The Prince of Pleasure

Guardsman Rulf Noth took a long drag on the lho-stick before handing it over to his comrade. Emperor knows what gender they were, everyone in the trench's surrounding the last city on Dysthymia IV was so covered in mud and grime it was impossible to tell. He was stood on the firestep watching the forces moving towards their position through the morning mist with his magnoculars. Soon they would enter the range of the city's artillery and the bombardment would start up again. For each day of this that happened they burned inexorably through their ammunition and Rulf had heard rumours that today they would finally run out. Then they would have to fight these bastards up close and personal.

It had begun a week ago. A battleship had translated out of the warp almost within their upper atmosphere, the resulting chaos that had ensued from the immaterial shock wave had been devastating. Dysthymia IV had lost all of it's orbital defenses. Madness and possession seemed to spread like a virulent plague throughout the entire planet. Orbital bombardments had then driven any still alive and of their right mind here to the captial.

To many they must have seemed like animals penned in for the slaughter.

Now those that had fallen to whatever ruinous powers had launched this assault were closing in, driven before some unseen force. Rulf accepted the lho-stick again as it came back around. Bored, he took another pull. He'd fought in regiments against mad cultists and heretics before, this was nothing new. That wasn't what had stripped any trepidation from the coming fight though. They had the Emperor's own angels on their side. Not just any space marines either, the Turrae Fifth had been supporting a regiment of the Imperial Fists in ridding the planet of Xenos infestation before this assualt. No slavering mass of cultists would even put a dent in the defences of the masters of siegecraft, especially given the city's high walls. Quite simply the attack would go no further, they would break over and over on their bulwark. Once their orbital weapons were back online this would all be over. Rulf lowered his magnoculars to look over to where the nearest squad of the saffron plated Fists were manning a Firestrike turret emplacement. They too seemed completely unperturbed as they maintained their weapon and checked on the fortifications.

"Sarge... There's things moving through the bastards out there. They're big whatever they are," stated the anonymous mud caked soldier next to him.

Rulf didn't need his optics to see that indeed there were large shapes moving through the encroaching masses. It couldn't have been a coincidence that the bombardment hadn't started up today either. Perhaps there might be some excitement today. He raised his magnoculars once more to take a clearer look.

Rulf felt his blood run cold in his veins.

The shapes resolved themselves into awful clarity. It was as though twisted variants of the venerable Fists were striding through the gloom towards them. Even at this distance Rulf could feel a migraine brewing behind his eyes whenever he tried to look at them. Their armour was the pink of oxygenated blood and it bristled with heretical technologies. Now he knew what had coordinated the assault he wished for his previous ignorance once more.

Traitor Astartes.

Chaos marines.

A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his shocked catatonia. The face of his commissar was screaming mere inches from his own. Rulf's magnoculars dropped from numb fingers as he reached for his lasrifle. The Firestrike emplacement had already begun firing, it spewed its heavy rounds over the muddy ground at a target moving at speed towards them.

"Holy Terra..." he breathed in shock.

As their target drew closer it somehow grew even harder to believe what he was seeing. A single chaos marine was charging their lines, an axe larger than Rulf raised aloft. He drove before him a horde of cultists, the mass of their unwavering bodies soaked up the las fire aimed at the marine. The heavier rounds detonated against shimmering air mere meters from the charging giant. Tentacle covered forms wielding terrible staffs moved after him, cackling with each shell they prevented from reaching its mark. It was such a spectacle that all eyes and weapons were drawn to it.

Which was exactly what the enemy wanted.

