Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust
Page 47
The thudding of the drums continues. Wugs fill the crevice, crouching motionless before the dark entrance of the ship. At the edge of waters the pale wug faces the crowd, crouched upon a platform made from a half sunken bell whose hieroglyphic engravings are half obscured by vines and green moss. At his side, docile as a cow, stands the tattooed woman.
When he sees you are awake, the shaman hops down from the bell and crosses the swamp. His feet slap the mud, audible even over the slow thumping of the drums. The sound of the drums radiates deep into your body, stirring unwanted feelings. The wugs watch the shaman and his slave, rotating their heads slowly as if drawn by magnets. To your horror, you see their pale bellies pink with growing arousal.
The shaman stops before you. You glare up at Salara.
“You,” you hiss.
Salara says nothing. Her eyes are empty of hate. Of love. Of anything. Her hands move to her cloak and part it, baring her naked body to the night air. Moonlight makes her pale skin seem to glow between the black whorls of her tattoos. Her heavy breasts bulge from her chest, ripe and firm with milk.
She gasps, moaning softly as the shaman reaches up and cups her breasts. He squeezes twice, thick milk spilling from her nipples to pool about his fingers. Then, the shaman turns to you. As he reaches for you, you pull away, but the ropes which bind you to the pole stop you.
“You sleep still Croaha,” the pale wug says. His cold webbed hands touch your bared breasts. You gasp, then groan as he begins to slather you with the yet warm milk of his slave.
“Nnn!” you gasp as the wug strokes your heavy breasts, spreading the creamy substance across you, your nerves tingling beneath the strange, swirling patterns he writes. Your breasts grow warm, skin heating beneath the cream. “Ah-hah! Wh-what is this?” you gasp.
“Croaha sleeps,” the wug says stolidly. “Deep One will wake. He is from time when Croaha walked among us. He mated with ancient one. Knows All Mother. He will wake you to destiny. You fertile soil in Barren Land. You bear us mighty young. Return race to might.”
You grit your teeth against the pleasure which spreads like fire through your veins. You feel every mark the shaman makes upon you. Your breasts heave as he rings them with cream. Lust pools in your stomach in a liquid heat as he traces a horseshoe shape about your stomach, swelling about the naval. Through gritted teeth your force out, “I’m. Not. Croaha.”
“You are,” the shaman says. For the first time you see his own belly has deepened to a ruddy color. His bulbous eyes stare into your own. You see something in there. Something elder and terrible. A firm conviction in something incomprehensible. “You wake when Deep One enters you. Deep One knows Croaha. Deep One breaks all others.”
Your stomach drops at this piece of news. The horror is short lived as the shaman wets his hand at his slave’s beasts again and suddenly thrusts his webbed fingers into your pants, pressing them against your heated folds.
“Ah! Gods!” You gasp, instinctively rolling your hips forward and against the welcome pressure of his touch. You moan as he strokes your mons, slathering you with the rich, creamy substance in his hand.
Warm lips touch your own. Without thinking you respond, pushing against their softness, tongue battling in the hot mouth of the other. Your eyelids flutter and you behold Salara, who strokes your cheek and kisses you wantonly. “Mmmmn.”
Her tongue slides over your lips. The drum beats of the wugs beats through you. Your thoughts are scrambled. Confused by lust and the pulsating sound that beat. Waves of pleasure wash over your sensitive skin as two of the wug’s fingers slip inside you, stroking the entrance of your cunt. You yield to the soft touch of Salara’s hands and the hunger of her mouth. Her breasts dribble their cream into your shirt.
“Mnnn!” You sink, squatting with your hips spread wide. You feel…emptier. Deeper almost. Your inner walls suck at the wug’s fingers as he adds a third inside you. Your arms above your head stretch with this new position, Salara leaning down as she continues to submissively kiss you.
