Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust

by Amanda Clover

  It’s Marabelle who acts. She grabs your hands and puts them against your immense flesh.

  “Milk yourself my dear,” Marabelle hisses. “Hurry!”

  You’ve never been on a farm, but the need seems to waken some instinct within you. You squeeze your expanding flesh, groaning with the acute pain as you mash your engorged breasts together, pressing on them like a baker would dough. You feel the liquid bounty within swell, and then, with a throb of pain, burst from your nipples in a shower of cream.

  The first spray goes wild in several directions, splattering across the floor, but most of it ends up in the tub, sliding down the marble white surface and pooling in its depths. Groaning, panting, you frantically milk yourself in a desperate bid to outpace the ever-expanding flesh. Milk falls from your udder-like breasts in a steady torrent, twin pearly waterfalls of cream falling, raising the level of the pool within.

  You feel Marabelle over your shoulder and glance back at her, but she seems entranced by the milk filling the tub. Her tongue flicks over her lips and her hands join yours in milking you. You groan, but don’t protest as her touch is masterful, kneading and pressing, squeezing more of your cream from your massive teats. You try and follow her example, and soon the bath fills at a steady rate.

  You fall into the motions of your milking, and the initial pain is replaced by a torpid pleasure. A feeling like sitting in the field on a sunny day, basking in the sun. A simple joy which tingles up your nerves.

  You catch yourself and stare at your breasts. Are they…smaller? They are! With relief you can see that your immense breasts have stopped growing, and as you continue to drain them, you note they have even begun to shrink!

  As the size of your tits reduces, so does the milk pumping from them. Gradually the steady stream becomes a trickle, then a dripping. Soon enough your breasts have assumed their original size, if perhaps a touch firmer, and as you squeeze the last droplets free, you know whatever Marabelle injected you with has run its course.

  “Mmmm. Beautiful.”

  You pull away from the tub, cradling your breasts as the dull ache makes way for a strange sense of emptiness. Of something unfulfilled. It’s an odd feeling, and you don’t know if you prefer it to the grotesque swelling.

  Marabelle moves from around you, abandoning you. As she moves towards the tub she strips her skirt from herself and sheds her shirt. She’s wearing no underpants, which you’re unsurprised to see, but what you are surprised to see is her lift a dainty leg over the rim of the tub and slide in.

  You gape as Marabelle sinks into the cream inch by inch. She seems to revel in the sensation of your milk on her skin, throwing back her head as her tattooed mons dips into the cream. You hadn’t realized you’d lactated so much! It is an impossible quantity. Marabelle easily sinks her whole body into your cream, luxuriating like a noblewoman in a warm bath.

  “Oh, my dear,” Marabelle moans, tossing back her head and letting her hair hang over the edge of the tub. “Your milk feels so wonderful.”

  You stand there, red with embarrassment but, at the same time, a deep arousal. Self consciously you reach down and gather up your shirt, hastily pulling it on.

  “Th-then, I can go?”

  Marabelle tilts her head languidly towards you, her hooded eyes nearly closed in bliss as she bathes in your milk. “Mmm. Yes. You may, my dear.”

  You heave a relieved sigh and turn to leave.

  “Or,” Marabelle interrupts.

  You pause, tensing, and glance back at the curly-haired seductress. “Or?”

  “I could use an assistant, my dear. I think you would be… most acceptable.” She smiles another one of her lazy smiles. “Well, my dear? Shall you?”

  Your angry retort chokes in your throat as you watch Marabelle lift a leg from the milk bath. With fascination you watch the ivory cream cling to her shapely thighs and flesh, her perfect toes curling in the air. Lurid premonitions of a future of assisting this woman flash in your mind. The things she might make you do, the things you would do willingly. She gives you that heavy-lidded look and smiles as if she can see into your mind.

  “Well, my dear? What shall it be?”

  What do you do?

