Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust

by Amanda Clover

  “Well princess, I make the same offer I made long ago to your father. Shall you rule as my agent? Or shall your people feel my crushing grasp?”

  The princess trembles. She looks back over the rubble that had been her home, then to the people crowded in the square. She bows her head, and you give her credit that her voice does not tremble when she says, “I will.”

  “June,” the king gasps.

  “Quiet!”

  He is flattened to the floor. The princess gives him a last fearful look, but your voice calls her back to you. You stretch forward and pick her up. She’s like a frightened bird in your hands, so small and frail. But you will change that. You smile, the expression warm and comforting as you draw her to your pale breast. “Drink. Drink, and be mine.”

  She gasps as you press her against the softness of your breasts. She is reluctant at first, bit nonetheless, her lips latch onto a dark nipple as big as fist and she drinks.

  You sigh as your essence is drawn into the princess. She gasps at the unexpected flavor, grimacing at first, yet soon she is clinging to you, desperately nursing from your tainted teat. You smile lovingly at her, pressing her deeper into your malleable flesh.

  “That’s it child. Drink of me. Drink of my corruption. You will be my hand in Akrane. You will rule in my name and live as long as I wish it.”

  She moans, and begins to change. Her hips fill out from their girlish build and her breasts grow heavier. Soon the rags struggle to contain her, but it was merely the first changes. More come. Her nipples invert, becoming drooling cunts. A number of small horns curve from her brow like a crown of chitin.

  You hold her there a moment more, then draw her from your breasts and set her down. She stands shakily, her mouth parted, dark milk staining her lips purple. “Behold!” you laugh. “June! Queen of Akrane! Mistress of Monsters!”

  She smiles, wiping some of the milk from her mouth. You pat her head like you might a pet you’re fond of. “Mmm. Your lovers will be many and eager. And as for you,” you purr, turning towards the king.

  “No!” the princess cries, flinging herself over her father’s shoulders. “Please! Don’t kill him!”

  You chortle. “Oh fear not my dear,” you say as tentacles of darkness reach from your head and lift him from the ground. “He will not be killed. No. He will serve me another way.”

  “N-no! Please!” the old king gasps before he is pulled through the curtain of darkness. His reaching hand is momentarily visible, then swallowed as he passes through.

  “Mhm. And then there was one,” you say.

  Hashara returns your unholy gaze defiantly. “I do not fear you,” she says. “Nor your monsters. And I will never serve one such as you.”

  You laugh merrily, the sound reverberating through the air like a sudden gust of wind. “Oh but you shall serve me. Though, perhaps not the way you thought.” You gesture and a ray of light sears the darkness. Hashara has time enough to gasp before it strikes her. She screams, but already your spell does its work. She never tears her eyes from you as her body is encased in a sheathe of gold.

  You close your fist and the spell dissipates. Hashara stands there, a statue of shining gold. Delicately you pick her up, turning her over with amusement. “Hm. Not how I would have liked to take her, but well enough.” You ease back upon the throne and part your pale thighs, revealing the pink slash of your cunt. With toe curling delight you feed the priestess’s head into your folds, moaning as you begin to fuck yourself with her like some graven dildo.

  You flick your free hand to the crowd. “Take the men to the slave pits to rebuild my queen’s capital! The children to the covens to learn their place in the new order! And the women? Well.” You giggle. “Simply take them!”

  The horde roars in triumph. Men are forced from daughters and wives and dragged away to the outskirts of the city. But those left behind are not bereft long. The monsters of your army descend upon them. Noblewoman and peasant girl alike are stripped in the ruins of their city, legs parted and cocks thrust upon them.

  You laugh riotously as you furiously frig yourself with the priestess. Your arousal seeps through the air, thickening it with corruption as the curse of fertility pervades the land. Women at first begging to be spared are soon spreading their legs, moaning whorishly as their monstrous lovers seed their wombs. The darkness thickens above. The princess June takes five orcs at once at the foot of your throne. Her mouth, ass, cunt and tits all filled by the brutish warriors.

