Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust

by Amanda Clover

  The birthing of Zhibbareth begins. Your mother cries with joy as black flesh bursts from your cunt and vomits from your nose and mouth. It spills out of you as your body continues to swell larger and large. You glimpse the black flesh swirling upwards into the air, forming into a single mass like a spinning globe above the pit. Your mother is singing praise to Zhibbareth. The handmaidens you saw before are kneeling all around you, their crimson gowns stained with the black that is spraying from your body. The tightness in your belly grows and grows until the pain is exquisite.

  You feel yourself bursting, your body rupturing and releasing everything in a single explosion of blasphemous life. Your consciousness fades into nothingness as you are subsumed into the writhing mass. The last moment of awareness you experience is the image of a single red eye opening and looking out upon the world for the first time in thousands of years.

  Zhibbareth has risen.

  Mankind is doomed.

  Your life and adventure are at an end.

  BAD END

  << START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX

  The centaur’s broodmares

  The wind whips through your tangled hair like playful fingers. Beneath you, Cerrunos brays with triumph, the centaur’s back rubbing against your aching folds. You laugh aloud, your naked skin flush with excitement. Your breasts, bare and heavy with milk, heave atop your chest. Your thighs clutch your master’s flanks, rubbing your pussy against the ridges of his spine delightfully.

  The thrill of the hunt races through you. You put the curving horn to your lips and blow, the sound booming through the tangled forest that is your master’s domain.

  You see her ahead. The prey. Exultation shoots into your core with expectation. Frightened, the young woman dashes through the forests, desperate. Cerrunos could have ended the hunt there, tangling her in the branches, but so few dare his forests now he makes the most of the pursuit.

  But it is a foregone conclusion. The girl breaks through the trees and into a clearing. You and Cerrunos are right behind. You close the distance. You press against your master’s back, grinning wildly. As he passes her, Cerrunos whips his hand out, striking her on the ass.

  She yelps, stumbling, tumbling to the ground. You laugh with delight as Cerrunos turns about, slowing to a trot as he paces towards her.

  You swing yourself off his back and turn over the shaking woman to reveal Kara’s flushed and laughing face. You grin down at your sister, admiring her shapely body, so like your own. Her breasts heavy and leaking cream, her skin a canvas of wild red paint and savage markings. Her hips are thicker and her stomach less toned after her pregnancy, but you pay that little mind anymore.

  Cerrunos stamps over to her, eyes glowing with lust. “The hunt is done my broodmare. I am the victor. A valiant chase! But now I claim my prize.”

  “Oooh yes master,” Kara moans, flushed and panting. She wriggles in the dirt, parting her shapely hips to put her swollen, gaping cunt on full display. “Please. I need your seed once more.”

  Cerrunos snorts. “Of course you do. What better purpose can your body serve?” He stamps his feet. “Prepare me!”

  You eagerly drop to your knees, crawling with Kara beneath the centaur. His equine length juts proudly from beneath him, his balls heavy with seed. Kara gets there first, and so has the honor of preparing his bestial cock, peeling back his sheathe and lovingly wrapping her lips around the flared tip. Not even the corrupted fruit from your master’s garden could adjust your mouths and throats to you master’s length, but that’s fine. So long as it allowed you to take your master’s cock where it truly matters you’re content.

  As Kara services his shaft you do the same to his balls. You gently heft them in your hands, admiring their size and weight. Lovingly you lick them, tasting his musk and the salty tang of animal sweat. Opening wide you take one, cradling it against your tongue as you lovingly roll it about your mouth.

  Cerrunos snorts above and prances in place, pleased by your attentions. You giggle and transfer your worship to his other cum heavy ball. From the corner of your eye you see Kara stroking your master’s veiny shaft.

  “Enough!” Cerrunos husks. “Present yourself mare.”

  Eagerly Kara removes herself from your master’s shaft. She turns over, dropping to her hands and knees, ass raised and baring her swollen, gaping cunt. You no longer need the juices of the vines to accommodate your master’s length, and you watch, stricken with envy as he enters her.

