Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust

by Amanda Clover

  “On your feet!” You shout, running among the glistening, naked men and women. Some of them are getting to their feet, but others are so shocked by their condition that they stare in confused disbelief. You help a very pregnant-seeming woman to her feet and she moans and almost topples back over. Fortunately, you are not alone, as a few men and women begin to help the others.

  “Come on, all of you,” you say. “She will be back. You cannot remain here.”

  “My husband,” moans one woman.

  Others embrace each other or marvel in horror at their changed bodies. Most of the women seem pregnant and slime drops from their cunts in a sickening parody of birth. The slimes are alive and retreat from their mother as they are birthed. But proteans cannot interbreed with humans, so this protean was only using these poor women as incubators for her offspring.

  The grotesque reality of their predicament threatens to overwhelm the survivors with despair, but you and a few of those who recover quickly begin to urge them out of the chamber through the exit tunnel.

  The tunnel opens onto a rocky, windswept slope down onto a grassy plain. One of the men seems to know the area and he leads the group down to the stream to help everyone clean off the lingering filth of the protean. You wash up as well and breathe deeply of the fresh, island air. You watch them bathing and seeming to recover some of their humanity. Then you step away from the group and take out your map.

  “Yemoleth is the closest village,” says a tired-looking brunette as she looks at your map.

  You find Yemoleth on the map and see that it is far to the west.

  “I am looking for my family,” you say. You point to the city of Rhilath. “I think they were heading to the old capital.”

  “The Dead City,” says the woman, twisting her damp hair in her hands. “You should not go to there.”

  “I must. What about this settlement here?” You point out a town called Lyokk which is not far to the north of your current location. It is along the way to Rhilath.

  “Lyokk is gone. Destroyed by the devils. My uncles used to live there. The Keeper still dwells in the manor. Beware the Keeper and their garden.”

  You try to ask her more about this Keeper, but the woman seems to slip back into a daze and wanders away from you. The men and women tell you they are going to Yemoleth to see if the village survives. They want you to come along, but it is too far out of your way.

  “Good luck to you,” you say. “If I find my family, I may come and visit.”

  They say a friendly goodbye, but the feeling remains that you will likely never see them again. Yemoleth, like everywhere else on this island, is surely cursed with evil. You wave a last farewell and set off to the north.

  Before long, you find a surprisingly nice road paved with stones. They are overgrown with weeds, but otherwise intact. The land rises and falls and rises again in low, wide hills that vary from grassland to scattered forest. You reach the town called Lyokk. True to what the woman said, it has apparently been destroyed. It is as if all of the buildings have been smashed flat by giant fists. There are a few rotten corpses, mostly picked clean by scavengers.

  A small hill overlooks the remains of Lyokk and atop this hill you can just make out a vast, dark manor house. It seems built in a more modern style than most of the structures you have seen since your arrival on Ctharne. It almost reminds you of a building from Akrane. You see no doors on the manor, but there is an entrance to a garden surrounded by a high stone wall. Strange foliage tops the wall. Even from this distance, you can tell that this garden is far from natural.

  You are gazing so intently up at the garden that you do not notice the beast until it is almost upon you. It is the same beast that has been on your heels since you left the ship behind. The hideous creature snarls and snaps its jaws, its four eyes blazing with rage, it deformed, wolf-like body bulging with unwholesome muscles.

  “Gods!” You cry, staring at the beast and its huge slavering jaws. Somehow, even worse than those pitiless jaws, is the glistening pink cock erect beneath the furry body of the creature. It seems even angrier than before, even more savage. Fear flutters in your chest and you feel a powerful urge to flee for the apparent safety of that garden wall.

  The creature snarls again, its pink tongue hanging from its mouth and saliva dripping from its huge teeth. It is easy to imagine those jaws tearing out your throat, and yet…

  You do not bolt. You linger for a moment, emboldened by your triumph over the protean. You are armed. You are a huntress. Perhaps it is time to face down this creature that has been pursuing you since your arrival.