  Your mother steps up beside you, crushing your breasts as she leans against you. “Penny. You have done wonderfully,” she breathes.

  “Mmm. I have. At last, peace among men and monsters.”

  Your mother laughs and kisses you fiercely. You return it, your milk mingling with hers as she presses against you. Your tentacle limbs descend and writhe across her flushed skin, pulling the giantess against you. The sky rolls, a chorus of orgasmic cries echo across the ruins as a new generation is seeded in the soon willing women. The age of monsters now begins. And the time of humanity has well and truly ended.

  BAD END

  << START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX

  Parley

  You hold out your hands, careful to keep them from your weapons. “Hold on,” you say as steadily as you can. “We can talk about this.”

  The centaur laughs. “Talk! Why would we need to banter paltry words? Is the situation not clear to you, foolish broodmare? This is the hunt! I am the huntsman, and you the prey. And you have been caught. All that remains is for me to claim my prize!”

  This isn’t working. You cast about for something to use, and pause when you spot the dark shape of the mountain rising beyond the trees.

  “…Yes. You caught us. But we have come invited.”

  The centaur scoffs. “Invited? Ha! None but the beasts bred from the master’s corruption and those who serve Him come invited to his realm.”

  “But we do. Look at my eyes.”

  “They are gold. So what?”

  “There is one other who has these eyes,” you say carefully. “Our mother. Hilda Helsdottir.”

  The centaur’s grin melts away. The forest stills. Even the wind seems to suddenly fall into silence. His hooves move restlessly beneath him as he nervously shifts. He peers harder at you. “…It is a curious tint,” he says slowly.

  “Yes.” You straighten before the creature and point to your chest. “I am Penelope Helsdottir. Heir to the clan of huntresses. My mother…” You trail off, your mouth suddenly dry. “My mother is the bride of the Great One. And she has summoned me and my sister so we might bring Him into this world.”

  The centaur’s fingers move nervously, wringing each other. He swallows. “I…I see. I did not…”

  “No,” you say imperiously. “You did not. Now release my sister.”

  “Y-yes. Of course.”

  The centaur gestures and the vines gently lay Kara down. You resist the urge to rush to your twitching sister, wary of any sign of weakness before the monster. He smiles, his ugly face not even pitiable in his contrition. “I ah, hope there were no hard feelings. For I merely execute my task. How was I to…”

  He wilts beneath your stare, shrinking into himself as if doused with cold water. You toss your brown hair in dismissal. “I understand your error,” you say. You draw out a silence, and once the centaur is practically prancing with fear, you add, “And you are forgiven for your zealousness. Now leave us!” you command. “We have far to go, and your games with my sister have left her weak.”

  “Y-yes. Yes. At once, my ladies!”

  The centaur backs away, bowing his human half practically to the waist. As he passes them, the trees seem to close in his wake like the curtains of a stage.

  You wait several minutes until you can feel his presence fade, the forest becoming merely so many trees and vines once more. As soon as you’re sure you burst into motion and race to Kara’s side. You kneel by your sister, propping her head on your lap. You gently slap her
cheeks. “Kara? Kara!”

  Your sister moans, her golden eyes fluttering open. “P-Penny? What…”

  “I chased him off,” you say, omitting your explanation. You’d rather not think of the implications for the centaur’s ready acceptance of your tale. “Can you walk?”

  Kara grimaces. “I think so.”

  You help your sister stand. She’s wobbly, but able. You put her arm over your shoulder, taking some of her weight. “Come on,” you say, once more looking towards the dark peak on the horizon. “Here we go.”

  Kara nods, and together, you and your sister walk into the shadow of the Great One’s realm. And the end of your journey at last.

  CONTINUE >

  For mankind

  Your head throbs with the force your mother’s mind is exerting on you. She steps closer, placing a giant hand on the top of your head and tilting your head back to look down into your eyes. You weep with fear, realizing the power she has been given in her service of Zhibbareth.

