Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust

by Amanda Clover

  She chuckles thinly and you feel her coils slowly wrap about you.

  “To think, for a moment I wondered if your ssseed would be worthy of my young. But no. You are but another of the soft ones. The onesss whose warmth isss only good for bearing of your bettersss young. Do not worry,” she goes on, her gaze compelling your consciousness. “You will have it ssssoon. Follow me, sssslave.”

  “Yes,” you mouth. “Mistress.”

  The lamia hisses in amusement, unwinding her constricting coils from your form.

  “Oh no, little ssslut. Not me. Our mistresss awaits us.” She turns from you and begins to slide away along the trail. The tip of her tail flicks after her. “Follow.”

  You do. Your submission seems to have deepened the lamia’s hold on you. Silently you pace after the serpentine woman and deeper into the mist shrouded landscape. The road stretches on, and now and again the mist fades above, unveiling rocky ridges which enclose the valley. Narrowing, and you idly realize you’re nearing the end of the valley.

  Your initial understanding of this is all you get, for the mists crowds in here on, thickening until you can barely make out the lamia’s shadow before you. If not for the sibilant hiss of her scales, you may have lost her completely.

  Suddenly, the lamia halts. You are a step behind. You look to the snake woman, her ringed gaze fixed upon the mists and an expression of bliss upon her face.

  A sigh seems to come from before you. As you watch, the mists part, revealing the brackish waters of a deep pond. The reeds and grass edge its bank, vanishing into its depths. The water itself is brown and a strange, musky smell rises from it, along with several thin plumes of smoke which feeds into the mist. This, you realize with a dim detachment, is the source of the overpowering fog.

  The waters suddenly swell. Something breaks the surface in the middle of the pond, rising from the depths. It’s a woman. She is tall and lithe, water cascading off long black hair which stretches past her waist. Her skin is so pale it’s nearly transparent. Blue veins crawl across her flesh, her breasts small and nipples black as pitch. But that is not the true horror. No. Even in your hypnotized state, a thrill of something jolts down your spine at the sight of a chitinous crown arching from her brow. Her eyes are milky white like something which has not seen the light of day for far too long. More of the hard chitin crawls from her upper arms like long scaly gloves, curving her fingers into hooked things like claws.

  She continues to rise from the waters, and it is only the hypnotic spell of the lamia which holds you from fleeing in horror, for it is not legs which stretch from her waist down, but a myriad of thick limbed tentacles, swelling from her waist like writhing serpents.

  A Scylla. One of lesser known monstrous beings. Once water nymphs, this one’s spring must have become corrupted from the curse, for you have never heard of one become so bloated and corrupted as this.

  The lamia smiles beatifically and opens her arms to the scylla. “Mistress! I’ve returned.”

  The thing’s womanly head turns the lamia’s way. Instead of a nose, two slits in its face flare and the scylla turns to look at you with those pale, sightless eyes.

  “A new one my love,” the lamia croons, wriggling in servile delight to the monstrous thing. “A new one to bear your precious young. She is good for little more. Did I not swear I would bring more mistress? Did I not promise that I would better serve than feed you after my first clutch? I can carry so many more mistress! So many!”

  A sudden surge of pity for the lamia fills you. The monstrous woman is a victim of the curse of fertility.

  “But please!” the lamia begs abjectly, prostrating herself in the mud before the writhing monstrosity which waits in the waters. “Before you fill her, have I not served you well? I beg of you. Fill me again! Give me your clutch once more!”

  The Scylla turns back to the lamia, the motion a slow rolling of her sharp eared skull. More tentacles rise from the depths and reach out, taking up the lamia in their grip. The snake woman goes limp at their touch, a shuddering sigh of submission escaping her as the rubbery limbs cradle her body and draw her nearer the Scylla’s form. Like a gown, the tentacles about the Scylla’s front part, and from the fleshy mass beneath, a bulging ovipositor lifts out like some immense, tapering insect limb. Slime coats it for lubrication, and you suspect to make its victims more pliable to its breeding.

