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Blow the Grounsils

IT (Pennywise) x Fem! Reader

Summary: Calliope music was carried over on the wind, and a dark sky reflected in the puddles at your feet. Uproarious laughter bounced off multifarious, peaked canopies—insubstantial as paint swirling in water—until the scene inexplicably changed: the only remaining object, a circus wagon with the visage of a clown painted on its side.

You had a thing about clowns.

As if by magic, the wagon would vanish into thin air, only to be replaced by a black, undefinable void.

It was as if time and space themselves were being manipulated, gravity breaking its own universal law. You stood motionless—or were you floating?

Warnings: This fic is NSFW, 18 plus. Tags include: Blood, Cosmic Horror, Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Extradimensional Entities, Shapeshifting, Tentacles, Tentacle Sex, Egg Laying, Eggpreg, Fear, Rapid Pregnancy, Period Sex, Cunnilingus, Pennywise earning Its redwings, Dreams, Mildly Dubious Consent, Psychological Horror, Balloons, Birth (but not the way you might think), Rough Oral Sex, Teeth, Monsterfucking | Teratophilia, Visions of the future, Family Drama, Religious Conflict, Time Manipulation, Voyeurism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multiple Orgasms, Vaginal Fingering, Menstruation, Breeding Kink, Flashbacks, Bloody Kissing, Mind Manipulation, Lust, Hunger, Pain, Painful Sex, Guilty Pleasures, Cervix Penetration, Predator/Prey, Overprotectiveness, Stockholm Syndrome, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Blood Kink, Neediness, God Complex, Choking, Missing Persons, Incubation, and Ovipositors. AKA DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

Notes: SORRY, NOT SORRY! Additionally, I thought "blowing the grounsils" would make a good title because it is an "archaic slang from the 18th-19th century, meaning to have sex with a woman on the floor, with 'grounsils' referring to the foundation timbers or floorboards." It's a euphemism for sexual intercourse, basically, and I love how Penny sometimes throws in an old-timey word or two to his speech.

Word count: 11.5k

Ao3 link

Comments, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

You had been called back.

Golden rays of sunshine peeked through fluffy white clouds drifting above your head, while cool water lapped against coarse stones. The day was hot—it was the middle of summer—the Kenduskeag Stream stretching out before you until it abruptly terminated, ending at a rocky shoreline and a copse of majestic pine trees.

You were alone, enjoying the solitude, having escaped your warring family for at least a little while. You had not been back to Derry for years, though it was where you had grown up. You barely remembered your time here, but over the past few days, strange memories had returned to you—things that often did not make any sense.

They culminated in a dream, punctuated by flashes of color and faces you did not recognize. There was a lingering smell, like freshly popped corn kernels, and the cloyingly sweet scent of cotton candy.

Calliope music was carried over on the wind, and a dark sky reflected in the puddles at your feet. Uproarious laughter bounced off multifarious, peaked canopies—insubstantial as paint swirling in water—until the scene inexplicably changed: the only remaining object, a circus wagon with the visage of a clown painted on its side.

You had a thing about clowns.

As if by magic, the wagon would vanish into thin air only to be replaced by a black, undefinable void.

It was as if time and space themselves were being manipulated, gravity breaking its own universal law. You stood motionless—or were you floating?

Other dreams were darker, unforgiving, and anything but innocent.

A specific sound always jarred you awake: laughter, like the unbridled joy of an escaped mental patient or the maniacal glee of a man gone mad. Despite this, you found yourself curious more so than afraid. Yet something had changed, something was missing. There was still a secret—one you were keeping from yourself. Not all the pieces of the puzzle had been discovered, but you found you were in no rush to unearth the truth.

Presently, you needed to cool off, both figuratively and literally, finding yourself staring down the mouth of the Kenduskeag for as far as your eyes could see. You had heard stories about this place, so close to The Barrens. It was the reason you had chosen it—it was improbable anyone would dare to come here.

It meant peace and quiet, and the opportunity for a swim. You had forgotten to pack a bathing suit for your trip back home, but it didn't matter. You would make do.

What you had brought with you was a towel, this being a sort of premeditated adventure on your part. It was not as if you were unfamiliar with the area, having spent many summers here. Most of them had been devoted to riding your bike through downtown or getting into trouble with your folks for staying out past curfew.

It never occurred to you that someone might be watching; it was just another ordinary day in Derry, Maine, like so many others from your childhood. Besides, it would be quick—you would easily be back in time for supper.

You quietly scanned your surroundings, having left your car parked at the top of the hill, just beyond the bridge. You imagined it to be safe there, at least for a little while, knowing you couldn’t arrive back at your parents’, soaked to the bone, nor did you want to ruin the upholstery of your sedan.

You were a grown woman now, capable of making your own choices, even if perhaps they were illegal or ill-advised. Having been more or less sheltered for your entire life and forced to endure the ravings of overtly religious parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, you were glad for the opportunity to do something they would disapprove of.

In fact, the only reason you were here now was that there had been a death in the family—your youngest cousin had gone missing, never to be seen again. While you mourned him, that did not mean you couldn’t take a break from those left among the living; you honestly wondered if he hadn’t simply run away—you had been too chickenshit back then.

You began to remove your shoes, placing them beside the towel on the ground at your feet. Soon after came your jeans, your top, and then your undergarments, baring all to the forest and the critters who lived therein, both in the stream itself and deep within the woods. Folding them quasi-neatly, you took one last look around before leaving the safety of the tree line, breaking into a jog and reaching the crisp blue water quickly, just in case anyone might see you.

You weren’t normally one to skinny-dip—especially while menstruating—but there was a first time for everything.

The water's temperature surprised you, even if you had known what to expect. Goose pimples materialized down your arms and legs, but you kept going until you were chest-deep, your breasts, along with the rest of your body, thoroughly hidden beneath the river’s surface.

You already felt refreshed, momentarily forgetting your problems to bask in the sunlight and smile to yourself. You splashed playfully, swimming a little farther out from shore, though careful not to go too deep. Your thoughts wandered as you picked out shapes among the clouds—one of them looked like a sailboat. Another, you were sure, resembled a bear.

For a moment, you thought your imagination had run away with you, so stark in contrast to the blue of the sky was the object you saw floating benignly above your head. It was a bright red balloon tethered to a string, moving with an almost purposeful glide. Its sudden appearance was impossibly eerie, as though it had manifested itself out of thin air.

You gasped, hurriedly looking around for its source—surely it had come from somewhere, from someone, though of course it might have simply traveled here all on its own.

Perhaps it was a straggler from a kid’s birthday party, or maybe the carnival was in town. Maybe it had been hastily tied and slipped free during a sale at the local car dealership, or it could have escaped from the grand opening of that new pizza parlor downtown.

Whatever the case was, you decided to promptly ignore it, settling back down into the inviting arms of the river, once more overcome with a sense of peace—that was, until you heard the twinkling sound of bells jingling in unison.

Your eyes snapped back toward shore.

Nothing.

You failed to locate the source, the riverbank being devoid of anything but pebbles and rocks. You peered into the trees, only able to see so far—no movement, no more sound.