  “Answer the question,” she demands. “Why do you persist?”

  “For… for mankind,” you say, tears flowing from your eyes.

  It is as if she bursts through a door within your head and storms into your mind. She sees the truth within this locked room. She sees the fear you had upon receiving the letter from Kara and yet your duty to humanity driving you to gather your strength and make the arduous journey from Akrane to Ctharne. Your mother sifts your memories as you traveled across the island, facing danger after danger, touched by evil, but not surrendering to the corruption completely.

  You have fought your way here because you knew that to give in to this dark desire would mean to abandon your humanity. You cannot allow mankind to succumb to Zhibbareth and all the depravity and cruelty he represents.

  “Pathetic,” says your mother, releasing her hold on your head and retreating from your mind. “Humans are the true evil in this world and you are a fool to refuse the majesty of the Great One.”

  You start to speak, but she makes a gesture of closing her fist and you hear a horrifying crunching sound from behind you. You look back and scream in anguish as you see that Alyssa has been brutally slain by the constricting walls of her prison. You cry, crawling towards the twisted body, “No! No!”

  “Do not weep for that bitch,” laughs your mother. “She has died a hundred deaths and returns to the abyss. I should have fed her to Zhibbareth, but he prefers sweeter morsels.”

  Your mother seizes hold of you by your head, lifting you off the ground and slinging you across one shoulder so hard that it knocks the air from your lungs. You try to cry out, try to shout at her to resist the temptation of Zhibbareth, but your mother is too far gone to hear those words even if you could summon the breath to speak them.

  “Goodbye, Penny,” she says, carrying you over to the yawning blackness of the pit. “You are such a disappointment to me. But hopefully you will nourish the Great One and when I find the vessel for his emergence, he will be all the stronger for having sucked the flesh from your tragically human bones.”

  “Please,” you gasp.

  She tosses you into the pit like so much refuse. You plunge into the darkness, passing beyond some physical boundary and into nothingness as you feel your fall accelerate. A vast, impossible, pitiless mouth awaits you in the reachless depths of this accursed pit. For your crime of trying to save mankind, you will suffer an eternity in the innards of an evil god.

  Your suffering may never end, but your adventure is at an end.

  BAD END

  << START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX

  The two queens of Ctharne

  The grand throne room of the Palace of Akrane has never before been filled with such strangeness and despair. Magic torches held by the honor guard cast scarlet and ghostly green lights over the room and a steady, muted drumbeat plays as if anticipating a rumbling climax.

  The generals of Zhibbareth’s army are gathered on the tiers of the platform of the Grand Throne of Heimsvak. There is Janine with her skeletal black wings, who cut down fifty knights to her claws and drank blood from the heart of the queen of Shaddobar. There stands the Somnolent One, a strange, cloaked being who has a thousand heavily-lidded eyes swimming in the darkness of his hood. He demanded and received the surrender of the castle of Tarol and in gratitude devoured the souls of those who surrendered to him. There is Wicketh, the thorned warrior, a thing of flesh and plants bound in barbed vines that slew a thousand Kornasi horsemen on the plains.

  All of these mighty beings and many more are the honored guests of this, the final surrender of humanity. The Grand Throne has been smashed and you and your mother each have your own throne made from the polished bones of fallen kings. You sit upright in your massive chair, your body modestly gowned, though your enormous breasts strain the golden fabric. You wear a crown upon your head to match the one worn by your mother beside you.

  Hilda, the other bride of Zhibbareth, your mother and the mother of all but the god himself, lounges in her throne, brazenly nude but for the accumulation of pulsing runic tattoos that decorate her shapely legs and muscular arms all the way to her plump breasts. Her fat nipples are pierced with gold and decorated with rubies so that each creamy mound resembles the singular red eye of Zhibbareth. She pets her cunt as she watches the last remaining kings being herded into the throne room.

  Three kings remain to grovel before you and your mother in this final surrender. They kneel before the twin thrones as the guests and dignitaries leer at them.

