Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust

by Amanda Clover

  You turn and run.

  Your feet pound on the trail. Stealth is forgotten. Your breath huffs in the fetid air of the tainted isle. You hear a low howl behind you, rising slowly in pitch. Your breath hitches when it climbs to a sound like manic human laughter.

  The forest around you rustles. Twigs snap and crack. Fear lends you wings as you race, almost mad with panic.

  Suddenly, the forest ends. You stagger into an open field surrounded by the woods, but the feeling of pursuit is gone. You turn about in surprise but can only see the empty tree line.

  Stunned, you look about yourself. You have come into an open space. A fence running along the road encloses a field for grazing animals, and not far you see two buildings. Curious, but wary, you make your way towards them.

  As you near you notice one building is a cottage and the other is a barn. The barn looks well maintained and sturdy. A faint mechanical sound can be discerned along with the low animal sound of cattle, but the doors are closed against prying eyes. A light glows through the window of the cottage, which sits alongside the road cutting through the clearing. Despite the haze which hangs over the land, the rural scene is oddly comforting to see.

  You briefly consider passing the cottage, but a thought makes you hesitate. Though neither your sister nor mother scorn hardship, the home is clearly inhabited, and they may have stopped here in their travels.

  You weigh the options, then shrug and turn your steps towards the home. You push open the small gate and move towards the cottage.

  The home is of solid construction, befitting so solitary a hamlet. The walls are thick and the windows sport thick shutters. You knock tentatively on the door and seconds later it opens.

  A woman stands in the doorway framed against a golden light. She is quite pretty, with a matronly plump face framed with loose brown curls. You’re momentarily stunned by her bust. Hardly small yourself, the woman before you looks to have a generous portion more than you. Her huge chest strains the fabric of her top, the cross thread which holds it shut revealing the freckled curves of her breasts, while a long skirt like you used to wear shrouds her hips in fabric. Her eyes are heavily-lidded like she’s half asleep, but a welcoming smile lights up her face.

  “Goodness!” the woman cries, her voice rich and husky. “My dear! What’s a young thing like you doing out in these parts? There’s danger in these woods.”

  It takes you a moment to snap out of your surprise at finding the lonely cottage inhabited by such a beautiful woman.

  “I am, uh, sorry to disturb you, miss. I was wondering if I could trouble you by asking you a few questions.”

  She leans past you, as if she might have seen that strange wolf moving in the mists at the edge of her property.

  “Let’s not tarry in the door! Come in my girl, come in.”

  As the woman vanishes you briefly hesitate, but the warmth of the cottage tempts you and when a howl from the woods breaks the silence you shudder and push inside quickly.

  You stop on the threshold to take in the home. A warm fire burns in the hearth and illuminates the quaint scene of the kitchen. A table sits in the center of the room atop a stitched rug. On the mantelpiece are crude wooden etchings of the sort a travelling artist might have made. Though nothing special, the cottage has that pastoral feel that city dwellers like you are known to romanticize. The floor has been smoothed from a thousand scrubbings and the walls reflect the light of the fire like they were burnished with gold. Herbs hang from the rafters, drying out and filling the room with a strong scent, one that nearly overpowers the strange musk which seems to hang over the island.

  The woman is by the stove pouring something from a large metal pitcher into a clay mug. As she sees you enter, she sweeps over and bustles you to the rustic table.

  “You must be exhausted, my dear! Here. Sit down, sit down. Ah! I’ll hear no buts.”

  You take a seat at the table and look carefully about the kitchen. What you can see of her larder seems well-provisioned with cured meats, fish and sacks of grain and salt. A glance at her proportions and you can tell that she is not starving.

  She smiles and puts a mug before you. “Here.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” Hospitality is the last thing you expected to find on this benighted island. You automatically take the mug in both hands and draw it close. Creamy milk fills it nearly to the brim. Curious, you lean forward and sniff. There’s a faint nutty smell to it but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Milked her this morning,” the woman says genially.

  “Oh.” You clear your throat. “Actually, I wanted you ask you a few questions.”

