Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust

by Amanda Clover

  “So,” you say contemptuously. “With this you failed to kill the Scylla.”

  “M-mistress!” the lamia wails.

  “Shut up!” you order, and lean forward, pressing harder down upon her pelvis, feeling the heat from her pussy on your foot. Her hot flesh quivers.

  “O-oh!” the serpent woman gasps, eyes shooting wide open unveiling the rings which surround her pupils.

  “Cum,” you whisper.

  The lamia bucks, stiffens. She hisses throatily as she cums, soaking your foot in her juices.

  You look down with a mocking grin as you run your big toe against the groove of her slit, soaking it in her squirting juices. Soon enough the lamia collapses in the mud, limp and spent. Her chest with its small nipple-less breasts rises and falls with a steady rate. Her eyes are lidded and passive, mentally drained.

  Before you go you withdraw your foot and poke her lips with it once more. Automatically the snake woman’s lips wrap about your toes, dully sucking her own cum from your foot.

  “Good slut,” you say. Her lips quirk with a tired but pleased smile.

  With the lamia’s orgasm you recover yourself. You hastily pull on your sock and lace up your boot. You give the scarlet scaled woman a final look, only the tip of her tail feebly twitching, and hastily depart down the road.

  You feel oddly ashamed at how much joy you took in torturing the serpent. It’s a side of yourself you never really considered. You can’t deny she deserved it, of course. But it wasn’t punishment of any kind. You took perhaps more pleasure than she in her debasement.

  You push such troubling thoughts from your mind. Holding up the flask, you again examine the yellow mixture within. It catches the light, shining like liquid gold. Some sort of acid you suppose. Given time, you’d like to examine it further. Perhaps add its makeup to the codex.

  But such things must wait. The mists press in around you, reminding you acutely of the present need. Of all the monsters in the book you own, a Scylla is one of the most dangerous.

  Most dangerous, you remind yourself forcefully, to the unprepared. For their greatest asset is surprise, lurking in the dark waters of swamps and seizing the unwary in their tentacles, dragging them below the waters to their caves to be fed upon or bred. You grip the bottle of the poison, feeling the coarse rope which crosses it dig into your flesh. With a shaking hand, your brush some errant strands of white hair from your face. But even so prepared, your legs feel like water.

  But you walk on. There’s nothing else for it. You have to keep moving forward. The mists are soon so thick you can barely see your hand before you. But the trail winds on without interruption.

  Then, you hear the soft plop of water.

  You stop short, listening. Again you hear the heavy plop. Before you, the mists suddenly thin. You find yourself facing a wide pool of brackish water. Tongues of white steam rise from here and there across the water’s surface, feeding into the mists which surround you.

  You see a ripple among the waters. The edge of the pond swells, and something rises from its 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.

  Her hips rise and true horror fills you, for where her waist ends, she swells over into a writhing mass of oily black tentacles.

  Your terror returns as the Scylla sniffs the air. Likely she expected the lamia to have brought her compliant prey, which would explain her willingness to surface. Though you applaud your luck in that, it fades like the audience suddenly realizing the death scene on stage was perhaps too good for acting. The scylla’s sightless eyes fix on you, and her writhing rubbery limbs reach like crawling shadows for you.

  What do you?

  Wait

  Parley

  Attack

  Magic

  Surrender

  Don the armor

  Real armor would probably be more useful than the jacket you’ve worn thus far. Shedding your travelling clothes you take up the armor and put it on. “Oh,” you say, surprised at how snugly it fits. Not uncomfortable, but the sturdy steel pressed firmly on your skin where it touches.

  Added to this is a surprising amount of leather straps. They’re warm to the touch and have the peculiar scent of hide. They bind the rather more threadbare parts of the steel together, whose elaborate etchings seem to flow with grotesque features in the light of the orbs about the tower.

  Soon enough you are dressed, and looking into the mirror, stare in surprise. The breastplate is just that, a plate of armor barely covering your ample breasts, its juncture marked by a yellow stone set in the iron. And only now do you see that the carvings fit the shape of your breasts with shocking accuracy, the whorls deepening in rings before centering on the nipples.

  Your lower body is given barely more coverage. The snug metal conforms to your hips, rolling over them with the dark leather, but the actual piece which covers your nethers has a curious divot which rides against your cunt a little when you move, rubbing against you in ways that makes your skin tingle and breath come short and hot. Not helped is the leathery strap which pressed between your bum cheeks firmly, vanishing between the ample globes of your ass before climbing up along the curve of your spine.

  But the designer had been a master, and nowhere do the joints pinch your tender flesh or chafe. The leather is supple if constraining, the whole armor moving with you like a second skin. Not even around your breasts, where the plate seems particularly tight, can you confess to genuine discomfort. “Hm,” you murmur approvingly.

  Your new appreciation for your body has you pose before the mirror, stretching in the revealing garb, feeling it pull and press against the muscles of your form. You look like some barbarian queen in the ancient armor, its leather straps pressing against the firmness of your legs. Your bared stomach, toned with muscle. Your tail.

  Wait… a tail?!