  What do you do?

  Run for the manor house!

  Turn and confront the beast pursuing you

  Attack

  No sooner have the words of defiance left your lips than you raise your flintlock and fire the pistol at the massive goat. His head jerks back. For a moment, his bestial eyes show fear. The women shriek and retreat from the bright flash and gust of smoke, but as the smoke clears you see the horned goat begin to smile.

  “Is this the extent of your magic?” He says aloud. “There is nothing to fear from this one, my brides. Take hold of her!”

  The goat’s many brides, both beautiful and hideous, recover from their fear and charge at you in a pack of naked, unwashed flesh. Their eyes are wild and their hands are held like claws.

  “Do not try it!” You cry, swinging your sword in warning and drawing your other pistol. You fire at the goat. You cannot tell if the shot even struck him and the women charge on through the white smoke. A monstrously ugly-faced woman with a lusciously perfect body reaches you first.

  Her heaving breasts are capped with symmetrical pink areolas that bulge unusually and fat nipples that glisten with her mother’s milk. Her hips are wide and her thighs certainly suggest that the goat keeps at least some of his women well-fed. But her face is a horrid mask, twisted with a scream, one eye far too large for the socket and her jaw seemingly twisted and hanging open.

  “Stay back!” You cry and slash her across her hands with your sword. She wails in agony and recoils as blood blossoms from her palms. It is the only blow you manage to land with your sword. The brides of the goat grab your arms and wrench the pistol and sword from your grasp. You lash out at them, screaming and kicking as you are lifted off your feet and slammed back onto the filthy ground.

  You are smothered in their unwashed flesh. More than a dozen women all fighting to rip off your clothing and claw, pinch, and squeeze your naked flesh. You wail in shock as they tear off every last scrap. They laugh and hoot wildly. Your violent undressing becomes something different. They are still handling you roughly, but no longer trying to hurt you. Grimy hands squeeze your pale breasts and pluck at your nipples. Two women pull your legs wide and another, with an angelically beautiful face, presses between your thighs.

  “Noooo! Please… no…!” Her head drops to your cunt and her tongue begins to lap at your delicate peach. You jerk your hips involuntarily. With her head down, you can see the girl’s backside, and the vestigial tail just above her crack. You try to cry out again, but another woman kisses you, thrusting her tongue into your mouth. The kiss ends with you gasping helplessly with pleasure.

  You lose your will to resist as you are engulfed in the hot press of bodies. Two women begin to suck at your breasts, magnify the pleasure of the tongue against your clit. The woman you are kissing lifts her lips from your mouth. You moan, but are only with without for a moment as another woman leans her massive breasts against your face. A fat nipple presses into your mouth and you do not fight your instinct to suck. Your mouth is instantly filled with sweet, warm milk. The more you drink, the more you crave, swallowing mouthfuls of her mother’s milk.

  You are carried on a tide of pleasure, quickly losing yourself and your inhibitions in the raunchy touch of the goat’s many brides. You writhe against them, exploring with your hands and kiss, moaning in the embrace of one woman after another. You taste the tang of thei
r cunts, the sweaty heat of their asses, and the sweet, hot cream of their breasts. They sprawl beneath you, sit atop you, and wriggle as their legs tangle with yours. The sounds of pleasure echo in the gloomy temple and when you have the rare chance to lift your head you see the goat, smiling upon his throat, with another dozen brides pleasuring his massive cock.

  By the time the massive patriarch decides to rise from his throne and claim your willing cunt, you have cum so many times that you have lost county. The women part before him and you lift your head. Though you are drenched in sweat and other bodily fluids, you have never felt more pure. You are one of his brides and today is your wedding day.

  The goat’s huge hand roll you over onto your stomach and you feel a momentary burn as his fingernail rasps over your left buttock. The symbol he has drawn on your cheek tingles and you somehow know this is the seal that marks you as his bride.

