Jayne Renault

Musings of a Smut Queen
The Summoning of a Demon Queen

The Summoning of a Demon Queen

Content Warning: Physical Violence, Non-Consent, Gore, Death & Dismemberment.

Though this story happens somewhere in a dreamscape and bends most of the natural laws of our version of reality, these themes and graphic depictions may not be for all readers.

Please proceed with discretion.

***

When I wrote the first draft of this story, I had no intention of ever sharing it. Much like the feelings I was working through while I was crafting it, it’s brutal and raw and not a little terrifying.

But in light of the very heavy, very important conversations about sexual assault and the survivors who have been driving them forward, I have been revisiting the many shadows of my past. If you read my piece about my my own survive/healing journey thus far, I alluded to some of the ways I’ve used my writing as a cathartic aide.

And this story, in particular, turned out to be a particularly powerful exercise.

On top of all that, we’re approaching Halloween and I’ve been in the mood to play around with adding some horror to my erotica repertoire.

This is a dark tale of ruthlessness, survival, unapologetic vindication; of how monsters can create some pretty fearsome demons.

Please take care if that sounds like something that might make you uneasy.

***

I wake up in my home town.

But it’s not as it was when I was small. It’s a warped adaptation of faded memories. A filtered snapshot of a place that doesn’t quite exist.

Because this is not truly the town where I grew up. This hologram is a mere veil that covers the mouth of my cave. The hole where I hide my portal between the worlds I explore when your eyes are twisting and turning in the sheets of closed eyelids. How I access the other planes beyond yours, where the extent of my magic roams more freely.

This is my hub, my switchboard, my centre.

I’m near the community leisure centre, which lays at the edge of a small prairie town.

I am accompanied by a crew of crude sketches of people I may have known once. I don’t care to linger with them and they look back for me. I watch them enter through the glass doors of the building before me. Their shadows are swallowed by the blur beyond the glass and I turn and walk towards the river.

I watch my footfalls hit the terracotta-dusted path to the edge of the building and round the corner. I see my little white hatchback parked in the dead grass of a sloping unpaved lot behind the building. There are only a dozen or so vehicles smattered around the hill, though they all follow the same unspoken regulation, dutifully facing westward.

I open my passenger’s side door, take a seat in the leather chair, roll down the window, and light up a cigarette.

I breathe deep as I lean the chair back and sink deeper into myself. I contemplate taking a nap. But no sooner have I closed my eyes than I feel the urge to touch myself. It arises quickly, without warning. I giggle to myself and decide to humour my body’s arbitrary request — I indulge in a characteristically smug masturbation session right then and there.

With my cigarette cemented to the bottom edge of my smirk by the thinnest layer of saliva, I unbutton my jeans and slide the zipper down. I shift my hips toward the edge of the seat and like a young man-child soundly sleeping, my right hand finds its way down my pants seeking familiar warmth. I don’t re-open my eyes.

My fingertips are cool on my folds, but my palm is warm against the mound of flesh-cushioned bone. With my other hand, I draw an exalting drag from my cigarette and expel my depravity into the sticky evening air before gluing the filter back to my lips.

I hear a disturbance and open one eye. The chatter of two older ladies whose faces are unknown to me emerges from the blurred sloping edge of the horizon, as if they had just been birthed by the setting sun. They are far enough away for my hands to go unnoticed as they walk towards the building, and take no interest in my presence. I freeze all the same, pretending to sleep — despite the obvious flume of smoke snaking up from my mouth like a dozy dragon — until they have they passed. My form is unwavering save for the deliberate rise and fall of my contrived sleeping breaths. My impatience pinches down at the base of my clit.

The sky is a birdless, golden orange canvas with streaks of bleeding black and lilac-silver that stream from some illogical deep, evoking images of merciless storms. Like a tornado sky, but with more fire.

The ember glow overhead seems to grow brighter as my inner darkness lights up. My teasing touch stirs the primordial beast that dwells in my cavernous depths. My hips wriggle and rise on their own, burying deeper into my own touch. I move so softly, passing my finger so light, intently over my swelling bud that I can feel every individual ridge in my fingertip flick past the hood.

I like to lure that beast out slowly, with care. She doesn’t like to be rushed when roused from her cursed slumber. My wicked orgasm is almost ready to come out to play when I hear the chink of metal against tempered glass.

A wiry, lightly bearded man is tapping my driver’s side window with a crowbar. He’s tall enough that he needs to stoop to peer in at me. His hazel eyes are stern and lurid.

“Get out.” The tip of his tongue snakes over his bottom lip as he says it. 

My guts snarl, but my face remains steadfast. I dip my middle finger once more into my black wetness before finally withdrawing my hand from between my legs.

“Nah, dude. I’m good,” I say, flicking my acid at him.

