Her guards halt and Janine stops with them. She strains her ears. Listening to a faint sound from beyond the wooden gates. Soft moans and gasps filter through the wood. She swallows as the doors are hurled open.
The blast of warm air staggers her. She nearly falls but manages to keep her feet. Her head spins, thoughts scattered by the reek of lust, musk, and something nameless but thick and tantalizing in its own way.
With effort the cultist firms herself and steps inside, squinting. After the brightness of the day the gloom of the interior takes a moment. Strange orbs bound in netting glow a weird green light, suffusing the chamber, and as her eyes adjust she cannot suppress a gasp.
Pillars support the roof of a wide chamber. Women sprawled about the room. Each was in the last stages of pregnancy, their stomach gravid and heavy. They lie back, draped over cushions, their tattooed bellies stretched taut by the young in them, their breasts dribbling cream onto their stomachs. Hairless human men walk among them, their chiseled chests oiled and dishes loaded with sweetmeats in their hands. In the darker corners of the room, the thick hided wugs rut with those women not yet gravid with young. The slap of flesh and gasp of desire whispers through the room like secrets, though none try to hide their carnal efforts.
A haze suffuses the air like incense. Its smoky eddies drift apart, revealing a raised path of wood running from the door to the far end of the room. And there, reclines Croaha.
Nothing properly prepared Janine for the sight of the goddess of the wugs. At first glance it appeared to be one of those strange idols from outside. Shapely hips and breasts dabbed with savage paint. She relaxes on a throne of cushions. Her breasts are immense, engorged with milk and slathered in winding tattoos. The nipples are dark and hard with arousal. Her hair is tangled with charms, her skin a network of dark markings whose power fairly radiates like a mantle about the woman. Her eyes are gold and knowing, her hands rest at ease at her sides.
She is tended by a pair of women, one whose hair was as white as her companion’s was dark. The former had a fine physique, strong and well shaped, her breasts turgid with milk, though far from as large as her mistress. Janine recalls reports of a woman leading many of the wug war bands which delved into her master’s realm, kidnapping women before vanishing into the swamps. The other had duskier skin and wore a loose cloak and nothing else but spiraling dark tattoos.
Janine swallows. Her nostrils flare with the scent which suffocates the room. The moans and gasps of the women fill her ears. Her nipples grow rigid, chafing against the fabric of her robe and lust warms her blood and sends it pumping through her veins.
She stops before the goddess of the wugs, who looks down dispassionately with her golden eyes.
Janine goes carefully to her knees. “Great Croaha-“
Croaha raises a hand. Janine pauses as a muscular servant nears. He is utterly naked, and because of it, Janine has an excellent view of his groin. Despite the air of sexuality which suffocates the room he remains flaccid, and expressionlessly hands the cultist a bowl.
Croaha is given a bowl and raises it. Immediately Janine does likewise, and when the goddess tilts it back and drinks, so does Janine.
The liquid goes smoothly down her throat, tasting of strange spices and something sweet. Janine smacks her lips when it is done, feeling the liquid settle in her and warm her. She shifts restlessly in her robes.
“Speak, agent of the Lost One,” Croaha says idly. Janine shivers as the woman’s voice rolls over her. “Speak, and tell me what your master seeks of me and my sons. The sleeping one. The one that cannot rise. His fingers thread into this world but he cannot cross the threshold. What does your gelded god wish of me?”
Anger peaks her but Janine bows her head lower. “Great Croaha. Goddess of wugs. I am Janine. Daughter of the servile. Spawn of the taint of the Great One who sleeps beneath the Tainted City. I have come to speak with you on behalf of my master.”
Janine bows her head until her horned brow rests on the floor. She scrutinizes the grain of the wood to try and focus. “My master sends a message to the goddess of the isle. He wishes there to no longer be war between him and you. Instead, he offers the greatest gift. For you to wed him.”
Janine hears a shifting as Croaha stirs. “And he sent you to make this offering?”
