The Easily Defeated Hero's Monster Girl Adventure

by Amanda Clover

  “Where did she go?” You ask the junior cleric.

  “They threw her out,” says the man, obviously growing impatient with your questions. “Out of the city. They told her not to come back.”

  “Which gate?” You ask.

  “Eastern,” says the man. “Now be gone or I’ll call the guards on you.”

  You head out the eastern gate of Gascoigne and follow the small road for two days. You pass villages where some seem to remember a filthy blonde woman passing through.

  “She kept to herself,” says a beggar. “Pretty girl. Under all that dirt. Might’ve been a bit crazy. Could have been a whore and made plenty of coin. I woulda paid her.”

  You resist the urge to punch out the beggar’s teeth and continue on. Yet this lead and all the others bring you no closer to Theora. You double back, following different paths, searching in unusual and even dangerous places. The weeks you have spent on the road become months. Autumn gives way to winter and still you continue your search, shivering under snow-covered blankets as you trudge along the roads. Some take pity on you and give you a warm bed for the night or let you sit by their fire. Others mock you or try to prey on you. Though exhausted, you are no easy pickings and you bloody your foes with your bare hands. After losing a few fights, you take to carrying a club made from a lead pipe. You have become a harder man.

  Cold, early spring rain lashes you as you travel the road, soaking your shirt. You are always behind Theora and never certain you are even following the right path. You are on the verge of giving up. You have been searching for more than half a year. You are tired and dispirited as the rain chills you to your bones.

  You look out through the dreary afternoon and see a part in the clouds and a single golden shaft of light breaking through to illuminate a modest abbey on a nearby hilltop. There is a statue to the skull-faced matron Yeanelle outside. The Mother of Merciful Death. The Grave Crone.

  Seeking shelter from the rain, you approach the abbey. Yeanelle is feared by some, but sought by the sick and elderly for her mercy. Her acolytes are known to be quiet, aloof, but not unkind. You knock on the heavy door of black wood. After a second knock the door unlocks and an elderly woman in a dark robe and habit opens it just enough to peer outside.

  “Yes?” She asks.

  “I have been on the road in the rain,” you croak, your breath steaming in the cold. “I seek shelter from the storm. Please.”

  She purses her lips and says, “Just a moment.”

  She brings you inside the modest abbey. It is warm and smells of wood oils and incense. She takes you to the kitchen where a large fire is burning in the stove. She sits you down in front of it and brings you towels and a fresh robe. She leaves you your privacy as you undress, dry beside the cook fire, and change into the black robe.

  Once you are dressed you step out of the kitchen and are surprised to see a number of acolytes young and old, all of them women. They are singing a song in praise of Yeanelle, their voices comforting you as they kneel before the goddess’s statue. In that moment you feel a reverential welling of affection for the grim goddess.

  Then you notice a snatch of golden hair sticking out from under the habit of one of the acolyte. It is not merely gold, but a pale, perfect gold that has haunted your dreams. You move to the side of the chapel for a better view. Your heart pounding harder with each step. Some of the acolytes look at you with confusion. You are a stranger in their midst, after all, and a man among women. You reach the front of the chapel, almost beneath the statue of the skeleton-faced goddess.

  The woman has her face turned down. You can’t see her beneath her habit.

  The singing ends. The elderly acolyte who allowed you to enter is hurrying towards you to pull you away from the chapel.

  “Theora,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. You call out, “Theora!?”

  The name echoes from the chapel’s vaulted ceiling like the crack of a dropped book in a library. Some of the acolytes gasp. The woman lifts her head.

  “Lucas?” She asks softly.

  You push your way through the pews, earning scandalized cries from the acolytes as you force past them and throw your arms around Theora. She stiffens in your embrace and then hugs you lightly.

  “I have been searching for you for months,” you say, on the verge of tears. “I was ready to give up and…and I saw a light shining down and…oh, Theora, I have missed you. I thought you might be dead or you might have gone insane.”

