Wandering across the blasted plains of hell, Herthrimdaz sulked.

Not even the screams of the damned and the wails of the eternally tormented could force a smile. The delightful aromas of sulphur, iron and corpse rot which filled the air were unable to help alleviate her sullenness. She dragged her feet on the dry cracked earth, taking moment here and there to examine the trees, how the husked men and woman who formed its thick branches reached out to the tree next to them, desperately trying to close the hairbreadth between them to touch their forlorn romance. Their cries should have been enough to make her at least grin. 

The ground trembled. Worse things stalked these lands than her.

The men and woman bound to the tree whimpered, all their voices created a melancholic dirge that swept across the Forests of Forlorn Lovers. The imp looked up. Black clouds formed by the unending pyres choked the skies as red energy lashed and lit the horizon. She expected her to come. As if she needed more reason to sulk. 

A gargantuan figure stomped its way across the forest, her cloven hooves eradicating all unfortunate enough to find themselves beneath her tread. The hind legs of a goat, the naked form of a woman, the lidless black eyes. Jeridell, one of the lowliest succubi in this plane of Hell. She tittered, her booming giggle making the damned cower before her. She was taking her time. Jeridell’s forked tongue came slithering out, licking her cracked lips. She revelled in the torture, slowly lowering her hoof to crush another part of the forest. Cracks, snaps and screams. The choir of the forest when Jeridell marched through. 

And yet the trees began to grow again.

Where she had scoured them beneath her tread, the withered flesh bark reformed and the screams grew louder, forced to relive the pain of having their emaciated forms be crushed under the succubi’s hoof. Herthrimdaz wished she could do that, long for it. To be a succubus, a marilith or a vrock, anything, anything but a lowly imp. She imagined herself like the princesses of hell, a being as great as the blackened spires those gods of the underworld called home. She envisioned herself marching across the land, crushing lesser demons into gore and gristle beneath her.

A petty fantasy. An imp's life was to serve. Her lot was to die a slave and be reborn a slave. Always and forever at the mercies of her master's whims.

When Jeridell loomed over, reality returned to Herthrimdaz. “Ahh,” came the thunderous sultry tones of the succubi, “Look what I nearly stepped in.” Jeridell squatted down and between clawed finger and thumb, plucked the imp from the broken earth. Herthrimdaz felt the rush of hot air blasting her again as she sailed upwards in the clutches of the succubus. She then found herself looking down at Jeridell and all the damage the succubus wrought. She bit her lip. Even being witness to the stretch of damage she caused was peaking her arousal. She imagined herself inflicting such scars with her footfall.

Herthrimdaz was then snapped out of her dreams. She was sped into the unholy face of Jeridell. She bore her fangs in a sharp smile, blood drooling down the side of her mouth. “What is your bidding?” Herthrimdaz meeked.

Her fingers pressed down. Herthrimdaz yelped like a cowed dog. Her bones were cracking, her muscles screaming in agony. “You forget your place worm,” Jeridell spoke, her voice so overwhelming it nearly burst the imp’s eardrums.

“Master!” Herthrimdaz cried, “Master Jeridell! What is your bidding!” Jeridell stopped. Even the meagre application of strength was enough to threaten the imp’s pathetic body. If Jeridell wished it, she would be a stain on the succubi’s fingertips right now, a mess of crimson, broken bones and disfigured limbs. “I live to serve you Master Jeridell, please, anything!”

Jeridell cooed, “Aww, such a pathetic thing.” The succubus tittered until moans of pleasure came, her voice turning into a low growl, “Your abasement is my utter delight, you disgusting imp.”

Disgusting? Herthrimdaz withheld her scoff.

She knew she had a better figure than that sow. A squat form to be sure, but plump in all the right places. Bigger breasts, bigger thighs, bigger ass. The succubi all wished they could have a voluptuous physique like Herthrimdaz. They probably didn’t wish for her height, however. Even the damned humans were taller than her. Three feet tall. The smallest thing to inhabit the hells. But every bit of her was godly.

That was why the succubus’ always teased her. They were all jealous of her plump butt and her full chest, mad enough at not having the fortune to have such a body to oversee the eternal torture.

“Now you sicken me imp. You are a blot on my sight, ruining my garden of illustrious torments, invading it as an insidious weed amongst my roses.” Jerridell pressed down and the suffering returned. Herthrimdaz squealed, begged, pleaded as the succubus touched herself, enamoured by the torture she inflicted upon the imp just by threatening to squish Herthrimdaz. “And I am a most dutiful gardener am I not, my mewling imp? I shan’t let my budding flowers wilt or be tainted, especially by the likes of an ignominious imp who has yet to learn their place!”

“P-Please master! M-Mercy!” Herthrimdaz screamed, her voice cracking. She pushed against the fingers in desperation. Yet it was futile. Already she was forced to crouch beneath the evergrowing crushing pressure Jerridell placed upon the imp. The succubus laughed.

“Mercy!” Jeridell mimicked, mockery rife in her voice. “Then I shall grant it! Let me show you a succubus’s mercy!” Herthrimdaz went sailing through the air, colliding with a pink mound. The succubus boomed a lewd moan, then began to move. Jerridell pressed the imp against her nipple, pinching her teet as she marched across her garden, stamping harder upon the trees that littered the unending dry desert scape. 

The shame burned her worse than any fire could.

Herthrimdaz fought and writhed against Jeridell’s nipple, but her struggle only served to make the succubus moan even louder. This is how this life would end. Like so many others of her kind, Herthrimdaz would die pleasuring another creature of hell. Squished against a nipple was a mercy. There were too many deaths to recall, too many lurid encounters where she was caught in the whims of a being far more powerful and far more magnanimous. To die to against a succubus’ nipple, however, was a new and terrible low. This death would be the most scathing, engrained on her psyche until the last fires of hell finally sputtered and winked out. 

Hellfire erupted across the imp.

The succubus squealed, caught off guard. Jeridell fell onto her back, her bare ass crushing scores of the damned as the fractured land buckled beneath her weight. Yet, Herthrimdaz was floating. Runes of blazing blood encircled her. She was suspended in the air, looking down at the bewildered succubus who whimpered and tended to her sore behind. “Fetid curr!” Jeridell hissed as she started to rise, “What manner of trickery is this?”  

Herthrimdaz was stunned, unable to respond. Jeridell went to grab her but the imp was flying through the air, racing upwards to the black clouds. Within the cloudscape, the imp hacked and sputtered, choking on soot. She breached through after what seemed an eternal night. Herthrimdaz looked around. The infinite inferno danced on the horizon, tornados of fire swirled and cut through the black clouds. Packs of vrocks, the harpies of hell, dotted the scarlet sky. And still, she was going higher.

A tear in reality formed, a wound that split wide and engulfed her. 

Wrapped around her was the new dead. A tide of humans being dragged downwards, their howling corpses burning black as they descended from the umbral planes of Limbo into a reality of dry deserts, boiling blood rivers and jagged mountains. The despair, the terror, the realisation they were to spend their afterlife as the playthings of the hells, it was intoxicating to the imp. Pure anguish, fresh souls who had not experienced the raptures of agony and suffering that they, the demonesses, were tasked to inflict upon the wicked.

Yet, Herthrimdaz was still going upwards. There was an opening above her and she was speeding towards it. The cold air of this other world greeted her like a punch in the face.

Not the suffocating silence and stillness of Limbo. 

There were dark prayers, there were blood-curdling screams. Such glorious delights awaited.