  Kara’s eyes bulge and her mouth drops open in a keening moan as Cerrunos feeds inch after inch inside of her.

  “You are ready,” Cerrunos growls.

  “Yesssss,” Kara keens.

  You swallow thickly at the obscene sight as he begins to move inside of her. Your fingers trail down your own stomach and find your gaping pussy. Stroking yourself, riveted by the scene of Kara’s mating. But your efforts pale to the memory of his fucking. Not even when you slide three fingers, then an entire fist into your dripping folds can you match the glory of rutting with the centaur.

  But already your stomach swells with your master’s newest brood. It’s not your turn. You whimper with need as you eagerly fist yourself while Cerrunos roughly fucks your sister in front of you. Kara’s stomach distending obscenely around his cock. She moans, rocking against him, dragged back as your master pulls back, pushed forward as he thrusts.

  It doesn’t take him long. Blood pumping from the hunt, scrotum and cock throbbing from you and your sister’s oral ministrations, he bellows, thrusting deeply inside of Kara, and cums.

  Kara cries out, twitching about his hard pole as your master stuffs her with his seed. The sound pushes you past the edge, moaning whorishly as you cum about your fist,.

  Cerrunos withdraws from Kara and you make your way back over to help your sister up. Like a newborn foal Kara staggers on rubbery legs as you lift her onto your master’s back. Climbing up behind her, you cradle her against your body as your master rides back into the forest. Your hands find her belly, swollen with cum, and Kara coos as you stroke her distended flesh.

  Your master’s garden seems to move about the forest at his will. The trees part to reveal a wide clearing of swollen grasses and drooping trees with bloated, discolored fruit and vines. A ruined fountain whose cracked frame is deep in the grasp of clutching vines makes a center piece. Your master never speaks of the nubile stone figure which tops it, nor where the crystal clear waters can come from in this sickened land.

  Around the fountain lies your brood. You marvel at their growth, the centaurs already almost as large as your master. You suspect it has something to do with the fruit which grows in the corruption sodden vale, or perhaps your own milk. There are three right now of such size. Damos, Callas, and Sirrian. Damos is strong and proud, his face dark and reflects Cerrunos’s bestial visage. Callas is slenderer but more cunning, and Damos is rough and wild. The youngest of the three. Not far several other foals climb to their feet. Your master has yet to deign to name them, and you coo as they prance over to you and greedily latch onto your leaking breasts. You cradle them to your chest, moaning softly as they suckle.

  As you and Kara feed your brood, Cerrunos paces forward and confronts your grown children.

  “My sons,” the centaur growls, looking at them with pride. “The time has come. Our master and mistress of the city have bidden us a task. When the war comes, they will need horse and riders to do battle with the armies of men.”

  He casts his hand towards you and Kara. “Your time has come to find broodmares of your own. Hunt well my sons. Seek your brides across the isle, and bring them here. We shall prepare them, and in their bellies shall grow huntsmen the likes of which this world has never known!”

  As Cerrunos goes on, expounding to his children the virtues they must seek in their mares, virtues you have in ample portions, you feel a deep sorrow that your sons will be parted from you so soon. But it is his will, and you are but his broodmare. You stroke your swelling stomach, taking c
omfort in the knowledge that he has given you another to soothe the hurt of your son’s departure. You carry that with you as he calls you over, and demonstrates to your watchful sons how to mount a woman.

  As his veiny shaft stretches you, you quiver and moan, nuzzling the grass with helpless pleasure. Your quest may be over, but you have found your true purpose as the centaur’s cock sleeve.

  BAD END

  << START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX

  Wug Breeder

  “You may call me Janine. And I am to be your new overlord. And let me assure you, that I am making an offer you cannot refuse. Better to be the allies of the new order, rather than the enemies.”

  Janine leans back, a satisfied smile curling her lips, baring her fangs. The cultist’s robes do little to mask her curves, the black fabric shimmering like night over her long legs and shapely hips as she crosses her legs.