  The largest of these men is King Bjornssen of Heimsvak, stout and red-haired, face still streaked with grime from the last battle for Akrane. His elder brother was actually the king, but was slain defending the gates two days before and thus Bjornssen ascended to his throne for the final destruction of the city. His clothing is torn and one eye is swollen shut and bloodied. His breathing is labored as if he suffers from broken ribs, but he does not betray his pain with his stoic expression.

  To Bjornssen’s left is Kisleau of Normaneaux, who retreated into the mountains of Asabar to the west and hoped to fight a defense from a series of fortresses atop the mountain peaks. You and your mother summoned ancient magic and teleported your elite warriors directly inside the fortresses in a single daring assault. The defense collapsed and Normaneaux was at your mercy. Kisleau fought on with a small band of militia, trying to stop the depravity your army inflicted upon his civilian population. He was little more than a nuisance.

  Lastly, there is Gisved, in his immaculate white uniform, his pale face unblemished, and his dark eyes untouched by the horrors he has witnessed. Though the people of the Lapontin Mountains were few in number, they were uniquely resistant to the depravity of your monsters and warriors. It was as if they had already lost their souls. They fought with unbreakable morale and even torture could not weaken their resolve. It was only the capture of Gisved’s only child, Brenya, that forced him to kneel in the throne room today. He believes surrendering will save her life. In truth, she is in no danger; she already learns the ways and has sworn the oaths to Zhibbareth.

  A hush falls over the crowd as you rise slowly from your throne. You stand as nearly an equal in height to your mother, a giantess in human form, a ravishing beauty with cold, golden eyes.

  “You men have fought bravely,” you say to the kings. “You have fought to nearly the last. It would be a commendable act were it not so foolish. No mortal can hope to oppose the reign of Zhibbareth.”

  “All hail Zhibbareth!” Shout your generals and favored warriors. The dignitaries from the abyss look on in vague amusement, believing foolishly that a mortal army would never dare invade their realm. You smile at their arrogance. You have already seen the plans for such an invasion.

  You stride down the steps, your golden gown trailing behind you as you approach the kneeling kings. Bjornssen, still hot with anger from his recent defeat, dares to lift his gaze and glare up at you. A murmur goes through the crowd. Several of the guards edge closer.
You hold up a hand to keep them back.

  “I understand your anger,” you say, smiling sweetly. “You saw your warriors slaughtered, your great cities sacked, and your wives and daughters speared on the cocks of the superior monsters. All because you refused to accept your god, Zhibbareth.”

  Your attention is so focused on Bjornssen and his anger that you do not see Kisleau’s knife in his hand until he is rising to attack. The blade flashes silver, but stops a few inches from your breast. Your mother holds his arm in her massive fist. She moved with inhuman speed to stop him.

  “Traitorous bitches!” Kisleau cries. “Death to Zhibbareth! Death to the false—“

  Your mother almost casually wrenches Kisleau’s arm from his body. She tosses the arm to one of the dread mastiff lounging on the stairs. It snaps its bloody jaws and crunches through the bone, gulping down the arm in two bites. Kisleau staggers back a step, eyes wide and blood pouring from his ragged stump to soak his tunic a deep crimson color.

  “Zhibbareth shows mercy to those who kneel,” you say calmly. “Not to those who pretend to kneel.”

  You wave your fingers and lift the Normaneaux king into the air with magical force. With a thought, you shred his clothing and peel his skin away as easily as you might peel a fruit. He screams as his entire body is shucked down to glistening, red muscles. You gesture again, plucking his tendons and tearing out his muscles, section by section, until his entrails pill out in a dangling marionette diorama of throbbing orgasms. You close your fist and his rips crumple, piercing each organ and ending his agonized screams. You fling the bloody carcass of Kisleau to the excited mastiffs and they begin tearing it apart.

  “Mankind,” you say, wiping a spray of blood from your gown, “is no more. Kneel and surrender and receive what mercy Zhibbareth has for you. Or take one last stab of your daggers and end up like Kisleau…”