I take a particularly hard pull on the dregs of my cigarette and blow the flagrant smoke. When the flume dissipates, I see him sneering at me through the window, his teeth bared through the ginger frame of his beard that surrounds a spiteful grin, thin eyebrows scrunching inward to meet the wrinkle at the bridge of his nose.

Without warning, the man winds up and cracks through the window with the iron implement held firm between his palms. The glass does not shatter, but breaks into large, neat shards that tumble softly, soundlessly onto the seat next to me.

I lift myself up over the gear stick and lower myself down on to the gentle fragments in the driver’s seat. They feel like cool jelly against my skin though they lick strawberry gashes into my thighs.

“Look, this is my car,” I say, leaning between the glass jaws of my battered window.

Stubbornly confident, I rip the killing drag from my cigarette. I draw out my moment, sharing the hazy swirl with the starving creature pacing in the shadows of my womb. She’s none too pleased by this interruption.

“You can leave now,” I say, tossing the butt of my cigarette on the ground in front of him.

But he doesn’t leave. He opens my door, scraping the jagged little glass teeth into my forearms before I can pull away. He grabs me by my bleeding wrist and rips me from the vehicle, mumbling curses under his breath at me. He’s not a particularly large man, but his grip is strong, gruff. I catch a glimpse of his face — a wash of soft features yet hardened lines, just like every one that came after him — as he throws me to the ground.

My face grazes the dirt beyond the browned grass as I tumble forward. Towering over me, he still doesn’t say much. I feel his hand run over the nape of my neck — squeeze — partway down my spine, around my ribcage and wriggle in between the gentle earth and the flesh of my breast — squeeze. His lecherous whispers are obscenities licking my ear holes.

But I feel no fear.

Even despite knowing what is about to happen.

He winds up and delivers the deathly blow. The crowbar seethes through the air and hammers the side of my skull with a harrowing crack. Between my ears, I hear the sound that my shattering window should have made reverberating along with a shrieking, ancient darkness inside me.

Blood swells and oozes from the maw of my gruesome wound. With my face to the earth, I drown in ground dust; I can’t move my body from my skull down.

My eyes can’t open, but I see him take a step away from me when he gurgles, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back to take care of you.”

The walls of the worlds are crumbling in on me. Rolling darkness encroaches from all sides, inside and out. The horizon is disintegrating in tandem with my cooling blood and slowing pulse. I’ve lost control of my portal and I’m being pulled from what should have been a safe space.

I am outside of myself now and all I can see in the frame is my own face. Vignetted by a heavy black encroaching from all corners of the scene. Blood trickles into the corners of my closed eye and off the swoop of my nose. I hear him take another step towards my vehicle. Time has slowed so much that we’re nearly stationary.

As he returns to my lifeless body, I see his boots crunch into the crisping grass underfoot. The same dead grass that blows gently in the breeze, nesting my face, tickling my cheeks.

The fire-sky rages above, growing blue (and purple, and black) in the face, impatiently awaiting the next move while the sun seeks refuge with the impending night.

“You can’t let him,” says a deep, rasping voice. “He can’t have this. It is yours.”

As if my body were revived by this spooky, disembodied reminder, one of my legs launches up with sudden, inexplicable ease, curling behind and overhead like a scorpion’s tail, stinging him in the back of his skull with a satisfying thud. I hear the crowbar tinkle like a tumbling pin to the ground next to him as he sets to match my stance, falling face down towards the ground.

But I see none of this.

I still see only my blank face.

And it’s changing.

The darkness has consumed me so completely that I have become a part of it. Just as his torso kisses the earth, my eye — the only thing still visible amongst the shadows that are seeping out from my throat — flickers open. A demonic full moon, glowing white, orange, purple, gold. I smile a most terrifying grin at him, at myself. My teeth have turned razor sharp and flash with a polished-silver sheen.

I watch as I pull myself to my feet, my form bulges and expands and lengthens, tearing to rebuild. As if some reverse gravity helps to pull me upright as I settle into this new shape. My skin has turned obsidian black, my nails are dagger-claws of the same colour. They are not visible outside of flight, but I know that I have since grown extraordinary black-violet wings.

Towering over him, it’s clear that I’ve doubled in height, at least. My legs are lithe onyx pillars. I am monolithic, and monstrously agile.

A maniacal laugh escapes me as I bend and grab him by the back of the neck — squeeze — torturously puncturing little holes into his throat with the tips of my claws. With that one brutal hand, I lift him up, and toss him clear across the field. A deathly crunch cuts his desperate cry short when he lands none-too-gracefully back on solid ground.

My stride is long, and I am by his side again before he can roll over to face me. He whimpers when he looks at me; I am as hideous as I am beautiful. My hair, long ropes of the same black-violet as my cloak of wings, tumbles around us, shrouding us in a curtain with only my eyes to light my path as I lower my face to his.

