Zimmah ritual. I was the only one susceptible to Brandon's power, and I could not afford to become his slave.

I needed to be strong. For Mark, for our family.

We were all dead if Mark died. My life was tied to his, our loved ones' lives tied to ours. It all rested on my shoulders. And I felt like I was about to be crushed beneath the weight. How could I bear all this responsibility? I was only twenty-one, barely an adult. My shoulders were just too slim to support this weight.

I thought of Mark, his boyish grin and deep-blue eyes. He needed me to be strong, to save him. I couldn't afford to wallow in self-pity. I pushed at the despair, forcing it back. We were all lost if I fell apart. There had to be a way out of this. "Just stay calm and think, Mary."

But I couldn't.

My mind kept drifting back to Mark. I would struggle, trying to focus on the problem, and an image of Mark being hit would fill my mind. Of Mark placed before a firing squad, shot dead. Of Mark being hung. I would force the images away, and even worse ones would slip into my mind.

Dad walked up from coach, standing in the aisle, staring at me. His presence dragging me out of my morbid thoughts. He looked haggard, eyes baggy, skin sallow. He swallowed, then opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, but he hesitated. His long, red hair, streaked with gray, fell loosely about his shoulders, not pulled back into his usual ponytail.

My stomach sank. "What, Dad?" I wearily asked.

"Mark's on TV. They're beating him."

"What else?" I asked, sensing he was holding back on me.

"You can't go back," he said, his eyes suddenly firm, hard.

Tears stung my eyes. "I know."

"This Brandon, he says Mark will be beaten day and night until you surrender yourself to him and be his concubine."

I felt hysteria bubbling up inside me, almost bursting out in a laugh. Of course, the asshole wanted to do to me what we did to Desiree. Mark humiliated Brandon that day, fucking his wife in front of him. He wanted revenge.

Mark, I am going to save you! I sent, mustering all my confidence and determination.

I'm fine. Do not turn yourself in. I can take it. I could feel his pain. I wanted to cry, but I had done enough of that.

I won't turn myself in. But I'm going to save you! Somehow! Be strong, Mark! I looked at Dad, and ordered, "Get Sam."

A steely resolve grew inside me. I would save Mark. We had the Book, the Magicks of the Witch of Endor. The answer must be in there, somewhere. A way to neutralize Brandon's powers or give me more strength or something.

President Baumgarten - Washington D.C.

"Mr. President," Eustace Smyth, my Chief of Staff, said, holding up the phone. "He wants to speak with you."

I frowned, watching the TV. They were still beating the despicable Mark Glassner. For the last few months my cabinet and I had argued what to do about him. He was a dangerous man, somehow corrupting anyone that came into contact with him. My cabinet was split. Some championed Mark and his sexual politics while others thought he was the most dangerous threat to the US since the war of 1812. My Secretary of Education even said he should be assassinated.

But that was illegal.

I was the President of the United States, sworn to uphold the Constitution, sworn to obey the laws. I would not, could not, approve assassinating a US citizen.

"Who's on the phone?" I asked. The world had changed today. My new God, Brandon Fitzsimmons, had finally overthrown the false God Mark and was hunting down his wife, Mary.

"Him," Eustace said with emphasis and I finally understood.

I trembled as I snatched the phone from him. The moment Brandon had spoken during his press conference, it all became suddenly clear. Brandon was the true God and had soundly defeated the false one. No, Brandon wasn't a God, he was the God.

My God.

"This is the President, my Lord," I respectfully said.

I found myself to be suddenly nervous as I spoke to an actual God. I had spoken to almost every Head of State on the planet, knowing every time that I was more powerful than any of them. For the first time since I was elected President of the United States, I was the lesser power.

It was humbling.

"You shall fly to Tacoma with your cabinet and surrender the country to me," my God ordered.

"Absolutely, my Lord," I answered. The phone clicked as my God hung up on me.

I was going to meet my God in person. I never thought it would happen while I was alive.

Mark Glassner - Tacoma, WA

The beating lasted for an eternity. An eternity of pain and suffering. This must be hell, I thought with bleak amusement. I had sold my soul, and my punishment was to be beaten by the followers of a man I had wronged.

It was poetic.

I had used my powers for my own pleasures, not caring about the lives I hurt or destroyed. Mary was right to have us free our slaves. And to tell me not to break up relationships just because I was horny or feeling vindictive. I needed to be responsible with my powers.

I passed out sometime during the beating.