  “Lucas, you must calm down,” she whispers, looking nervously around.

  “You are a guest of the goddess,” says the old woman sternly. “Sister Theora, do you know this man?”

  “Yes,” says Theora. “He is from…from my past life.”

  “Past life?” You look between them.

  Theora takes your hand in hers and strokes it gently.

  “Lucas, let us excuse ourselves from the chapel and speak,” she whispers. “We can settle this matter.”

  “Come with me,” says the elderly acolyte. She marches you and Theora out of the chapel and into a small, windowless room that smells of dust. There are pads on the floor for kneeling contemplation. You kneel beside Theora.

  “Remember your vows,” says the acolyte and departs from the room.

  “Theora,” you say, taking her hand. “Theora, you can leave this place. We can be together.”

  Tears sparkle in her silvery-blue eyes. They roll down her cheeks slowly.

  “I was fallen,” she says. “I was created by Veleda and she tore off my wings and discarded me for betraying her. It is a price I would pay again, Lucas, make no mistake. But it left me empty. All meaning taken from my life.”

  “You are mortal now,” you say, squeezing her hand. “You decide your meaning by the choices you make. Like the rest of us.”

  “I thought that might be true, but that emptiness ate at me, Lucas. I could not find my purpose, until…the goddess came to me.”

  “Veleda?” You whisper.

  “No, Yaenelle,” says Theora. “I was in a cemetery and she appeared in the moonlight. She was so kind, Lucas. She told me that…that I could be divine again if I took the vow and swore myself to Yaenelle.”

  “Just words,” you say to her, clinging to her hand. “You can…you can be with me.”

  She pulls her hands from your grasp and slowly lifts the habit off her head. Theora’s golden hair spills out and down her shoulders, contrasting with the black of her robe. She unties the laces of her robe and slowly lifts it over her head. She has gone softer in her mortality, but she is still a fine specimen of health. Your cock stirs at the sight of her creamy flesh encased in her plain white underwear. There is a snap and you gasp as her feathered wings spread behind her back.

  “I am an angel again, Lucas,” she says. “I serve Yaenelle now.”

  “I have spent every waking hour since I defeated the Succubus Queen searching for you,” you say. “I…I’m not going to leave you, Theora.”

  “You must,” she says, tears dropping from those silvery-blue eyes. “You must leave me here, to my vows. Leave me and find a new life. We will both be better for it.”

  You want to scream. You want to run out into the chapel and pull down the statue of the Mother of Death. How can the goddess be good if she forces you away from the one that you love?

  Love. Theora has to know it. She has to know, truly know, what she is giving up by choosing this abbey. If you told her, surely she would realize that she has to leave this place.

  But can you really come between a goddess and her angel twice?

  What do you do?

  Leave Theora to honor her vows

  Profess your love for Theora and refuse to depart

  Profess your love for Theora and refuse to depart

  You look at the framed painting of the Mother of Death leading the sick and elderly through the gates of eternity. Yeanelle must understand. She must. And if she does not, she is no better than Veleda, who tried to make Theora be
tray you.

  “No,” you say softly.

  “Lucas, please,” whispers Theora, tears dropping from her chin onto the dark swell of her breasts. “You must leave this place. Leave me to my vows.”

  Seeing the sadness in her silvery-blue eyes only hardens your resolve. You take her hands and look into her eyes.

  “I will never leave you,” you intone. “I would not have left you in that cave when you saved me from Veleda and I will not leave you now.”

  “Lucas…”

  More tears drop from her eyes. You take her hands and sink down to your knees. You look up at her, past her creamy flesh rising from her half-shed robe, and you continue to gaze into her eyes.

  “I love you, Theora,” you say. “With all of my heart. With an absolute love.”

  “Lucas…”

  Her hands tighten on yours and she smiles through the tears.

