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The Final Truth
The vision will be made manifest. All fear His terrible magnificence.
Your defeat is predetermined.
Abandon hope and succumb to His great will...
The whispers are everywhere.
A clichéd thought, but you know it is fact all the same - the whispers come from the nooks of fabricated twilight, from the creatures lurking beyond, from the steps beneath your feet, from the eyes always, ever watching, learning, knowing.
The Corruptor is everywhere.
Everything.
Air and stone and heartbeat and ink and viscera.
The Crown has brought you here and it shows you the path through the winding endless routes, a beckoning unseen, just a faint tug at the edge of your mind. The world is all violet and dark now, beautiful new. You can’t feel your feet as you walk and that’s good. Why would there be a need to feel them grow weary? All is well.
Come to me.
He calls, and you go. Walking, wandering, lost and found, a great void of truths and lies the backdrop to His halls.
Nothing matters anymore.
Only the Master.
“Champion? Champion! No, she’s lost to us…!”
Where…? Whose voice is that? It’s hard to recall, fragments, glimpses, something vital and world-altering at the tip of your fingertips, and yet, unimportant. It is all in the past either way. Perhaps years far back. You cannot tell.
You cannot tell.
Who?
Where?
In His domain you are free, floating. Murmurs, secretive and intimate, your conscious thoughts out of touch.
Come to me.
A sharp pain, like thorns stabbing through your mind, hooking in, anchored. There to stay, there to fester, blisters of consciousness popping, leaking, dripping away. And you shriek and shriek and shriek.
Then a loss of gravity, and a sprawling, blind nothing before your eyes.
“She yet breathes. The Master will be pleased with a gift.”
“The Master does not need her sort. We can have her.”
“No! All belong to the Master. You cannot decide this.”
Unsure of your surroundings, you lie on your back and watch the two K’thir quarrel. As though in slow motion, a spell sails lazily between them, and one crumples to the floor. Dead? Possibly dead.
Does it matter?
No.
The other K’thir comes to you, peering down, his tentacles twitching and coiling, his gleaming golden eyes alien, evaluating.
“Good flesh. Sweet flesh.”
His big hands grab at your armor and clothing and tear it away. Bracers there, girdle yonder, boots, chest piece, trousers, smallclothes. The stone is cold beneath your naked back as you lie still, awaiting.
“Mm, good flesh.”
He disrobes and kneels between your thighs. Lilac skin taut over firm muscles, hairless smooth, eyes burning down on you. An ugly creature, perhaps, but you cannot find the notion to feel disgusted.
This is how it should be, after all.
He scoots closer, touching his cock to your mound, between the folds to tease. It’s mostly human in shape, and it is warm and heavy, delicious when he begins grinding there. Wetness trickles from you, coating his dick, and he leaks his own fluids, slicking you up more. The rubbing is slippery, teasing your clit, warm, tingly, tantalizing .
Your moans register belatedly. Oh, but of course, you are feeling good. An afterthought, catching up.
Sluggish, you lift your arms and fit them around the K’thir’s neck, drawing him closer. That is expected, isn’t it? Some lingering taste from a past life that has no faces, no voices, no substance. Vague, like the edges of your body, your surroundings, time.
You feel the head of his cock move to your entrance, a light, promising push. Your legs open wider, lifting a little to accommodate the position, and then he begins pressing inside. It slides in slow, hot and stretching and filling, and you sigh, lashes fluttering. Deep in, he stays still and plants his tentacles on your face, grasping your head in gentle coils, drawing you in.
His massive, thick tongue slurps into your mouth, slithering, wet, tasting like supple flesh. You kiss him, languid, dazed, moaning as he begins to thrust. He fucks you, sweet and kind almost, and you embrace him, welcome him. His back is strangely smooth beneath your palms, but his muscles ripple and they’re fine to hold onto. His cock inside is just right, friction, heat, a comfortable pressure that mounts and mounts, building into a welcome crest. His tongue in your mouth pokes down your throat, tickling there, easily swallowed. So pliant, so accommodating, so ready to serve .
With his tentacles wrapped around your head, you cannot see, but do you truly need to? The gloom is comfort, amplifying the sensations. So much pleasure. Such good friction, tickling you inside. His cock, so wonderful, his body curved over yours, his grip warm and secure. There is no need to fear this, to escape.
Why would you? It only feels good. Everything feels good.