  Torches flicker in the darkness and reflect off the leathery flesh of the two wugs. The shaman frowns with his heavy lips, his white paint grainy in the harsh light of the torches. Beside him, the bulky war leader of the tribe nods slowly.

  “And, if wugs not?”

  Janine sneers. “Then you serve as rations instead.”

  The war leader accepts this with a fatalist’s stoicism. “We understand. We fight for Great One.”

  “I thought you might see sense,” she said. She stands, rising with a sinuous grace like a snake from a charmer’s basket. “The Great One shall need many troops. You will provide them. If you cannot, we will see what can be done to… increase your production.”

  The war leader’s eyes gleam blackly and his throat swells with a croak, his stomach tinting with arousal. The shaman says nothing. He remains where he sat. Where he had been since his dusky skinned slave was taken by some of the bull-headed men behind the hut. She had stopped making any noise. His webbed hands clutched his staff until the wood creaked.

  “But first,” Janine says. “I would see your stock.”

  The war leader is eager to comply. He is quick to adapt to the changing situation. He rises and leads them from the hut. Outside, the lagoon is dark but for the many torches which light their way. Janine’s escort awaits her. Men whose horned heads resemble those of bulls, garbed in crude armor of beaten steel. A head taller than a man, their horns bringing it to nearly two heads, they tower over the diminutive wugs. The upright amphibians shrink back as Janine thrusts aside the curtain and leaves the hut.

  The war leader guides her through the village. Her monstrous guards fall in behind her. Space parts before them, the villagers making way for the imposing representatives of the might of Zhibbareth. Janine’s warriors snort, sneers directed at the frogmen. Janine shares the contempt of her men, her gaze haughty and her blonde hair thrown back behind the two horns curving from her brow.

  The barn looms ahead. The building seeming to slump in the humid air as if half melting. The crude paint and savage symbols dabbed upon the walls seem to glow in the torchlight. As they near, Janine hears a low humming noise, like some befouled chorus. The sound sends a thrill through her and warms her cunt. She smiles, her eyes lidding as the sound grows more definite, enough to make out individual lowing cries of mindless ecstasy.

  The guards at the door of the barn look about to object, but at the sight of Janine and her escort they slink away with heads bowed. Wugs. That was the one thing dependable about them. Craven and savage, they can be relied on only so long as they fear their master. She will give them ample reason to fear her.

  The doors are thrown open by her men and a blast of warm air laden with the scent of milk, lust, and sweat billows about her. Janine inhales deeply and steps inside to look about.

  The barn formed a single room of many stalls. Women fill the space within, nearly indistinguishable from one another. Their heads hang low and their bodies are otherwise hairless as if treated to be so. Their hips are spread on the benches they sit upon. Their immense, dangling breasts are tended by waiting wugs, the frogmen’s thin fingers coaxing dark veined nipples, squeezing out a steady stream of cream into waiting bowls. Many of the human cattle have stomachs swollen in the later stages of pregnancy. Many of the women are connected to crude rubber-like cups and simplistic pumping machines.

  “Impressive,” says Janine. She struts through as if she owns the place.

  The war leader follows after, his webbed feet slapping on the hard wood floor. “We have many breed ones. Many young come from them. We can breed mighty armies if given more.”

  “You’ll be able to keep most of the ones you have.” The cultist surveys the women in their pens. Each of the women looked back, their eyes dark and glazed of comprehension. Janine doubts they even see her, let alone register her presence. Certainly, they cannot comprehend the change about to take place. “Few monsters would bother mating with a wug broodmare. Your kind stretches them so much they’re of little use to others. And few creatures can stomach bedding one tainted by your kind. You’ll get others once we cross the sea. The cast offs.”

  The war leader bows his head in acknowledgement.

  Janine stops before one stall, though she can’t say for certain why. Her eyes, pupils slitted like a lizard’s, take in the woman within. This one is as blank-faced as the rest, her mouth slack as she pants hotly with arousal, her legs splayed open and bound to the legs of a chair. Her back rests against a slanted piece of padded wood, her arms bound behind her causing her chest to be thrust out. Her breasts are immense, swollen with milk that dribbles out carelessly from thick, dusky nipples. Her stomach is plump, but not with the young of the wugs, her hips the curvaceous form of the breeding stock and her gaping cunt on full display. Her single piece of clothing is a leather strip around her neck with a metal ring embedded in it. A collar.

