Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust

by Amanda Clover

  The carriage ride is uneventful, taking you through farm and forest country along the well-traveled trade road. As night approaches, you expect to be stopping to make camp.

  “No, we will travel through the night,” says Bog. “I have hired men to keep us going with only short stops to feed and water the horses. You may sleep on the cushions. I will watch over you.”

  You yawn and stretch. You are extremely tired. Despite some reservations about the ogling merchant, you lie down on the bench and fall asleep almost immediately. You awaken once to find the lanterns extinguished within the carriage. You feel something on your thigh and moving slowly to your bottom. You open your eyes wider and see Bog is leaning across the carriage to caress your ass. He squeezes it gently, looks you right in the eyes, and realizes he is caught.

  He withdraws his hand and sits back in his seat. In a matter of seconds, you are asleep once more.

  “My apologies for my behavior last night,” Bog tells you in the morning.

  “It is forgiven,” you say, trying your best to seem cross at him still. He ignores you anger and flashes his immaculate smile. He rests his elbows on his knees and leans across the carriage.

  “I was thinking, Penny… do you have much coin for your journey?”

  “I have enough,” you say, knowing you have only a few coins.

  “You might find it easier to hire a ship in Estermar if you have more coin.” He leans across and lowers his voice. “I was thinking that I would like to offer you some work. It would make the journey pass more quickly.”

  “What sort of work?” You ask, feeling apprehension tightening in your tummy.

  “Oh, I think you know what sort, Penny,” chuckles Bog. “We have three more days to Estermar. Let us say you keep me company for, mmmmm, 50 gold zeks per day?”

  “Keep you company,” you say, your tummy flip-flopping as you begin to realize what sort of company he means.

  “We’ll take it day by day, my sweet.” He pats your leg. “If you do not like it, you may refuse my attentions on the following day. Come, what do you say? It will be fun, my dear.”

  Fun for him, certainly.

  What do you do?

  Accept Luckfen's offer reluctantly

  Accept Luckfen's offer eagerly

  Refuse Luckfen's offer

  Hire Orsen Castillo

  Orsen Castillo is a scoundrel and a drunk, the sort of man you would normally avoid, but there is something exciting about his rakish good looks. Maybe even something trustworthy in his eyes.

  “Yes,” you say, taking his offered hand. “Yes, I will hire you as my—“

  “No time for negotiating the finer details!” Orsen grabs your map and one of your heavy bags. You grab the other as he yanks you off your stool and runs out of the Drowned Giant through a back door. You don’t make it far before you hear men shouting after you.

  “Give it up, Castillo! We’re taking you and your ship!”

  “You have to catch us first,” laughs Orsen, dragging you after him down the claustrophobic alley between taverns. You emerge at a stumbling run into the open, still pursued by the two thugs from the tavern. You can barely keep up with Orsen, who shoves past dock workers and drunken sailors and drags you towards the docks. It is probably your fault that the two thugs are gaining on you.

  As you reach one of the piers, Orsen turns back and kicks a cart of stinking fish offal being pulled by a dock worker.

  “Hey!” The angry worker cries as the cart is wrenched out of his grasp and overturns across the pier.

  Glistening chum pours across the planks as Orsen pulls you away from the gruesome scene. The two thugs run after you, heedless of the gory slick covering the pier. You hear a shout and glance back just in time to see both man slip and slide into the chum. One plunges right off the edge of the pier and into the water, the other is so thoroughly covered in fish slime that he seems unable to pull himself to his feet.

  “Hey, Bruleco, you might want to haul Geletto out of the water,” shouts Orsen. “All that chum is liable to bring the shore sharks.”

  “You’ll pay for this,” snarls the thug still trying to get to his feet. “Moretto doesn’t forgive scum like you that refuse to pay their debts.”

  Orsen makes a final parting gesture and leads you away from the thug. At the end of the pier is a single-masted sailing boat bobbing gently in the tide. It is so small that Orsen has to leap down from the pier onto the prow. He pulls the rope to draw it closer and helps you down. The boat is hardly bigger than the sailboats people would take out on Lake Vona in Akrane for a day of leisure. It’s a battered, salt-eaten, glorified pleasure craft.

