Practical Milf Keeping

Bev noticed an empty sack, usually reserved for fresh compost. "Oh! Is there a pre-order for Alex Jones?" she asked, reading the label.

"Sorry, there's already one from the Tartarus Botanical Society. I told them it might be a while. You know how unpredictable these things are."

"Bless, I have some razor roses needing a shot of fertilizer."

"You can always wait for Limbaugh, dear."

"We have a fresh batch of televangelists," the clerk suggested, "Newly arrived, food poisoning at a convention."

"I'll look into that later," said Bev.

The vault opened easily. The key was crucial; without it, or with the wrong key, the vault would have raped, sodomized, and eaten the bearer . . . before shitting the thief out, and giving the unfortunate party a holy water tattoo with a mocking description of the attempt and penalty. A prospect attractive to some in the Infernal regions, but not to high-caste succubi.

Bev took out a 3oz bottle of golden liquid, while Bel signed the receipt.

"So, is there anything else I can do for you today?"

"Not at the moment, dear, but is it possible to port away from here?"

"Not at the moment Ma'am. The upgrades to the pentagrams will take another day, I'm afraid."

"Oh bother," Bev pouted.

Gragonog sat in the corner sulking. His party was fucked, all because of doofus Grak, and his bitch of an ex-wife.

"Should've gone for the Priapi sisters," he snorted, "I could've moved their cocks out of the way to get to the pussy."

The milfs crouched in the opposite corner, clutching each other, twittering, and glancing about fearfully. Gragonog grunted in disgust. Mortals and their gibberings! Grak and Krog were at the card table, drinking blood beer and leafing through the phone book. They better be looking for a different group of sluts. Pop! Bev and Bel were back.

"Well! I see shit stain's obeyed me for once," Bev sneered.

Gragonog glowered, "I was tempted to eat them just to spite you."

"You can be meaner than that, dearie. You seemed so much more creative as a son-in-law."

"We stayed away like you said Mrs. Soul-Fucker. Oh! Is that the juice?"

"Yes Krog, it is. Be a dear and gather the milfs, will you?"

Grak and Krog brought the shrieking milfs before the succubi. The two women knelt before the demonesses and burst with a chorus of ululations, wails, and pleas. Bev and Bel listened for a while; mortal milfs were so cute, but business needed attending.

"I'll speak first dear," Bel said to Bev and then turned to the milfs. "You two, shut up!" The milfs quieted immediately, gazing up with wide, wet eyes.

"My daughter has a proposition for you. I suggest, very strongly, you listen. It will be highly beneficial to you both."

Bevemorda drew herself up. "Alright you bitches. You're obviously fucked. I don't give a shit how you got here. I only know you're ours to play with as we please. Do you understand?"

The two milfs nodded despairingly.

"And you realize there's no hope for you, escape or otherwise, and you're just meat for us? Pretty much what your Dante said?"

The milfs nodded and whimpered.

"Good!" Bev did an upside-down cross at the profanity. "So you're aware you've got several options for your shortened existence. Option one: fuck pets for my ex-husband (patooie!) and his buddies here. They'll rape you to death and throw your corpses to the hellhounds or, if you survive, you won't live past the pregnancies or birth of the demon spawn. You're likely knocked up already so I suggest you think it over."

"Option two: you work at one of my Dad's supermarkets, probably as floor cleaners or something. You'll shrivel up and die of old age, of course, and your souls will be used as cum rags for incubi, but it's better than the first option."

"Option three: we eat you."

"There is a fourth option. You sign a contract binding yourselves to me and Mother as fuck pets. You do everything we say, fuck whoever we want you to fuck, give us absolute, unquestioning obedience, loyalty, and devotion in perpetuity, basically our bitches for eternity. In return we teach you the black arts, give you some fruit juice to turn you into immortal witches, and return you to earth when your spell times out. So, what's it going to be?"

One of the milfs, Terri, Bev remembered, raised her hand, tentatively.

"Yes worm?"

"Uh, is it possible to send us back before this . . . uh . . . spell times out?"

"Of course, dearie," Bel answered, "But that's mercy. It's not in our culture."

"Oh, gulp!"

"Look bitch!" Bev sneered, "Pick the fourth option. You get immortality, youth, beauty, magic powers. The only catch your asses are ours. It's a win-win. Besides," she leaned close, "I've got plans for you."

Terri gulped again and looked at Sandra. She looked back sniveling. What choice did they have?

"Grak, dearie, can you look in the phone book and find us a lawyer. Try Roy Cohn. He's the slimiest." Saragamas used Roy Cohn from time to time in negotiations. Some people were that evil.

Roy drew up the binding contract, which was quickly signed in blood. A notary public, infernal, branded official ownership on the women (lower back for Terri, left shoulder for Sandra). The apple juice followed soon after.

"Just one drop each, dear. Remember, it's extremely potent."

"I know, Mother."

It was like drinking a keg of the hardest cider ever fermented, laced with acid. One drop on each tongue and the universe nuked itself, and then reformed along with the cells of Terri and Sandra's bodies.

Bev and Bel waited until the women's convulsion died down, then lifted them up.

"I don't see much difference, Mother."

"Of course not, dear, but they're more durable and resilient now. We can do as we please to them and they'll bounce back, good as new."

"That's good to know." Bev turned to Grak and Krog, "Hey boys, how'd you like to test out these new and improved milfs. You were going to have a party, right?"

The two demons lit up. "Yes, Ma'am!" they chorused.

Gragonog started forward.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Bev asked with a cocked eyebrow.

"Hey! It's my party and I can fuck if I want to!"

