Sleep doesn't come for me in this place.
Pussy neither.
And I mean 'come' as a double entendre. But then I guess you all reading this right now need a bit of my vulgar, loved narration to understand just how I arrived at this place. Don't ya? You profane fucks?
Well, shit! Here goes.
After the [War of Three Cities], whilst the greatest princes of the Underworld were hexed by a coven of fourteen sacred Druids into a luminous prison of immobility: the [Hyperion Cell], I found myself pinned to the unforgiving cobblestone of the city; a dozen southern outlaws yelling at me to: "Keep yer hands where we can see them, ye monstrous fiend." Their exact words.
Obviously, as a [Rank A] Hellion, I can hold my own in combat. But I'm not necessarily Ninja-class with a blade. And don't you fucking dare mention my head. Having a sharp axe for a head does not mean shit! You hear me!
Have you tried using your head to ram a fist?
Yeah, it fucking hurts! Dumbass!
I get a migraine just from blocking out gunpowder charge with my head. Bladed skull or not, ten foes in, and I'd risked my own head falling off—from fucking fatigue! These rebellion fucks were led by our Apollyon, the [Burning One]... Of course they were gonna win. If only someone could've told that to Lilith in the first place—or had the balls to try to.
Besides His Eminence, Lord Blüdthïrste, the Queen of Night tampered no advisor. Just our luck that he was on the other side of the battlefield.
And I'm sure at the end of the last Volume: Season 3: INTO THE BADLANDS, you know exactly why the Dowager seems to hold a flaming torch of feelings for her. . .son.
Don't look at me. I was shocked out of my testicles too.
—Or maybe that was the Marshalls [Taser gun] as they led me off.
As [Scribe] of the Court of Whispers, I was judged a heretic and fellow abuser of power as the despots toppled from the high halls of Darkwake. I was stripped and paraded naked with some band of Maulers who'd somehow survived the battle and being captured too—and no, I did not enjoy it.
Hell motherfucking no!
I'm the S in BDSM. Sadist! That's what it stands for, right?
Anyway, at the conquer of Hel's hordes, our new and rightful Queen—Lilith ain't here so I can say that shit—the [Empyrean] Empress: Ravenna de Vríes pardoned all surviving devils from the terrible affair of the Hangman's noose, the Executioner's axe, the angry farmers pitchforks—the Highfather's [Holy Water].
That boy-fucker had been frothing at lips to spray us aflame. That bastard was more worthless to the church than expelled flatus!
Still, even in the face of the dozen factions eager to see devils crucified on burning crosses—I wonder where in the seven hells they'd gotten that idea from, the Empress of House de Vríes let us behold her [Jaded Sceptre].
We were let off with a public flogging.
I myself took three hundred and thirty three lashes on my red behind. Don't fucking laugh!
I couldn't lay a proper turd for days. My arse just closed up, and poof! In it went. Like a virgin's poon. Any of you still laughing now is a truly depraved sicko.
I was spared an eternity of blackness and void in the [Hyperion Cell], because... well, apparently I'm not considered 'threat' enough to be imprisoned with the bosses.
What a way to obliterate my already depleted self-esteem?
The worst thing you can tell a devil is that he's not evil enough.
Hell's majesty! I'm strong! I'm a hardcore sadist. What more qualifies for a supervillain? I guess I'm not as batshit crazy as those inbred motherfuckers chained in darkness. How the mighty have fallen? How the Fallen have fallen?
Those of us Hellions pardoned by the Queen received another chance at forever—cuz were Immortal like that; not to brag or anything—but we are not easily forgiven. I was forced to seek out a job in the Eldorian undercity. The only thing offered was sewage duty. Yep! The fucking sewers!
Miles of shit and piss.
Brown's the color of my flag!
And this brings us back to where I started this off:
Sleep doesn't come to me in this place.
Pussy neither.
So now... now you understand.
But please, don't feel too sorry. Pussy doesn't come to me. I go to pussy.
Remember Bisrah? Yeah, Bisrah, my purple-haired, red-eyed, figured like a damn hourglass, crimson succubus. The pervs reading this will remember her now. Yeah! That Bisrah! Well she got a job in a Fight Club, collecting bets on what ringboxer came back out as a corpse. She's a [Deadpool] Secretary.
Her job's still in the undercity, but way fucking nicer and CLEANER than mine. It's safe to say she earns our living wage now. I could choose to take a [Descent Plane] back to Hel where I am guaranteed far more esteem than a shit-plumber. But, nah! I like it here. Bisrah likes it here. And I like her punani too much to quit on her.
She's always damp after her day job. Poon making her panties moist—just the way I like.
Again, the perverts are smiling at this part.
The thought of sinking face and nose into a red sukky's fat globes is pay enough for me. I'd dunk a turd for Bisrah's filthy blowjobs.
I guess I should quit teasing you to pick on the pornography you're thinking about right now and introduce the next Volume. Though I'm no longer in an office to document fuck all—or any office at all, I hold love for the Apollyon. His journey from infernal ascension and mortal evolution is the stuff of legends. And now that he's conquered the Old Dragon himself, I believe he's finally worthy of. . .
[The S Rank]
The next Volume offers enticing chapters of raw politics and treachery, betrayers in lovers bed, and treason to topple dynasties. The deepest, darkest secrets of the Eldorian high society. The depraved cravings and unspeakable lusts. Impious priests and sins of holy men twirling in it. This Volume shall feature a dive into the world of Eldoria's elite military and crimes of the Undercity: clashes of Mafia and soldier.
In the next Volume, enter into a season of conflicts and cheats—and the MC topping his harem with more astounding babes.
The free realms of the Continent are only free because the greatest Houses of the Capital wish it so. But what happens when they change their minds... Or have it changed for them?
Enter into Season 4: THE INDEPENDENT REPUBLIC, on a rollercoaster, steampunk ride with the one and only loved devil across the whole Kingdom.
We called him our Apollyon.
And now, our Vanquisher.
Can this ravishing Prince of Hel keep together the realms of man he helped free?
[ADDITIONAL TAGS: #darkhumor #taboo #CNC]
Oh! And this book ain't easing on the adult content. If anything, it's gonna triple.
Now, back to I, Staplehead.
The tolling of the Cathedral bells reach me in this sludge tunnels, and I know it's time.
I tear off the rubber gloves and boots. I wash under a drain head. I forget everything: the smell, the shit, the loser status. I wash everything. Thinking only one thing: she'll soon be home. I run all the way to our tiny apartment. I lay on the bed. She walks in: pure, unspeakable sin. She hasn't showered. She hasn't taken anything off. She strolls over, lifts her silk dress. Without a word, she sits on my face. I sniff ass and pussy. And I grab harder at her scarlet, lush thighs.
Wait! Just before you fuck off—I'm not gonna bang my chick with you watching!—know that she doesn't pull off her panties. I bathe in that precious poon.
Her violet claws rip my denim in shreds. Out, bobs the heavy meat she's seeking. She's thirsty. Her eyes glow. She bends and opens her mouth. . .
Okay now you really need to go. EFF OFF!
Go be jealous. Go have a wank. I don't give a shit.
You want full chapters of fat-dick-ramming-slutty-mouth sex? Then turn the next page.