  “Welcome aboard the Zephyr,” says Orsen, doffing his cap. “The fastest ship in Estermar. Would you mind untying those ropes there and letting down the sail?”

  “Are you sure this boat is seaworthy?” You ask as you untie the ropes holding the sail furled against the mast.

  “I’ve taken her on 30-foot swells that would break one of those big galleons in half,” laughs Orsen, helping you open the big, triangular sail and tying it down. “Just have to catch a good crosswind and… there we are.”

  The sail snaps and swells with the wind. The rain has stopped at least and Zephyr cruises out of the harbor, past the shelter rocks and into the open seas. Orsen does seem to be a skilled sailor, riding the sails and the wheel, turning Zephyr so she catches a strong wind. You watch the glowing lights of Estermar retreat into the distance.

  “Clouds are clearing,” says Orsen, looking up at the light-speckled darkness above. “The stars will guide us. Hope our luck holds. They’ll be better than using a compass where we’re headed.”

  “What’s wrong with the compass?”

  “Nothing, but when we get into the Gyre it may go wild on us. Speaking of which, if we keep this wind, it will still be well into morning before we reach the Gyre. No telling how long after that until we find your mysterious island. You should get some sleep.” He flicks his greasy hair out of his face and gestures to the cabin. “If she springs a leak, there’s a bucket down there somewhere. Don’t mind the wine bottles. In fact, if you find one with any wine left in it, pass it up.”

  “Um, alright,” you say as you duck into the grimy interior of the boat.

  Zephyr’s cabin stinks of a booze-hound’s sweat and old wine leaking from uncorked bottles. The mattress is dry at least and there is a blanket that does not smell too foul. You set your pack beneath your head and let the rocking of the ship lull you to sleep.

  The following morning, you climb out of the cabin and poke your head into the open air. The sky is clear and bright blue, with not a cloud in the sky. There is a strong stink of fish and you see that Orsen has caught two long, silver fish, gutted them, and hanged them from the railing beside the ship’s wheel. He sees you climbing out of the cabin and waves you over.

  “We’re in the Gyre now,” he says. “Passed into it just after dawn. The waves have been against us, but the wind is stronger and we are still making good time.”

  “Will we reach Ctharne today?”

  “That’s the name of it, huh? I’ve heard of that. Supposed to be cities and villages there, long ago at least.” He shrugs and takes a swig from a bottle of wine. “No telling what we’ll find, but I promise you we won’t find that. There’s no such thing as Ctharne.”

  For now, you decide to let Orsen believe that you’re a fool and he’s taking you for a ride for a few gold zeks. If Ctharne is real, you will find it, and that is the only way to convince him he is wrong.

  You make a breakfast of ship’s biscuits and the fish cooked using an odd, silver stove that focuses the light of the sun. It gives the fish a clean taste that Orsen enhances with a dash of the wine he has been swilling. It sizzles in the bright silver pan.

  You eat the fish on the biscuits and gaze out on the horizon as Zephyr rides the wind towards the heart of the Gyre.

  “Tell me why you are looking for Ctharne,” says Orsen, looking partic
ularly fetching and adventurous with one foot up on the railing. “A pretty, city girl like you does not find an old map and wish to go on a boat to the most dangerous seas in the known world. So what calls to you in the Gyre?”

  “My sister, Kara,” you say. “And my mother. I believe they are on that island and they are in grave danger.”

  “From what?” Orsen asks. He gives you an expectant look. You admire the way his lips quirk into half of a smile framed by his scruffy facial hair. His light shirt is unbuttoned to show off much of his tanned chest. A trickle of sweat— “You are staring at me like you are lovestruck, girl. Answer my question: what is a grave danger to your mother and sister?”

  “Monsters,” you say.

  “Oh, of course,” he says, waving his arm dismissively. “Monsters. I should have known this. The only problem with that is that there are no monsters.”

