Zeya and Lavorra outnumbered

The four Daemon soldiers enter rowdily, dark and crooked drinking horns clutched in orange-tinted hands. They wear light armour, but still of a strong, practical creation - Lavorra recognises it as enchanted Daemon-iron. They are tall, each at least six foot, with cruel faces and jagged horns - but as Zeya said, they do appear to be younger, perhaps the Daemonic equivalent of men in their twenties.

They crowd in, surrounding and towering over the two busty Tieflings. Lavorra backs up against Zeya, and experiences the strange sensation of their tails curling around one another like cats - still finding it hard to get used to having one. She cannot hide her intimidation, but supposes that will help sell her disguise. Her fingers find Zeya’s and they tangle together at their sides, the ruby Tiefling giving her hand a quick squeeze.

At least I’m not alone in this. And neither is she, not anymore.

“Conjured up a little friend, did you Devil-Whore?” The Daemon that seems to be their leader speaks, grasping Lavorra’s sapphire chin and tilting her head up, before reaching with his other hand, clawed fingers roughly massaging her left breast, thumb easily finding her stiffening nipple under the thin fabric of her tunic. His face is decorated with a series of metal loops and studs, jewellery, or a mark of rank, Lavorra isn’t sure - she concentrates on keeping her face impassive, biting her lip against the sensations assaulting her, and trying to refrain from punching him in the throat as he gropes her.

“Oh you know us spade-tails Zhalk.” Zeya trills airily, “we’re always appearing in a puff of smoke.”

“Here’s something you can puff on.” Another of them jeers, grabbing Zeya’s free hand, and pressing it to his crotch.

“More of a tobacco leaf than a pipe, if I recall right, Kurn.” Zeya retorts smartly.

The Daemons laugh at her barb, and Lavorra smiles nervously, even as Zhalk reaches around to cup her tight round ass. The next moment there’s a loud smack of skin on skin, as Kurn slaps Zeya round the face. The Tiefling girl yelps in pain, stumbling back against Lavorra, who turns about instinctively to clutch her protectively.

“Sweet.” Zhalk chuckles. Stepping in behind them. “Close as sisters.”

He seizes one of their horns each. Holding them roughly and applying forceful pressure, directing the girls to their knees. Zeya sinks down, legs folding neatly under her, red thighs pressed to calves. Lavorra stumbles on her way down, an explosion of sensation erupting in her head as her new horn is used against her. Her stomach flips, and to her horror her loins tingle excitedly, something in her body - her real body - reacting with submissive anticipation at the feeling of a strong hand manipulating her by the horn.

She finds herself on her knees beside Zeya, legs curled out to the side, her booted ankles resting atop each other.

Kurn grins down at them, already dragging a chair over, and unbuckling his belt. “That’s why I love Imps like these: those horns are just there to put them in their place.”

“You’ve got them too.” Lavorra retorts before she can help herself. There’s another chuckle from the Daemons, and Kurn - eyes blazing, literally - raises his hand to strike her, too. But the soldier at his side, the youngest looking, with a broken horn, catches his wrist.

“Can we just get what we came for, without beating them bloody?”

Lavorra feels pathetic for the rush of gratitude she feels towards the young Daemon. By her side, Zeya piles the honey on, perhaps seeking an advantage? “Thank you Skrain.” She smiles sweetly up at him.

Lavorra feels her arms roughly pulled up, clumsy hands fumbling with her bodice and tunic, which are yanked off her and tossed to the side. She begins to protest, but realises that will only prolong the humiliation ahead. She doesn’t even bother covering herself, and Zeya is left similarly half-clothed, their colourful breasts spilling free, leaving both girls topless before the Daemons, round and firm, nipples already pebbling - in the cool night air, Lavorra tells herself.

“No good for making new soldiers,” Zhalk leers down at them. He has unbuckled his belt, and Lavorra gasps as his thick, lengthy member suddenly bobs into view, mere inches from her face. A dusky orange like the rest of him, it is pierced along the underside, its tip strangely flared. She wets her lips involuntarily, unable to stop herself in time, as it twitches before her. “But we can find another use for those fat dugs of yours.”