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Daughter of Demons - Chapter 1 - The Ritual
🕑 Added 2014-09-17 04:34:23 +0000 UTC I flinched as the searing hot ink was glazed across my breasts. Seemingly absorbing the moonlight, the blackest ink I’ve ever seen stood out against my flushed, magenta skin. One of my attendants did her best to hold me down, to keep me from ruining their work. “Please, miss, be careful,” she pleaded. It wasn’t like I was trying to get away, I knew as well as anyone how important this ritual was. As the ink cooled, I did my best to settle down, preparing for the next stroke. It wasn’t a real tattoo, or should I say, it wasn’t a permanent one. The distinction is important because this ritual has long been a tradition among my people, and is supposedly rooted in an ancient, powerful, magical art. They’ve been known to use a mysterious mix of dyes, chemicals, and spellcraft, and tonight was no different. The unique recipe and technique results in intricate designs that can last for weeks. “When we’re finished, these markings will make you supernaturally beautiful,” she said with a calming smile. The other girl explained, “You may find they even have a charming effect.” It’s all part of an annual ritual that sees our tribes come together to acknowledge the young ones’ “coming of age.” None of the girls really understand why we do it (myself included, most of the time I’d be answered with “you’ll understand when you’re older.”), but there’s a lot of pageantry and there’s always a big celebration where everyone stays up all night dancing, making music, lighting fireworks, around a bonfire that can be seen for miles. I had been looking forward to being a part of the ritual for twenty years, this year I was finally old enough to be accepted into adulthood. Better yet, I had the honor of representing our tribe. See, each tribe chooses one girl who can best exemplify their collective skills and qualities—I think the idea is to prove which community is better at raising children to be adults. Because of my distinctive appearance, I guess I was an obvious choice. My parents couldn’t be more proud. Perhaps I should elaborate. My given name is T’anmae Lilliara. Those closest to me usually call me T’Lar, which in my language means “thorned rose.” The name was given to me on account of the dark horns and blushing pink skin I was born with. I was born with a tail too, but it doesn’t serve much of a purpose and I often forget it’s even there. In most civilized societies (so I hear) my kind of appearance would be treated as a monstrous aberration, precluding anyone from raising me or caring for me. Not here. Many of our tribes can trace their lineage back to draconian eras, when demons ruled the lands and spread their influence freely. It is not unusual for my people to be born with minor, subtle traits, like small horns, slitted pupils, or tough, scaly skin. They’re seen as signs of strength, or beauty, a sign of demonic favor from our ancestors. But me, I looked like a direct descendant! You might understand now, how easy it was for me to appeal to our elders, and represent my tribe in the coming ceremony. My attendants, two girls a year older, continued to scald and adorn my naked body with tattoos. I laid on an altar between them, watching the dark steam rise from the ink on my chest and form mesmerizing shapes against the full moon above. It was hard not to twitch each time they brushed my skin, especially as they moved down past my belly. They each had a hand on my hip, to keep me steady. I quivered as they began painting closer to my womanhood, it was still very hot and with each stroke my feminine muscles contracted. An extraordinary feeling was beginning to well up inside me there. The girls continued their work, moving their hands and brushes all over me. This process was making my whole body extra sensitive, and the sensation between my legs was only growing stronger. A warm wetness had begun to spread slowly, flooding my inner-thighs and the altar. Noticing my reserved twitching, they offered, “Please feel free to let yourself go, miss,” and “Release should help calm your nerves for the next step.” At this moment my body was tingling all over, and I had started to lose my mind to all of this incredible stimulation. I couldn’t answer. The girl on the left held out her hand, reached down to my vulva, and in one graceful motion drew a finger across it, from bottom to top. Shivers of pleasure rippled through me, emanating from where she touched me. My eyes, opened wide, rolled back in my head. Losing touch with reality, I barely heard the girl on the right say, “Hm, you’re nearly there anyway. Here, this might do it.” Taking the end of another paintbrush, with a thick, rounded tip, she slid it along my lower lips, and as they gently embraced the wooden shaft, she pressed it against me. Instantly, my back arched, thrusting my painted breasts up into the air. My legs clamped shut against her hand. Every muscle in my body tensed and pulsated to the point of bursting, and as the thrilling pressure building up inside me grew to the point I almost couldn’t stand, I understood what they meant by “release.” A surge of satisfaction flowed through me with the arcane power of a lightning storm. An intense wave of warmth washed over me as my muscles eased back to normal, and I exhaled, with what turned into an obscene sigh of delight. “First time?” they asked. The big, stupid grin on my face was probably evidence enough, even if they hadn’t been a part of what just happened. I gave the smallest nod. When I did, a slight stinging along my throat came to my attention. While I was...distracted, the girls had made progress tattooing my neck to complete the ritual. I started to ask them about it, but all that came out was an intelligible whisper. Smiling, they interrupted, “Don’t worry, miss. We’re almost finished. Close your eyes for the last step.” My eyelashes fluttered as I let my eyes slowly relax and close. I soon felt a familiar burning sensation around them as the girls began to sink my face. I hardly felt it in the afterglow of my first climax. Maybe it was the orgasm, because it was past midnight, the fumes from the ink, or maybe the magic of the ritual was actually taking hold, but I was beginning to fade in and out of consciousness.
