Welcome to the finale of the first series on Cat-girl Charity; in this world of a dungeons and dragons theme, the final hand is played against her and the Chancellors hidden enemy. Not all is as it appears to be, and many dangers are still to come.

Just understand that when one thinks that in life you understand all there is, to know a person completely, or see that they cannot change, you will be open to new and final revelations that makes it clear; you never knew them to begin with as you suspected.




Three weeks until the Academy ball begins. Once again everything appears to be back in a state of relative order and stability; ‘relative’ of course being the key word. The last few months have seen a rash of murders, the narrow avoidance of a power struggle for control of the Academy, and finally the annihilation of the one who was behind all of these troubles. Now the major concerns focus on the unending, ever expanding, changing and contradicting list of tasks to be finished before the ball.

The rumors concerning Charity though, continue to abound like wildfire, both good and bad.

The rumors hold that, among other things:

Charity is pregnant with the baby of Chancellor Storm Dragon.
She is the daughter of Headmistress Pele and the Chancellor.
She is the daughter of over a hundred different kinds of beings.
She is some kind of angelic being in the guise of a cat-girl.

Those seeking the origins of these rumors never find the source – it is as if they are whispers in the dark itself.

Still it is peaceful, most of the staff and students are happy that the troubles are in the past.

Except for the one troubling complication: the ghostly guardians of the Academy – ancient protocols none fully understand now being obeyed – patrol the halls and rooms, silent watchmen armed for battle in coat-of-mail and weapons always at the ready.


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Housed in the deepest recesses of the Academies basement levels is a series of conjuration chambers held under the iron-grip of the Master Fox-glove, or more precisely the one who is in the guise of the Master. He stands within guides one of “his” greatest Journeymen in a ritual of summoning to call forth a demon lord.

Symbols and sigils used to contain and bind such a great entity to the will of its caller mark the floor in spirals of gold and silver inlaid with precious gems reduced to powder. The burning incense fills the room with mixed scents of almonds, sweet woods and the pungency of bitter herbs and spices.

He sees that the designs are flawless – and woe becomes the caller of demons who fail to make them thus – he nods to the Journeyman. Already in a cross-legged pose, the one indicated begins to utter a most complex series of sentences; words locking one to another in power, evil pulsating and maddening whispers given life and form depart to infiltrate the nightmares of the damned. Repeatedly the young man slaps a clenched fist into his other palm; each one produces a pulsation of power, subtle at first then building one upon another as do the waters of the ocean when great storms sweep across their vastness.

Fires as red as molten metal erupt along the symbols and sigils, pulsating, swaying and building with the words being spoken. Dense clouds of smoke, rich in the odor of brimstone and death begin to gather, lights dancing in a cornucopia of fox fire, while lightning arcs between them all. Building as well is a palatable taste of darkness becoming reality – a perversion in the natural world felt by all those gathered about.


He who is not Fox-glove, a dozen Journeymen and many other monsters they have called forth stand here watching the ritual and awaiting its outcome. He looks over momentarily at some of these entities called out of darkness, ones that look like upright-walking vultures with human arms ending in 8-inch talons harder than steel. Others look like giant humanoid toads – teeth filling row after row in their vast, bulging mouths while spikes line the backs of their massive forearms to some 20 or mire inches in length.

The now belated Fox-glove had gathered only a few such entities; now though he has built an even vaster army.

Soon he will have his general, the demon lord being called now to this world. One who is powerful enough, if the old texts are right, to challenge and crush the life out of the Chancellor himself.

Even now some of his agents work among the students and staff, culling out a few here and there while engaged in hedonistic pursuits. Kept in check by his will and instructions they grudgingly go along, waiting the bloodbath promised for the grand ball.


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The Hall of Ages, the great museum for the Academy in which researchers, archivists, students and beings of a hundred species come to search the histories of ten thousand worlds. Great chandeliers alight with ever-burning candles illuminate the rows upon rows of shelves, bookcases, tables and such filled with books great or small in size. Thirty such levels climb upwards for one to explore during their lifetime and not even tap the hidden levels under the school – ones with knowledge so obscure, dark and dangerous special permission is needed for those who wish access to it.

Down the winding and darkened corridors of this lowest level four beings wander, seeking one special chamber with lanterns alight – green foxfire and blue witch-lights illuminate the Headmistresses Pele and Charity, who are accompanied by the Chancellor and Dancing Tiger. In silence so still it screams they proceed. Light and shadow play across ancient rows and shelves of books and papers stacked wherever room can be found.

On occasion some of the statues they pass turn out to be much more than statues – creatures of magic and wild spirits called golems; automations of iron, stone, wood or precious gems all but impervious to physical or any magical harm. Each one in turn challenges the group, demanding the words to permit passage or commence a battle none of the party desires.

One by one they pass the sentinels; an old, rickety bridge allows them to cross a sprawling chasm so deep that echoes do not sound from the bottom hidden beyond the light they carry. Doors made of iron-bound wood and wood-bound iron open silently to ghostly hands, for if mortal being touches one with bare flesh, the deadly sequence of traps will be unleashed – designed to rend, tear, crush and shred.

At last they come to their destination – a single door, undecorated and common as anything else. Everyone sees Charity stand in front of it, eyes closed in deep concentration, and then to her unspoken will the door silently opens to allow entry for two.

All eyes watch Charity as she systematically begins to remove her clothing – a silken doublet, blouse and her undershirt; old Dancing Tigers jaw hangs agape at the sight of her firm breasts and erect nipples, gulp after gulp sounding as the raw sensuality of her being is revealed when britches and undergarments are placed aside.