The fine, short hairs on your arm stood on end. Your gut told you something was amiss, but you willed yourself to relax, ignoring the uneasy feeling that had started to bubble up inside you. Besides, it was broad daylight—who would be stupid enough to mess with you at 3 o’clock in the afternoon? It was naive thinking on your part—crimes could happen to anyone at any time, and Derry had more than its fair share.

Though you tried to quiet your mind, it was difficult. Minutes passed before you finally sank back, shutting your eyes against the glare of the sun.

Giggling—sprightly, yet somehow sinister—it echoed through the wood, bouncing in all directions. Your eyes shot back open, your arms floundering as you attempted to balance yourself, paddling your legs beneath the surface of the water.

“Who’s there?!” you called, hoping that no one would answer. But you had heard laughter—distinctly. There was no mistaking it for anything else.

You listened. There was not a single chirp of a bird, nor any buzz of insects. Just you and the Kenduskeag; the sound of the tributary continuously flowing downstream toward the Penobscot.

It was time to get out and go home, you decided—you should have never come here.

Propelling your arms and legs, you moved the short distance back toward shore, swimming until the ground rose up to meet you. At that point, you stood, despite being naked; despite the possibility that someone was spying on you right this very moment—could it be a child? Someone playing a trick on you? A teenage boy trying to get a good look at your tits?

But something about it unnerved you, like you had heard that same laughter somewhere before. It was unique, high-pitched, and just a little bit unhinged. You forced yourself not to think about it and headed straight for the spot where you had left your clothes—except they were not there. Only the towel was.

Fear might have been the proper response, but instead, it only made you angry. You grabbed the oversized black bath towel, wrapped it hastily around yourself, tucked the end to secure it, and yelled, “All right, who’s out there?! Give me back my clothes!”

“Iiiii don’t think so!” you heard a voice reply. It sounded distant—mocking—somewhere back in the trees, yet close enough that you could make out the words.

You hesitated. You would have to walk barefoot, since this asshole had taken off with your shoes, too. And though the person’s voice had a puerile quality to it, you were almost certain it was male—adult.

“What kind of freak steals someone’s clothes?” you muttered under your breath before raising your voice to make your appeal: “Hey, man! I need my keys! Keep the phone; wallet, but at least be decent enough to let me drive out of here…”

Maybe he wanted you stranded. Maybe he had other plans for you.

You nearly tripped, stumbling, when you saw a figure emerge some fifty feet away—it was your little cousin, the one who was presumed to be dead.

“What the—”

You called out to him, and the boy turned around, beginning to walk farther into the trees. You winced as you made your way over sharp rocks and fallen branches, paying no heed to the rest of your surroundings, dead set on not losing sight of him.

You shouted his name again, having only met this child once in your life, though you had seen his picture on social media, at his parents’ house. “Hey! We’ve been looking for you! We thought you were dead! Do you remember me? We're family!”

There was something up ahead, something beyond him—somewhere he was leading you, you thought. The ground felt wrong, mushy, your toes sinking into the muck. The earth here gave way to swamp, and in the distance, a storm drain. You froze as you watched him walk directly into it, disappearing into the dark.

Then it hit you—you weren’t alone out here, and neither was he. “Wait up! Where are you going?! Who’s out here with you? Are you in some kind of troubl—ow! Fuck!” you cursed, falling onto your knees—you had snagged your foot on the gnarled root of a tree.

You closed your eyes, focusing your anger; your intent. You took a deep breath to center yourself, then opened your eyes again.

Shoes—but not yours; not the ones you were missing; not your cousins’, but shoes decorated with soiled, orange, feathery poms. Shoes that weren’t shoes at all, but boots—boots with polka-dot laces, boots that vanished beneath ruffled, stained lace trim.

Attached to it was a leg covered in ruched, moon-colored fabric that had seen better days; a garland—which, for all intents and purposes, looked like jumbo peppermints—was cinched around an ankle, the source of all that jingling.

Your eyes traveled up, up.

Held between two white-gloved fingers was a set of keys—your keys—dangling by a metal O-ring. They were resting against a thigh clothed in an overlay of bouffant bloomers; a waist embellished by twisted cords of red and gold.

More fluffy pompoms rested front and center, your gaze daring to travel farther still—up toward a pair of shoulders, a neck—a crimped, pleated collar.

All of this reminded you so much of—

“Looking for these?”

A clown.

It couldn’t be…

Icy blue eyes stared down into yours, a cherry-painted mouth upturned into a lopsided smile. You gazed at fiery curls; at a button nose; at red lines that curled, extending all the way to a broad forehead, ending past barely visible eyebrows, then spiking toward a hairline that receded.

You were hit with a wave of repressed memories, nostalgia so thick you could taste it.

Blue changed to silver, then to gold—you continued to stare, two words whispered from your lips, simultaneous and matching the same two words from the creature that stood above you, looking down—It felt malevolence, excitement, yearning, longing—all at once.

“It’s you—”

---

You are a child, barely old enough to speak. Your room is decorated to resemble a circus, dolls lining the walls, each with their own frilly, garish outfit; their own distinct makeup; their own hair in various unnatural shades, coiled and coiffed.

Some have dimpled cheeks, others are frowning. Some are girls, but there are boys too, wearing puffy pantaloons and lace-up boots, or pointy poulaines, cockscombs, or a cap'n’ bells.

Their costumes border on the gaudy and grandiose, though they are supposed to look like that—they are clowns.

Clowns are your favorite—it’s all thanks to that one show on TV. Your parents don’t understand it, but they don’t question you either, for they cannot—you are only two and a half years old.

You can’t even speak full sentences, though you are a happy child. They take you to church on Sundays, and then to grandma’s house.

You are taught about the baby Jesus, about God and the devil, but you do not understand these things—you only want to play with your dolls, and so they let you, though one night you saw It—a real one—a real, live clown!

To this clown’s detriment, you are not frightened—you love this “man” in his silver suit, with his buckteeth and funny grin. You love the bright color of the pompoms on his tunic and on his boots.

His hair is your favorite part—he bends down on one knee and offers you a red balloon—how could you have forgotten that after all these years?

You take it and giggle; you reach out one tiny hand and touch his rosy nose. Pure joy emanates from you—the man does not like this.

You remember teeth—you remember what you thought was a silly game. Your heart is filled to bursting with absolute glee—he’s so funny!

This upsets the clown; this baffles him—makes him angry.

The last thing that you recall is him recoiling from you, shaking his head, bells jingling as he backs toward your closet. Then, he disappears into the dark, the golden cast of his eyes fading into shadow.

You tell your parents; they do not believe you until they see the balloon, tied by its string around one of the four posters of your bed. You recall their alarm; you recall them scolding you, but all you felt was sadness—the clown never comes back to visit you again… at least not in your waking life.

Where you see It is in your dreams.

And It is not stupid, no. It knows that it could find something that scares you, but you are so young, offer so little meat—there are others that would make far tastier prey, others that will satisfy Its appetite—your fear would have been a drop in a bucket.

It can wait.

But It cannot wait.

Why should you occupy Its thoughts, even as It sleeps?