  Refuse to stay with the sorceress

  Become the sorceress’s assistant

  Magic

  You grimace with anger and stuff your flintlock back into your belt. The protean hesitates, perhaps uncertain of what you are doing. It only takes you a moment to raise your hand again, splay your fingers into an almost perfect casting posture, and speak the words to cast a breath of the frost giant spell. Your exhalation becomes a roaring gale of icy wind. The protean humanoid in front of you freezes solid, going opaque with frost as the ice spreads in a cone facing the exit tunnel.

  The spell is as effective as you had hoped, locking the slime in place and breaking off hunks of petrified protean flesh from the men and women trapped in the slime. They begin to stir from their trances. Some begin to sob or retch, but others pull themselves to their feet and look at you with confusion.

  “Quickly!” You cry, climbing onto the frozen slime. “We have to get out of here! Come on!”

  The slime crunches underfoot. It’s already beginning to thaw. You run along its frosty surface, trying not to slip over as you run to the people being freed. They are too stunned to react quickly. You grab a woman under her arms and lift her to her feet.

  “There is no time. We have to—“

  The laughter behind you sends a chill up your spine. It echoes throughout the chamber. The green light pulses rhythmically from within the slime covering the walls and ceiling. You turn slowly and face the protean. She is has massed into a giant figure made from slime, voluptuous and humanoid, but no longer detailed enough to resemble any specific person.

  “Your sister tried fire,” laughs the protean. “She at least knew to run when she had the chance. Your desire to help these poor fools is your undoing.”

  You splay your fingers again to cast the frost spell once more, but her giant hand drops over your body, capturing you in her gelatinous mass.

  “No escape for you,” she says, holding you up to her translucent face. “Not even a host. I have something else for you.”

  You are slurped upwards, drawn through a slime-filled tunnel and into the darkness of the mountain. The cool slime presses around you and gradually becomes warmer and warmer. You emerge into a softly glowing chamber filled with red light. The protean’s flesh here is pink rather than green. The warmth all around you grows more and more intense. You writhe suspended in the protean.

  There are things floating around you in the slime. It takes you a moment to realize that they are pieces of your clothing as your jacket and blouse and finally even your underwear come apart within the slime. You know what is happening, that you are being digested by the protean, but it all feels so very far away. You are in a warm, pleasure-filled dream. The currents of the slime push and pull at your flesh. The world grows darker and darker. Every part of you is becoming mushy, like you have been soaking in a hot bath for days. You pass in and out of consciousness and gently gurgle within the slime. It is inside you, pushing and pulling, and you like a sugary sweat on its blasphemous tongue.

  Somewhere far away, you hear a childlike laugh, triumphant and cruel, echoing in your head as you fade into final darkness.

  BAD END

  << START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX

  The burned village

  The forest is mossy and ancient, with tall, straight trees that sway gently in the wind. The fog thins a little as the sun rises higher in the sky, making it easier to find your way among the groaning trees. Despite the wan light, you feel as if you are walking among giants, or even smaller, like a flea crawling among the follicles of some mossy beast. The forest breathes and creaks with a life of its own. The occasional fluttering of birds, half scene through the fog, adds to your tension.

  It is not long before you detect the scent of burned wood in the air.
There is no smoke, but the lingering aroma of fire tickles at your nostrils. Fire often means civilization, so you try to head in that general direction. An unnaturally deep growl from behind you hastens your pace. You glance over your shoulder and think you see four eyes staring at you from the shrouded forest. You almost break into a run, stumbling out of the tree line and into a clearing with little warning.

  The fog recedes to a few wisps clinging to the ground and you see that you are standing among the ruins of several structures. They seem to be wooden houses, perhaps with shingled roofs, although it is hard to tell because they have all been burned down to blackened foundations. There are human bones among the ashes.

  You settle your hand onto the grip of your sword and cast another glance over your shoulder. Whatever was following you in the forest might be hungry enough to pursue you into the open. You are so concerned about what might be coming up behind you that you almost stumble over the corpses laid out in the road.

  “Gertlings,” you mutter through clenched teeth.

