"Faster, ."

Cheers ring through the streets of Pandemonium. Confetti flies from the high windows of the pointy gothic skyscrapers. They’re throwing you a parade.

“Faster, ****,” you say, cracking your whip. Astarte, on all fours, dragging your chariot through the streets, squeals into her gag as the black leather makes contact with her magnificent bare buttocks. Her witches, marching in formation ahead of her, squeal as well as matching red lines appear on all their naked asses. Whatever Astarte feels, her witches feel as well.

The whole plan went off without a hitch.

As soon as you snatched the Pridestone from her tiara, Astarte froze. With a wave of your hand you dismissed all her occult defenses, carefully built up over aeons, and materialised in front of her. Her eyes blazed with hate and rage, and she tried to utter the first three words of a curse that would blast you into your component atoms and reduce you in a heartbeat to a mere slimy lemure.

But she couldn’t move.

She just had to sit there as you, laughing, reached out and fondled those mighty breasts at your leisure, teasing and poking and tweaking while telling her how incredibly easy it had been to catch her at a disadvantage. You strolled round behind her, admiring her from all angles, pinching and groping her ass, sliding a hand between her legs to examine her lovely slippery pussy. You kissed her cheek, tickled her ribs, pinched her nipples, spanked her butt and generally did anything you wanted with her lovely naked body, while she stood there in utter blazing fury, as apocalyptically angry and frustrated as only a Princess of Hell can be. But helpless to stop you.

You summoned three of your special levitating icecubes into the air. You held them in front of her, letting her watch them spin while you told her exactly what else you were going to do with her. And, with a gesture, you sent them flying towards her nipples and pussy.

Filling the whole enormous bathhouse with horrified squeals as tens of thousands of witches, frozen in place by your cruel magic, felt the ice slide over their own most sensitive regions, teasing and spiralling and plunging intimately deep. Whatever Astarte feels, her witches feel as well.

You didn’t stop there, of course. You followed the ice up with hot wax on the titties, paddling, caning, tickle ****, nipple clamps, clothespins on the labia, snaps with rubber bands, a knob of infernal ginger up the ass… whatever tickled your fancy. You made it all as degrading as possible, and summoned some of your lowest and most perverted imps to take pictures so she’d never be able to live it down. When the imps got bored, you let them loose among the helpless witches, with interesting results.

Astarte, one of the proudest and most arrogant creatures in all creation, hated every single second of it. But the thing she hated most of all is when you bent her over a message table, greased her up with hot oil and fucked her until she squealed.

Then, the parade.

By the time she reaches the Grand Infernal Plaza, every last living thing in Hell has seen the proud Astarte crawling naked on all fours before you, squealing like a helpless little **** as you apply your whip to her ass. They’ve seen her ten thousand witches, as well, marching naked in formation, titties jiggling, asses wiggling, faces bright red with humiliation as they’re paraded without their clothes through what is, after all, the most populous city in the cosmos.

And they’ve laughed. Oh, how they laughed at the embarrassment of the red-faced naked witches! How they appreciated every little yelp and squirm, every awkward jig and jump as the whip stings their cute behinds again and again.