"It's our party now, limp dick. You can stay in the corner and watch, or do you want Daddy to seize this shithole to make up for your alimony debt?"

Gragonog nearly ground his fangs to powder. His party; his party! Hijacked by his, he searched for the worst possible insult (difficult considering the locale), angel-lover of an ex. He wanted to ream her holes so hard she could suck his cock through her ass. He wanted to make her bleed the blackest blood. He wanted to rip her head off and fill the bleeding stump with his putrid seed. He . . . he . . . he went to his corner and sat stroking his cocks, blessing (a vile curse to demonkind) Lilith for birthing the succubi line, and watching his ex-wife, ex-Mother-In-Law, and traitorous friends fuck the new acolytes into orgasmic cum receptacles.

****

Rupert Twickenham-Broadbottom, park ranger for the Berkenshire Moors national park (known for major Druid activity during the pre and early Roman periods and, thus, a favorite destination for archaeologists, hippies, hikers, and Wiccans), was fifteen minutes into his morning shift when two nude women walked into his patrol area.

Given the venue, nudity among visitors was not surprising, especially around midsummer. The trail the women came down was supposed to be closed, however. Hikers tended to disappear on it; not often but . . . it was just bad publicity, and the possibility of a serial killer stalking the area qualified.

Rupert thought, at first, the women were elderly. Their hair was white enough but, as they approached, he saw they were actually quite young; not too young, probably mid to late thirties. They looked familiar.

"Strewth! It's the Yanks!"

They'd signed in yesterday, morning. The women were supposed to take the trail by the lake, approved and safe. He told his friends at the pub last evening the two were attractive but clueless, as Yanks went. He didn't expect to them coming down an off-limits trail, with snow-white hair, wearing nothing but tattoos.

Rupert was glad his khakis were loose-fitting. These Yanks were lush. Still, duty was duty.

The women sat in the office while Rupert took notes. No, they didn't know what happened to their clothes. No, they didn't know what happened to their gear. No, they didn't know how they wound up on the trail . . . or how their hair turned white . . . or where they got the tattoos.

The women swore no memory of the last twenty-four hours. One of them, Sandra, mentioned something about picking mushrooms on the trail. "We were going to make soup."

"Aha!" Rupert exclaimed. Hallucinogenic mushrooms grew all over the area; some were extremely toxic. "You two are bloody well lucky to be alive." Didn't explain the white hair but Rupert didn't feel like pressing that point. No need for unnecessary paperwork.

No, the women didn't want a doctor's exam, or a rape kit. They just wanted some clothes and a ride to the embassy. Rupert logged the incident, and marked the story down as another one for the pub. Just another tale of weirdness in the park.

Epilogue

Terri Pritcher, homemaker, soccer mom, and dark sorceress, was setting her newly baked chocolate chip cookies to cool, when she felt the familiar tingle.

"Oh fuck!" she cursed before apparating.

The next second she popped into her Mistress' apartment. Sandra was already there, stripping out of her clothes.

"Hey Sandy."

"Hey Terri."

"Hey Mistress Bev," the women greeted.

"Hey sluts," Bev greeted back.

Terri was nude a few moments later. The women were not allowed clothes in their Mistress' presence. The two milfs saw the demon with Bev. "'Nog," they sneered.

Bev waited quietly until her milfs were nude. The two had worked out better than she'd expected. They were very enthusiastic torturers of her former ex, then divorced, then remarried, then ex, then remarried, then . . . she'd lost count of the on and off again marriages. It didn't matter so long as she made his life paradise.

The milfs experienced their first demonic pregnancy with no damage, thanks to the fruit juice. The birthings, popping demonic quintuplets each, while the Priapi sisters anally fucked them, and the two performed cunnilingus on Bev and Bel, provided a glimpse into their potential.

The team of Pritcher and Cane won the Iron Dildo as sex gladiators, no less than five hundred times over several thousand years of ownership. No small feat considering the opponents, the lack of rules, and the officially approved cheating, bribery, vote rigging, etc . . .

The milfs turned out to be excellent pupils as well, absorbing the lessons in dark magic like dry sponges. Terri and Sandy were thoroughly corrupted by the time the summoning spell timed out . . . well almost.

Bev noted through remote viewing, and no small annoyance, her bitches' behavior with their husbands and children. No sign of any attempts at corruption; behaving like loving wives and mothers. They'd also used magic to return their hair to natural coloring. "A waste," she thought, disgusted. Something to discuss on their next summoning.

In recent years, things improved. The local neighborhood youth, very late teens and college agers, were quietly seduced. A few of the husbands, some of the wives, cuckolded, and it looked like the two were about to start on their older college age kids. Her milfs explained a low profile was better for corruption.

So business was picking up above. Bev summoned them for business below, however.

"The Golden Incubus competition is coming up," she said, handing them their sex toys. "You're going to have to train hard. I put a lot of money on this one."

"What's the sport?" Sandy asked.

"Orgasm denial," Bev smiled. "I got the prop all worked up. Keep it on the edge."

The women looked at Gragonog. His cocks were at full mast and veins were throbbing throughout his body. Sandy and Terri glanced at each other and licked their lips. Their pussies were already dripping.

"This never stops being fun," Terri giggled, dancing toward the unfortunate Ravisher.

"You poisonous bitch! You'll pay for this!" Gragonog growled.

"You're the one who owes me for the fruit juice, darling. It's all in the marriage and divorce contracts. You really should learn to read them."

"Grroowwll! This isn't fair!"

"You're kidding me, right?"

So, as the two milfs went to work teasing his body to near, but never released orgasm, Gragonog The Ravisher rued the day he'd ever decided on that party.

A most hellish irony for a demon.

The End.