In dreams is where It encounters you, where It watches you grow up, where It learns what you truly fear…

Your family believes in things that cannot be proved, not in things like It, that is here and real, resting beneath Derry, watching, fantasizing about Its next meal…

And what you are afraid of is what any teenage girl would be afraid of, something of little use to It, but it will have to do.

It watches as you pleasure yourself, as you begin to mature, as you hit puberty, as your first cycle begins…

Oooh, and It lusts. It craves. It imagines what it would be like to sink Its teeth into your flesh, once and for all—what it would be like to become one, to absorb you, to make you belong to It and no one else!

You are effectively a woman now, but your parents continue to drag you to church, to make you sit through boring sermons, to be prayed over, and you hate them for it. You despise listening to the minister at the pulpit talk about eternal damnation; about how God sees everything you do; hears everything you say; knows everything you think!

And It is angry for you, for It is what sees everything you do. It is what hears everything you say. It knows everything you think—not this God of mortals, not this man who lives in the sky, but the one who lives down below…

But that fear, even so, does not keep you from carnal sin; from watching pornography on electronic devices; from touching yourself, from finding new ways in which to satisfy your biological, human urges.

But It is hungry—It thinks of rousing early, of having a bit of a midnight snack…

And It can smell you, all the way down in the sewer, even as you sleep safely and soundly in your bed, under your overbearing, nosy parents’ roof.

They had caught you once—how mortified you were, how horrible it had been to be forced to go to confession, to tell the priest you had committed a mortal sin!

They made you—they made you tell how you had spent the money you’d earned from your very first summer job after high school on something monstrous! Something you kept hidden beneath your mattress, something no mere mortal man could ever hope to achieve, for it was not molded from anything of this earth, but of what they called “demonic perversions,” and ohhh how It had laughed…

To beg forgiveness was the correct path, they said—to say your Hail Marys and ask for God’s mercy, to ask him for the self-discipline in which to overcome this “disordered use” of God’s gift… how dare you not wait for a man to deflower you in marriage!

How funny that the little clown-girl with her collection of dolls, all dressed and ready for the circus, had grown up to be so lascivious, rebellious, and depraved...

Being forced to exist in a repressive household tended to do that to a person.

It visits you then, taking whatever form It pleases, like an incubus in the night, like the otherworldly being that It is.

Sometimes, It is a tangle of limbs, a colossal form that towers over you, that holds you down, that takes you the way It wants—

—other times, It is a winged creature, a spawn of hell, something with horns; something your parents would hate; something you will keep to yourself, even as the priest inside his box tries to coax it from you…

Oh, but you prefer the clown! You prefer Pennywise, Its favorite, just as It prefers him, too. And It does not spare you any of Its ferocity, but you take it all in stride…

You are such a good little pet, one Pennywise is fond of. One Pennywise wants to feel, hold, taste in person…

And time—time is not the same to Pennywise; Pennywise doesn’t know where one part of human history ends, and another begins, but what It does know is that this girl—this child, woman—so unafraid and accepting of It—will one day come in handy, long from now—

—but soon, or perhaps later, you are gone—you are out of Its reach, and It does wake up then, to search the town, to traverse the whole of Derry, up, down, inside and out… but you are nowhere to be found.

Anger, madness, frustration, loss—all these things It feels, and what a bad time the others have, those that It would feed on, snack on—only for meat, to taste the delicious taste of fear, to bathe in their blood, for sustenance, and not once for pleasure… not once… though pleasure was had.

But it is not the same! Not the same at all!

Then, It goes back to sleep, knowing one day you will return to It, but until then, it dreams of you as you dreamed of It—an endless cycle of back and forth, with no beginning and no end—not until 2016 CE.

---

In an instant, your keys were gone, tossed somewhere over the clown’s shoulder, lost to the scrub land; the trees, but it did not matter—you were beginning to remember.

“You’re not real…” you whispered. “I didn’t think you were—how—”

“Ooooh, the little clown-girl—” the man from your dreams began, “—the dirty, wretched sinner who sleeps with her demons instead of damning them like papa and mama said—so you do remember me.”

You watched as It took one careful step forward, your cheeks burning from embarrassment. Its feet were soundless, the clown’s aureate eyes just like you recalled them from all those years ago.

“And does she remember my name, too?” It asked in a chipper tone, bending at the waist, a faint twinkling of bells coinciding with Its movements as It folded one arm across Its belly, bowing formally.

“Pen-Penny—” you started, struggling to find the right word, feeling it on the tip of your tongue.

“That’s right!” the clown exclaimed, popping back up in Its excitement, one finger brandished in the air as It landed softly on Its feet once more. “Pennywise, the DANCING Clown… and you are…?” It asked, tilting Its head to one side.

You spoke your name almost bashfully, wondering in that moment if you were crazy, forgetting you were in the middle of nowhere, the middle of the woods, with a towel wrapped around you because this man, this person—thing—had taken off with all your clothes.

And your cousin—where was he? Not a thought crossed your mind as to his whereabouts. Your focus was concentrated on Pennywise, this figment from your youth.

“Of course, you are!” the clown exclaimed, his smile a caricature of what seemed natural, growing wider, though Its facade, Its false appearance of joy, began to wane, Its twisted grin dwindling into a frown.

“I could never forget you!” It declared, Its voice changing, taking on more urgency.

“Really? You—”

“Why did you leave?” It suddenly asked, stretching out before you like some kind of animal, finding Itself on Its hands and knees, level with you on the ground.

You eyed It warily, shifting your weight backward to sit flat on your behind.

It bristled—It smelled fear, just a hint, a taste—Its nose wrinkled as It leaned forward, pressing Its palms into the earth, dirtying Its gloves.

“Leave? I—”

“Iiii looked for you, waited for you, dreamed of you… And you—you forgot allll about me, didn’t you? Alllll about me until right this very moment, isn’t that right?”

“I—I didn’t mean to, I—”

“You didn’t mean to?!” the clown shrieked, straining Its voice, causing birds to scatter to the winds, for the leaves to rustle in the trees.

“It was Dad!” you shot back. “He got a new job! We left Derry, we—”

“—don’t you think Iiiiii know?” came Its reply, Pennywise’s voice once more lowering in volume, though It crept closer, crawling toward you across the damp forest floor.

You racked your brain, trying to understand why you had forgotten in the first place, but were overcome with memories too disturbing to ignore.

Disturbing, yet…

“And did you miss me?” It asked, one arm stretching out, Its fingers moving to grip your ankle, curling loosely about your shin.

You stared into Pennywise’s anomalous gaze—how many times had you done that in the realm beyond sleep, a realm you thought existed only in your dreams? How many forms had It taken—how many times had you made love to It—how many times had you fucked It? How many times had It fucked you?

“Yes,” you whispered without thinking. Penny’s frown dropped away, as if it had never been there in the first place, Its expression becoming completely and utterly neutral, though Its eyes spoke of curiosity; intrigue.

“I spent so many nights with you, and then without you—not knowing what I was missing, not until—” You took a breath, glancing down at the clown holding you within Its clutches. You found that you were not afraid, though you knew he—It—wasn’t human; It had never been. “—until I came home.”