  You whip about and stare at the strap of leather waving behind you. It suddenly lashes against your back, raising a startled yelp from you. The leather strap presses against your red skin, tight. You grab for it but it has you securely, your fingers finding barely any purchase, and no leverage. Frantically, you reach for the buckles at your waist to remove the armor, only to find them gone.

  “What!” you squeal, yelping as the leather again smacks your back, the sharp sound echoing in the tower. You grab your chest piece and try and pull it off but the metal presses against your breasts, pushing them together and making them seem larger.

  And your hands are fondling them.

  “Ugh!” You tear your arms away, but a moment later gasp with a low moan. Something is pressing against your cunt! The subtle pressure from before has become more pronounced. It digs against your naked cunny, like slender fingers gently parting your folds and sliding inside.

  “Nnn!” You fall to your knees, assailed by these warring pleasures. Belatedly, you find your hand again caressing the swollen mounds of your breasts, pressing against the metal nubs of the fake nipples.

  "Mother!" you cry out with your mind.

  "Penny?" Her voice echoes through your thoughts, but oddly muted. Distant. Like a wall stands between your thoughts and hers. "Penny? What's happened?"

  "I-ah! Oh!"

  "Penny!" Your mother's cry fades even as she speaks, choked behind something else. The faintest echo reaches your thoughts, then nothing. Something about this armor denies her to you. The mark above your quim is visible and throbs with your awakened desire. You grit your teeth, struggling with the straps
with renewed vigor. But your treacherous hands instead caress your warm skin and pinch it delightfully.

  At that moment, you spot the yellow stone, before so seemingly innocuous at the juncture of your breasts. A fine yellow stone like gold. Gold with a dark strip on it.

  Gold that stares at you.

  “Mimic!” you gasp in shock. The baleful eye stares at you from below, and you feel the armor, the mimic’s body, press against your heavy tits again. You groan, shutting your eyes tight against the pleasure as the monster manipulates your body. You’ve never heard of a mimic taking on a form so complex! Likely another experiment of the accursed wizard. With what little breath remains to you curse the old man and hope he rots in the bowels of the deepest hells, his ass poked by the pitchforks of a thousand imps.

  But you must act fast. Already you feel your body move against your will. Or rather, a will other than your own. Who knows what the mimic intends!

  What do you do?

  Wait

  Parley

  Attack

  Magic

  Surrender

  Pay with your ass

  You step away from Kara and towards the wugs.

  “Penny?”

  Your sister’s voice carries fear and caution in equal measure. You hold up a hand to bid her stay and reluctantly she does so, eying the wugs which fill the clearing with obvious loathing.

  The war leader stands before brethren, but you can feel every eye on you. Devouring your figure in all its luscious curves and contours. You sink to your knees and turn about, brushing aside your skirt to reveal the pale globes of your plump bottom. You tell yourself its fear that sends a shudder down your spine as you pull down your underwear, baring yourself to the amphibious creatures.

  “I will pay with my second hole,” you say.

  The wug nods, but seems dissatisfied. Nonetheless he reaches forward. You gasp, his fingers cold upon your skin. He parts you cheeks to reveal the dark hole of your taint. He grunts, and you see his wedge of cock slip further from his body.

  You feel his cock at your puckered hole. “Ah!” Reflexively the muscles tighten, but you know from your readings that a wug’s cock is made to penetrate. The wedge shape slides past the guarding muscles, slipping inside you.

  “O-oh!” you murmur. You feel him inside of you, but it is not like any other before. His cock is cold like his flesh, and your warm insides tighten about it, clenching against him.

  The war leader croaks deeply. “Warm mother. So warm.”

  “Y-yes,” you manage.

  The war leader begins to move, sliding in and out of you. You try to force your eyes forward as the wug ruthlessly fucks you. He is not gentle. His hips smack against your ass with a lewd slapping sound. The amphibious monster croaks with pleasure. You swallow back your own groans, forcing your eyes forward. You see Kara, staring at you with disgust mingled with something else. Her wide eyes make you flush, but the shame of it sends sinful tendrils of pleasure through your body.

  You turn your eyes away to try and focus on something else, and not the strange pleasure which radiates from the cock reaming your clenching bowels. But all around you see the intent gaze of the war party. Staring at you and your violation. Several have slipped out their cocks and openly stroke themselves.

  Your breath grows ragged. You practically sob at the humiliation of your rough fucking in the swamps by the lowly wug. His tribe members masturbate with a careful deliberateness. Your body clutches at the cock within you. Kara’s horrified gaze. Why? Why does it feel so good?

  You yelp as the war leader suddenly slaps your jiggling ass, sending vibrations coursing through you. “O-oooh!” you moan.

  “Good. Warm. I cum soon. I fill you,” the wug croaks.

  “Y-yes,”

  The wug gives a final thrust and a warbling croak that echoes among the trees. Then you feel his cold, oily seed spill into your still warm bowels. You gasp, your body tensing. You cum with him unbidden, but the strange sensation of his cum seems to force your body to do so. Your arms and knees tremble. Did any of them notice? Your eyes dart about the other wugs and your cheeks flush scarlet. Somehow, you think they did.

