Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust

by Amanda Clover

  “Ohhhhh, yessss, Kara,” you moan, climbing between Kara’s legs with your plump bottom sticking out from the apron as you lean forward. You inhale her familiar scent and run your tongue over her sweet petals. She sucks in a breath, arches slightly, but returns to enjoying her breakfast. As you lash your tongue at her clit, Kara watches you and licks the fruit from her fork.

  You moan against her cunt, sucking eagerly, licking just how you know she likes, and probing her clutching quim with your eager fingers. Her pert breasts shudder and she discards her fork on the tray to grab your head with both hands. You suck at her sweet pussy, drawing out her pleasure and her nectar onto your tongue. Her juices drip from your chin as she pulls you against her sex and works her hips. Her inner walls clutch at your thrusting fingers as she cums against you.

  “Ohhhhh, Penelope,” she cries, bucking against your face, “you are too good for me!”

  You lick her clit until her hips stop jerking and she relaxes back onto the pillows. She lightens the pressure on the back of your head and lets you lift your head from between her toned thighs. You kiss your way up her body, sharing her sweet juice in a torrid, tongue-twisting kiss. She reaches around you with both hands to squeeze and cradle your ample ass.

  “You spoil me, sister,” she whispers against your lips. “But I must have something else. I require nourishment.”

  “More than my love?” You ask.

  She gently spanks your bottom with both her hands. You cry out softly and she gives you another teasing kiss.

  “Yes, I know how you hate it, Penelope, but we must go hunting.”

  “On the horses?” You ask, remembering the last time she made you hunt with her.

  “Yes,” she says, squeezing your ass, “but first, I think I’ll have a little more to eat.”

  She sprawls you on the bed and repays your pleasure with her flicking tongue and thrusting fingers. You squeeze your breasts and pluck at your fat nipples as you writhe beneath her tongue. She adds a finger to your tender asshole and it is enough to send you to a shuddering peak of pleasure. You jerk your hips and fuck against her fingers, your juices spilling over her knuckles and trickling down over your pinkie-plugged asshole.

  The pleasure is intense, but fleeting, and before you have long to luxuriate in the afterglow, Kara sends you off to prepare the horses for the hunt. By midday, you are in the saddle, riding on the painted horse while she rides the heavier white charger. You are not certain where your sister found the horses, but they are well-trained and reliable mounts. You cut through the dark woods to the east of the manor when you spot the trail of two humans moving through the forest.

  “A man and a woman,” says Kara, pointing to the different-sized footprints. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a man to visit once in a while?”

  She grins, but you feel a nauseating tightness in your tummy at the thought of what Kara has in mind for this unfortunate pair. It’s too late to back out. You have continued too far down this road with the doppelganger you think of as your sister.

  “A man would be nice,” you say, trying to offer her a sweet smile. Kara searches your face with her golden gaze as if she is trying to see the truth.

  You find them stumbling through the woods not much later. The man has a broken arm and a rusty sword. He is skinny, with a craggy face and a thick salt and pepper beard. He says his name is Elsmen. The woman is his daughter, Jana, a petite blonde with freckles across her nose and a rounded, pretty face. She looks at you with wide, brown eyes and seems to relax when you offer her some of the tart you baked.

  “Why don’t you come back and stay with us for a while?” Kara suggests. “My sister will fix you something to eat and you can clean up.”

  “Yes, I have some mince pies cooling right now on the counter,” you offer. “I am sure you have faced some horrors on your journeys. Come and stay with us. Our manor is safe from those horrors.”

  Elsmen looks at his daughter and he squeezes her shoulder. You feel a pang of guilt that only deepens when Jana is riding behind you, her arms around your body and her head against your back. You keep your word, feeding them your mince pie, cheese, smoked fish, and fresh fruit. Kara prepares hot baths for them and they clean up and are given some of the clothes from the manor house.

  “Get a look at yourself in the mirror,” suggests Kara, taking Elmsmen’s hand and leading him into the hall of mirrors. “You look dashing.”