The screams of the defenders on the walls behind them could be heard even from this distance. Rulf span around, craning his neck up to see what was happening. The commissar raised a hand to strike Rulf for not firing but froze when he saw the sight too. The fortifications at the top of the wall were lost to a sea of promethuim fueled flame. It spewed from the maws of huge crab like monstrosities of metal and warped flesh whose piston like legs had left craters in the wall as they had scaled it. Dread filled Rulf's heart, as heretical a thought as it was there was no way the Fist's could save them now. The very earth beneath his feet shook as the giant marine's charge brought him in range of his target. With abject horror Rulf watched as the giant leapt from several strides out, his axe raised high. It came down again as it cleaved straight through the Firestrike turret with ease. Moving quicker than Rulf could follow one of the giant's fist collided with the gunner's helmet in a sickening crunch of ceramite. His other had wrenched the axe free and with an arcing swing had embedded it in the chest of another Imperial Fist. For a moment Rulf's heart soared in hope as the last two Fists drew chainswords to engage their foe. Such hope has no place on the battlefield though. The giant simply took the first chainsword on his gold and black pauldron, sparks flew as he kicked out at his other foe. The Fist flew through the air and impacted against the city wall where he lay unmoving in his own personal crater. With a growl even Rulf could hear the traitor Astartes threw his shoulder forwards, knocking his attacker off balance. His foe staggered, he grabbed the haft of his axe in two hands and swung in an upwards arc.

The two halves of the space marine crashed into the dirt with a wet clatter.

Hands shaking Rulf took aim at the hulking form. If he was going to die here then he would die for the glory of the Emperor, not as a coward who had never fired a shot. Rulf pulled the trigger.

Belltor pulled his axe free from the decimated corpse of the Imperial guardsman at his feet. Usually such foes were beneath a Master of Executions but the insect had the gall to fire at him, an insult he would not let go unpunished. The rest of the man's squad hadn't even managed to shoot before he had killed them with his bare hands. He moved towards the now shattered city gates, building up momentum with each heavy stride. The horrifying bladed forms of the war band's daemon engines scuttled through the maw of bent and warped metal. They trampled the bloodlusted cultists of the front line with no hesitation, bladed legs and gaping maws made mincemeat of any that got in their way. Belltor was too eager for combat to wait for the lethal tide to ebb, he piledrived his way through. Crushing ally and enemy alike as he went. His fellow marines would wisely hold back until their front lines had soaked up the brunt of the enemies' retaliation. For the Master of Executions though, butchering a shrine world guarded by their hated enemy was too much glory to wait on.

The gate tunnel opened out into a courtyard that had once been ornately decorated. Now though the Imperial Fist's had converted it into a killing ground. Rockcrete rubble and metal debris was piled high to provide cover for the defenders, heavy stubber fire crisscrossed the open space ripping the warband's front line cannon fodder to pieces. The few places that a daemon engine had mounted a barricade the Fists swiftly dispatched them. Belltor bellowed in rage. He craved the perfect fight to offer as a gift to Slaanesh but these pathetic fools were hopeless. Ahead of him was the largest of the barricades, with thundering footfalls he charged it. The roar that emerged from his throat was loud enough to be heard over the gunfire. Solid rounds impacted his armour but he did not slow. He was the perfect warrior and he would never falter.

For a mere mortal the barricade would have been insurmountable under heavy fire. For Belltor it simply served as a minor delay. His boots pulverised rock as he bounded between boulders to reach the summit. Without breaking his stride he vaulted over it, bringing the heel of his axe down through the skull of a guardsman as he went. The heavy stubber the man had been operating was hurled through the air to scatter another squad down below. In a two handed overhead motion Belltor sent his axe hurling through the air, taking one of the Fists that had turned to fight him with it. His powerful fingers sunk into a hunk of rock next to him and it too flew through the air, throwing off the aim of the rest of the marines. Within a heartbeat he was amongst them, axe in hand once more. There was no room for poetry here. Each movement was short, sharp and utterly brutal. He tore off limbs. Hacked heads from shoulders. Eviscerated those who were too slow to get away from his wide swings.

Even when the enemy withdrew from his deadly reach, forming a firing line, bolters aimed square at him he did not falter. To always press forwards was their way and so he did. Mass-reactive rounds tore chunks from his armour and the ground as he charged them. It would have been a glorious end if not for the appearance of his comrades-in-arms. Return fire drove the enemy to cover and allowed Belltor his to sate his butchery up close.

"Cowards, it took you long enough to catch up," he grunted over the vox at the marines that entered the courtyard.