“Then she remembers everything!” Pennywise joyfully proclaimed. “She remembers being taken by me; remembers being a part of me; remembers being mine, mine, mine—”

You said nothing as the creature became more insistent, one of Its eyes listing lazily to the left, taking on a mind of its own. “Everything is as it should be.... Everything you are belongs to me, yes, it does!”

The clown’s incongruous gaze roved over your body excitedly; you watched as a droplet of drool formed on Its tongue, dribbling down Its bottom lip to land on the leaves below. It was no secret to Itself that It lusted after the women on this planet—It found them tender and juicy, making for the most delicate meat. Their fear was unrivaled—the way they screamed and fought against It—

But oh, It had favorites. Favorites It wished to keep; to play with; to mate with. And you were the first in centuries—the first that had been willing and not afraid.

“I sent for you; I knew you had come home. And you dreamt of me, like alllll those years ago.” Something like regret weaseled its way into the clown’s voice, as if reminiscing brought it pain.

“So many years, gone, gone—but flesh and blood is strong. Flesh and blood brrriiings people togetherrrrr…”

It did not elaborate. It did not tell you It used your own kin, luring him—your tiny, tasty cousin—to the sewers in hopes that you might return, somehow, someday. And now, you need not know—perhaps you would forget to ask!

You were quiet, not knowing what to say. Not knowing if you should speak, wondering if this thing was better off as a part of your overactive imagination, still not believing It to be anything more than a concoction of your own mind, or the product of a fairy tale—did you want It to be real? Would It ever let you go again? Did you want It to let you go?

Those things that had escaped you—those pieces of the puzzle—it was you, you realized, cocooned in the arms of infinity, embracing the darkness, letting it envelop you; letting It have its way a million times, in each and every lifetime, though bound by the physical limitations of this world.

How terrible to be apart from It; how terrible to endure so many years alone.

As if reading your thoughts, the creature’s eyes snapped back up to your face, bright as the sun and red-rimmed, Its fingers creeping higher, pinching at the edge of your makeshift robe.

Your towel was removed, partially yanked off your body, falling to either side of your hips as you were left naked, exposed.

Your bare stomach rose and fell as your breathing picked up. It looked at you with a hunger in Its eyes you were unfamiliar with, though it aroused you, however inexplicable the feeling might be. You wondered if there was something wrong with you after all, realizing you did not want It to stop what It was doing, no matter that you were unsure of what that even was.

Similarly, you remembered never knowing what to expect from It—It was unpredictable, mad, unmoored. You knew It could be frightening, but you trusted It implicitly, like the handler of a ferocious beast trusted its charge not to bite the hand that feeds—something that came with vanity, perhaps.

Its nose wiggled. Its nostrils flared as It inhaled deeply of your aroma, Its tongue waggling at the corner of Its mouth. Then, Its forehead crinkled in concentration. White, cracked greasepaint moved alongside It. It had closed Its eyes for a fractional moment, as if savoring something delicious—something It had picked up from out of thin air. Like a snake, It collected chemical particles to deliver to the roof of Its mouth, interpreting them to be, in this case, an opportunity to mate.

“You kept my balloon, after all this time!” It said, tilting Its head to the side, supposedly referring to the one you had received as a child—the one that had frightened your parents into putting locks on your bedroom windows.

You gazed at It in confusion, unsure of what It meant, “What? No, my parents made me—”

You broke off mid-sentence, a strange pressure blooming inside you, though it was not entirely unpleasant, like a weighty object bearing down against your uterus. Instinctively, your hand flew to your stomach—there was a subtle swelling beneath your skin—panic started to creep in.

“What’s happening?” you whined, a concerned inflection seeping into your voice.

Pennywise was grinning as you watched in shock and awe. It had collected the string dangling just outside your vagina—the one connected to your tampon.

It tugged, and you gasped, the sensation pleasurable, even as you heard something squeak, something like rubber, or latex, being pulled out from inside you—were you imagining this? Was this really happening? Were you truly birthing a bright red balloon?

This is what frightened you—It knew, didn’t it? Pregnancy, labor, childbirth…

Even so, you teetered on the edge of an orgasm as the balloon was wrested from your body, the high-pitched whine persisting as it slid back and forth inside you, rubbing along your anterior walls, brushing against that hidden, electric spot deep within.

You lay back onto the ground, moaning despite yourself, as if this wasn’t one of the strangest, most horrifying experiences you had ever had.

It was clear this creature could do anything It wanted; could make you feel anything It wanted; could make you think whatever It deemed amusing; could play with your head and your emotions—you were aghast, but also mesmerized, so close to climax.

It continued to grin, releasing Its prize to the sky as your belly deflated and flattened back out, it all having been a trick of the mind. Then, It salivated, this time a drop of spittle leaking its way down onto your foot—you craned your neck, gazing at It with wide, timid eyes, looking out over the top of your breasts.

The creature bent lower still, Its eye contact heady and perturbing. Its hands found your thighs, splaying you open with a shake of Its head; a twinkling of bells, as It once more sniffed at the air.

“Your smell—it haunted me, like a ghost, it did,” Pennywise lamented, Its voice musical and melodic. “And now, I will finally get to taste you! How sweet you must be—so sick of waitinggggg,” It snarled, the creature’s tongue unraveling to present itself, longer than what it seemed—longer than what it should be, Its teeth no longer resembling anything near-human—they had elongated and sharpened—rows upon rows of them—much to your dismay.

“No, sto—!”

It was too late.

You gasped as Its face plunged forward. You pushed against Its shoulders as It buried Itself inside your wet, fragrant mound. It feasted on you, like an animal delving into the carcass of its kill, Its face becoming saturated in your warm, sticky blood.

You could hear Its bells chiming; see the top of its broad forehead; the spire of orange that jutted up, coiling at its tip. Your breath hitched in your throat as you realized what was happening, wishing to clamp down, wishing to thrust your hips, but you simply lay there, assaying to catch your breath between eager, noisy licks; between greedy growls and thirsty slurps.

“Penny!” you begged, your pleas dying on deaf ears. You expected it to hurt; to die here; to be ripped apart, but It was only lapping you clean, treating your cunt like a mouth, pushing Its cartoonishly long tongue much too deep.

You felt the brush of Its fangs trace the inside of your leg; felt the claw of Its fingers digging into your thighs as it pried you wider. You gasped for air as the damned thing burrowed Its tongue like a serpent in soil, pushing relentlessly past the walls of your narrow cervix.

You yelped in pain, though your discomfort was deadened by Its thumb moving to massage the nub at the top of your loins. The clown pressed on, Its thick, muscular organ managing to find Its way to the core of your womb.

“Fuck—” you breathed, panting through an ache that resembled intense contractions, as if experiencing birth in reverse, yet It humored you, caressing the swollen bud that throbbed between your legs. The pain, intermingling with pleasure, was nearly indescribable, your feeble, human mind struggling to comprehend the strange, disorienting sense of euphoria that had overtaken you.

“Eat me,” you muttered, laughing as if delirious. Its eyes snapped up toward your face. It had not expected that, though It did not need your encouragement—It had planned to do so until It had emptied you out, devouring the remnants of the lining to your uterus.