  As you explain your purpose on the isle and describe your encounters with its denizens you occasionally sip at the milk. It’s quite good, rich and creamy, and the company makes it even better. The woman listens attentively, her brown eyes warm with understanding and you find yourself elaborating more than you intended to.

  “And they vanished somewhere on the island. My mother some months ago, my sister a few weeks. Please, did either of them pass by?”

  The woman, who introduced herself as Marabelle, puts a finger to her lips thoughtfully.

  “Oh yes. Your sister I do recall. She was a fiery one, you know. She didn’t stop here, but I saw her pass by from my window. A most striking young woman. I hope she gets to the bottom of what troubles these lands.”

  You shoot to your feet. “You did? Where’d she go! Oh!”

  You snatch back your hands, only then noticing you’d spilled the milk she’d given you. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, no worries my dear,” Marabelle says with a calming motion. “I’ll clean it up. You had enough anyway, I think.”

  As she mops up the milk, you sit, hot with embarrassment at the bungle. You shift a little. Though the warmth of the cottage was pleasant at first, it’s been steadily growing, and now is almost stifling. Before you realize it, you’ve shrugged off your hide jacket.

  You feel Marabelle’s eyes on you as she takes away the mug, returning a moment later with it filled with more milk. You catch yourself staring at her impressive bust as she leans over and puts the mug before you. Her nipples are clearly visible, straining against the fabric.

  “Dearie me, my girl,” Marabelle chuckles, her breasts jiggling in response. “Not terribly polite to stare.”

  You start, flushing deeper. “Oh! My apologies. I was…”

  Marabelle clucks her tongue as she moves around your chair. “Nothing to apologize for my girl. You have a rather impressive set yourself.”

  You gasp as her hands suddenly snake about you and grab your breasts. A moan escapes your lips as she expertly fondles you through the thin fabric of your blouse.

  “Very nice,” Marabelle murmurs, hefting your breasts as if checking their weight. “Would be a shame not to do more with them.”

  Something in her words feels wrong. You hastily push out of the chair, escaping her loose grasp. You whirl about, taking a step back. She seems surprised, or perhaps bemused. Her drooping eyes are hard to read.

  “I-I’m sorry. I should probably-“

  “Did you like my milk?”

  Your eyes go automatically to the mug. “I…”

  “Tasted delicious, didn’t it? Of course, it always loses some flavor from being stored. Some potency.”

  Your jaw drops as she casually unties the threads of her blouse. Two down and her top fairly bursts apart, releasing the bounty of her breasts into the warm air. Immense, as big as your head, Marabelle’s breasts hang heavily from her chest. The firelight gives them a golden cast, the dusky nipples rigid as if begging for your lips.

  Marabelle chortles again, and once more her breasts bounce to the movements of her chest.

  “Do you like them?” Marabelle says as she draws teasing circles about her nipples with her index fingers.

  “I…I…”

  “If you liked my milk,” she says, her hands gently massaging the immense mounds of her titflesh in
slowly receding circles, the gentle kneading motion closing about the dark nipples. Motions somehow familiar to you, but you can’t say how. “You should try it from the tap.”

  Her low purr ends as she gently squeezes. You stare as creamy white milk trickles from the ducts of her fat nipples. The mustiness you assumed came from the drying herbs suddenly grows and you realize it was her own scent which made it.

  “Come,” Marabelle coos, taking a seat on an empty chair, legs spread slightly. She lifts one of her breasts, giving it another squeeze. More milk beads to her fat bud and glistens in the firelight as drops trickle down the lower curve of her breast. “Drink.”

  Your tongue unconsciously flicks across your lips. Her offer is oddly tempting. To go into her arms. Drink deep. Cradled by her…suckling that warm milk…

  What do you do?

  You think something is not right

  Drink of her milk

  Bride of the gertling ending

  Timok and Remok and Skermok and Hrag are wrestling loudly by the fire pit again. You shoo them away and tell them to take their ten younger sisters and brothers out of the house. The half-human, half-gertlings are scarcely a year old and already running and jumping and chattering in the gertling language. Your littlest ones are still crawling up your legs, literally. Bim is climbing you trying to get at your milk-laden breasts with your raw, swollen nipples from nursing half the day.