  “Yes, come and have a look,” you say, taking Jana’s hand and walking with her among the mirrors.

  The unearthly atmosphere in the hall does not deter them. You hold Jana’s hand as she slips through the glass. Her innocent eyes widen as the shadows come to life and begin to caress her. She screams, but her voice does not carry through the mirror.

  “Such a prize,” laughs Kara, joining you as you turn away from the awful sight of Jana being violated. Kara caresses your cheek. “You have done well, sister. Do not feel guilty.”

  “I… I don’t,” you lie poorly. “Join me in the bedroom when you’d like. You can try out Elsmen for a change.”

  As you are leaving the hall of mirrors, you glimpse the real Kara within the glass. She is dead, withered to a mummy-like state, but with the lingering shock of white hair. You swallow hard as you are forced to recognize, if only for a moment, the monster you have become.

  Having Elsman atop you helps you forget. His cock is long and stiff as it plunges into your willing cunt. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper as you do your best to ignore the fate of the real man trapped within his own mirror.

  “Fuck me,” you gasp. “Fuck me harder.”

  You need to be dominated. You need to be punished by his cock.

  Truth be told, you need far worse than a hard fucking. But there is no hope for you now, you cannot change what is past. Your adventure is at an end and you can only enjoy the moment.

  BAD END

  << START OVER | < SKIP PROLOGUE | INDEX

  Magic

  You have no chance to avoid those thrashing limbs. Nor would invisibility avail you to the blind creature used to seeking in an eternal dark. But there was one spell which might be enough to take you close. A forbidden one you found locked away in cryptograms within your family’s tome. It’s known as Fade. To disconnect your physical body from reality, dancing along the realm of death, where ghosts reside. The spell is usually reserved for battling the undead, which can only truly be slain in their own realm. But for the living to cast it…

  A risky spell. But it’s your best bet.

  You hold your hands to your breast, slowing your breathing, feeling the even rise and fall of your chest.

  You exhale the words of magic slowly. The last come forth in a breath of mist as if the world had suddenly grown terribly cold. Your body becomes less distinct. Your shapely hips and rear growing vague as if seen through foggy glass. Your hair wispy like snow blown in a winter breeze and your features smudged.

  The Scylla is close enough now. Her tentacles reach for your body, encircling your waist.

  And clutch nothing.

  The monster’s elfin face twists in confusion. It tries to grasp your wispy shape again but its dark tentacles slip through you as if through a mist.

  You breathe out one last time and glance down at yourself. From your toes to your hair you have become a living mist, bound together by your ego and memory of your own shape. But even as you look, the color of your body begins to fade, as if bleeding through an open wound. You must hurry.

  Like it was solid ground your feet stride across the brackish waters of the lake and towards the monstrous Scylla. You can feel the risky chill of death clutch at your body, seeking to dissipate your remembered form. But you strive against it. You must get nearer.

  The Scylla thrashes at the water, splashing it with its flailing tentacles. Limbs swipe through your form which reforms a moment later like smoke. The bloated monster screams its hate and confusion, too feral to know what is happening. Its humanoid upper
half bares its teeth and screeches in useless fury.

  You’re nearly abreast with its bloated lower body, but the chill of loss comes fiercer now. You can feel your form forgetting its shape, your memories of who you were growing distant. Your mission. Your mother. You have to hurry.

  The Scylla, though blind, senses your nearness in the cold of the air. It rears in the water, but moving its bloated lower body takes time. Time it lacks, for you are soon upon it. With ghostly fingers you try to reach for your belt. Your breath comes in longer intervals. The deathly realm drags at you. You fumble at your belt for the potion and pull it free.

  But it’s too late. You gasp a final time, and the bottle loses cohesion, falling to mists. Your fingers are quick to follow, becoming a formless mass. You hold them up, willing them to take shape like a man seeking feeling in frostbitten fingers, but they refuse. A wail rises from your throat, echoing through the darkness. A banshee scream which shakes the trees and causes even the Scylla to cringe.

  A body.