  “Where did you get this one?” Janine says.

  Eagerly the war leader says, “Captured trying to cross swamps. Caught. Brought to village to barn. Carry many young. Best breeder. Gave clutch yesterday in breeding pools. Many warriors.”

  “Is that right.”

  Janine examines the gaping face minutely, fixing on the woman’s golden eyes. Making a sudden decision, the cultist steps forward and hikes up her dress, baring her velvety cunt. She steps onto the chair with one foot, pushing her cunt into the woman’s slack face.

  “Hmm…” Janine purrs as the human cow presses her lips against her furrow. A skilled and eager tongue slides into the cultist’s cunt, lapping at her. Pressing the back of the woman’s head, Janine forces the woman against her groin. “Mmm. She’s good,” Janine says.

  The war leader smiles with his wide lips uncertainly.

  Janine grinds her cunt against the woman’s willing mouth. She grunts, exhaling in satisfaction as she cums against the woman’s face.

  Janine steps back, releasing her robe and letting it fall back into place. She smiles with a cruel glimmer of satisfaction as the woman in the chair leans forward, her face slick with the cultist’s juices, her tongue flicking out in the urge to taste more.

  “You’ve broken that one well.” Leaning forward, Janine takes the woman’s leash. “I think I’ll keep this one for myself. Untie her.”

  The war leader hesitates. But when the cultist’s eyes narrow and he hears the warning shift of the horned warriors behind he quickly does as bidden.

  Without the benefit of the straps, the wug breeder falls to her hands and knees, overbalanced by the weight of her gargantuan breasts. She raises her dim golden eyes, looking about uncertainly. Then there is a tug at her leash. Questions vanish and with satisfaction she moves, crawling after Janine as the cultist surveys the rest of the barn.

  It will not be a good life for the huntress once known as Penelope. Janine is a cruel mistress, and when not enjoying her dull-eyed thrall herself, she will rent you out to her warriors and servants as a reward. In time, Janine will cast you aside, your novelty through. Then the wugs will take you up once more, strapping you again into the barn to feed the armies of
the Great One with your milk and your young.

  Your adventure is most assuredly at an end.

  BAD END

  << START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX

  A goddess of fertility

  The room is silent but for the hum of the women. Pillars reach into the subterranean darkness, ringing a pit which delves deep into the earth. You hear their call, and answer.

  The darkness deepens. Torches lit about the pillars gutter, burning blue and die. An inky blackness fills the pit, and you rise from it.

  You tower over them, a giantess in name and form. Your skin is so pale it’s luminous. Your immense breasts swell over the waters, black nipples leaking an ochre cream. Your hair writhes like a thousand black tentacles, spreading across your upper face like a mask. A golden eye opens upon your brow, and you look down.

  Women fill the room. All are naked but for the scarlet cloak they wear. Their bodies quiver as your presence fills them with longing for your hallowed flesh. Red eyes are painted on their stomachs and breasts, nipples to form the pupils.

  The first among them stands, extending her arms in worship. “Goddess of Monsters. Mistress of fertility and desire, we thank you for honoring us with your presence.”

  You smile. “Hashara. Remove your hood.”

  She does so. The former high priestess of Allara looks upon your pale glory with pride. Her body, once sworn to the chastity of the goddess, has succumbed to your promise of the flesh. Her stomach bulges with the spawn of a monster, her nipples fat from the suckling of the new converts to the faith. She was not easy to bring into the fold, but she came, willingly in the end. The promise of pleasure was too great for even her.

  “Tell me my lovely concubine. How fares the cult in Akrane?”

  “Mother goddess,” she says adoringly, “all goes well. Neither king or guard suspect our presence and countless noble ladies have come to us. They have sworn their wombs and bodies to your service, and their souls to the flesh.”