It’s mad. Squatting before the repulsive creature, your breasts and stomach slathered with savage whorls, painted with the milk of a waiting human slave whose tattooed skin seems to move like snakes in the darkness. The pale wug before you stroking you, the thunder of the drums filling the clearing while the entire tribe looks on. Despite yourself your eyes flutter with desire. Your hips move, stroking yourself on the savage’s finger.
Then, the wug withdraws his hand. A plaintive mewl crawls from some dark part of your soul and out your lust plumped lips. A sound that begs for more. Your inner walls clench, convulsing as if to trap the finger they were so suddenly robbed of. You fall to your knees, panting.
The shaman has not gone far. Oh no. Your eyes are blurry from the stygian glow of the witch lights, yet the scene next to you seems clear as day. Kara, her rags of clothes shoved aside, is subjected to the same ritual marking as you. Her body, tone and muscular, writhes against Salara’s voluptuous own as their tongues wrestle. And all the while, the shaman wug spreads the cream of his slave upon your sister.
You stretch back, and the smooth wood of the pole behind you presses against the crack of your bum. A grunt works through your lips as you feel the tight ring of your asshole flex to the feeling of the wood. You don’t break your stare from the lurid scene taking place mere inches away. As the wug finishes with Kara’s breasts, you begin to slide yourself against the pole. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as the shaman trails his fingers down Kara’s flanks, painting a wide horseshoe shape about her stomach before following the crease of her thighs. You press back harder, your ass cheeks swelling about the rigid fastness of the wooden pole, your taint flexing as you practically rut against the stake like some animal in heat.
Your thighs pump as you stroke your ass, desperate for it. Then, the shaman finds your sister’s cunt with his webbed hands. He thrusts two milk slicked fingers in, hooking them as if her were gutting a fish. Kara bucks, her every muscle tensing as, with a gasp, she cums.
You don’t last much longer. You bang the back of your head against the pole, a howl rising from your heaving breast as your orgasm thunders through you. Cum drools from your snatch, soaking your underwear, bursting out to the waves of pleasure, thudding in time with the beating drums.
The shaman draws back. The tattooed woman pulls shut her leather cloak, though her quim remains visible. As you slide down the pole, shuddering as your tender bum drags every inch, you see the shaman return to the bell before the lagoon.
Silence sweeps the ravine. Even the drums still their primal heartbeat of the savage shore. Only the low sloughing of the waves can be heard.
The shaman thrusts his staff into the air, then strikes the bell a great blow.
BONG
The sound echoes through the silence, bouncing from the cliffs, resounding into the cave formed of the gutted ship.
As the last echoes fade, you hear something move in the waters within the cave. A low wave washes out of its jagged entrance to swell about the bell.
As one the wugs turn and waddle out of the ravine. A low trail climbs the rear of the embankment and to the upper reaches of the shore.
The sound of the bell and the sudden exodus of the wugs awakens you at some level. Perhaps it was your desperate masturbation against the pole, but you feel a level of reason returning to you. Reason, and awareness. Chiefly, that there is some give in the loops which bind your hands.
You move your wrists as the shaman and his listless assistant pass. Your sweat has slickened the space between your wrists, and you feel the cord slide against your skin.
“Penny,” Kara moans from her position, waking much as you did from the impromptu orgasm. “What…”
“Sh,” you hiss, yanking at your arms. You’re alone in the ravine with your sister. But for how long? You pull savagely, feeling the knots loosen.
“Penny!”
Something in Kara’s voice moves you. You twist your head about and suck in a horrif
ied breath as something lurches out of the bowels of the ship and into the moonlight.
Huge, hulking. The largest wug you have ever seen or heard of. Like some primordial thing from a forgotten age it crawls from the darkness, scaly flesh shining with slime like it has crawled from some pits forgotten by time. It walks on all fours like an immense frog, its eyes swell out of its head and its mouth is wide and thick. Its flippers end in sharp claws and a spiny fin flicks up and down along its spine. A cord is about its neck, drilled through the heads of human skulls to form a grisly necklace. Barnacles cling to its back and sides like craters. Its belly is pale but when its dark eyes see you and Kara, its stomach glows a rich scarlet hue. A slit down its abdominal parts and the pale, wedged shape of a wug’s cock shows through.