  There are eight of them in the road and they look almost the same dead as they appear in the illustrations in your family’s codex. Each is about a third the size of a human. Their arms and legs are skinny, with clawed nails, their heads wide, ears long and pointed, and lipless mouths comparatively huge and full of short, jagged teeth. Their dead eyes still bulge from their heads unwholesomely. Black flies crawl over the corpses and buzz in the air around them. Their blue skin is paler than usual, but darkening to black where the blood has pooled in their bodies.

  You are no expert on reading the signs of morbidity, but you would guess they have been dead only a few days. Most of them have been decapitated or badly maimed and their severed limbs have been arranged alongside the bodies with some reverence. Could your sister or mother have butchered these creatures? The cuts are clean and far too powerful to have been inflicted by other gertlings.

  Usually these creatures wear simple clothing and carry simple weapons. Someone or something has stripped them of their belongings.

  You walk a bit farther and notice a few stray boot prints in the sandy earth. There were surely more boot prints, but these were shielded from the rain by the remaining timbers of a burned house. Human-sized boots created these. Like the sort your sister or mother would wear.

  Did one of them simply pass through this burned village or did they fall to the clawed hands of these gertlings?

  A soft chittering voice from the nearby ruins sends a jolt of fear through your body. Your hand tightens on the grip of your kirana as you slowly turn.

  Four gertlings emerge from the cover of blackened timbers. They are dressed in ragged in loincloths and ragged leathers festooned with charms. Two of the creatures are quite small, one is muscular and brutish, and the fourth is lean and probably as tall as your chest. The two runts of the group raise crude bows, the muscular brute brandishes a stone cudgel, and the tall one holds a bolo, slowly spinning it in his hands. Their bulging eyes are not dull like the corpses in the road and their teeth are bared in anger.

  You have walked right into an ambush. Solitary gertlings are pitiful creatures; four of them are just enough to be dangerous.

  "Give up, human," shouts the lanky gertling, surprising you with understandable language. "We not kill you if you surrender."

  Were these the survivors that escaped your sister’s wrath or did they triumph and capture your family? You watch the spinning bolo and your heart pounds with fear in your chest as you weigh your chances against these savage beasties. This is your first true confrontation with monsters in the wild. You are not much of a fighter, nor are you very good with spells, but gertlings are a superstitious race. Even the slightest show of magical power might terrify them.

  What do you do?

  Wait

  Parley

  Attack

  Magic

  Surrender

  Sorceress’s breeding wife ending

  Your belly bumps into one of the pitchers of milk sitting on the table and your reflexes are too dull for you to stop it from tipping over. Marabelle, standing nearby, reaches out and catches the pitcher just before it overturns. Milk sloshes over her hand and drips onto the table.

  “Clumsy, clumsy girl,” she scolds and examines the milk splashed on her hand and dripping down her forearm. “Clean it up, my dear.”

  You eagerly lick and suck the delicious cream from Mistress Marabelle’s arm, working your way up to her fingers. She feeds them into your mouth and you suck her digits clean. You are so embarrassed by your clumsiness. You moo pitifully, hoping she will forgive you.

  Mooing is all you can do now. Weeks of drinking the milk from her breasts and taking daily doses of the thick seed from her cock in your mouth or in your stretched pussy has turned your brain to mush. Your breasts have swollen enormously, your nipples thickened, and your hips widened. Your belly bulges with the life growing inside you. Every so often, you feel it kick, and you know it is going to take after its mother.

  Marabelle heads out to the barn to tend to the milk cows. Sometimes you help her, attaching hoses, feeding the cows from your breasts, or washing their dirty bodies. You like helping Marabelle. It makes you happy to help her, you think, as you lick up the milk that has spilled on the table. Some of the milk has dripped through the planks of the table and onto the floor. You crawl under the table on your hands and knees, your plump bottom raised behind you and swishing from side to side as you lick at the floorboards.