It gorged on clots; on glandular and epithelial cells, blood vessels, and immune cells; on your stratum functionalis—the layer that month after month would thicken and shed, this time it feeding It, your aching cries turning toward moans; your face crinkling not in pain but pleasure; your back arching as Pennywise guzzled down all the good bits, an orgasm rolling through you in time with the soft, languid caress of Its nimble, white-clad fingers.

It had made an effort not to harm you, which was uncharacteristic of Its predatory nature, but It had a reason to keep you alive; It needed you; It craved you; knew you were the only one that could be trusted to the task It had in store, even if It was hungry—so very, very hungry. Even if you tasted so, so good—so, so YUMMY!

There was a heavy suction; the feeling of being bereft, devoid. You whimpered, Pennywise’s tongue having furled back through you, up and out, to backtrack and take its place inside Its gaping maw.

Then, Its jaw snapped shut.

You stayed put, attempting to recover. Pennywise watched you; studied you; hovered over you, wiping Its mouth off on the back of Its froofy sleeve. Its bunny teeth were back, It having reshaped itself momentarily into the spitting image of a long-dead clown.

It smiled a sick kind of smile, a crazed look in Its eyes.

“Oooh, there she is!” Pennywise praised, Its mirthful tone tinged with derision, though truthfully, It may have been delighted. “My good little girl. My sweet, sweet, tasty, darling, monster fucker,” It growled, the mocking cadence of Its voice deepening toward a chilling rasp. “And how well she bleeds for me, as if she knew I would be hungry.”

“I don’t care,” you breathed, reaching up and out. Your hand had the audacity to cup the creature’s cheek in the crook of your palm. Pennywise’s eyes shot straight to the right, Its lips pursing in confusion, Its brows rising toward Its carrot-colored curls as if repulsed.

“I don’t care what you are,” you whispered, “take me like you used to; take me back to our nights together, like in my dreams—please.”

The clown snatched your hand, plucking the offender off Its cheek, Its stupefied expression slowly contorting back toward an amused smile.

“Oh, yes,” It agreed, “Pennywise will take you—take you faaaar away, forever and ever—back to Its home where the little clown-girl, all grown-up, will serve her purpose; serve her god, for a good, long while; for as long as it takes for her body to return to dust; for as long as Pennywise chooses—such a good little pet you will be...”

You blinked up at It; It cackled a deranged, disparaging laugh, as if what It had said had been the funniest thing It had professed in all Its years floating through the macroverse. Then, just as quickly, it stopped, Pennywise gazing down at you with a swift tilt of Its head.

“We’ll see, we’ll see, how much you will care—what fun we shall have! HaHA, HmmMnn…” It hummed, “so many things to choose from—so many ways to blow the grounsils,” It chuckled, snorting at Its own well-timed humor.

“I know!” It announced, It’s face beginning to melt—the greasepaint; the flecks of red; Its upturned nose—all gone, dissolving into a puddle of pus and goo—what was left was the ovoid shape of a human skull.

You stared in horror and fascination, your eyes as round as dinner plates, new flesh beginning to seep out from fissures and cracks in raw, white osseous tissue—you held your breath.

Then, a new face took shape—clothing, black, long, and flowing. A cross dangled from around a neck that wore a clerical collar, the man seated on top of you now none other than the age-old priest that your parents had forced you to visit in your youth, time and time again.

“How long has it been, my child, since your LaST ConFEsSIon?!”

You wrinkled your nose. The image of Father Brennan did not scare you so much as disconcert you. He had simply been the man you whispered all your sins to behind closed doors—there was nothing truly frightening about him. The worst of it had been watching Its gruesome transformation, and though you felt your heart palpitating rapidly, it was more so from excitement than fear itself—what magic was this? How could it be explained?

“At least fifteen years,” you answered.

The forehead on this imitation Father Brennan furrowed, the creature perhaps frustrated that It had not gotten a rise out of you the way It had intended—It decided to try again; you were once more forced into the role of the observer.

You watched as thick, leathery wings sprouted from Its back, the cassock of the false Father torn asunder, ribbons of shredded fabric flying through the air in all directions. Horns sprouted from Its head as Father Brennan’s hair fell out at the root, Its eyes turning back to an angry yellow. Its skin bubbled up like tar—inky black, dark as a moonless night—though when It exposed Its teeth, they were as white as snow, as sharp as an entire cache of swords.

It was the inverse of an angel, imposing and monstrous, like a demon that had climbed Its way out from the bowels of hell itself. It opened Its mouth, took a purposeful breath, then shrieked at the top of Its lungs, bellowing directly in your face.

You felt wisps of your hair tickling your brow, as if disturbed by the wind. You gazed at It—Its bitumen-colored flesh; the curved outgrowths atop Its head. You stared into Its eyes without fear, without hesitation. You knew It's game now—It could be anything you wanted; It could take on any shape that you or Itself desired.

“Not my favorite,” you said, your voice softer than before. This gave It pause.

As if unable to handle your lack of care, or the way you so calmly addressed It, the creature began to tremble and vibrate. It screeched an awful sound. You were jolted, speechless, as Its entire body burst into flames.

This frightened you more than anything—the idea that you could lose It; that it would leave you, never to return.

“Wait, don’t—”

To your amazement, from the ashes rose a being of gigantic proportions, like a phoenix being reborn, Its limbs long and lithe, eight of them in total. Each caused the ground to shake as if the earth might open up to swallow you whole, one of Its legs stomping so close to your head that you flinched, temporarily shutting your eyes.

It had to remind Itself you were not food—you were special. You would assure the survival of Its offspring months, years from now. It was so hard to keep track when everything always felt the same, day in and day out, trapped in one time, one place.

In fact, for once, It did not necessarily want to scare you, though scaring people was Its favorite game! And it was a game—to play with your food; to taste fear; to see the look of terror in someone's eyes—to make them float, float, float! But a game It oddly had the willpower to control.

Nothing happened—your gaze returned to It. It towered nearly to the height of the trees, bigger than you had ever seen It, this form resembling what you could only conceptualize as an arachnid of some kind—an enormous spider. Luckily, you were not terribly afraid of those, either, and you were starting to feel a little bit braver—why hadn’t It hurt you yet? Was that Its intent, or was It simply toying with you?

The creature’s pedipalps twitched and pinched together, Its many eyes regarding you from Its place high above. Its chelicerae dripped with what you could only assume was venom, and for a moment, you wondered if It might try to bite you, or worse.

You inhaled a breath through your teeth and took a chance, “I want to see the real you.”

It gave an animalistic squall of indignation despite Itself; despite Its grand design to keep you alive, the creature caterwauling in response to your perceived rudeness—how dare you not even so much as bat an eye! It was a titan; a god! An Eater of Worlds!

However, that had been why It chose you, after all…

The head of the arachnid exploded into a shower of slime and viscera—you gaped up at it, a variety of particulates raining down upon you—blood, brain—only for the face of the clown to emerge once more, squeezing Its way through the end of a severed neck, Its hair perfect and spotless; Its eyes wide and raging.