  You turn your head towards the Scylla. You can feel the heat of life within its form. The beating of its terrible heart. You need it. You will not let death claim you. You reach out, drawn to the living warmth. Your hand passes through the scylla’s dark flesh.

  “Mine,” you say, your voice like a sigh of the wind.

  The monster stiffens. Its tentacles shudder. It hisses in fright and tries to pull away but you don’t let it. The warmth. You must have it! You must live!

  You plunge your hands into its flesh. You gasp, sinking into the warmth of the monster. You hear the Scylla scream, but the sound is distant and muffled. Fading.

  You stretch out your hands. Your arms. The warmth of life suffuses you. It fills your ghostly limbs once more, returning to you the strength of life. You suck in a breath, and feel lungs swell with air. Sweet air. The tingling pleasure of the physical shoots up your every nerve as you spread yourself out within the warmth of life, like stepping into a warm room after the freezing outdoors.

  Your breath catches, heaves. You feel the shapeless form of your chest swell with breath. Breasts grow upon your chest. Your fingers twitch and tingle, feeling air once more. Feeling in your lower body comes slower. More varied.

  You suck in a great breath and open your eyes. You see!

  But… these are not your eyes. You look down and see your fingers, but they are not the ones which you remember. They are claws of chitin, hooked and cruel, the carapace running up your arms like gloves. You look down and see your grey hips swell into flesh black as ink, with tendrils writhing from a bloated body below.

  “N-no,” you gasp, a mouth of fangs forming the words. “No! Noo!”

  You scream with the lungs of the Scylla. You feel the many limbs of your tentacles thrash with fury and frustration. “No!” you scream again, the sound soon devolving into sobs. You cover your face with your hands, weeping pitifully as the weight of what you have become settles on you.

  For it is you, even if it is also not. You took the scylla’s shape, drove her from it, but in doing so, you have shaped her with half recalled memories of what you were. Your bust is far greater than the elfin monster’s was. Your hair is long and straight as the scylla’s but has assumed your own brown hue, including the strand of white which runs down it.

  A slithering, hissing sound intrudes on your self pity. You raise your head and blink your golden eyes, beholding the serpentine form of the lamia as she slithers through the muck. The snake woman seems to have recovered herself. She stops before you, rising atop her tail and looks rapturously your way.

  “Mistress!” the snake woman cries. “You are changed.”

  You feel a stirring within you. A warm heat and a pressure within your lower body. Without knowing quite what you’re doing, your new tentacles reach out for the serpent woman.

  The lamia’s ringed eyes brighten and she gives herself to your reaching grasp. You do not think. Instincts press against your conscious self. You feel a new drive. A need.

  Lust.

  You draw the lamia towards you, and your ovipositor swells from your lower body. You feel the eggs churn within you. The heaviness of them. The pressure. You groan as you draw the unresisting serpent woman to your slimy cock.

  You impale her in a single stroke. The feeling is like nothing else. You gasp with her, sucking in a sharp breath between your teeth.

  “Oh yes!” the lamia moans. “Oh mistress yes! Please! Breed me! Fill me mistress!”

  “Yes,” you grunt. “Yessss.”

  You feel your pseudo-cock drive deep into the lamia until it reaches her womb. Pleasure shocks through you as the first egg slide down your inner passage, pressing against the lamia’s well fucked cunt. “Oh gods,” you groan deeply.

  “Yes! Yes mistress! Fill me! Give me your young!” the lamia begs.

  “Y-yes.” You moan as the egg pops into the lamia. The feeling lacks the sudden rapture of orgasm. It’s a sustained pleasure. A drawing out, building as each egg leaves your insides. Shuddering, you grab your breasts, pinching the nipples as you send another egg into the lamia. Your breath hitches as you watch her stomach swell with young. Your young.

  “Oh yes,” you moan. You throw back your head, your talon tipped fingers squeezing your immense teats. “Oh yes! More!”

  “Yes!” the lamia squeals. “Give me more mistress!”

  Egg after egg is pumped into the lamia. She jolts, gasping, sucking in greedy breaths as you stuff her with your young.