As always they ignored him. Unwavering discipline was the pinnacle of perfection for many of the others in the warband. They moved in perfect sync mowing down any living defenders. Now that their shock troops had ripped through the enemy lines, the chaos marines could move through the crippled remains and finish them off with minimal casualties. Although Belltor saw it as cowardice there was no denying the effectiveness of the Lord Discordant's strategy. The enemy was broken and the world was theirs.

"THIS IS WHY YOU TOOK SO LONG?" Belltor thundered at the legionaries as he watched them shepard dishelved, untainted, mortals onto a waiting thunderhawk.

The legionary had removed his helm and appeared completely unmoved by Belltor's outburst, his face was a mask of passivity.

"Lord Discordant's orders, to capture the slaves from the shrine world," he gave a shrug, "he knew you'd keep them occupied long enough to let us do our work."

Belltor ground his teeth together in anger, once again the Lord Discordant had played him like a damn pawn in his grand strategies.

"They're all branded to the one who's claimed them" the legionary nodded towards the passing queue of misery, "and they're glassing the planet soon so if you want one you better move quick, find yourself a nice little plaything."

Belltor's fury bubbled over and he struck out with his fist. Many of the pathetic mortals jumped back in fright at the deafening sound of a ceramite fist colliding with a metal wall. His antagoniser hadn't flinched despite the fist that was now mere inches from his head. Although he sorely desired to, it would not do for Belltor to kill another member of the warband, the Iron Thiasus was held together tentatively at best. Only their shared desire to find that one perfect battle kept them all working together, alone none of them could achieve that. Instead he let out a roar of frustration that sent the new slaves scattering and stormed off. Shouldering his way through them he moved to take his position near the front of the transport craft. His mood was black and made worse by an insidious prickling at the base of his skull. That blasted Navigator was peering into his mind again, he'd kill that mutant if he tried to mock him again...

The flight back to the warband's flagship, the Ferrum Infernalis, was mercifully brief. The transport craft had been retrofitted with holding pens for slaves so Belltor had entertained himself listening to their anguished wails as he silently fumed near the front of the craft. Usually there were not so many of them - most would rather take their life rather than be captured by a Slaaneshi cult - but it seemed the distraction he had unwittingly been the centre of had worked admirably. The rest of the Iron Thiasus would be enjoying themselves tonight he mused as he watched the new slaves being sent off to their new master's quarters.

A pity he would not be joining them in revelry.

"M... My... Lord Belltor we were not expecting your presence until the last troop transport arrived with the other officers..." a hanger serf clad in rags had come stumbling over to him.

Belltor used just his gauntled thumb and forefinger to pick the man up by his neck, he kicked and squirmed in the marine's grip.

"I return when I wish to worm, now I don't fucking care what your other orders are. You make sure I'm not disturbed in my chambers, understood?"

The serf's face was turning purple as he grasped in vain at Belltor's hand but he managed a vigorous nod. He dropped the now gasping smaller man to the ground and stalked off. His path through the corridors of the Ferrum Infernalis was a tableaux of depravity that would have rivalled even the worst of the circles of Slaanesh's palace. Despite their fractious nature every member of the Iron Thiasus had a deep respect for discipline, no man would touch another's slave. It was however a sign of great prestige to publically use and debase one's slaves in the most horribly sensual manner possible.

The walkways were filled with chaos marines savouring the spoils of the raid.

Many had their slaves pinned against walls or the floor, roughly enjoying their bodies which were already starting to show signs of Slaanesh's corruption. Through one open door spilled spice filled smoke that made even Belltor's head start to spin. Through the wonderful miasma he glimpsed hulking shadows and smaller forms entwined. The moans and screams the smoke carried caused a stirring deep within him that only drove his jealous rage higher. He stalked ahead faster, ignoring the angry shouts from those he pushed past.

My, my is the big bad hero of the battle back here empty handed?

With the words came that feeling at the base of his skull again, like a scratching inside his brain.

"Get out of my head witch," he growled, causing those around him to stare.

