wrote:The purpose of the Society has always been understanding. I hope these bring you some.
--Beth
[align=center]wrote:Also, I'm naked in a bunch of these. You're welcome.
XXXOOO
--Beth
[/align]It's said on many Primes that fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Well, herein lies a number of sensory stones brimming with exotic delights from the Abyssal playground of Bethany's memory and mind. All of them rich with sensuality and burning with demonic hunger. Many of them extreme, adult and fit only for the devoted.
So go ahead. What are you waiting for? Rush in.
Need
(Public)
wrote:(The recording consists of nothing more than the sensate sitting amidst what feels and smells like a flower garden, radiating body heat, her eyes closed, mind turned inward.
In every one of Bethany's stones, the Sensate experiences a dull echo of what it means to embody her, and thus embody her curse and blessing: What others have called the Burning Drought. The torment of a desire that can never be satisfied and refuses to be quelled. More than just thwarted appetite. A torturous need, wailing like an unloved infant and growling like a starving wolf. Like scorched, parched earth drinking in a tiny droplet of water. Like a dull, aching fire inside them, consuming itself fruitlessly for want of other fuel, thirsty for willing flesh and spirit to burn so it might for just a little while flare into bright, beautiful life.
Here, in this recording, that feeling is magnified tenfold. Unbearable, but fascinating. You could drink down a river and only find yourself bloated and puking, throat as parched as before. You could scratch at the itch until your flesh was torn and bloody, and still it would persist, writhing unbearably to the bone.Â
Yet with that unceasing torture comes motive, anticipation, action. When the recording ends, one can only experience a flood of relief, followed by a faint, wistful nostalgia that dimly makes one want to try it again.)
Demon Booze.
(Public)
wrote:(This recording depicts a drinking contest with a Brachina. It has a special and popular place in the collection due to its offering the chance to experience an exotic variety of potent, specially-made cocktails that would kill anything from a Prime, and quite a few things from anywhere else. Beth's infamous Screaming Red, it transpires, is blood-tart and syrup-sweet, and produces an actual glow of sadistic satisfaction, as though one were dominating something weaker with every mouthful.
The sampling is punctuated by a back-and-forth fusillade of vicious verbal sniping and spiced in its emotional flavor with mutual, simmering hatred; two black widows in the same web, the innate need to tear one another into pieces held back by the watchful eye of the Harmonium. She veils her feelings in composure and contempt, but you can feel the truth of them like a charge in the air, while your own fencing burns hot, shameless and direct.
The experience ends as the recorder blacks out on the final drink, an insidious black liquid that tastes of pins and needles, pain and unmaking with a touch of citrus. Apparently this wasn't a win for her, however much she may beg to differ.)
Glory
(Public)
wrote:Elation. Glory. Ecstatic triumph.
The cavern trembles with the massed roar of entertainment and approval. Bloodthorn flowers, occult trinkets and Abyssal coinage rain down on you from the blinding fires above and you blow kisses to the monstrous, cheering silhouettes, eyes brimming with glorious tears. "Thank you!" you call over the adoring tumult, "I love you! I love you all!"
You bend down, grip Petal's lifeless wrist and hold it up alongside your own in a mockery of sportsmanship, half-dragging her unmoving body from the ooze, laughing like a child as the adulation continues.Â
Tomorrow it will be back to the old games and humiliations and betrayals. But right here. Right now. You are the Queen of the Abyss.
Defiance.
(Public)
wrote:Vaulted tower chamber. Red Devilskin skirt bound low around your waist, clinging perversely to your legs. Collar around your neck, spikes turned inward to prick at the flesh. Open air against your breasts and body. Ichorous taste of something thin and rubbery in your mouth. Heart burning with rebellion, with rejection of a master's order.
The squatting frog-thing is on the floor, clutching its long, fat, bloodied hand and roaring in pain, but the 'loths only stare at you in morbid shock as you chew on it, cold and slimy, stripping away at the flesh, sucking at it and swallowing in foul little shreds. You twist your tongue inside your mouth, holding with your teeth, turning, bending, working as they stare -- Finally spitting the long, flexible finger onto the table, stripped clean and tied into a perfect double-bow, signet ring still in place.Â
The horrible silence as they stare at it is finally broken by your girlish, snickering laughter.Â
Sure, you're probably going to die. But the looks on their faces.
Torture, #15, eight point crucifixion
(Public, caution)
wrote:"How many years has it been, Azussz?"
Damp, hot hands holding you flat. The nightmare wasteland of Carceri sprawls out before you. The wooden gate presses hard into your back. Your body shakes against it and you giggle softly, beginning to hyperventilate. Building muscular tension as you see the arm raised, the inevitable on the cusp of hurtling toward you.Â
"Now, I assure you that-"
SLAMMING NOISE / INVOLUNTARY SCREAM torn from you / lungs empty bones go numb with the impact of the hammer and your glass-shattering shriek rings out as the nail tears through the taut, leathery skin of your wing and punches into the wood below. Pain. Blinding, indescribable, convulsive, sickening pain. Red-raw throat. And you laugh and laugh and laugh because they have nothing, they have nothing there is nothing they can do to you that you haven't already suffered.