  “Yes!” the lamia sighs as she is dangled before the Scylla. With a faint chiming of her bangles and golden rings she reaches to her front and parts her leathery folds. “Yes! Fill me mistress! Give me your young!”

  The sheer horror of the scene begins to break through your enthrallment. It trickles into your mind like an icy river as the lamia wantonly presents herself to the tentacled horror. Then, the Scylla eases her ovipositor forward, and slides it into the lamia.

  The serpent woman moans, writhing as the Scylla pushes its ovipositor as deep as it will go. Then, the curved breeding pole bulges obscenely. A spherical pearl slides through the semitransparent flesh. The scylla’s egg pushes against the lamia’s spread cunt, resisted for a moment, and then slides through.

  “Ohhhhh,” the lamia sighs. Her ringed eyes are lidded in joy. She hangs, limp in the grasp of the monstrous tentacles, her hair brushing the corrupted waters, her long tail twitching with pleasure as egg after egg are pumped into her hungry cunt.

  Even as you realize this, the breeding is coming to an end. The lamia’s stomach has grown swollen with eggs. The Scylla withdraws her ovipositor, the breeding limb coming free still slicked from the lamia’s juices. The tentacles lower the serpent woman to lie limp on the very edge of the pool. The lamia coos to herself, wriggling in the mud, her golden jewelry softly ringing as she strokes her distended womb with delight.

  Abruptly, you realize you are freed of the lamia’s spell. Either the horror was so great or the bliss of being impregnated by the monstrous Scylla broke the lamia’s attention. You are once more in control of yourself. Even as you realize this, the Scylla turns towards you, her pale eyes fixed upon you, the base of her ovipositor swelling with a fresh batch of eggs to fill you with.

  What do you do?

  Surrender

  Attack the Scylla with the grenade

  You trust her

  Your doubt fades and you reach out and grasp Kara’s hand. It is as warm and strong as you recall. She pulls you closer and gives you another hug. She is so strong she even lifts you a few inches off the floor.

  “I missed you so much,” you say, holding back tears. “I thought I would never see you or mother again. There are so many… so many horrible things here… and I’m not half the huntress you are.”

  “Shhhhhhh,” she says, rubbing your back. “That is over now. You are with me and you are safe. Now come on, I have something I want to show you.”

  She takes your hand and begins to lead you through the darkened hall. You find yourself watching her hips and her firm bottom in her tight leather pants. You catch yourself and wonder at how this horrible island is twisting your morality. She stops and pulls you against her hip with her strong arm around your shoulder.

  “Look, Penelope,” she says. “This is what you desire.”

  There is a strange note in her voice. You look from her hard but beautiful face and to the mirror that stands in front of you. There is nothing out of the ordinary. It seems to be a normal mirror.

  “What am I looking for, Kara?” You ask, staring in confusion at the image of the two of you standing shoulder to shoulder. “It is only a mirror.”

  “Yes, only a mirror,” she agrees. “Just keep looking.”

  She slips behind you, pressing against your back so you feel the heat of her breath against your neck. You stiffen and chuckle nervously at the way she is acting.

  “Kara… what are you doing?”

  You try to turn back and look at her over your shoulder. She grabs the back of head and turns your face back towards the mirror.

  “Keep looking,” she sa
ys. “Look into your own eyes.”

  “Alright.” You stare into your eyes and see the gold-struck beauty of your own gaze. That gold seems to be brighter than you are used to seeing. Your lips part softly in a moan as Kara caresses your shoulders. Her hands stroke down your back and slip beneath your arms as she reaches around to cradle your breasts. “Oh, Kara. You should not touch me like that.”

  She ignores you and gently squeezes your soft mounds. Her fingers play with your nipples through the fabric of your bodice. You turn to say something to her and see only darkness. There is no hall. No mirrors. Even the light of your magic is gone.

  “Kara?!” You call out and your voice seems muffled in this strange darkness. The shadows that gather around you seem to ripple and hands spill out from the darkness to take hold of your jacket. You cry out and twist out of the jacket. More hands strip you of your belt and pack. Whenever you manage to tear free, there is only more darkness and more hands, reaching out to pull off your bodice and slip under your bra. They peel your panties from under your skirt and forcefully yank your skirt down your shuddering thighs.