You don’t need air it seems. Your body rocks beneath his thrusts as he nears his orgasm, and you sigh and moan and whimper, but even with your lips full, you can’t feel suffocated. Your pleasure peaks, and the K’thir senses it, perhaps, or he is near too, hard to tell, and you don’t wonder. All that matters is the quickening pace, the frantic search for that beautiful end on both sides, his clacking, growling grunts and purrs, and the pulse of his cock inside your drenched hole.
He stiffens with a hiss, his seed splashing inside you and the tingles tighten in you and snap, the release to new comfort, a heated rush washing through you, nigh familiar, delicious. A moment floating on bliss, gone with the drift of the orgasm, panting, shivering, eyes shut, unaware when or how he leaves.
Was he ever there?
You reach down and push your fingers through the clammy patch of hairs and the slick folds, moaning to find his cum seeping from your entrance. Eyes flickering open, you sink your fingers inside and gasp, sensitive. So warm, so wet, his seed coating your fingertips, thick and viscous.
The taste is familiar, too - a bitter, salty tang, sticking to the back of your throat. It’s a little hard to swallow, and the flavor lingers.
Moments creep by - time, what a strange concept. Who even thought of it? Who needs minutes and hours? None of that holds any significance.
You bask in the cooling warmth, drifting on barely-there thoughts of the Master’s splendor, your hands languid mapping your own curves, fingertips ghosting across bare skin, across hardened nipples and damp pubic hair, uninhibited. His gentle guidance through the Crown, leading you here, what astonishing serendipity. Or is it? Were you chosen? There is an inkling, bringing new heat to your loins.
Perhaps He wanted you, and no other.
Such vanity, oh.
“Cha… ion! ...ch… mp… n…”
Gloom, dusky, sheltering gloom.
Unsure of the hour, of the day, of the year.
What, when, where?
No matter.
No matter.
He comes for His prize.
The tentacles slither and coil from the shadows, undulating with sinuous grace towards you and you welcome them with arms open, unafraid. They claim you, pulling you into their writhing mass where no Light touches, where the only principle is madness, and you moan out loud, arching, offering, needing. Oh, it is Him, it is Him, in His grotesque radiance, He has come to ravage and elevate you.
You are mine.
The world has abandoned you, and you have abandoned the world.
All will be consumed.
Succumb...
Moist, damp darkness closes down on you as He takes you within Himself and the bed of smooth appendages explore and caress your figure. Some slip inside, a tender probing dip of silky girth in your cum-soaked slit, making you long and gasp for more. Some touch your lips and you open wide, sucking them in, tongue out, licking, slurping, more more more, yes .
Some wander and prod at your backside, finding another entrance, dry yet, but soon slickened with strange fluids and they massage their careful way in, thin and sweet and embarrassingly easy, tickling, unusual, a little wrong but oh so good. There’s heat and bliss and wonder, and you ride it all, grinding, hissing, moaning, all three holes softly, slowly, getting filled.
Two in your mouth, swapping again and again, one in, then out, and then the other, your jaw aching, your tongue raw, spit drenching your chin, shiny and wet. Three between your legs, all inside now, all thrusting and wrenching and rubbing, fucking so well, just right, just enough, stretched out, full to the brim, and you’re coming, coming, coming so hard , a scream lost, muffled around the ones assaulting your lips.
And one now inside your ass, reaching in deep, moving quick, the friction there so new and wild, your thighs want to close but they’re forced wide open. They’re everywhere, everywhere, He is everywhere, His tendrils and tentacles, holding you, embracing, fondling your breasts, kneading your supple body, a mindless, howling rut of pure human instinct.
One more high of euphoria, just one more, more , it rocks you, makes you heave and cry out, there’s a hot splash inside your mouth, inside your ass, and when the tentacles pull from your pussy, you feel it drip, burning, still throbbing. His glorious seed washes away the mess from the K’thir before - was there even a before?
You shudder and grind your hips down against the swarming mass, smearing the flowing juices. The absolute, bizarre desire is intoxicating. You need those tentacles inside, ruining you. You are unwhole without His touch.
Swiftly, you’re filled again and it all begins anew. Your tears fall, but there is no pain, there is no thought, only pleasure.
Only, only pleasure .
More than you ever could’ve imagined, more than life could ever give. This is His boon, His wondrous punishment, His unspeakable generosity.
The Master speaks, His rumbling, deep voice a frightening caress in itself, but you do not comprehend the words anymore. You’re filled and fucked and claimed and kept. Orgasm after orgasm after orgasm, your mind at last shatters beneath His abhorrent want.
All else ceases but the craze of infinite bliss, and the final, overwhelming notion that you are where you belong.