  “You do not have to abandon your faith,” you say. “Yeanelle has done me no wrong. But I will not leave the woman I love.”

  “Get up, please,” she says.

  You rise, reminded of her strength as she helps to pull you up. She strokes your shoulders and caresses your head.

  “The goddess came to me in my room last night,” whispers Theora. “She told me you would find me. She told me to refuse to go with you and if you left, I would know it was not meant to be. If you refused—“

  “I refuse!” You cry, your heart swelling.

  “She told me to be with you. To go from this place and be with the man I love.”

  She embraces you passionately, pressing her lips to yours and crushing her breasts in her modest brassiere against your chest. Your kiss becomes more and more eager, lips moving and tongues meeting, melting together, moaning together, and finally being interrupted by a loud knocking at the door.

  “Sister Theora!” The old crone calls through the door. “What is happening in there?”

  Theora pulls her robe back onto her shoulders, wipes her tears, and grasps your hand as she throws open the door. The old acolyte steps back from the door in surprise. She sees that Theora is no longer wearing her habit and her shock turns to anger. Theora advances out of the room, backing the woman up more. You realize a number of acolytes, mostly young women, are watching from the doorways and a balcony.

  “What is the meaning of this!? You are not to touch that boy! Why aren’t you wearing your habit?”

  “The goddess came to me last night,” says Theora, her silvery-blue eyes blazing with righteousness. “She commanded me to test this man. To test his love for me. He passed his test. By the mercy of Yeanelle, I will leave this place and be with the man that I love.”

  “You will WHAT?!” The acolyte’s face reddens with outrage. “We took you into this abbey! We sheltered you from Veleda! You, a fallen angel, should know better than to cross a…a…”

  The woman’s expression changes to one of fear and she clutches at her chest and sinks down to her knees.

  “My…my heart,” gasps the senior acolyte.

  “May Yeanelle show mercy,” murmurs Theora. “May she spare you on this day, Sister Agatha.”

  The other sisters rush into the room to attend to the ailing elderly sister, allowing you and Theora to step past them and out of the abbey. Theora cries out as the first slashes of cold rain strike her head and shoulders. She pulls her robe over her head and you shield her from the rain as best you can with your jacket.

  You hasten to the nearby town of Muret. It might be a charming, lively village under normal circumstances, but in the heavy downpour its streets are flooded. Lamplights glow in the windows of several taverns in the center square of Muret. You pull Theora towards one that looks affordable. Shoving your way inside the bustling tavern, you join several other patrons at the hearth, laughing together with relief as the first blast of hot air rolls over your rain-soaked clothing.

  “I thought we were going to wash away,” says Theora.

  “We need a room,” you say. “We need to get out of these wet clothes.”

  “Rooms are five silvers,” says a plump, redheaded barmaid as she hurries past with more ales in her hands than seems possible. On her way back, you pass her the one gold piece you have saved from your work on the barges. She tucks the coin into her apron and motions for you to follow.

  You head upstairs with the barmaid. She brings you to a door at the end of the hall and unlocks it with a key around her neck. The room is small, shabby, but seems reasonably clean. Rain drums against the shuttered windows and the light is provided by an oil lamp and candles. A fire burns in the hearth, filling the room with pleasant warmth.

  “Shall I bring up something to eat?” The barmaid asks.

  “Later,” says Theora, before you can answer. “We need to rest and get out of these clothes.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” says the barmaid with a saucy wink. “Just give a shout down the stairs when you’re hungry.”

  She leaves the room with a last swish of her skirt and you bolt the door behind her. Before you have even turned back around, Theora is on you, kissing you hungrily. Emotion wells in her eyes as she cradles your face in both hands and kisses you again.