Slowly, the pain brought me back to consciousness. I lay on something hard, cold. The agony slowed my mind. I fought through the fog, struggling to move, to survey my surroundings. Metal clinked, digging into my wrists and ankles. They had manacled me hand and foot then dumped me onto the floor of a jail cell. Two soldiers stood outside the bars, M16s grasped in their hands, uncaring eyes fixed on me like I was an insect pinned to a cork board.

My mouth was parched. I spotted a sink. I struggled to move, desperate for water. It was excruciating just stretching my legs, the metal of the leg irons biting into my ankles, constricting my movement. I did not know why I was still alive. I think it was the Gift. A lesser man surely could not have survived. I grit my teeth, mustered the will to fight through the pain, and pulled myself across the rough floor.

It was an effort. Each pull left me gasping, agony surging through me.

And then the metal sink was above me. I tried to grab the rim with my right arm, momentarily forgetting the foot-long chain connecting my wrist manacles together. Grunting, I pushed myself up onto my knees. With a final heave, I grasped it with both hands, pulling myself up and staring at my reflection in the polished stainless steel mirror.

My face was a bloody ruin, swollen so badly that I couldn't recognize myself. I opened my mouth, spotting the ruins of my teeth and the severed stump of my throbbing tongue. I inspected the damage: gums bleeding, shattered molars throbbing in pain, gaps where front teeth were missing. I shivered. I was naked except for the manacles biting into wrists and ankles. I didn't even remember them stripping off my clothes. I looked at my body in the reflection. Blacks and blues and yellows covered me. There didn't seem to be any part of me that wasn't bruised.

I cupped cold water in my hands, the chains rattling, and slowly sipped it tenderly, trying not to brush my swollen face. The shooting pain in my broken teeth increased as the cold water poured into my lips. I closed my eyes, and forced myself to keep drinking through the pain. I gulped down water until my stomach felt ready to burst. Then I stumbled to the cot.

We've landed in Kansas, Mary sent me as I curled up on the hard mattress, trying to get comfortable despite the metal restraining me.

Good. The beatings have stopped. I think I'm going to sleep.

I love you! Your filly is going to save you. There was such certainty in her voice.

I know you will. I sent with all the confidence I could muster to her, fighting back my despair. Mary was free. As long as she was, there was still hope. Love you.

All I could do was sleep. I was so exhausted. I closed my eyes and was letting sweet unconsciousness take me when I realized something. I had ignored my Gift, wanting nothing to do with the Heavenly Power. I could afford to ignore the power no longer. I concentrated, thinking of the Angel Azrael, as I drifted off into unconsciousness.

Summoning the Angel of Death to my dreams.

Mary Glassner - Osage Field, KS

I stepped off the 747. We were in an airport in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. It was a decommissioned airfield from the Cold War called Osage Field. It was used to service Atlas E Missile Silos before they were decommissioned. Exactly like the missile silo we bought that was only a few minutes drive from here. Our bolthole. Tiffany had found the site, and George, my older sister's fiance, had purchased it under the cover of his business trips.

A burly man with an MP5 awaited us, along with several women. More burly men guarded the perimeter. The man was Duncan Barber, one of the SWAT officers who attacked us back in June. He wasn't to blame for the attack. None of the SWAT officers that day were to blame. They were under the Nuns' control. Three of them had died, but the other nine had lived. Mark gave them the choice to go to prison or he could fake their deaths and put them to work. They chose freedom and work. So Mark and I fixed their broken relationships—it was our fault that they were broken—and relocated them and their families out here.

"Ma'am," Duncan said. His aura was black, fringed with red. Everyone at this airfield and the missile silo were bound to Mark by the Zimmah ritual. This place was just too important to let anyone know about it unless they were bound to us.

"Is it as bad as it seems, ma'am?" Kathanne asked. She was Duncan's wife.

"Yes," I sighed.

"What are you going to do, ma'am?" Duncan asked as he escorted me to the waiting SUV.

"I don't know," I said, so tired. Sam and I dug into her translation of the Book, looking for some way to neutralize Brandon's powers or break the control he was exerting on people.

"Shame we don't have a Nun," Duncan said. "Don't they specialize in defeating Warlocks, ma'am?" His eyes flicked to my mom, hardening for a moment.

I stopped, looking at him. That was it. We needed a Nun.

"Sam, you said there was a spell that would allow a Warlock to steal a Nun's powers?" I asked, hope blossoming in my chest.