“Y-yes. Mighty Croaha. What could be better? What could hope to match a goddess other than a god?”
Silence greets this. After a moment, Janine warily raised her horned head. Croaha has tilted back her head and was examining the air with her deep golden eyes. The hazy air seemed to shift beneath her gaze like phantoms moving through a mist.
“Stand,” Croaha says.
Her voice reaches into Janine. The cultist’s muscles obey before she even thinks of it. She gains her feet and sways, blood rushing to her head. She winces at the pounding feeling, and realizes it isn’t all in her mind. Someone in the temple has begun softly beating a pair of drums. The vibrations thrum through the air, finding home in the cultists’ bones and resonating there.
“You appear hot,” Croaha says. Janine traces the ruby red of her smile as she says it. “Here.”
She never saw them move but suddenly the two handmaidens are at her sides. Janine gasps, feeling a knife slide expertly along her spine, neatly splitting the back of her robes. The two women, one light, the other dark, easily peel the torn garment from her.
Janine arches, her skin tingling. Her blood races through her flesh, flushing it a pretty crimson. Her pupils dilate, expanding with her arousal as she turns them on the smiling woman atop the cushions. “What…what did you do?”
Croaha cups one of her enormous breasts. So full of cream it is firm as a ball, she teases a rigid nipple and gives it a gentle pinch. She gasps as a bead of thick cream squirts from her chest.
Janine’s eyes fix on the pearly bead as it gathers on Croaha’s breast. She licks her lips. She realizes at once what she’s doing, and casts a horrified look at the goddess upon her throne.
“You have drunk of my bounty,” Croaha says. “So now you may drink of the divine tap.”
Janine’s fingers shake. She cannot tear her eye from that dark nipple. The milk gleams against the dark skin, shining like a pearl. Her tongue slides along her lips.
“Drink,” Croaha repeats.
Something within Janine breaks. She falls to her knees, crawling to the figure of fertility resting upon the cushions. She climbs flesh that makes her fingers spark and tingle. Her lips latch onto that rigid nipple, and she suckles the milk of a goddess.
The taste explodes upon her tongue. Her eyes roll back, a desperate moan escaping her. A sound of despair and exquisite torment as the sweet cream fills her mouth and coats her throat. Pooling deep within her.
Croaha’s hand rests upon her head, petting her fondly. Janine whimpers, burying her face in the immense titflesh of the wug’s primal goddess.
Croaha strokes Janine’s hair until she is full. Then, she gently pushes her back. The cultist stares, looking lost and frightened, naked as the day she was born and in this temple of fertility and all it entails. The scent of sex and motherhood saturates the air. The warmth of bodies and the sound of rutting monsters and women panting and moaning.
“I am more than your master could ever be,” Croaha says, her voice reverberating with truth. Her golden eyes holding Janine as surely as chains. “Your master is trapped beneath stone and spell. He is barren. His young children of his corruption. But I am life. I am Croaha.
“Choose who you, woman, shall worship.”
Janine stares into those eyes. Her pupils are so wide the whites are invisible. Her breathing is labored as she sucks in the scent of musk and lust. She slides down the round belly of Croaha, and finds the parted legs of the goddess, her cunt on full display, a thatch of golden hair outlining it.
Janine weeps as she laps at the goddess’s folds, tasting her divine sex. She weeps, knowing she is lost to the Great One. That she has found one greater. She
buries her face in Croaha’s cunt, teasing the pearl of her clit from its hood. Rejoicing to hear the goddess gasp and murmur in pleasure.
She feels movement behind her, and hands part her ass. One of the handmaids lets her tongue slide along the crack of her ass before finding its puckered hole. Another slips beneath her and a tongue buries within her cunt.
Croaha watches with satisfaction as her handmaidens pleasure the newest member of their faith. They ease Janine from her cunt and the one Croaha once called sister kisses the horned cultist. Letting her taste herself, while their robed third continues to pleasure the woman’s ass.
