A Wandsman in a Vegas Cathouse

rating: +49+x


I write to you, dear reader, from a glamorous and sinful hotel room in Las Vegas. I have suffered through a sordid cocktail of soot and ash, endured the slow decay of the "American nation", and suffered through Spirit Airlines, to bring you this sordid tale of a wondrous place.

I do not pour my ruddy humor into my words like some of my colleagues, but I have spent myself all the same to bring you this recollection.

A Wandsman in a Vegas Cathouse

In a certain city, on a certain street, down a certain alleyway, you will find yourself a house of pleasure staffed by the most delectable of hosts. I found myself at this mansion of lurid delicacies on a slow Monday morn. I simply knocked twice, and the door bade me enter.

Upon seeing me, the madame — who gave me no name but "the Semen Demon" — was hesitant to allow my entry until I swore I would direct visitors from all corners of the multiverse. In my eternal wisdom I hesitated — for I doubted, at first, that those with frames as delicate as hers could possibly withstand the staunch and writhing constitutions of my most dedicated readers.

She laughed at me with a raspy chuckle that crackled like hellfire. She said that I could see for myself, soon enough.

So worry not. Should you believe yourself unworthy of love, carnal pleasures, the company of the opposite sex, or simply a good fuck because of the horrors of your flesh prison, fear not. The lovely demon ladies and gentlemen of this Undervegas brothel don't give a shit about your physical form.

They may be called demons, but that's simply slander. Demons are hardly worthy of the harsh reputation they bear.

These artisans of flesh and sensation are hardly cruel but gentle.



You may wonder about trifling minutiae like payment. How you might convert the Silversin Sand dollars of Crescent Ardoria or the Blackmist Bloom Scentcent of Ulmatagor into payment worthy of this wonderful establishment. I inquired with another paying customer, waiting her turn, on the matter.

This paying customer was a member of the SCP Foundation who wished to remain unidentified, Doctor Agatha Rights. The SCP Foundation, dear reader, is one of those dreary normalcy preservation organizations that populate this branch of the local multiverse. Recently there's been an uptick in transparency and integration, but frankly I would caution against trusting any such rumors.

I spoke to this anonymous Doctor Agatha Rights as we waited for our hosts to ready themselves.

She was human, all too human, with fragile bones and a head of thick hair. Her skin shone, mammalian, in the magenta love-light of this House of Pleasure. As we spoke, she would periodically take long drafts from an electronic cigarette, exhaling wispy puffs of cotton candy smoke into the air.

I wondered why she bothered with a place like this. It has been many centuries since I bore a humanoid form myself, yet as you all well know, the ardor of my loins has not abated. Yet this anonymous Doctor Rights was in the prime of her mortality, and hardly, it seemed, the type to face difficulty in pursuit of worldly pleasure. Perhaps she was here on a sting operation, some foul subterfuge or infiltration, to turn this lair of love to one of larceny.

She laughed in my face. The anonymous Rights told me that she was coming here on her own time, off the clock.

(In my frank opinion, if your employer does not pay you for establishing such carnal relations, then they are hardly an employer worth working for. Your generous contributions to this paper funded these very words you read.)

Agatha, who wished not to be named, told me that she proudly considered herself a frequent purveyor of the semen demon's wares. I asked her what payment she might provide these lovely demons.

Why, she beamed at me like a U-Mouthed Gluck Gluck Owl. The very act of giving her self to these entertainers, her attention, her body and her mind and her lust, was payment enough. On some of her visits, she would take her hostesses out on the town afterwards, charging her company card as a 'containment expense'. They would meet at dusk, journ through the nine circles of the Vegas strip in the night, and retire in the morn to the very house we sat in waiting.

She was intimately familiar with them, and they with her, that they spoke the secret language of friends and lovers despite the pecuniary nature of their transaction. She had gifted t-shirts labeled "I got screwed by the SCP Foundation and all I got was this lousy shirt", and her most beloved entertainers wore them whenever she visited.

I asked her how often she visited.

She demurred, a laugh smothered in her throat. Then three fine ladies of the night, each wearing her gifted t-shirts, carried her away.

And soon I would be in my own journey into the Backrooms of this sublime space atop the tip of Hell.

Ever since my cruel transformation into my Wandsman form, I have found myself unsatisfied by the forms of my comrades. I have found something wanting in the act of flirtation. And the fine young demon lass, scarcely a millennium old, had an eye keen enough to spy my restless desolation.

And yet as she beckoned me forth, a forked tongue dashing between pointed teeth, I could tell she was all too ready to provide.

Perhaps I should take an aside, dear reader.

I have found myself, with my enhanced Wandsman constitution, unchallenged. Physically unmatched. Simply unable to feel fear or threat no matter what fights I have sought. I have felt little adrenaline through my wings and my veins, only the sure knowledge of mundane satisfaction.

This has proven an issue in my personal life. In the quenching of the thirst of my desire. I have been unchallenged and unchallengeable. I am untamable, yet I have long wished to be tamed. I am a beast of the air, yet I wish to be a common farmfowl.

And in Vegas, I found my taming.

These lovely ladies – for most of them present alike to the human female – adhere instead to the submit-dominate sexual axis.

And I assure you, they are dominant.

They care not for your form nor your fetishes. They will chain you down all the same.

She was red, the color of cherrywood set alight. Her hair curled about her, and in the flickering light I could see her twelve-dimensional silhouette, spiraling ever upwards the dimensional chain with sin and hunger. And in her eyes I could see her seeing me as I saw her, probing me for weakness, and finding, to my sorrow, none.

I disrobed.

When she saw my corkscrew spiral, she undulated. Her form dilated upon the probability waves, circles of nine and nine within circles of nine. I approached her, member twisting in the perfumed air, quivering with nervous anticipation, for my Wandsman build and anatine instincts built in me a fervor and a fortitude that I feared none could overcome.

She percolated around me, her meretriculous folds enveloping my anatine form from all directions, infiltrating my feathers to stroke me where in places I could not imagine. I reached for her, stretched with all my strength, sought the slightest certainty, yet found none. She held me in her clutches, a duckling in a hawk's beak.

I shook against her, aqueous ichor pouring from my talons, aqua magica pouring from my spirit like water from a broken dam. She drank in my resistance, absorbed the mutual pleasure of my struggle. My defeat. And closer still her spirit crept, a crushing blanket upon my soul. Upon my form. Smothering.

I drew breath. And breathed in her.

And she suffused me, and I collapsed.

Beyond that, dear reader, a pleasure beyond imagination.

I woke later from my daze, and she gave my beak a gentle kiss before she departed.

I left that room a broken man. Broken and bruised and all too enthused.

Overall, not the best joint in the multiverse, but a fair deal for the payment.


Jousan the Lecher, Third Wandsman of Karna-Foq, Roamer of Relativistic Roosts, Purveyor of Perfidious Felines, Assessor of Astral Donkeys

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License