"How many years does it take for one Tanar'ri slut to learn its place? Do tell me. I'm dying to know."
Hearing dims into a dull roar as the hammer lifts and comes down, again. You're still laughing but it doesn't sound like anything anymore. Again it comes down and the inconceivable white-bone pain flashes through your body like a pitiless sun.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Bloodbath Seduction
(Public)
wrote:You slide the thirsting black blade from your so-called ally's gut, watching him crumple to the smooth blue stone of the huge, vaulted chamber in which you stand. One more body to join the others, the Deva lying butchered at your feet, the blood still pooling and spreading outward in a slick lake of sharp-smelling gore. White feathers litter the dais, slowly soaking to red, and you turn to him, coiled up inside like a serpent coiled within a flower, belly melting to hot honey, knowing that what comes next is everything you made happen.
He speaks, but the words don't matter. Only his hand around your throat matters, and the terrible, murderous will glowing in his eyes.
Jelly Wrestling: Gelatinous Cube Interior
(Public)
wrote:Bottom of a pit. Floor coated with all colors of slithering oozes. Bright firelight above, cheering, bellowing shapes. Dark-haired Succubus tensing in front of you, stark naked. Sensation of air against your body and thick, wet gel sloshing around your knees confirms your own nudity.
She's fast. Her elbow cracks against your jaw and you curse out loud, the sudden ear-ring of impact deafening you. Blindly, you grab hold of something soft and twist, rewarded with a squeal as you and the other Succubus skid and topple together into the seething lake, rolling over and over, hissing like cats and attempting to drown one another. Hot, coated bodies slipping against one another, too lubricated to keep hold. Spattering into the shallow pool of writhing jellies as they ooze around you, trying mindlessly to envelop you or escape.
You get her leg locked between yours -- too slippery -- she wriggles out of the pin. You both slip and scramble to your feet, circling. You feel your tail flicking back and forth, tracing furrows in the ooze. She lunges to grab you and stops mid-motion, slowing to a halt as her eyes go wide in sudden panic. Your left arm slows, snared in something cool and thick, something tugging at your body, slipping over you --Â
In horror you realize what's happening: Some psychopathic idiot on the ooze sluice actually put a fully-grown gelatinous cube into the pit.
Petal's shriek is smothered into a soft hum and your bitter, incredulous cursing ends with a wet mouthful of tasteless crud as the thing rolls over you both, leaving you suspended two feet off the floor of the pit, struggling now against the cube as well as each other. The noise of the crowd fades into a dull, distant, underwater thrum. Weird, weightless pressure. Mouth and nose blocked. Vision coated; everything outside distorted, blurry.Â
She claws for the edge of the cube and you force yourself to seize her waist, the thick jelly pressing you ever more tightly together. You try to shove her down and swim upward, forcing your wings to push through the transparent goop, and she digs her nails into your flesh, wrapping her naked legs around you and holding you down. You get your arm around her throat and sink your teeth into the soft meat of her shoulder, rewarded with a helpless convulsion and a distant, burbling scream.Â
You struggle together inside the meandering thing, lungs constricting and burning, starved of air. Her eyes burn into yours and you feel the same hatred blazing in your own as you both squirm in your suspended prison. Thwarted rage twists in both your hearts and you know with creeping dread and giddy excitement that each of you will die before willingly letting the other go free.
Abyssal Waltz
(Restricted)
wrote:Music. The strained notes of a mistuned fiddle played by an expert, the melody rich, perverse and enchanting. Coaxed from the subtle hands of the Reach's most ruthless assassin as you both dance to the twisted waltz atop the burning fountain and the scum of six worlds gawk at you both from below. The undulating, blissful haze of drunkenness, in which every step is like the rolling of a joyful sea. Let them stare. Let everyone stare. You're magnificent. She's adorable. And it's fun. It's FUN. Why doesn't anyone get that, why is everyone so damn boring all the time?
Soft, cool skin, even bathed in the glowing, sweltering heat of the basin. The ridiculous music of her sweet dumb idiot laughter. That little heart beating gently against yours, tempting you to swallow it. The thick, syrupy satisfaction of getting what you wanted. The goading torment of knowing it isn't enough. The inner war you so, so badly want to lose. Quivering on the edge.Â
Knowing that someday, one of you is going to kill the other.
Torture, #52, Erosion of will
(Public, Caution)
wrote:Pain.
You hang there, weight tugging at lacerated palms, red, thick, twitching agony of the knives driven through your hands, stretched painfully above your head. Dry wood at your back. Dress torn open. Knees already nerveless and weak.
Dizzy. Drugged. Breathing weakly. Waist and throat constricted. Nausea. Vision fading. Head slumped forward, golden hair plastered to sweat-damp skin. Flickering firelight. Crackle of burning wood. Dry, unwelcome heat.Â
Your tongue moves over your dry lips, tasting salt and stupefying narcotic. Your voice flickers from your throat in a dry, delirious whisper.
"...Am I ...pretty, now..?" it rasps, "Am I beautiful...?"
You feel a hand grip your chin, slowly turning your head left and right. Your flesh quivers. Your eyes roll back, unable to focus. His voice comes, from somewhere far away.
"Ah, Bethany," he chuckles, rich and deep, "You are magnificent."