“The real me?!” It cried, Its extra arms and legs being absorbed before your very eyes, as if sucked up by Its body, all the excess limbs shrinking, shrinking, until finally they vanished and reintegrated with the creature, someplace beyond the clown suit. Pennywise stood before you now, once more wholly Itself—or at least so you thought—Its height having returned to normal, though It was still much taller than anyone you had ever met.

“Does she think Pennywise to be Pennywise?” It chortled darkly, bending down in front of you again. It placed five fingers firmly on the ground as if ready to spring, though It went absolutely still—silent—a fresh fountain of drivel oozing from Its mouth to gush over Its bottom lip.

You waited for It to elaborate—the creature did not breathe, blink, or make a single peep for so long that you began to suspect it had checked out of reality—was It experiencing a seizure? Could It?

Similar to a computer needing to reboot, It glitched—effectively frozen in time and space—all but the drool that continued to drip, Its fierce amber eyes staring vacantly into your soul: an oxymoron that was nonetheless accurate.

“P-Penny?” you asked, your voice a whisper, your hand reaching out to touch the creature—to bring It back to life.

There was a rustle of fabric, a sharp, unnatural tilt of Its head, causing you to withdraw your arm in haste. Its bells jingled a light metallic sound, Its mouth curving upward into a sadistic grin.

“Be careful what you WIiiiSSsssH for!”

The creature's maw opened—Its entire head, Its upper jaw curling backward to reveal a gaping, glowing abyss lined with column upon column of tapered, needle-like teeth, white and actuate—you were caught, catatonic within Its magnetic pull.

Inside, this cavity was the color of flesh—red and wet—the roof of Its mouth never-ending, both the soft and hard palates entirely covered in barbs. Your eyes were first drawn to the pirahanaesque, serrated edges of its overlapping, curvilinear bite, then to the writhing, transcendental lights that were Its true, extra-dimensional form.

You spoke not a word; your eyes lost their pigment, everything you were—had been—seeming like nothing, at once doomed to the whirling, blinding, radiant orange luminescence before you, revealing to you your first indisputable taste of cosmic, paralytic horror—

—you never stood a chance.

---

Utter darkness—a vast nothingness—surrounded by incomprehensible, pulsating lights. They are the color of molten lava, the screams of men, women, and children—all dead—crying out for help, for mercy. Yet you cannot see to whom these voices belong, only able to recognize their suffering—their agony, timeless and endless, just as yours would be should you remain.

You didn’t want to stay. You turned to flee, to go back the way you came—or at least hoped to—seeing nothing ahead of you but blackness. You imagined this must be what it feels like to be inside a yawning chasm beneath the deepest ocean, or lost in the frozen, interminable tundra of outer space.

This—this is horrid; your heart races, threatening to burst inside your chest. You claw at nothing—at thin air, at rays of electromagnetic radiation, visible to the naked eye.

“Wait, not this, not—”

A flood of colors envelops you, swaddling and warming you. You breathe deeply, afraid to move, though you are floating—looking back at yourself like watching a movie, your future unfolding before you as you are made to observe.

The splash of water, dirty, unclean—the walls of the sewer closing in. Stacks upon stacks of bodies, rivers of blood—but there you are, among a cascade of corpses, a mountain of debris. There are heavy footsteps and voices shouting; chanting—Pennywise will be there to greet them, but not before It sends you away.

You are upset; disconsolate—the clown has left you in the Barrens, your belly swollen as if you are with child. Though it is not a baby you carry inside you, not in the traditional sense—you are full of eggs, their weight almost too much to bear.

You realize you must have chosen this fate, however terrified, your stomach painfully distended, yet you have to get away—you must find somewhere safe. You are Its warm, cozy, human incubator; Its protection for Its brood, for only these will survive, all thanks to you.

The room swirls. You witness adults—several men and one woman—taking it upon themselves to crush, stomp, and destroy Its other children. All that remains are mucin fibers, ropes of membranous gunk, and fragments of leathery shells—everything gone except for the two you carry within your womb.

Death, but beyond that, life—you cannot determine the end of It, though you are able to see back, back, moments of yourself entrapped in Its arms, cradled like a babe, this thing—this monster—bowed over you, Its presence like that of a vehement guard dog, never once letting you out of Its sight.

And there are feelings, so many physical or corporeal in nature, others only able to be felt in your soul, your mind.

But there is no love, not from It, but a sense of loyalty so ferocious that beneath it lingers animosity for anything that dares to come near Its layer, even the rats and vermin that have made their homes in the pipes.

Chief among those feelings are pleasure and desire, lust, hunger—yet you are the one person It would never eat, risking Its whole lineage.

But It knows the stench of love, the putrid scent of care, affection, and even adoration—and this smell will emanate from you, tainting the delicious aroma of your blood—something It will never understand.

Regardless, It takes care of you; feeds you Its own life force; fucks you—fucks you so well that you never wish to leave It. Often, It stays inside you, warming Itself—clutching Its own eggs—Its ultratelluric cock nestled snugly as It holds you close, searching out the steady cadence of your pulse—

And It sleeps, but so do you. It controls your circadian rhythm; it manipulates your feeble concept of time, slowing the way your body ages. You do not get sick; you do not grow old—you are a part of It, and It is a part of you.

---

Once, you were nothing. Now, you simply are—your return to Earth communicated by a jolt of shock and a surge of pain.

No longer kept aloft by the use of Its Deadlights, you fell roughly from the air, crumpling to the ground at Its feet. Your body had briefly taken to the sky, your consciousness leaving you, forced to endure an oppressive darkness capable of breaking your mind.

But that wasn’t what It wanted—it wanted the use of your corporeal husk: your soft flesh, the meat, the bones.

It stood tall, staring down at you—looming, waiting. You gasped for oxygen as your soul once more attached itself to your frail shell, Pennywise’s smiling face the first thing to greet you as you gaped up at It, struggling to absorb what had just happened—something nearly impossible to fathom.

It wasted no time.

“Do you see now, why I need you?” It rasped, squinting Its eyes and wrinkling Its ruby nose. “That fat, fat, FATTY Benny boy and all his friends… all my hard work—destroyed! My nest—trampled underfoot! My home, myself—gone, gone! All thanks to those LOSERS. How I hate them!” the clown raged, beginning to walk around one side of your supine form, tiptoeing as It went.

“But you are the key… Oh, why, why, didn’t I think of this before? Stupid, stupid Pennywise, ahah!”

The clown laughed, slapping Itself upside the head with a wan jingling as accompaniment, Pennywise slinking all the while. It eventually positioned itself before you, halting at the soles of your bare feet, hunching Its back to address you with a rumpled button nose and an amused expression, gazing intently into your widening eyes. “But only one, or two! Or you’ll pop, pop, POP like a balloon! Oh, yes, you will!”

You were yanked up without ceremony, Pennywise having clasped either side of your arms. It pinned them to your torso, moving you as It wished, as if you were some kind of doll or posable figure, propping you up against the trunk of an old pine tree, Its roots spidering outward from under a large chunk of rock.

“And where do we begin?” It asked, Its voice softening, as if your opinion would matter in the end. Your breasts heaved as you tried to break free of Its gaze, a look so severe having overtaken Its face that it unnerved you.