  “I wish it were so,” you say, reaching into your backpack and taking out your family’s precious codex. “For most of my life I have been the keeper of this knowledge, Orsen. The family’s monster codex. It details more than 200 monsters that once roamed this earth. Many of these creatures may still live. I know, because my sister and mother hunt monsters.”

  “I saw your guns and sword,” he says as if almost believing your story. He changes tone again, “But you do not look like a hunter. You look like a… a…”

  “A scribe,” you say. “That is what I said. I keep the book. I research the monsters my sister and mother find in ancient texts.”

  “So what are you doing in the Gyre looking for an island full of monsters?”

  “What has to be done,” you say. “Or the whole world could be in danger, not just my sister and mother. My sister wrote to me with that map and those weapons. She told me I had to come.”

  “And you answered? You are a good sister, Penelope Helsdottir. Yes, I looked in your things. I saw your full name on the letter. I wanted to hear your answer.” He puts his hand on your shoulder. “I hope that I am right and you are wrong, because if you have hired me to sail to an island full of monsters, my dear, I will be very cross with you.”

  You look into his eyes and see a kindness that confirms the wisdom of your decision to hire Orsen. You are about to say something to reassure him, maybe even something flirtatious, when you notice an ominous darkness on the horizon over his shoulder.

  “Orsen,” you say, “what is that?”

  He glances over his shoulder and his good humor fades.

  “That, my dear scribe-turned-hunter, is a storm.” He holds a spyglass up to his eye. His voice takes on a darker tone. “By the gods… judging by those swells, it looks to be a shipbreaker. Get down below. Now!”

  You hurry below the deck and close the shutters as Orsen secures the sail. He steers the small sailboat into the storm. The wind picks up and you hear the rumble of thunder. It grows into a howling tempest and the ship begins to ride up and down huge waves. The bottles rolling around loose in the cabin clink together with increasing violence. You chance a glimpse out through the cracked door of the cabin and look out on the deck.

  Orsen has tied himself to the wheel and is fighting with all his strength. His clothes are soaked and his face is twisted with effort as lightning flashes and the wind howls. You feel dizzy from the tossing of the waves, riding up one side of a wave and the plunging down the other, the ocean nearly swallowing up Zephyr whole.

  Somehow, Orsen steers the ship out of danger again and again. Until he shouts, “Land!”

  “What?” You shout over the roaring storm.

  “I see land,” he cries, pointing towards the prow of the boat. “We’re heading right for it. This isn’t going to be—“

  There is a terrible crash, the sound of breaking glass, something smashes against the back of your head, and everything goes dark.

  CONTINUE >

  Wait

  You need to find just the right opportunity and angle to attack this vast monster. You back away from the figures, watching your step as you retreat towards the ramp where you entered the chamber. Green light pulses rhythmically on the floors and ceiling and even within a few of the humanoids. They slide towards you cautiously as you pull off your back and begin rummaging for the reagents you will need to create your alkaline bomb. There are some large formations of rock that are only partially covered with slime. If you can get atop those rocks and throw the bomb from there you could cover almost the entire chamber in the foam.

  One of the slime humanoids lurches towards you and you barely pull your backpack out of its reach. You turn and run for the rocks, leaping over flows of green protean flooding into your path. Your heart is pounding wildly as you reach the rock outcropping. You climb up onto the rocks, aware of the slime flooding in behind you. No time to look back. You pull the reagents out of your pack.

  The vial full of lye salt is plucked from your hand by a tendril of slime. The angostura oxide and nettle weed powder are grabbed from your other hand. You cry out as the vials disappear under the surface of slime. You turn and see two of the slime versions of your mother climbing up onto the rock behind you.

  “Stay back!” You cry and kick out at one, slamming your boot into her face. Her face instantly becomes hands wrapped around you foot and she drags you off balance. Your heart leaps into your throat as you topple over backwards.

  The protean catches you in the arms of a half dozen gelatinous copies of your mother. Her plump breasts soften your landing further. The backpack is yanked out of your hands and the vials of the alchemy kit are emptied out of the box. Your pistols and sword are taken. Cool slime tendrils push into your bodice and strip off your jacket. You feel more tendrils winding up your legs under your skirt. Their touch is cold at first, but becomes warm quickly as the slime’s stinging cells transfer her aphrodisiac venom into your bloodstream.