  The women turn you over again and cradle you in their arms. One smoothes the hair from your face and another kisses your neck. They all look up at their glorious husband, the father of their holy children, as he guides his swollen cock to your entrance. It is enormous! You are certain it will kill you, but you no longer care.

  “It will not hurt,” he promises with a rumbling voice.

  The huge cockhead pushes past your slippery folds and he thrusts into you, filling you completely, pushing past all possible limits until it feels as if his cock is lodged just beneath your throat. Your stretched pussy somehow does not rip open and even though your tummy is bulging with each stroke, you do not feel any pain at all.

  You clench tight against his thrusting cock, jostling in the arms of the brides supporting your body. They coo with sympathetic pleasure with each stroke. Some of them reach out to touch the goat’s glistening cock on the backstrokes. Others toy with your breasts, suck at your earlobes, and toy with your shapely ass.

  “It’s so good!” You cry with abandon.

  “Yes, little one, yes,” groans the mighty goat. “My seed churns for you!”

  “Oh, yes! Fill me! Plant your seed within me!”

  His roar of pleasure fills the chapel. Hot cum blasts against your fertile womb and quickly overflows your stuffed cunt. The brides squeal with delight as the goat’s spunk splashes against them and drips from your pussy. You can feel their fingers and tongues on your thighs and your dripping crack, but they are distant, unimportant sensations compared to the bliss of realizing your purpose.

  The curse of the island works its magic and the goat’s seed finds purchase in your fertile cunt. Joy bursts orgasmicly within you. Your body is consumed in warmth and a dreamy smile spreads across your face as the goat empties his cock into your eager pussy.

  CONTINUE >

  Doomed by the vines ending

  Hours become days. Your thoughts are faint within the rustling tomb of the vines. You know it has pulled you into the fountain and sometimes there is a bit of stagnant water to suck from the vines that thrust into your mouth. Most of the time, you do not concern yourself with any need but your constant craving for pleasure. Your chafed cunt has grown accustomed to the constant thrusting and your throat no longer aches to accommodate the vines. Even your ass has gone mostly numb, but you still feel the pleasure of fullness as the vines coil deep into your tender bowels.

  Many times you reflect on the beauty of the flower you are feeding with your sexual pleasure. You wish you could look upon it again and see those incredible patterns of colors. You are grateful that you can still smell its sweet fragrance.

  Day by day, you feel yourself slipping deeper and deeper into the sweet-scented darkness. You are awake less time to experience the pleasure. It is day when you have a visitor to the courtyard. You know it is day when the vines become very warm from sunlight. You are on the edge of falling asleep once more, gently spasming with your ten-thousandth orgasm, when you hear a familiar buzzing. Only, this time it grows louder and louder. You hear the buzzing just above you and strange, feminine giggle.

  “Hello, Mr. Flower,” says a sweet, feminine voice. “How are you on this fine day? I see you’ve caught someone yummy?”

  You feel something pressing against the vines that bind you and something hard pushes between two vines and right into your pussy. It swirls around inside you, sharing your stretched cunt with the vines for a few seconds before pulling back out.

  “A girl? How lovely,” says the voice. “I’m jealous. I want a girl too for my eggs. Maybe you can let the next one through and not eat them all up. Okay? Bye-bye, Mr. Flower.”

  The buzzing lifts away and recedes. You wonder who that buzzing woman was as you descend into darkness. Those are the last words you hear before you pass into that endless, pleasure-wracked night. You never awaken again from your erotic dreams.

  Your adventure and your life are at an end.

  BAD END

  << START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX

  Withhold

  Herald of the Great One or not, you are not about to fuck this flabby ogre with the beady black eyes. He looks ridiculous in his ragged, stained trousers and his swirly tattoos.

  “I am the herald of the Great One,” you announce to him, holding your arms out at your sides and slowly raising them above your head. It is a gesture you have seen clerics make when performing temple rituals. The fat ogre seems impressed and gives you a bow.