  “Please, not now,” you say, picking him up and placing him back on the floor with Gorko, Kran, and Skub. The four of your youngest litter begin wrestling with each other and babbling in the wordless language of babies. They are only four weeks old, although if they were humans you would guess they were emaciated two-year olds. Seeing your children so skinny makes you overfeed them, a common problem for human brood mothers.

  Your three litters of children are exhausting, but you love them all dearly. From their ragged, pointed ears and bulging eyes down to their too-long feet and hooked, black toenails. They have a more pinkish color than the pure born gertlings and in the right light you can see some of yourself in them. Little Bim was even born with flecks of gold in his eyes, although they seem to be fading.

  You are about to pick up the little runt when you hear footsteps behind you. Garvem presses his cheek to your bare back and reaches around to squeeze your milky breasts, causing your precious nectar to dribble from your swollen nipples. Your heart flip-flops with delight at the touch of your husband. You push your plump bottom back against him, rubbing it on his scrawny chest.

  “Ahhhh, Garvem!” You cry. “You’re wasting the milk.”

  “Some of that mine,” he says, running his tongue over your back. You turn to face him and pick him up in your arms. He has gained some weight, thanks to suckling more of your milk than any of your children, but he is still a scrawny thing that you could almost carry in one arm. He laces his arms around your neck and looks up at you with his bulging, watery eyes. In your half-remembered, earlier life you would have thought such a face was disgusting or at least comical. Now, your heart swells with love.

  “You know you can have as much of my milk as you desire, my love,” you coo softly, lifting him closer to smack kisses all over his handsomely grotesque face. His tongue slithers into your mouth, warm and wet and foul. You love it. Your body quakes with desire. You break the kiss as one of your tots begins to climb your leg again. “Go to our bed, my love, and I’ll put the children outside.”

  You bundle up your smallest litter and carry the little ones out into the gertling village of thatched dugout huts. You shout to your eldest and they come and take the tots out of your arms.

  “Your father and I need to make some more,” you say to them. “Be good and give us some time. I think Yurklug has an elk carcass you can play with.”

  The many children gurgle with delight and go scampering off towards Yurklug, the village’s greatest hunter. You return to the hut to find Garvem sprawled on the dingy straw pile that serves as your bed, his hard cock in his hand as he absently strokes himself. You shed the loincloth that threads your plump buttocks and saunter over to him.

  “Milk!” He squawks and you feed him one of your thick nipples as your hand begins to stroke the rigid finger of his cock. You kneel beside him as he suckles from your breast, pleasure pulsing through your chest as he slurps and drinks from your cream. Your hand pumps up and down his hard little cock until it is dripping with spunk. Garvem pops his lips free of your smothering breast and excitedly declares, “Fuck now!”

  “Of course, my love,” you coo, reclining in the straw and spreading your thick thighs wide apart for him. Your pussy is soaking wet, the brown fur stripped clean because the gertlings prefer their women bare. It makes sex feel even better, you have come to learn, and the tribe’s witch crone has a cream that removes all your hair from your mound.

  Garvem climbs atop you, cradling your body with his wide-stretched arms as he seems to sink into the swollen mounds of your soft breasts. He has fucked you so many times that his cock easily finds your slippery channel and sinks into your well-used folds. You gasp with pleasure as he begins to furiously rut into your motherly fucktunnel.

  “Ooooh, Garv!” You gasp, scissoring your thighs against his skinny hips. “Oh! Yes! I need more babies! I need more!”

  “Yes, I give you fresh pups!” He pushes up with his hands on your huge tits, milk leaking between his splayed fingers. His long, black tongue lolls from his mouth as he thrusts madly into your cunt. Your juicy pussy squelches around him as his finger fat cock pounds into you and his skinny hips slap against your plump mound. He shrieks with pleasure, “AAaaiiiiiiieEEEeee!”