"Yeah, the, um, Ganubath ritual," Sam answered before yawning. "You need to find a Nun and capture her." A knowing smile appeared on Sam's lips, but it quickly vanished. "Where are you going to find one, though?"

I grinned at her. I knew only one place in the world that you could find a Nun. "Fuel the plane!" I snapped. "We need to leave as soon as you cast the Naba ritual." I glanced at Sam and she swallowed.

"I'll get started right away, ma'am," she answered, her face pale.

I would be scared, too. It was dangerous to summon the dead.

The Holy Slut Desiree faced the Demon with courage and bravery. She did not lose faith in our Living Gods nor did she submit to the vile desires of the False God despite all his cruel abuses.

—The Gospel of April 37:1-2

Desiree de la Fuentes - Tacoma, WA

Being captured wasn't what I thought it would be.

After being forced to watch my ex-husband order mi Rey's brutal beating, I was taken to the showers in the jail next door to the courthouse. Two female soldiers, one tall with a plain face and the other short and stocky, stripped me naked and shoved me in with a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo. As the warm water sprayed on my sore body, I wondered if I would ever see my wife again.

I leaned forward against the tiled wall, and my body shook with silent sobs. I desperately wanted to see my slutty Alison again. I pictured her mischievous face framed by her bubblegum hair, her tongue running over her lush lips, silver glinting off her tongue-piercing. Mi Rey gave the distress call. Alison should be far away, safe wherever the bolthole was.

Safe with mi Reina.

"You're clean," Plain-Face barked. "Let's go. We need to get you ready for Him."

I shuddered. The woman said "him" with such a worshipful manner. I had heard Brandon's pronouncement—he claimed he was a God now. Derisions fired through me. As if that fat buffoon could even compare to mi Rey. The women handed me a black dress to wear. It was similar to one Brandon bought me before Mark claimed me, low-cut and tight, showing off all of my body's ample assets.

"Take off the choker," Stocky ordered.

"No," I said with defiance. "I am mi Rey's slut!"

Stocky just reached out and yanked it off my neck, snapping the clasp. I wanted to cry. Instead, I glared icily at the woman who pocketed my choker. She handed me a black jewelry box that contained a pearl necklace. I knocked it to the floor.

"Don't make us hurt you," she threatened as she picked up the box.

Grinding my teeth, I took the necklace and placed it about my throat. They hadn't noticed my wedding ring, and as we walked through the jail, I quickly pulled it off my left ring finger and slipped it onto my right. They took the symbol of my voluntary slavery, and I wasn't about to lose the symbol of my love for Alison.

The soldiers marched me through the jail. We constantly had to stop at security gates, waiting for unseen guards to buzz them open from the control room. Everyone manning the prison was a soldier. There were bloodstains dotting the walls and empty shell casings littering the floor. And not all the gates had to be buzzed open; some lay twisted and blackened from explosives. As we walked, I realized there was no one making catcalls at me. The cells were empty.

"Where are all the prisoners?" I asked, unnerved by the empty cells.

"Executed," Plain-Face answered. "His orders."

My blood chilled. What had happened to Brandon? I never loved him—I was a lesbian who married him for his money—but he wasn't an evil man. Right? He always seemed nice and attentive. He had a temper, sure, but I was having trouble reconciling the man I married and the monster who appeared today.

Stocky prodded me, and I realized that I had frozen in my tracks. Swallowing, I started walking forward again.

Was he always a monster, and I just never saw it in him?

They led me out to the exercise yard at the center of the jail. It was a small courtyard with a few basketball hoops, some metal tables lining the sides. Both tables and their stools were bolted into the concrete. The exercise yard was crowded with women milling about under the hungry eyes of a group of soldiers. All the women were naked, young, and reasonably attractive.

A larger table had been set up with a white tablecloth and mauve candles, a bottle of wine chilling in a silver ice bucket. A romantic dinner? A naked eighteen-year-old with blonde hair walked up to me, smiling broadly. She bowed to me then dismissed Stocky and Plain-Face with the wave of her arm. The two soldiers saluted and walked off.

"My Lady," the girl said. She had a Midwest twang to her voice. "I am Ashley, your Lord Husband's chief concubine."

"You're his slut," I corrected.

"As you say, my Lady. Would you care to sit? Lord Brandon will be here shortly to dine with you."

I was about to refuse when a woman shouted in a rich, French accent, "Kneel before your God, the Majestic Brandon, the Divine Ruler of the World!"

