Author's Note

[f/?] [Rape]
Characters: [Sweetie Belle] [Ashn’achgryth Harknanar Percival Kijknatch-Iirnud]
By Orlunu

Master by Orlunu

Sweetie went over the markings one last time. Face practically scraping against the floorboards -- but not quite, that would scuff the chalk, after all -- she checked them with all the obsessive attention to detail that she’d picked up from her sister and from her mentor. Twilight had suggested that she was ready to try summoning a full-fledged deamon on her own, and she was just finishing the preparations. If she got anything wrong, at this point or later, then master and slave would switch places, and her studies could end horrifyingly. She compared her spelling to what was written in the book, and then decided that she had fussed enough.

She knew exactly which deamon she was going to summon. That slaughter deamon, who had taunted her so cruelly several weeks back when Twilight had tried to teach her banishment, would get what he deserved. He’d said that she was useless, and predicted a horrible demise of her own creation. Well, he wouldn’t look so smug when he was pulled from his cosy little hell-hole and found himself snared by her wards!

Sweetie lit the candles, spat out the incantation, and watched the results. Nothing changed. Sweetie stared resolutely into the middle distance. She waited a bit longer.

“I know you’re in there! You’re not going to trick me into going in to check what went wrong.”

No response.

“Uurgh. Fine, if you’re going to be a child about it, I command you to take pony form.”

Nada.

“Take pony form right now!”

A pony appeared in the circle, dressed in furs and armour. The armour was battered and corroding, and the fur was so matted with gore that the original colours were hard to distinguish. Sweetie was glad that the wards held back the deamon’s smell, too. Hey, that was a good sign…

The deamon chuckled in an arrogant, contemptuous way. “And that, little filly, is why you are out of your depth. You made your wards strong, whether by luck or through well justified fear, but even with your first command you failed to say what you meant. You do know that the slightest error, the tiniest ambiguity, could give me my chance to become the master here, don’t you? Or has your mentor just cast you out to the wolves? Surely, if she recommended that you summon one such as I, who has gloried in so many victories in battle, and who has filled lakes with blood, she must have wanted to dispose of you.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Sweetie answered, sounding reproachful.

“Hah! If you knew what was best for you, you would just dismiss me and take up a profession more suited to your mental skills: whoring, perhaps.”

“Well, tough luck. I’m not going to be doing that. I command you to take the form of a beautiful twelve year old filly, who any stallion would both lust for and wish to protect!”

The deamon transformed into an adorable little foal as instructed, albeit one with a look of haughty amusement that looked rather out of place.

“Really? You summon a mighty slaughter deamon, one of the most deadly denizens of Tartarus, to seduce someone? You task Ashn’achgryth Harknanar Percival Kijknatch-Iirnud, the ender of empires, with a task requiring little more than an imp, and which relies so little on my own manly, brutal skills? Pah, you truly do have no idea what you are doing. I almost feel sorry for you.”

“Nope, you’re definitely the one I want. Now, I command you to exercise no more power than Scootaloo could exercise in your position.” Sweetie winced slightly at the slight to her friend, but Scoots really was the most helpless and pathetic filly that she had been able to think of.

A flash of annoyance showed on the deamon’s face. “You had better not keep me like this for long, foal, or your demise will make legends.”

“Oh, you’ll be like this for a while,” Sweetie said in a slightly muffled voice, as she pulled out a large coil of rope. “You’ll be like this for quite a while indeed. I command you to kneel, and to take no action when I come to bind you.” She flashed a predatory grin, “I’m gonna make you my bitch.”

From his new, lower, vantage point, the deamon could see the filly’s unnatural, and unnaturally large, member hanging beneath her. He gulped as he realised that he had finally met a truly terrifying mage.