He rounded a corner at speed, almost barrelling into a slave as he did so. The slave in question was on their knees in front of a legionary, he had his hands either side of the slave's head and was fucking their mouth viciously. Drool, cum and other viscous fluids leaked out around the swollen warp tainted cock of the aggressor. It dripped wetly from the slave's chin down onto their chest, coating their front. Clearly they had ingested some too as the Prince of Pleasure's gifts could already be seen as the slave's body began to change.

"Watch it! This talented little hole's mine!"

Belltor slammed the legionary back into the wall, causing his plaything to let out a little whimper as the cock they were worshipping left their mouth. Showing his axe as he stepped past and the eager ministrations of lust from the slave kept any retaliation from occuring.

Oh you are furious indeed! How does it feel being cucked by each of your battle brothers? You certainly seemed to be enjoying the view.

Seeing red, Belltor slammed his fist into the opening rune for his chamber door. His personal serfs rushed forward to prepare his arming alcove as he entered. Each had been altered such that they had no holes to use, sustained instead by machinery. The Lord Discordant's idea after too many of his men took too long when preparing for battle. Another reason for Belltor to curse the old bastard, as the blasted Navigator was right. He could feel his own cock pressing hard against his armour's codpiece, the sights and sounds of the ship had been delightful indeed. Thus, making him all the angrier that he could not indulge. He stepped into the large cuboidal metal frame that housed the complex mass of mechatronics and wiring that would aid the serf's in the removal of his armour. Mute as they were they began the process in silence. Belltor took a deep breath as his armour powered down, clamps and power cables moved into place locking him in still as the work was undertaken. The door to his chambers was sealed, he would spend the night-cycle here. The Lord Discordant would face his wrath afterwards, their leader was too clever by half to face when blinded by rage.

His armour's removal process was almost half completed when mechadendrites that stowed the various pieces froze in place. Without the process completed Belltor was stuck, stood spread eagled. Their eyes wide in panic his serfs moved rapidly to attempt to locate the source of the malfunction. All but one. This one instead moved towards the sealed door to Belltor's private chamber, when there the serf pressed the rune to open it. There, framed in the open portal, was the source of the voice that had tormented him.

Ourania the Navigator.

The other serfs moved to grab weapons but did not get far. They froze, before following their colleague out of the door which sealed shut once more behind them. Witchfire danced in crackling arcs around his swollen head as he strode into the room wearing a mocking smirk.

"You little fucker, you did this didn't you?"

As a void-born psyker, Ourania had been blessed mightily with Slaanesh's gifts. His lithe frame was decorated in sworls of void purple that inexorably drew the eye. His scalp and right eye were not that of a mortal man, instead a mass of swollen tentacles took their place. His true eyes, those that could see into the warp, were embedded in these around the crown of his head.

"Ahh Belltor, that is no way to speak to the most important figure on the ship is it?" the navigator's voice was dripping with insolence.

Belltor grunted and strained, pulling hard in order to break free from the machinery that now held him in place. His superhuman muscles bulged but even with the addition of his cybernetically enhanced muscle fibres the armour frame did little more than creak. Ourania let out a mocking laugh as he stepped closer at the sight of the giant chaos marine restrained so. The spice sweet scent of the smaller man's pheromones filled Belltor's nose, even with his enhanced physiology they made focusing difficult.

"Look at you, poor thing. No prize, no recognition for leading the charge and now betrayed by your own armour."

In response Belltor let out a growl, teeth bared. Even his battle-brothers would have thought twice at such a sight but Ourania seemed not to care. Instead he drew closer, placing a hand against Belltor's muscled chest. Ourania ran it down over slabs of granite hard muscle. He drew his nails over the mechanical enhancements that bulged under Belltor's skin that gave him strength above all others. The Navigator cooed in eager delight as flesh and machine alike tensed under his touch. Belltor's angry growl deepened as Ourania moved lower. He had only worn a loincloth under his armour, even before the Navigators teasing he was half hard. Now with the electric touch of one so gifted on his flesh, he could feel his cock pressing hard against the flimsy fabric. Ourania's fingers traced a path down his rippling abs, ever lower. Part of him wanted to cave in to the promise of pleasure that was being offered, his own pride was more important though. Even still he let out a low groan as Ourania's hand cupped his cock.