“Is she afraid?” Pennywise continued, the sudden feeling of Its gloved hand against your abdomen sending chills down your spine. The clown trailed Its fingers, grazing your navel, before Its hand vanished between your shuddering thighs, “or… does she feel shame?”

It inhaled through its nostrils—once, twice—coming to Its own conclusion. “Shame for how badly she wants the clown… For how badly she wants to be mine,” It purred, low and sweet, Its index and middle fingers brushing past soft folds, skimming the thrumming bud within. Both digits disappeared soon after, sheltered by the hollow of your cunt: they steeped themselves in a combination of vaginal slick and blood.

You moaned softly as you leaned against the pine tree behind you, It pushing Its fingers to the curve of Its knuckles. The flat of Its adjoining thumb mashed itself against the swollen nub between your legs, your clit begging for attention.

A rough chuckle rumbled in your ear as you closed your eyes— cruel; mocking. The creature curled Its fingers, pressing against the seat of your pleasure, quite easily eliciting an orgasm from your already soaked loins—It barely had to try.

“Don’t worry, you are—will be—tooooo late to escape...”

Your lashes fluttered open as Pennywise withdrew, holding his hand up for you to see as you felt yourself being emptied, your walls flexing for nothing; for want of something, feeling perverse and disgusted with yourself, having came twice already under Its spell.

“But will you stay?” you asked, your voice hardly a whisper, though Pennywise heard all of it—your pathetic whines for Its company. Company you would receive, nonetheless.

Pennywise ignored you, placing both Its fingers in Its mouth, sucking off the menstrual blood that stained Its gloves, the taste of your bodily fluids so redolent, like honey, or cotton candy freshly spun. It stared at you with a coldness in Its eyes, as if It had changed Its mind after all—perhaps It would devour you, snuffing out your little life like a candlewick.

Too bad, so sad.

“Another taste,” It snarled, Its voice dangerously low, Its timbre bordering a tone that was inhuman.

You sucked in a breath through your teeth as the tall, lanky, waif-thin clown dropped onto Its knees before you, It salivating like a dog awaiting a bone, drool slobbering down Its chin and onto Its frilly collar.

You prepared yourself for something like before, for some horrific thing to happen, to be split in half, but no such thing occurred—Penny only spread your labia apart with Its broad thumbs, ushering your lips to either side like the petals of a flower, blood, sticky and vibrant, coating your plush folds.

So, there was still some left—you were still ripe, still damp with sanguineous fluid—red, Its favorite color.

You watched, enthralled—sheepish—the long, languid lick of Its tongue starting at the entrance to your vagina. It swept its way across your minora and majora both, ending at its topmost part, Pennywise flicking your trembling bundle of nerves unhurriedly, just to watch you squirm.

The clown repeated the action, only this time immersing his tongue in its entirety, lapping you across your entire sex like you were some kind of frozen treat, or a fruit-flavored lollipop.

“Monster,” you said, a warped sense of affection welling in your heart, both meaning and not meaning it at the same time. The clown's eyes darted up toward your face, even as his tongue found its way inside you, its soft shape curling and tightening, remolding into the form of a large proboscis.

Your stomach tensed; you panted with every breath. You heard a slurp; felt a suck, sounds of swallowing, of an animal feasting greedily, Pennywise drinking and drinking—straight from your uterus—as if in command of a giant straw.

“Fuck,”you muttered, cramping up, your hands finding Its face as you drew It in, gently coaxing him to go deeper—and It did.

Oh, but It knew that too much, and you would waste away, become the dirt, nothing left but skin. It could liquify you—just one bite. But no—no, no!

It stopped, just as you thought It might swill you up in one greedy gulp, shaking Its head loose from your gentle grasp.

“A fool you are to tempt a god!” Pennywise snickered, rising to Its feet, Its tongue now once more Its own. “I could eat, eat, eat you up!” the clown affirmed with a brisk judder of Its entire body, as if shaking something off, pushing the bowl of Its palm against your stomach—you were roughly forced back into place against the aged wood.

“Mmn…” It growled, rubbing Its thumb back and forth, as if there was something already contained within you, as if Its eggs were already safely stored away inside your belly. “So warm, so cozy, so soft and sweet,” the creature teased, shifting, reaching out Its absurdly long arms to place a hand on either side of your waist.

“A test for youuuu, for me—for them,” the being grinned. It lifted you up as if you were nothing and set you down—with what you presumed was care—atop gray granite. The misshapen boulder was no taller than a quarter of the tree and was buried in the soil behind it.

The clown had you at hip level, grasping the entirety of your throat in one sizable hand. It squeezed as if to choke you—you clasped Its wrist and tugged, though It did not budge. “Look at you, a dirty little slut for ol’ Pennywise… and so you will be, never, ever to leave.”

You struggled internally, battling yourself, wanting to agree, wanting to stay, but knowing that your life would be forfeit, destined to a future with this clown, deep in the sewers of Derry, filled to the brim with Its clutch, nothing but a soft, warm body to lay Its eggs in. You pushed against Its hand, though it was hardly worth doing, the creature tilting Its head to watch.

“Ohoho! Hooohoo! She needs proof!?”

There was a shucking, a movement of some kind, just out of sight. You kicked your feet; the creature only lifted you higher, the feeling of the pressure around your throat increasing as you were hoisted clear off the rock, now dangling mid-air.

You gasped for breath, gazing down into the clown's face, Its nefarious smile, spying for the first time what it had drawn out to show you.

Its cock was huge, if you could call it that, half as thick as a man's forearm, wet, slick, and twiny. Its head was largely open, tapering off instead of being bulbous, knowing that the thick slit at its tip was able to deposit things much bigger, much more complicated than sperm—you had no doubt what it was for.

What was worse was that there were two, varying in size and length, though the first was the most frightening of all. Like tentacles, they coiled about, waiting to be put to good use.

This it had done for you, having no real use for gender or sex, able to reproduce all on Its own. On some level, It wanted you to want It, to take It, to feel It inside you—to stuff you, to breed you, to make you full—and what better way, It thought, than this.

“AnYtHiNg yoU cAn do, I cAn do BeTteR—” It lilted, “—squirm all you want to, but I’iI SqUiRm RiGhT BacK!”

You moaned a disjointed breath, the creature lowering your body, as if it was meant to be nothing more than a sheath for It to wear. The first of Its cocks slithered up into your guts like it belonged there, though it stopped short of your cervix, pushing delightfully against your G-spot.

“Oh, fuck—shit—” you intoned, going limp in Penny’s arms. It released your throat, grasping your wrists, forcing you to wind yourself around Its neck.

You obliged, hanging on, not knowing what was coming next, though something began to lap zealously at your clit. It caused you to convulse as you lifted your hips, your nerve endings overwhelmed.

“W-what—?” you asked in confusion, huffing, glancing down: Pennywise’s secondary phallus was undulating softly between your legs, stimulating you in ways you never thought possible.

“Oh, god,” you breathed, your back arching. Pennywise yanked you toward Itself, voraciously clawing one hand into your back as the other clamped itself down over the left side of your chest, palming both it and the width of your breast.