Croaha, once known as Penny, leans back among the cushions. Huntress become goddess, she watches as the trio descend in a tangle of pleasured limbs at her feet. She will give the new one to Gronna. One of her many sons, who is strong and will breed mightily. The goddess sighs, knowing that doing so begins the inevitable decline of the wug race again. The breeding among human women which, in time, shall reduce the old blood she brought back to the stunted creatures the world knows.
But that will take time. Time and years. Croaha strokes her stomach, feeling the young squirming within. More of the old race to populate the world. She and her faithful ever fertile. Ever expanding their tribe. Soon the swamps will be too little. They will spill across the isle and put the spawn of the Great One to the sword. Temples will rise to her. Men made slaves. Women breeding yet more. One day, perhaps, an army of monsters may cross the sea. Not in the name of the Great One, but in hers.
Croaha gasps as a tongue flicks at the arch of her foot and a hot mouth clamps over her toe. She smiles as the three women, their eyes smoky with lust and glowing with worship as they crawl up her body to worship their goddess properly. Croaha smiles, summoning some of her warty sons with a gesture to fill the shapely women with their cocks and breed them.
The journey of Penelope is at an end. But the age of Croaha has merely begun.
THE END
<< START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX
The avenging angel
You glide above the brackish waters of the marsh, spell fire bursting from your fingertips as you incinerate the remainder of the wug’s war party. An anti-venom spell nullifies the toxins from the dart sticking out of your thigh. It is the only wound you suffered in the slaughter of dozens of wug warriors. The froglike humanoids that inhabit the marsh have retreated to their village. You can sense them cowering in their huts.
It is no escape. Gouts of fire from your fingers torch their hovels as you glide above the swirling ashes. Few of the wugs even have a chance to let out croaking screams of alarm or pain; they simply die where they shelter, their primitive magic and martial skill useless against your fury. Your path brings you to the huge structure that dominates the wug village. You project your senses into the wooden structure and see the depraved predicament of the women inside.
Human women, many gravid with wugspawn, are strapped to padded benches. Their expressions are blank as their breasts are being milked by various crude machines or simply dripping into wooden bowls. You feel no pity for these women. Better to die than to end up a milkcow for wugs. All the same, you will not outright slaughter humans.
You blast open the doors of the wug milk barn and glide through. The surviving wugs attack you as you enter. They hurl spears, fling stones, and rush at you with swords they have no doubt looted from humans.
Your reluctant need to protect the women in the barn forces you to fight the wugs on slightly more even terms. You fling them about with spells, breaking their backs against columns or wrenching their necks with swirls of magical force. A spear nearly impales your throat, but you shield yourself just in time. A sword slashes your arm and you burst the wug who wields it like a rotten tomato. Twisting, flittering missiles seek out those wugs who attack you from range, shooting into their rubbery heads and exploding in their brains.
The last wug pleads for its life in pitiful croaks, “No, no, good. Not bad. Not like—“
An invisible hand of magical force crushes the wug’s head. You toss his body through the door and into the smoldering remains of the village.
A few of the cow women look at you with fear, awe, and even hope. The rest stare blankly or kick in bestial concern at the destruction of their masters. You rise higher into the air so that all that have not lost their minds can see you.
You wave your hand and their restraints snap open, unravel, or simply melt away depending on the type of restraint.
“You are free,” you say.
“Please help us,” cries one of the women.
“I have,” you reply, looking at the gravid redhead who spoke. “Be sure the things in your bellies are destroyed when you give birth. I am sparing them now so that I do not have to kill you. But if you allow them to live, I will return and there will be no mercy.”
You wait a beat, your gaze sweeping over the women who are looking up at you.
“Do you understand?” You demand of them.
“W-we understand, thank you,” cries the redheaded woman.
You leave them, gliding out of the dairy barn and through the wreckage of the wug village. There is no time for companionship or hope. Only vengeance.