  “N-no,” you gasp as a giant gelatinous version of your mother looms above you, sprouting a half dozen arms and bare breasts as large as your body. “Please! I’ll give you my secrets!”

  “Yes, you will,” agrees the protean, her childlike voice sounding almost said. “Relax now, Penelope. The hard part is over. I will take care of you from now on.”

  You continue to fight against her even as more and more of her slime tendrils wrap around your body and slither into your blouse and beneath your underwear. Your body grows warmer and warmer and your fear contends with a rising tide of desire. Tentacles of slime tear away your clothing and your naked body rises on a column of shuddering slime. More tendrils coil around your breasts, squeezing your plump mounds tight as gelatinous suckers close around your nipples and begin sucking at your tits. The awful sound of moving slime echoes around you like so much wet flesh.

  “Never… giving in… to you,” you gasp, even as you comprehend the futility of your words.

  “You already have, Penelope,” giggles the protean, shrinking and bending her face down to yours. Her lips, so much like your mother’s, pout into a kiss. You try to turn away, but tendrils of slime are wrapping around your forehead and untying the bun of your hair. Her kiss is cool and soft and sweet. It lingers and warmth spreads through your face, overwhelming the last of your resistance. Your mouth opens to her, to your beautiful gelatinous mother, and a sweet tongue of slime explores your mouth. Even as she kisses you, another face forms on her formless body to softly coo, “Oh, my sweet, we will have such fun together.”

  Draw into her gelatinous body, tears stream from your eyes as the last of your willpower melts in her warm embrace. Her slithering tendrils of slime invade your quim and your anus, pouring her warmth into your body and deepening your pleasure. The tongue in your mouth becomes a thick column of slime pouring down your throat and filling your belly with her slimy essence. The slime wriggles inside you, pumping in and out of your pussy and ass, and you pleasure flows through you in endless spasms.

  “Good, little one,” murmurs the protean. “You will be happy forever with me.”

  Why were you afr
aid of the protean? You laugh, although the sound is smothered by the luscious tentacle of slime fucking in and out of your bulging throat. Something is gushing deep you’re your clutching cunt. Happiness joins the rapturous pleasure wracking your body within the protean. You are not sure if it is the power of the slime’s venom, the island’s curse of fertility somehow being perverted, or the true joy of being released from all your worries.

  With a smile, you realize you do not care.

  CONTINUE >

  Lover of the doppelganger ending

  “Breakfast!” You announce, walking into the bedroom you share with your sister, carrying the tray of freshly baked fruit tarts and honeymilk from the garden. Kara sits up in the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and allowing the blanket to fall away from her pert breasts.

  She breathes deeply and declares, “It smells wonderful! Tarts! How long have you been up and about?”

  Her smile widens as she sees you wear only an apron tied around your waist and barely containing your ample breasts. You set the tray of tarts carefully over Kara’s legs and crawl onto the bed next to her, your breasts straining the tied strings of your apron. You are gratified to see your beloved sister and lover tuck into the tarts with relish.

  “Mmmmmm, these are so delicious!” She moans, stuffing a forkful of ladderberry tart into her mouth. “Oh, wow, and the caddlum is even better!”

  “I picked them from the clearing with the dragon snipes,” you say, rubbing at a few little bite marks left by the carnivorous flowers.

  “Oh, dear, I hope they weren’t too much trouble,” she says.

  “Worth it,” you say and nuzzle your face against her shoulder to kiss her slender neck.

  “Mmmmmm, I suppose you would like something sweet for breakfast as well, eh, sister?” She moves the tray from her lap and pulls the blanket up her long legs, slowly revealing them and the white-tufted thatch of her quim. Her delicate pink folds glisten with her sweet nectar. You feel a familiar stirring in your own loins. She looks into your eyes and murmurs, “Go on, Penelope. Have a taste. I’ve been dreaming about your tongue.”