  Panting with fear, you collapse to your knees, tears beginning to drop from your eyes. You turn in the darkness and see the glassy frame of the mirror and faint light as if a single candle burns on the other side. You see Kara standing there, smirking and watching you.

  “Kara!” You shout. “Kara! Help me!”

  You crawl closer, pushing away the hands that grab and pull at you. You look up into Kara’s golden eyes, pleading for help. She reaches out and taps her finger on the other side of the mirror. She slowly draws the shape of a heart. The dark hands reach around you and begin to squeeze and fondle your creamy breasts. More hands stroke your buttocks and reach between your trembling thighs to stroke your pussy. You whine with pleasure, but try to shake them off.

  “Please! Please, Kara! Let me out of here! Break the mirror!”

  She leans her lips right up to the glass and plants a kiss on the mirror imprisoning you. As she stands back, her features change, her toned and slender body ripples and swells, and her clothing changes to match your own. You stare in horror at yourself, fully dressed and smiling, as this doppelganger version of you waves and walks out of sight.

  You are left, alone and hopeless, with the darkness that closes in on all sides. The malign presence pushes you onto your hands and knees. Shadow fingers spread your cunt and thrust into your dewy channel. Warm shadow tongues lap at the crack of your plump ass and twirl against your wrinkled asshole. Shadow mouths suck at your dangling breasts and a shadow cock presses against your face.

  You whimper and turn away, trying not to sob as you are body is fondled and violated by the darkness. The pleasure builds as shadow fingers fuck your pussy and invade your ass. The warm cock at your lips does not seem so bad in the throes of an orgasm and you open your mouth and take it deeper. The more these formless attackers pleasure you, the less you care that you are at their mercy.

  Soon enough, their thick shadow cocks are plundering your pussy, ass, and throat with equal vigor. You moan desperately, your eyes rolled back in your head as orgasm after orgasm shudders through your body. The muffled darkness is filled with the raunchy sounds of your body as you surrender to them completely. The slurp of your pussy accompanies the gurgle of your plundered throat. You moan around the cock in your mouth, sucking harder, reaching up to fondle the shadow balls that seem to manifest just where you need them.

  Orgasm after orgasm ripples through your clutching cunt and squeezing ass. You are on top, then on your back, then on your hands and knees again. The pleasure is limitless and you are glad for that. You never want it to end.

  CONTINUE >

  Transact

  You smile sweetly at Alyssa. She is not the only one who can deploy a little charm for leverage. You take her hand and kiss her bended fingers. You look unflinchingly into her shimmering violet eyes.

  “You are bewitchingly beautiful and your hospitality is inviting,” you say, “but as the herald of the Great One, I believe I am entitled to a bit of special treatment.”

  Alyssa’s smile widens and she pulls you closer, her crimson-cradled breasts jiggling like two inviting dollops of whipped cream. Her husky voice sends a thrill through your loins as she cries, “Oh, of course, herald. You may have anything you desire.”

  She pulls you towards her bird-headed male slaves and lingerie-clad female slaves. “You can enjoy one of my strapping male slaves or my lovely female slaves. They are all quite experienced in pleasuring a woman completely. Or perhaps one is not enough for one so exalted as a herald of the Great One? Well, then, you may have us all. Pampered and lavished with attention by every one of my slaves and me. We will be happy to ensure you enjoy your visit.”

  The women smile and beckon to you with pouting lips, motioning hands, and cocked hips. The men thrust out their chiseled chests and show off their banded cocks. Alyssa snaps her leathery wings, drawing your eye back to her demonic perfection. She puts her hands on her shapely hips and flicks her tail back and forth, curling the spade-shaped tip around one high-heeled boot.

  “Whatever your pleasure, herald,” she says.

  “And what price will I pay?” You ask.

  “Just a taste,” she says. “A single kiss and a morsel of your essence is all I require.”

  “My essence?”

  “Your life energy, of course. Yours is positively effervescent, a little taste will do you no harm. And I will make sure you enjoy that taste so very much.”