Shock gives you strength. You twist, and in a sudden sharp pull, you wrench your hands from the rope. You fall onto your hands and knees, panting from the effort. Kara screams your name. A shadow eclipses the moon. You look up and see the wug looming over you, its pale belly flushed red. Its abdominal slit opens to reveal the pink wedge of its cock. Its mating musk washes over you like a fog, and you gasp as you inadvertently inhale.
What do you do?
Wait
Parley
Attack
Magic
Surrender
Leave your mother behind
With pain you accept your mother’s decision. You embrace her tightly, tears cutting hot streaks down your cheeks. “I’ll come back,” you promise her. “I’ll be back.”
Your mother cradles you against her, softly stroking your hair. You part reluctantly, constantly looking back as Orsen leads you and the handmaidens to the ship. The last you see of your mother is her small form walking back towards the dark jungle, swallowed soon after by its embrace.
The journey is mercifully short. Orsen tries to help you but you cannot forget the horrors of the isle or the image of your mother walking into its dark depths once more. Your memories haunt your dreams along with stranger things from your brief time as a goddess of corruption.
It doesn’t take long to receive an audience with the king. His sorcerers and diviners all felt the impact of Zhibbareth's death. For weeks after artists would paint and sculpt strange scenes and shapes which defy comprehension or categorization. Asylums were fairly under siege by their inmates until, quite suddenly, they grew placid and quiet once more.
The king listens to your edited report in his throne room with a severe expression. At its end he orders an inquiry team to venture to Ctharne, guided by Orsen Castillo. You he keeps as a ‘guest’ until your story can be confirmed. You accept all this without protest. Some fight has gone out of you with your mother’s decision. You feel bereft and isolated. Alone. Though the high priestess of Allara visits you often, the woman’s warm motherly presence only weighs on you, and eventually she stops coming.
The king’s news that his expedition has returned with confirmation of your tale does little to stir you.
“And my mother?” you say.
He looks to his advisors cautiously. “Unfortunately, they found no evidence of a woman of that description.”
He offers you a place at court as a researcher which you take with wearied resignation. Not even the news that the king will send no more expeditions to the foul isle stirs you. “Leave them to slaughter one another on the isle. An expedition would only end in the death of men needed here, and perhaps bring the foul things to the mainland.”
You don’t fault him. He has trouble enough at home. Beasts and creatures thought forgotten stir across the kingdoms. Reports of gertling tribes raiding villages, trolls coming down from the mountains and other beasts of fouler descriptions demand his attention.
You work in the library once more, expanding your family’s codex. The greatest weapon the king and humanity have against the sudden incursions. Your hair grows long, turning as white as your single stripe until it’s more like your sister’s once was. Yet when you put down your pen and gaze into the darkness of the shelves beyond your candle’s glow, you think back on your adventures, and your heart grows heavy with regret.
THE END
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A goddess of conquest
The altar was raised over the ruins of the palace. Your mother had her hand in its creation, the giantess compelling the very earth to move to her will, twisting it into a vast altar of stone. Upon it, priestesses gravid with the young of your greatest generals lay out the braziers and light the flames within.
Around this display Akrane burns. Those not compelled before the altar in a huddled mass listen to the screams and laughter as your monstrous army enjoys the fruits of conquest.
A small group stands before the altar. King Justin of Akrane leans on his fair daughter’s shoulder, his head crudely bandaged from a blow. He has been stripped of his armor, and is dressed in a torn doublet and pants he wore beneath. Over the bandages, his crown is balanced.
The rest are the assembled nobility of the kingdom, fled to the supposed safety of the capital when the hordes crossed the seas. Few are dressed. More than some have felt the tender ministrations of your soldiers before being brought here.