  You feel the hot spurt of his glorious gertling goo into the depths of your fertile womb. The warm rush of breeding fills your body and a dreamy smile spreads across your face. The magic of the island once again ensures that you are thoroughly seeded with Garvem’s cum.

  He collapses atop you, panting with exertion, his cock shrinking slightly inside your well-creamed cunt. He climbs up onto your chest and plops his flaccid, dripping cock in your face. You look up, stroking his gaunt abdomen as you slurp at his messy cock. Your tongue bathes him and your full, sucking lips cradle his swelling cock.

  “Go again,” he says. “Fuck ass maybe.”

  You pop your lips free from his cock and purr lustily, “Whatever you desire, my love. I am your wife and I am here to serve you.”

  He hisses with pleasure as you resume sucking him obediently. The little gertling may be quick to spurt out his seed, but he can go four or five times in a night and you intend to ensure he does.

  You have a long life of enthusiastically breeding gertlings ahead of you, but your adventure is most definitely at an end.

  BAD END

  << START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX

  The house of corrupted huntresses

  A thin layer of early snow covers the rolling hills of Tarol. The wind stirs, rising to a howl over the surrounding hilltops. You let the weighted pelt fall back into place, shutting out the light of day and returning the hall to the torchlit gloom. The scouts kneel before you, their heads bowed and their scarlet cloaks reminiscent of the red robes their mothers wore as handmaidens. Now those handmaidens have become huntresses, pathfinders, and lore-keepers.

  Yassa, one of your finest huntresses, stands with breasts bare and daubed in the ceremonial red of the ritual. She holds a spear decorated in bones, feathers, and knots of woven fur from various monsters she has slain. Her daughter, a dusky-skinned beauty with her hair in braided rows, is among the scouts, but not the ascendant today.

  “Elizabet,” calls Yassa. “Step forward, so that the hunt mother may see you.”

  A lithe and beautiful blonde, recruited from a local village, steps past the hearth fire and stands before you and Yassa. She wears only a gauzy white gown to cover her nakedness. The fabric hangs on her small breasts and erect nipples. Though extremely comely, she has a strangely hard look in her pale blue eyes. You know the r
eason for those hard eyes. Her mother was raped by orcs and her father was murdered by them. Her mother killed herself and Elizabet was on the brink of turning to prostitution to support her young brothers. You paid for them to be cared for in a nearby temple and invited Elizabet to train to become a huntress.

  Her training is completed and today is her day of ascension.

  “What must a huntress do, Elizabet?” You ask her.

  “Protect the weakness of men from the cruelty of monsters,” she says, answering correctly.

  “And how must a huntress protect? With her blade?”

  “Yes, huntmother!” Shouts Elizabet.

  “With her magic?”

  “Yes, huntmother!” Shouts Elizabet.

  “With her body?” You say, letting your golden-eyed gaze travel slowly over the slender young woman.

  Elizabet smiles, almost madly, and shouts, “Yes, huntmother!”

  “You have proven yourself with the blade and the gun, you have proven your ability with spell craft,” you say, pacing before her. You stop and slap your hands on her shoulders. You press your forehead against hers. “Today, you will find your truth, Elizabet. You will give your body to a monster and carry its child.”

  “Yes, huntmother!” She shouts.

  “I know your past,” you say quietly, for Elizabet alone. “I know the pain of it. But you must—“

  “I will not falter,” she interrupts, wildly intensity in her voice. “I know what I must do. And I have chosen.”

  “She has chosen!” You shout, raising your hands to the sisters.

  “Praise the hunt!” They cry in unison.

  You are proud of Elizabet’s determination. Tears glisten in your golden eyes as you ask, “And which of the sons of the island have you chosen to sow its seed?”

  “The mycobull,” she says, her eyes flickering almost madly.

  A soft murmur goes through the other sisters. No scout has ever chosen the strange and particularly inhuman creature for her final step to becoming a huntress. You hold up your hand to quiet them.