  Then, the last is in her. You feel the sudden emptiness within you, and eye the lamia, envying her pregnancy. Her obvious delight. Yet there is satisfaction too. With a sigh you lay the drooling serpent woman on the shore, where she coos and lovingly strokes her bloated stomach with love.

  You glare with envy at her. Why should she have such a joy while you are trapped in this monstrous form? Why should she have such a lovely form while you are stuck with this?

  Yes… Your fanged lips curl into a smile and your eyes flash. Why her? You exhale out a whispered word, and it comes forth on a breath of fog.

  CONTINUE >

  Accept your mother’s offer and sacrifice Kara

  “Yes,” you say, feeling the pull of your mother’s will. “Yes, I yield to you and to the plan of Zhibbareth. I see it now. Kara is weak.”

  “Yesssss!” Your mother hisses triumphantly.

  “NO!” Kara cries in horror, her eyes wide and filled with the pain of betrayal. She thrashes against the ropes that binder her to the altar. Her body arches again and again as she fights to twist her arms and legs out of the tight loops of rope. You lower your weapon as you watch your sister struggle. Your mother slowly approaches, kneeling beside you and resting a huge hand on your shoulder.

  “She cannot see the glory of a better future, where humans and monsters live together under the eye of Zhibbareth. But she will experience.”

  “Madness! Penny, this is madness!” Kara sobs, tears streaming from her eyes. “You saved me for this? For… this?”

  She expends her last reserves of furious energy and lays panting and quaking on the stone altar. She turns her gaze away from you and your mother and stars off at a fixed point in the distance. Strangely, you feel only pity for Kara’s inability to see that you made the right decision.

  “The sacrifices,” murmurs your mother, giving your shoulder a squeeze. She points to a pair of emaciated humans staggering into the chamber. They wear hoods over their heads and their bodies are covered with bloody, carved symbols that seem to crawl across their pale flesh. They several warriors shove them towards your mother. One of the warriors presents a black box carved with more strange symbols.

  The box, like a small, black chest, is borne forward and presented to your mother. She lifts the lid and fog begins to spill from the container, bringing with it an unwholesome odor and a faint sound like whispering voices.

  “Yes,” she whispers. “The flesh of our god.”

  She reaches in with both hands an
d lifts out a boneless appendage that slowly writhes in her grasp. It seems to be made of a substance like pitch that somehow holds a shape better than a liquid. She grips each end of it tightly in her hands and pulls. With a grunt, the evil tendril is ripped in twain and your sister’s pale, naked body is splattered with black ichor. She moans as the liquid touches her. Your mother laughs and holds the wriggling halves of the black flesh aloft.

  “Begin the birthing!” Your mother’s voice echoes in the hall. Handmaidens gather around the altar, chanting softly, as your mother carries the black appendages over to the two men designated as “sacrifices.”

  “Let me go!” Kara begins to struggle again, though she is exhausted and drenched in sweat. The drops of black blood on her pale flesh seem to squirm like tiny larvae.

  You look away from your mother and the sacrifices for only a moment, but when you look back you see both men thrashing and being held by armored warriors. Their flaccid, rune-carved cocks are engulfed by the halved pieces of writhing, black flesh. They scream beneath their hoods as the black flesh completely engulfs each man’s penis and testicles. As you watch, the blackness wraps around their hips and veins of black pulse beneath their flesh. They stop struggling as the black appendages begin to shift and change shape into two huge, glistening black cocks.

  The warriors release the men. Your mother steps back as they stagger towards the altar as if guided by their erect cocks of blasphemous flesh. One climbs onto the side of the altar and straddles your sister’s chest with his withered legs. The evil cock rolls and smacks against her breasts, chin, and lips. She tries to twist her head away, but the sacrifice grasps her white hair and forces her head to be still. The black cock presses past her lips and he thrusts into her mouth. Her eyes go wide, but only for a moment. As he begins to thrust into her mouth, her eyes slowly close as though she is under his spell.