  Marabelle returns from the barn and sees you wagging your ass. Soon enough, she has her huge cock in your slippery, sloppy cunt, stretching it wide and prodding almost to your womb. Your huge, dangling breasts swing with each thrust and milk flicks out of your swollen nipples.

  “Mooooooo,” you cry with pleasure as the huge cock ruts in and out of your juicy cunt.

  “Yes, my sweet,” laughs Marabelle. “Our child will be so very strong. Thanks to your blood mingling with mine. A huntress and a witch? Ooohhh… now there is a delicious combination.”

  You cry out with ecstasy, pushing your big ass back to slap against Marabelle’s thighs. Your pussy’s inner walls clutch against her thrusting cock. Her grip tightens on your hips and she fires her plentiful seed into your squeezing sex. You feel euphoric as her potent seed bathes your fluttering cunt. You are addicted to her seed and there is no better way to take it than deep in your pussy.

  “We are going to make such a happy family,” gasps Marabelle, slowing her strokes and working her cock gently out of your cream-stuffed cunt. You moo in agreement as her warm seed pours out of your freshly-fucked hole.

  Your adventure is at an end, but your new life with Marabelle has only just begun.

  BAD END

  << START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX

  Linger so Alyssa can be mounted

  Although you want to dress and be on your way, it is exciting to imagine the succubus mating with the hulking drider. Her alluring look as she strokes the half-arachnid’s cock is also rather convincing. Her mischievous smile and long-lashed wink seal the deal.

  “Very well,” you say. You had picked up your clothing to begin to dress, but you set your clothing back down on the ground. “I suppose we can spare the time so that you can enjoy being fucked by a drider.”

  “Oh, I love it when you talk dirty like that,” giggles Alyssa. The drider clicks its mandibles in apparent approval.

  “You are absolutely disgusting,” growls your mother in your mind. “I cannot believe you would want to watch this blasphemous brute mounting this annoying succubus tart.”

  “I thought the Great One wanted monsters and humans to interbreed,” you point out.

  “Don’t use His teachings against me,” your mother snaps. “Get to Rhilath as soon as possible. I will not be a party to this.”

  Her presence departs from your mind, leaving you to watch and enjoy the sight of the lovely succubus crawling beneath the drider and once more pressing her luscious body against his
huge cock. You have a great view of Alyssa’s round ass and perky, lavender pussy squeezed between her thighs as she runs her tongue up the drider’s cockshaft.

  “Ohhhhhh,” moans the drider, letting its head fall back as Alyssa squirms against his throbbing cock. She squeezes him between her breasts and swirls the tip of her tongue as the slit of his cockhead.

  “Ready for some fun, spider boy?” She teases, tickling her fingers down her shaft.

  “Oh, yes, demon,” moans the drider. “I am ready to mount you.”

  “Buy a lady a drink first, please,” giggles Alyssa, shooting a wink in your direction as she crawls out from under the drider.

  “You’re no lady,” you say, sitting back on a fallen log and watching as Alyssa crawls through the soft grass and puts her head down to the earth.

  “Awwww, you’re so mean,” she says. She lifts the pale, creamy heart of her ass and wiggles it invitingly towards the drider. “Come on, spider boy, my snug little slit is waiting for that huuuuuge cock.”

  You spread your thighs and run your hand over your steamy pussy. Alyssa watches you, her eyelids drooping with pleasure as she reaches back and plays with herself. The drider climbs behind her, his arachnid claws creating indentations in her creamy hips as he mounts her from behind. You and Alyssa both suck in a breath of desire as the drider lines his cock up at her delicate folds. His mandibles open and close and his abdomen flexes as he rams his cock deep into Alyssa’s demonically lovely pussy.

  “Ooooooooh,” she cries, arching beneath the drider. The human half of the drider reaches down, grabbing Alyssa’s shoulder with one hand and her silky lavender hair with another. Alyssa pushes up on her hands and knees and backs onto the drider’s huge cock. It seems as if an impossible amount of cock is buried in her pussy, but she still seems to love it. She moans, “Oh, fuck me! Fuuuuck me!”