  “I am Premble and I serve the Great One,” he says, his voice surprisingly high and soft. He lifts his gaze and asks, “How may I serve you?”

  “You will not touch me,” you begin. “You will help me dry my clothes and you will fix me something to eat.”

  “Of course, herald,” he says. “T-this way. It is my honor to serve you.”

  As you follow the shuffling ogre deeper into the tunnels of his cave, you hear your mother’s scolding voice in your head.

  “You could have at least given the poor oaf a wank between those plump breasts,” she says.

  “Mother, he is disgusting,” you reply within your mind.

  “If you think that ogre is disgusting, you might be ill-suited to the job of herald,” your mother says with scorn in her imaginary tone. “Some creatures might react violently if you do not offer them pleasure. You will have to fight them in that case.”

  “I made it this far,” you accidentally say aloud.

  “Hmmmmm?” Premble stops and looks at you over his broad shoulder.

  “Nothing, ogre,” you say, waving to him. “Continue. Show me where I can dry my clothes.”

  He nods his head and smiles sheepishly, if such a creature could seem sheepish. He shuffles deeper into the cave and shows you to a seam in the stone floor with a chiseled wedge of rock above it.

  “Warm,” he says, indicating the opening in the floor. You hold out your hand and feel the very warm geothermal air that rises from the seam. It feels wonderful on your hand. Premble grunts and says, “I make food. Leave you alone.”

  Premble trundles off to whatever passes for a kitchen in his crude home. You unburden yourself of your equipment and heavy pack. Thankfully, your backpack is waterproofed with wax, so the family book is unharmed. You brush droplets of water off and set the pack near the warm flow of air. You undress and place your clothing on the rock overhanging the warm vent. Premble has left you a small cloth to wrap your body. The cloth barely covers your bottom and leaves your legs and a generous amount of cleavage on display.

  You join Premble in the kitchen, which is a clay oven and several iron pots he like plundered from humans. They seem tiny in his huge hands and he nearly spills the steaming pot of porridge when he sees you nearly nude in the flimsy wrap. You sit down at the crude table and cross your legs. He nearly spills the steaming porridge again.

  You dine on snails, porridge, and a hot root vegetable, trying not to ruin your appetite by looking at Premble’s face.

  “Not even a wank for the poor oaf?” Your mother interjects into your mind. “I bet he has a huge cock.”

  “Shut up, moth
er,” you snap.

  “Something wrong with porridge?” Premble asks.

  “No, no, it’s… edible,” you say and force a smile. You notice he is staring and realize that you have allowed the cloth to slip down your chest and expose the upper curves of your pink areolas. You quickly pull the cloth back up. “Do you think my clothes are done drying?”

  “I check,” says Premble. As he rises from his seat across from you it is impossible not to notice the huge bulge straining in his trousers. He has clearly been enjoying the view.

  Thankfully, your clothes are dry. You take the warm pile from his arms and excuse yourself to dress. By the time you return, Premble has wrapped up several dried fish in a parcel of bamboo. The fish stink, but you stuff them into your backpack alongside your alchemy kit.

  Premble leads you through a winding tunnel that slopes gradually up to the surface. You arrive at a rocky expanse of open land facing a dead-looking forest.

  “Beyond those trees,” says Premble, “is Field of Holes. Beware the Ullek. It eats everything, even heralds.”

  Ullek? That triggers a memory, some creature you have researched before, but it was not called an Ullek. Something similar. You thank Premble with a hug around his huge neck and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Visit any time, herald,” he says and he gives you a crooked smile.

  You set off across the rocky open ground and the dead forest in the distance.

  CONTINUE >

  Surrender

  A powerful desire rises within you. It is the lust to no longer decide, the desire to give up your fate to a creature so strange, hideous, and yet beautiful as this drider. You unbuckle your sword belt and drop your pistols to the ground. You shrug out of your pack and raise your hands.