I snorted with laughter. The Majestic Brandon? The soldiers knelt on one knee while the women in the exercise yard and Ashley fell prostrate. I remained standing, refusing to genuflect before my ex. I turned to see a porcelain-faced woman with long, dark-brown hair, falling naked to worship my ex-husband as he swept in. Behind him walked a bevy of naked women, led by a pair of twins who were almost the spitting image of mi Reina. Several military men—some sort of high-ranking officers judging by their age and bearing—followed on the heels of the naked women. The last to enter was the mayor of Tacoma, Colton Bray, and his lovely Korean wife, Yoon.

Mi Rey had fucked her right before the attack. It felt like so much longer than eight or so hours had passed.

"My beautiful Desiree," Brandon said warmly, walking up and hugging me. I stiffened in his arms. He frowned and broke the hug. "I see he has warded you from my control."

"And it has nothing to do with the fact that I hate you, picaflor?" I asked bitterly as he motioned for me to sit. I grit my teeth and plopped down on the chair.

"You do not hate me, not deep down inside," Brandon said calmly. "Mark has forced you to hate me. You are under his power."

I snorted a laugh and muttered in Spanish, "Babosa." Brandon was an idiot.

One of the auburn-haired twins popped the cork and poured two glasses of wine. Then she knelt with all the other naked women and looked adoringly up at Brandon. Not even mi Rey made us fawn over him like this.

"No, I hate you for this." I pointed around. "You attacked us. Your damned soldiers almost killed my loved ones. Almost killed me! You are having my Master cruelly beaten. And what are you doing with all these women?" I motioned to the scared women crowded in the exercise yard.

"They were candidates for my harem," Brandon calmly answered. "The ones I rejected. My soldiers are rounding-up every attractive woman they find, and I'm keeping the best. Don't look so shocked. Mark did the same thing. He walked into our house and made you his whore." Heat rose in his voice. "But don't you worry, my love, I will find a way to free you."

"Mark already freed me, babosa," I answered, putting as much derision into my voice as I could. "I'm his slut willingly. We all are."

Brandon frowned as another naked woman set bowls of salad before the both of us. My stomach rumbled, but I pushed the food aside. Brandon took a forkful, chewed it slowly, face furrowed as he thought. He swallowed, then asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Back in June, after the Miracle, Mark and Mary freed us. Some of us chose to stay as their slaves." Feeling spiteful, I added, "I could have returned to you, but I never loved you, Brandon. I just married you for your money. I was a gold digger. A lesbian gold digger. I stayed with Master because I fell in love, and I could have all the wealth I could possibly dream of as his whore. More than I ever could have as your wife."

Anger flashed on his face and I was too surprised to react as he slapped me across the table. "So you love Mark," he spat. "That vile beast that took you away from me. You were mine!"

"¡Tu madre es puta y pendeja!" I shouted back, rubbing my cheek. "No, I am Alison's! I fell in love with their slave and married her. I found true happiness! Something that you never gave me! All I ever got from you was a comfortable life and disappointing sex!"

I blocked his second blow and raked my fingernails down his arm. I smiled at the bloody scratches I gave him.

He stood up, rage filling his eyes, and rounded the table at me. I quickly got to my feet and tried to back away, but I stumbled over one of his kneeling whores. His arm caught mine in a steely grip. I snarled at him and slapped him across the face.

My head swam as he backhanded me. I tripped over the kneeling woman and fell hard onto my back. "¡Culero!" I snarled at him. "How could I love a muerdealmohadas like you? You don't even know what to do with a woman! Not with your little dick! ¡Pinche mula!"

He stared down at me, rage burning in his eyes. "I dislike having to chastise you, Desiree. But you will learn to submit to me if I have to beat all the willfulness out of you."

"¡Jode su madre!" I spat. "I chose Alison, and I chose Mark, over you! Mi Reina is out there! You think you've won, but she will crush you! And I will be there to see you fall!"

Brandon laughed. "Let the little whore try." I felt his eyes upon me as I lay on the floor. My skirt had ridden up as I fell. I pushed it back down, covering my exposed pussy. "Why so modest now?" he asked with a hungry look in his eyes. "You weren't so bashful this morning with your tits exposed and covered in his cum."

"¡Ve a chuparle el peson ha un chango! I'm his whore, not yours! Never yours."

"Let's see, shall we?" he smiled, unbuckling his belt. "Hold her down."​