– BOOF-

The slamming of a cane into his gut, forcing the air out of lungs as he falls to the ground reminds him not to stare for too long.


“You two ladies proceed; I will stay out here with this one,” – the Chancellor indicated to Dancing Tiger with his cane – “and make sure he does not become a lone peeping tom.”

Laughter comes from the room beyond the door. That of the companion of Charity – Patches, her little dragon friend – and a soft, feminine voice which belongs to Charities newly selected assistant. This is the tradition of the school – for each time a new master or mistress of the school gains an assistant, they will in this most private of chambers consummate the relationship in bed.

Pele is along ostentatiously to be a witness for the consummation; in reality she is an extra level of security for Charity. With that cat-girl strange things occurring are all but assured; and often in the wildest, most dramatic and dangerous of manners. All of them hope it will not be that way tonight, yet the Chancellor, as much as he desires Charity can relax for one time, will not take any chances with the safety of his beloved.


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Echoing throughout the chamber the Journeyman’s voice has quickened and deepened unto inhuman levels; words in a dozen dozens of languages combine crashing, crushing, bending and distorting one unto the next. His eyes have become two pools of glowing fox fire as he continues the calling for the entity beyond this world. All feel the growing power as reality is slowly distorted, folding and twisting in upon itself.

In a great maelstrom of energy released – arcing lightning, streams of fire, and poisonous clouds of smoke and scalding steam – the door opens to the great beyond. Cries of the damn echo into mortal ears not meant to hear such pain and despair. The demons in the room though, acknowledge grudgingly their superior has come – one who rules through absolute power and fear of what they believe it can do.

As the Journeyman collapses to the ground, smoke rising from his smoldering corpse, He who is not Fox-glove looks upon the being thus summoned – the most dreaded lord of the demons referenced in ancient lore. Such is the sheer and utter malignance it generates he steels himself to stand against it in a titanic battle of wills; ready to dare all for the chance to crush the Chancellor completely.

“Bow down to your master mortal. You who have called me are my slave not my equal in any regard. Bow down and know despair before your life comes to a complete end.”

These words of the great beast echo in his mind by a telepathic link.

Upon beholding this magnificent messenger of chaos and destruction incarnate, Dominique does the only thing he can rationally do. He nearly laughs himself to death at the sight of a “mighty” six-inch high, mushroom shape demon.

As expected, the demon attempts to dominate his will; imparting feelings via telepathy of hopelessness, despair and weakness. It seeks to enslave him – to turn him into its puppet, its slave.

Deciding enough is enough; he who is not Fox-glove extends three inch long claws on one hand.

Although the demon lord is only six-inches in height, he figures it will make a fine snack.


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Misty and the young man had come to this little cubby-hole near the kitchens for some fun. Or at least he is the one currently having the fun – standing with his back to the wall, hands gripping the two storage racks to either side of him. His moans and gasps of delight carry only a short distance as his companion, down on her knees continues her work on his manhood. Never has a lady been able to make him feel so good just by pleasuring him with her mouth.

Indeed the reputation Misty has for such expertise is true. Those lips suck and pucker just right, gripping with the force of iron and her tongue teasing his member here, there and back again. Waves of bliss dance across his mind and build into a hazy mist of heat, passion and desire. Ears thunder from the blood pounding through his body, heart racing and his thoughts scream for him to get inside of her and let his seed loose deep within, to make the consummation he hopes for happen; its taken over a week of determined effort to get just this far, how long will it take to get her into bed with him?

Soft fingertips tickle him in another spot below causing him to squirm momentarily. He hears the sounds of her continuing, heady scents of spices, flour, herbs, meals cooking and her own perfume mix into a rainbow of flavors. His eyes cross as the sensations build; ever pulsating downward and making him feel as if he is floating on clouds of delight. “Oh yes, its happening, its…I uh-am-hu-hu-am-going-hu…”

His release is sudden and fierce, three, four and then a fifth time into her mouth; completely spent he collapses to the floor.

Misty stands up again, licking her lips while readjusting her gown – mainly to make sure her low cut bodice shows each breast in the best light, and minimal coverage. A little bit shifting here and there, then all is once again in place for her to entice another into the promises of carnal pleasures and knowledge. Oh so much more fun waits for her and her victims – for each time a man cums in her mouth she is able to suck the very life force of their bodies and souls out…

She smiles widely as her eyes glance down to the desiccated, smiling corpse of the young man. Striding away after other meat on the table she just thought how happy he must have been dying with a smile on his face. Tonight she and her sisters will continue to hunt; to cause terror and fear; to await the coming slaughter at the ball just three weeks out.

Her entire body shudders in great anticipation of the carnage, gore and blood to be unleashed; chaos raw and primal without restraints – that is what she has been promised; and so she shall have.


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Breathing deeply in an effort to calm herself down, Charity takes in the contents of this little room.

Not much to see really, just a small feathered bed, a pair of wooden chairs and a glowing blue-white sphere of conjured light casting flickering shadows across the bare walls. She sees Pele on one of the chairs, looking as regal as she always does, unfazed and unflappable. Contrary to her usual style of keeping her hair bound in a cummerbund, she has it set in twin French braids interlaced with fine gold and silver chains. Even the red-blue lotus flower above her left ear stands out.

The young woman on the bed though clearly shows off her anxiety of their intimacy to come AND in the presence of both Headmistresses of the school.