You know you are almost done exterminating the monsters on Ctharne, but you know more monsters dwell throughout the world. You will not rest until everyone has been destroyed. Until the vile disease of evil that infests the land has been burned away.
The dead gods must remain dead. If any should try to rise, you will kill them again.
THE END
<< START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX
Feed upon corruption
As the hulking figure of the sacrifice looms over you, you feel the corruption which radiates from him wash over you. A sensation familiar as it is foul. For after all, did you not carry this thing’s same brand with you since the dream within the wizard’s tower? Has not his corruption already tainted you?
The closer he comes, the more you feel the echoes if its might pulsating from the pit, as if bound by some invisible strands. Your body recalls the sensation. Seems to yearn for it.
A mad idea occurs to you as the sacrifice parts your hips and bares your moistened folds. You were to be a vessel for Zhibbareth. The cradle of his rebirth.
But why should that be all you are?
You close your eyes, gathering yourself for what is to come and what you must do. Your hands fist in their bindings as the heat of the shadowy cock draws near your pussy, and plunges inside of you.
You gasp, lifting your back off the altar with the force of his penetration. You grit your teeth, brow furrowing in effort.
“Do not fight it Penelope,” your mother says with something approaching the tenderness you recall. “You cannot resist Him.”
But your mother is wrong. You do not intend to resist the might of Zhibbareth. You will make it your own.
You wrap your legs about the waist of the hulking sacrifice, pulling him deeper inside you. You feel the corruption of the black god seep into your core, tainting your body and soul. You grit your teeth and when he thrust you pull him into you harder.
You realize then that it is not because you were pure that your destiny led you here. But because you were corrupt. Because you had already been touched by the god, and that you alone might make that your own. Because at this moment, Zhibbareth is at his weakest, and you at your strongest.
You accept his darkness once more. You will your body to feed on it. For it to fill you. You groan, your body straining as your flesh shudders to become what is needed. The brand above your mons flares into being once more. The might of a god fills you. You feed on it, hungry. More. More!
The sacrifice groans, a sound of pain, one echoed from the pit. You open your eyes, and you see it. Ribbons of magic like black cords seeping through the air like a vast web. Spiraling across the isle from the pit. The strongest threads into the hulking man inside of you. Another impales your giantess of a mother. You open you
r mouth and breathe.
The sacrifice tries to pull out but you tighten your legs about his waist, pulling him inside of you again. “Yes,” you moan. “More!”
Your mother smiles, ignorant of what you do. “That’s it Penelope,” she breathes. “Accept him. Accept the might of Zhibbareth.”
Oh you do. You smile, and it is a wicked grin. Your body continues to grow. Your skin darkens. Whirling patterns spreading across arms and legs. The ropes snap beneath your wrists. You sit up, wrapping your arms about the sacrifice, holding him to you. You ride him, moaning as his immense cocks thrusts inside of you. He tries to resist, but his god is one of rapine and corruption. He cannot. He cries out, cumming deep within you. He shudders as your clutching channel milks him. Milks his seed. He withers against you. His bulging veins recede and his unholy vitality is drained from him, reducing him to a wizened husk.
You can feel Zhibbareth realize what you are doing, but it is too late. Your body has adapted. His mortal shell is within you. You feed on the corruption of the god. Make it your own.
The room darkens. The flames of braziers gutter, glowing fitfully as if oppressed by a physical darkness. The congregation mills uncertainly. Their frightened whispers hiss like the skittering of mice.
You raise your head and cry out, the sound carrying across the chamber. A roar like the sacrifice gave when he was first taken possession of.
Worry crosses your mothers face as you stand. The withered corpse of the sacrifice falls from you, sliding from your cunt, spent. Your mother takes a wary step back. “Penelope? What have you…”
You ignore her. You cast your eyes towards the pit. There. There lies the true font of this black gods power. You can feel him within. You can feel the hunger. You stretch out your arms, tilting back your head. And through the cord of power, you feed on the source. On Zhibbareth himself.
Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust Page 76