My pure darkness emanates from between my teeth into his now-weeping eyes as I run my claw down the length of his torso. I slice through the fabrics with a delicate upward flick of my index finger, leaving all of his clothes to fall away in tatters from his whimpering mass. I rake my full set of talons down the front of his naked body, sewing red threads into his flaking skin along the way.

I watch him shudder when he sees my silver teeth flash orange in the glow of the rising hunter’s moon. My smile seems to get away from me when I run the back of my claw up the anxious little vole trying to retreat to the burrow between his legs. I wrap my night-washed hand around the puny little creature to pull it out from its hole, and I smile even wider — in spite of himself, he twitches in my grip.

A sinister, excoriating growl snakes from my mouth and rips into him. It was an incoherent snarl on the outside, but I heard her words clear as night rattling around the inside of his skull. “Is this what you want?”

She wrap her talons tighter around his cock and forces him hard. Frozen solid by the brutal magic of shame and fear.

She runs my paw up and down the length of his full-grown shaft. He says nothing. He only whimpers and turns his face away from me. She runs my serpentine tongue into his exposed ear.

“Is this what you want?” we repeat.

I imagine he loathes himself. What a strange sensation it must be to exhibit signs of excitement, of arousal, when inside, he must be terrified. Inside, there is no way he wants to engage in this obscenity. Yet here he is, softly sobbing through his pain. For me. For us. Because of us. Because we give him no choice.

He trembles violently as we press our grotesque, willowy body against him and lick a track of black saliva up the side of his bearded cheek. We grind up against his leg, feeling the scratch of denim against this creature’s pussy. We never let up our grip on his petrified erection.

“The power is mine,” we say.

We hear him think about how he would like to run. But he is paralyzed by shock. Not to mention, his knees and ankles broke in his fall from disgrace. The black pools of his eyes evaporate when we set ourself astride him. The neon white of our irises stare back into his horror-stricken orbs. We laugh diabolically as we tap his cock into the chill of our loins once, twice, three times.

“The power is MINE,” we snarl.

Our shadows are desperate to ruin him. We raise our hips and slide him deep into our unforgiving malevolence. He tries once to scream, but the fear cripples his vocal chords. Unable to close his eyes or look away, he watches in disgust and reverence as he is consumed by darkness over and over again. We tickle our clit with the tip of a single deadly talon as we pump him as far as we can push him, carving a path to our release. We plant our clawed feet deep in the ground on either side of his pelvis. We run a free hand through the cords of hair tumbling down our back.

The thrill of our conquest sends us reeling over the edge, diving into the rivers of the many hells that this wicked demon queen’s beautiful, devoted children have built over millennia. Wings burst wide, I howl to her dark majesty in gratitude.

The thrill of my vengeance oozes all over this abomination of a man; the auburn moon reminds me that everything dies.

As we begin to relax our grip, we feel the foolish coward’s girth betray him, thumping greedily against the walls of our shadowy cave. We look him dead in his dead eyes and prick our clever tongue on the corner of a gleaming fang.

“Is this what you want?” we coo, leaning in close to wrap a scaled hand around his cock once more, softly now.

His eyes are wet with fear and desperate relief. We moan reverently, stroking him more gently than before. We press our heaving breast bone into his and feel him breathe back into us. His heart is still racing, but less frantically now. His bulging eyes relax, almost closed. His balls are creeping in closer to the shadows between his legs; we feel him reaching the apex of his cycle.

Bowed over him, snout buried in his shoulder, we continue to press closer, harder, until we hear the snap of his ribs tickle the flesh of our bosom. He shrieks in pain, flailing with what little energy he has left, and we hold him there until we are satisfied that everything has shattered.

He bleats like a concerned goat, crying out in indiscernible gibberish as we pull away from him. Our diabolical laughter can’t contain itself.

We rip his right arm out of its socket and toss it across the field. We can hear it plink into my river in the distance even through his skyward shrieks. The heavens are too deaf to notice or care. Blades of grass cut and lick at the gaping wound in the pit of his former shoulder as blood pools out and around him. He reaches sad phantom fingers to the space his dominant arm once was.

He doesn’t look at us when we squat down to his level.

“Looking for something?” we ask.

He sobs at the realization that he has no control over his heap of naked, tattered limbs. Our laughter is a brutal, guttural growl as we snap his erection in half before standing up and and tower over him again. A gargantuan silhouette of winged victory. Satisfied that his body is broken and we’ve taken every shred of his self away from him, we kick his wailing mass of flesh over onto his front and walk back to the car.

My thick hair wisps around me like a cocoon made of tendrils of smoke. Inside, I de-metamorphosize to my human state.

I wake up on this side, smiling.

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