  “It’s not dangerous?”

  “No, no,” she says. “Not for someone like you. Oh, my pretty huntress, I would not dream of hurting you.”

  She caresses your hips and leans in almost as if she intends to kiss you. Without thinking, you even pucker up your lips to offer her that kiss. She pulls away and steps back so you can look once more at her selection of slaves. You are thoroughly tempted by the succubus and well beyond refusing her offer of some sort of pleasure. You look over her slaves. The women vary from the petite and delicate, to the plump and plentiful. The men are uniformly muscular, with the only variety among them being their skin tones, the exact size of each fat cock, and the type of bird’s head atop their shoulders.

  “The choice is yours, herald,” purrs Alyssa.

  What do you do?

  Enjoy one of the male slaves

  Enjoy one of the female slaves

  Enjoy being pampered by all of them

  Croaha the goddess

  Janine tries very hard not to look at the heads of her predecessors. They are each impaled on a wooden stake, lined in a row along the edge of the wug village. Flies buzz about shriveled sockets and drying blood. Many were bloated, others dried husks. She knows the wugs had made her wait here as a tactic to frighten her.

  It is working.

  Anxiously she paces, though careful not to step off the path and into the swamps. Less honored kills by the wugs were strung up in the trees like grotesque scarecrows. Some wore the cultist robes, as she did, but most were the more brutish monsters. Relics of failed incursions into the domain of the wugs and their savage goddess.

  And this new breed of wugs…

  The wet slap of webbed feet brings her from her thoughts. She looks down the path to the two wugs approaching. They are not like their stunted kin. They stand nearly as tall as a man. Their skin is earthy browns and rough, their bodies more squat and heavy looking. Warts bulge from their hoary hides and their eyes are huge with rectangular pupils. Each finger of their webbed hands sports a hooked claw. The toad-like creatures stop at the edge of the stakes. Their bellies overhang leather belts with thick battleaxes thrust in them.

  Janine straightens as they stop before her. She feels their eyes sliding over her skin and does her best to smile flirtatiously. She knows she is attractive. Her dark cultist robes hug her large breasts and feminine hips. The horns curving from her brow and her slitted pupils attract more than detract from her appearance, a fac
tor in the decision to send her to negotiate. She needed to entice, not terrify.

  With a smile, Janine says, “I am-“

  “Croaha knows,” one says abruptly. He beckons. “You come.”

  Janine’s words turn to ash in her mouth. She nods warily and moves with them past the line of stakes.

  They have not far to go before they are in the midst of the village. Though there are many mud huts familiar to her they are dwarfed by wooden cabins and homes. A smithy glows red, tended by bare-chested human men who hammer out steel weapons such as those Janine’s escort bear. She sees many of the familiar stunted wug specimens at work, fishing the lagoon or tending the buildings of the village, often under the watchful gaze of their more imposing, warty cousins.

  More surprisingly for her are the women. She knows what wugs use them for. Keeping them stored in barns to breed new generations, harvesting them for their milk. Yet human women move about the settlement, their chests bare showcasing immense breasts which leak creamy milk. Girdles bind their wide hips and a strip of cloth hangs before their loins, swishing between their legs. Many are quite obviously pregnant, and many have whorling tattoos which wrap about their curves like ivy. Some are bald, others have their hair tied back in braids and crowns of ivy like handmaidens of some faith before the dawn of time.

  Janine tries to peer closer, but is hurried along by her escort. Many pause to watch her pass. The women and the human men stare at her with a vague intensity. The wugs merely smile their wide rubbery lips and soon move on.

  Janine turns from these as the barn looms before them. Or, what had once been the barn. It towers now. A fortress of wood and woad paint. Built on stilts above the wide lagoon, it’s reached by a series of wooden steps. Crude statues mark the base, the shapes of women with their breasts and hips thick and exaggerated, their daubed paint drawing the eye to these characteristics. More of the rough hided wugs wait along the walkways surrounding the temple, for temple it is. An honor guard with spears raised in salute. Janine shuddered as she walks between them and to a pair of immense doors.