  “I never thought this would really happen,” she gasps between kisses. “Not until last night. I thought…thought maybe you were dead or…mmmmmmm…”

  Her fears are lost under the weight of your passion. You shrug out of your soaking wet jacket. Theora pulls at the buttons of your tunic, bursting more than one in her effort to get your shirt off. You help her off with her robe and kiss her slender neck, her shoulder, and feel her damp brassiere and soft breasts crushed against your chest. You stroke her hips and cradle her peachy bottom as she unbuckles your belt and yanks down your trousers.

  You have pictured this moment for the better part of a year. You imagined all the ways you would pleasure her and she would pleasure you in return. In the heat of the actual moment, neither of you has any interest in foreplay. She slides off her panties and her bra and pulls you down onto the bed with her. Your hard cock rubs against her supple inner thigh and you feel the radiating heat and softness of her pussy with its silky gold tuft of hair.

  “I need you,” she gasps, caressing your cheek as you move atop her and position your cock at her entrance. “Take me, my love. I have dreamt of this for…oooOOOHHHH YESSSS!”

  You thrust into the exquisite, steamy silkiness of her pussy, driving to the hilt as she tosses her hair and writhes beneath you. She strokes your muscular shoulders and wraps you in her long legs, pulling you deeper. The heat of her cunt is like a furnace around you – like a forge melting the steel of your sword – you plunge in and out of her, locking eyes with her as you fuck her.

  “Lucas,” she gasps. “Oh, Lucas, how I took this for granted before. You are the only man…oooohh…only man for me. AAAHHHH!”

  Her pussy flutters around you, her expression lost in bliss. You pump in and out of her, driving forcefully, but not roughly. Your pleasure rising with every stroke as she cums around you.

  “Cum inside me,” she gasps. “Cum. Fill my womb.”

  The thought had hardly occurred to you, but as you stiffen and explode inside her, there is a certain radiant joy to the moment as the thought of fathering a child with the beautiful angel fills your mind. She holds your hand, looking up into your eyes as you thrust again and again, your cock pulsing as her inner muscles work your shaft.

  “I can feel it inside me,” she laughs, leaning up to kiss you, tears glistening in her eyes. “Oh, my love. Mmmmmm.”

  You kiss her passionately as your strokes slow and the last of your cum trickles into her clutching pussy.

  “I want to stay like this forever,” you say, kissing her lips, neck, and shoulder.

  “Forever,” she agrees, holding you atop her with her legs.

  CONTINUE >

  CONTINUE >

  Return to Saturana

  You are not eager to return to the steamy misery of the cursed jungle of Staurana,
yet you know your destiny lies in that miserable place. The woman you seek is there. You must find her, whatever the danger.

  “I must go back,” you say to your mother and sister.

  “Back?” You mother asks.

  “Oh, no,” cries Genevieve as she realizes you are looking at the cursed jungle on the map.

  “Saturana,” you say. “The woman I am seeking is there.”

  “Who?” Genevieve demands, folding her arms over her breasts.

  You dare not say which of the women you are seeking in Saturana. There was the plant girl who you bested and the Scylla girl you drove off. Saturana might also be your only way to reach the Succubus Queen. You could never tell your mother that you intended to seek out Lady Rachelle.

  “I must finish something there,” you say firmly. “I will find a way to reach Saturana on foot if you will not aid me.”

  “Good, then go,” says Genevieve.

  “Genny, no,” says your mother. “We will help you. We will send you to the edge of the jungle. It will take you weeks to reach that awful place otherwise.”

  “Weeks for him to reconsider,” says Genevieve. But she does not protest as your mother takes her hand and takes your hand.

  Your mother begins to chant in the tongue of magic and your sister, however reluctant, joins her. Their words grow louder and louder and magic begins to crackle from your hands up to your torso. Your hair stands on end all over your body. You experience a strange weightless sensation in the pit of your stomach and with a sudden rush you are flung into the sky. Cold air rushes around you, the world seeming to spin like a rolling marble. You are suddenly struck with heat and moisture and the vast jungle of Saturana sprawls beneath you like a fuzzy green octopus.