  The war leader withdraws from you, his cock slipping back into his body. The lurid hue of his stomach fades to a vague pink as he steps back.

  “Good mating. Good…” The wug trails off. He moves faster than you think possible, hooking a talon into your hair. You yelp in pain, grabbing your scalp. His dark pupils seem to swell and fill the orbs of his eyes.

  “Croaha,” the wug croaks. “You Croaha?”

  “What?” you gasp.

  “Take both!”

  The wugs are on you before you have a chance to protest. You scream as your arms are yanked behind you and tied up. Wugs swarm about you and you’re hoisted onto the shoulders of several. You hear a distant shout of fury from Kara, but nothing else before she is buried under a pile of wugs.

  You force your head towards the war leader. “We had a bargain!” you scream in futile rage.

  The war leader shakes his head, but says nothing. Before you can say more, several wugs hoist you on their shoulders like the prize after a hunt.

  Thus, hog tied, you are borne across the warm marsh, where the scent of the sea is teased amid the stagnant stench of the marshlands. You and Kara are carried deeper into the depths of the brackish jungle, and soon enough come upon the wug’s village.

  It is typical according to your readings. It’s situated at the far side of a large lagoon which empties into the ocean. Squat huts of mud and wattle rise like mushrooms out of the ground, shielded from the sea by a screen of forest. The village is dominated by a distant large building, a longhouse made of plundered timber from wrecked ships and whatever could be found. In any other place, you would think it the chief’s home, or perhaps the communal hall. But these are wugs, and you know without looking back and seeing Kara’s horrified face what it truly is. The Barn. The place where human women are kept docile and milked by the wugs, bred in harnesses like cattle, kept drugged through the wug’s foul potions and their own creamy milk.

  It’s no small relief when the wugs turn away from that dark place and instead bear you and Kara to a large hut. They deposit you on a floor lined with reed mats, lit only by the thin sunlight peeking through the island’s haze and filtering through the cracks in the wattle ceiling.

  Before he goes, the wug war leader frees you from your ropes with a deft movement of a dagger. He does the same to Kara, but there are so many loops that by the time you scramble from them he is long gone.

  “Great,” Kara hisses as she flings the last of the ropes into a corner. “Just great. At least we’re still armed.”

  You risk a peek out the door. “We’re in the middle of their village.” You scuttle back into the hut grimly. “And there’s guards outside. We wouldn’t make it ten feet.”

  “Better to die than end up in their barn.”

  Kara shudders. Though you’re aware of what fate awaits you at the wug’s hands, Kara has seen it. The dusky darkness of the barns. Women bound in place or prostrate on boards, their full breasts and stomachs hanging beneath them while their breasts are pumped for their precious cream.

  “You okay?”

  You come to yourself with a start. “Hm?”

  “You look flushed.”

  You swallow thickly. “Just…a little uneasy.”

  Kara grunts something affirmative. She suddenly cocks her head. “Someone’s coming.”

  Quickly you both scoot to the furthest corner of the hut, away from the wugs which quietly pass through the doorway.

  One is the war leader who captured you. Two guards come with him armed with spears. Kara growls but she doesn’t try anything.

  Yet it is the newcomer who draws your eye. He is different from the other warrior wugs. His paint is white instead of the earthy hues of his warrior kin, giving him a strange, ghostly appearance. The markings about his face give him a look like a grinning skull and
thrust in his belt are a number of vials and feathers, almost forming a kilt. Looping cord hangs around his head, sporting fetishes of jeweled beads and carved bone. In one webbed hand he bears a tall pole and you grimace at the sight of a grinning skull at its top, and the weird swamp light which glows within its sockets sends a shudder down your spine.

  The white wug stares at you and Kara for a long moment with his unfathomable eyes. He croaks something in his tongue but you merely stare at him perplexed. After a moment, the shaman, so you think of him, turns to the war leader and croaks something else.

  After a moment both leave. The suddenness of their arrival and departure fills the hut with a heavy air of uncertainty. You and Kara squat in the far corner, knees drawn up and lips hard.

  After maybe an hour there is a third stirring at the mouth of the hut, but it is not a wug who enters. Instead, a woman pushes through the entrance. She is tall and well built, a fact quite evident for save a thin cloak, she is utterly naked. She has brown hair which falls low and is decorated with beads and woven with small bones. Her breasts swell from her chests, as large as Marabelle, the witch you escaped from so early in your journey, with the same dark and puffy areola. Unlike the witch however, this woman’s skin is pale where it is not darkened by a mass of swirling tattoos, like she were bound by an ink octopus stamped on her very skin.

  The thought of the milk witch adds a sudden new dimension to this newcomer, and looking at her eyes, you see the docile submissiveness of a human cow.

  The woman kneels and places a dish of food before you both. The plate you notice is a copper dish, likely a trophy from some sunken wreck. The food itself is a smattering of cooked fish and strange fruit. There is a creamy smell to them which fills the hut, and your mouth waters as your hunger suddenly makes itself known. You lunge forward, grabbing up a ripe piece of fruit. Its thin skin breaks beneath your teeth and its sweetness makes your tongue sing.

  “Penny!” Kara gapes.