Only one stands defiantly. The high priestess of Allara is a comely woman. Hashara is her name. Even stripped, her cunt and ass defiled and stained with the seed of her rapists, she stands proud before the altar of your might. You accept this. So much the sweeter.
Your mother ascends the altar. Her fertile body, naked for all to see, shadows the throng. Smoke from the burning city wreathe her like a mantle, her immense breasts quivering as she surveys the destruction of this bastion of humanity with pride. She throws her arms into the air.
“People of Akrane! Your kingdom has fallen! Your army is destroyed! Your castles, crumbled and your daughters taken to the service of your goddess. But your goddess is not unmerciful! Behold! For she comes before you in all her glory!”
Your mother steps back. Handmaidens walk up the rude steps and bow before the altar. Thin red cloaks and veils of sheerest crimson cloth are all they wear. They kneel, prostrating themselves, quivering rumps bared to the bedraggled people of the city as they begin to chant.
The skies darken beyond the mere smoke of the ruined capital. Every flame in the city flickers, diminishing. A pall falls over the crowd like a physical force. Most tremble, for they have never seen your true might before. Some, veterans of the many battles, pale in memory of cyclones and black lightning which scoured the hosts of knights and footmen. The earth splitting open, and worst of all, a being draped in shadows astride the battlefield, blasting the courage from every man and sending more kneeling with lust, begging to serve your glory.
The darkness swirls above the altar. It gathers the smoke and draws it into a spiral. Then, it seeps down, dripping like blood. The pale stone of the altar is blackened to pitch. A wide curtain of shadows bridges the heavens and the earth.
You step out of the darkness.
Your presence is felt like a blow to all present. Humans tremble, gazing upon your pale limbs and the writhing shadows which clothe you. Your pussy is bare, a brand marked upon it. Your breasts are immense, firm and leaking a dark milk which drips onto the stones and writhes where it touches. Much of your face is masked by darkness, stretching into hair which writhes like tentacles into the curtain which you stepped from. An immense golden eye stares from your brow, taking in the whole scene.
You smile.
“Hello,” you purr.
Your voice rolls across the throng. Men and women fall to their knees beneath it. Your faithful quiver in desire of you. Were you to torture them to death, they would sing your praises and beg for more. Such is your power.
You sit, the darkness coiling into a throne beneath you. You ease back, legs parted to show your naked cunt. You feel the lust coil in the souls of the men and women before you, tinged deliciously with their terror.
You beckon. “Bring them forward.”
They are stopped just before your feet. Your cheek in your palm, you smile lazily at them.
“Not quite what I expected on my return to your fair city,” you say. “But I suppose so it goes. I do hope the library at least stands.” Your eye fixes on the king and his daughter. “It is a pity we did not meet in more illustrious circumstances.”
“Monster,” Justin manages.
“Not just that. The Queen of Monsters. The goddess of them. Your conqueror.
“But it needn’t have been so,” you say icily, leaning forward. The black sky rumbles with your rage. “I gave you a choice. Surrender to me, or I will force the matter.”
“I could never accept such a thing!” Justin shouts. He pushes aside his daughter, staggering forward a step. For a moment, he truly looks once more like the ruler of the greatest kingdom in the world. “You demanded every fertile woman be given to your beasts! That every man swear fealty to you and every temple but your own torn down! I would never have agreed.”
“Pity you did not,” you say with a casual gesture at the ruin around you. “It would have saved many lives, and lead to the same end.”
The king shudders with anger. “I-“
“Enough.”
He falls to his knees at the weight of your word. You continue, every word thundering into him like a blow. “You refused my offer, and have paid the price. It is a new world. A new order. And it demands…” Your golden gaze falls on the princess, “a new queen.”
You crook a finger and the princess stands shakily. You smile down at her, leaning forward. “You are the princess June?”
She tries to hide her terror, her hands clasped before her torn gown. She nods. “I-I am.”