“Yes, a god! An Eater of Worlds! So will you worship me; so will you know nothing but my teeth, my breath on your skin, this siiiiillllly flesh suit mingled with yours—oooonly here to eat, to hunt, to feast,” It snarled, Its triangular, sharp teeth having reemerged as if to prove Its point.

The clown thrust into you, using your own body as leverage, as if Its cock was a saber and your cunt was its scabbard. You flounced in Its arms, your eyes rolling toward the back of your head. Pennywise shook you aggressively, forcing you to turn back toward It with a rancorous snap of Its jaws.

“She watches, or she weeps,” the creature stated, delivering a thinly veiled threat that spoke directly of Its ego.

Still, you would obey, but in exchange—

“Kiss me,” you pleaded, not caring what Its mouth looked like; if It could shred your face open, the clown’s lips suddenly shut tight as It stared, bewildered, then gave a contemptuous little chuckle, Its laughter brimming with disdain.

“Wanting to do that little thing that humans do,” It derided, even as Its elephantine cock continued to ripple inside you; even as Its slimmer, more slippery prick drove you toward another release—you wondered if you could effectively handle both at the same time.

It felt your thighs quivering; your pelvic floor constricting; your gummy walls pressing in on It as you climaxed, driven to the brink by something that was inconceivable except in dreams, or perhaps nightmares—something you were used to—Pennywise tittering lazily at the same time it hummed a grim, predatory sound, two voices commingling as one.

Then It purred into your ear and along your throat, Its fingers pressing lightly into the flesh over your heart. Drool gathered in Its mouth as It dissociated, fixated on the steady beat of the muscle caged by your ribs—pumping life-giving blood through your vulnerable, frail human body.

“I will kisssss you,” It hissed begrudgingly.

The creature set you back down against the rock, the tentacular cock buried within your cunt gently pushing, exploring, probing beyond the neckline of your womb, giving your cervix a tentative nudge. You gasped, your mouth opening wide as the clown bent over you, Its frenzied gaze boring holes, watching with interest as you cried out in pain, then moaned moments later from pleasure.

“Take it, you will—take it and keep it—them—safe,” It rasped, snatching your chin, steadying your head as you felt the first egg being forced through the collar of your tight canal. The tough oval mass was deposited where it rightfully belonged, a wave of rapture dulling the sick feeling in your stomach as the egg was followed by a torrent of torrid sperm—you had been fertilized, Its smaller, less dexterous cock having joined the first, fitting in so snug.

You could handle both after all, the other so stealthy, so sleek, you had not noticed it but for the stretch, your cunt stuffed to the brim after it had dropped off its liquid payload.

“Soooo well behaved…” Pennywise praised, mirth coloring Its melodious voice. You could do nothing but lie there as another ripple ran through you, just as It pressed Its wet, painted lips to yours.

It was a horrible kisser, you realized, but you did not care, introducing your tongue to Its, sucking it between your teeth and into your mouth. You moaned as the sharp press of Its fangs clipped your chin; bit down without meaning to, your mouth filling with warm, tepid blood.

“Penny,” you whispered, feeling what was now a nearly superlative fullness pressing down on your bladder; your uterus. A heaviness had settled in your belly, Its veiny, cock-like protuberance having weaseled its way completely inside, curling around Its first egg as you felt It drop another, and another.

You moaned again, this time more shamefully, feeling bloated, laden, not daring to move.

“Oops-a-daisy!” you heard It exclaim, laughing chaotically as Its arms encircled you, holding on so tight it made it hard to breathe. It battered your face with Its orange tufts of hair, having a full-on giggle-fit, smelling of earth, ozone; of something metallic, sharp and pungent.

You felt another squirt as more seminal fluid filled you close to bursting. Your heart sank as you tried to breathe. “What did you do?” you asked, voice shaking.

“One more won’t hurt!” It claimed. “Or will it?” the clown added playfully, “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see!”

Your brows rose up the slope of your forehead, giving your face a most pitiful look; Pennywise stopped his antics for his mouth to form a perfect ‘o’ as he observed you.

“I don’t want to die,” you whispered.

Pennywise smiled then, cheerful, and yet disingenuous, his gloved hand rising to lay flat on your belly. Beneath your skin, bright lights shone—the eggs were glowing, the same color as the Deadlights. “Not even for a good cause?” It posed, taunting you, your fear smelling so delicious to it—

—but then you surprised It—you said something It did not expect, causing the clown to snort in disgust, the creature feeling affronted. And not from your words, but from the scent that came with them—pity, affection—concern?

“I don’t want you to die, either,” you lamented, remembering the future you had seen—the one in which It no longer existed, in which those same people who had crushed Its eggs extinguished Its life, too, or so it had appeared.

“It makes no difference to Pennywise,” the clown assured, “birth, death, up, down, left, right—all the same, all coming and going, leaving, arriving—one biiiig ciiiircle…”

Then, Its eyes hardened, Its grip on your stomach loosening, the creature’s cock slipping out of you with a lewd, wet squelch. “But you will be there—always there. And I always come back, I do!”

“Won’t anyone miss me?” you asked, wondering about your old life; your car parked at the top of the hill; your family; your job. Pennywise hastily, sloppily, stuffed Itself away—it would have been almost comical but for the mood.

The clown looked up, Its gilded eyes focusing on your face. A broad grin stretched across Its clownish countenance, spreading from ear to ear.

Then, It did a jig, just for you.

It twirled around in a circle, Its tiny bells tolling with every step. Before your eyes, it withdrew something from Its ornate sleeve—a roll of paper—spreading it open before you as It bowed with an ostentatious air, rolling Its arm, Its movements reminiscent of an archaic court jester, or a Broadway star accepting acclaim and applause—

—your own face was printed across it in black ink.

Beneath your name was your age, last seen on this date. It read a short description of your height and weight, hair color and eye color, and what you had last been wearing—the clothes Pennywise had stolen from you, taken from the bank of the Kenduskeag Stream.

There was a number requesting that anyone with information call it—it was a missing persons poster, branded with the Derry Police Department logo. You gaped at it, sitting up, though you were surfeit, the abnormal shape and size of your own belly giving you pause—

You felt something pulsate within you, a distinct pressure settling deep down in your core. The sensation had caused a feeble whimper to escape your lips, though if you were being honest, you had enjoyed the throb; the exquisite weight of Its eggs inside you.

You gripped yourself, Pennywise’s preternatural gaze traveling down your throat, breasts, to linger on your stomach. “Ohhhh, I think they like you…And I think you like them, too!”

Then Its eyes snapped back up to yours, “and they may missss you,” Pennywise offered in a singsong voice, wrapping the paper back up to bonk you on the head. “But they will neverrrrr, everrrr find you,” It said, rushing forward, snatching you up to drag back to Its den.

You would not, could not fight It, nor did you want to, made into Its brood hen for no other purpose than Its survival, despite your earlier reservations. And if someone had told you all those years ago what might become of you in this town, this day, perhaps you would have done things differently—

—or perhaps you would have still gone into the sewers, down, down with the clown.

---

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