Tawns of Fun

The glass could’ve gotten embedded in your backside, Mr. Whatsit admonished. You muttered an apology.

“Good thing you have thick jeans,” he replied, patting said denim-clad backside with both hands.

His girlfriend was straddling his midriff, while throwing embarrassed glances over her shoulder. Best view he’d had in a long time. Over a year. If he’d been capable of mustering any anger towards you, your pout would’ve completely dissipated it. It wasn’t like he actually needed glasses. They were just part of his disguise. To make him appear nonthreatening. It was an added bonus you seemed to like his eyewear.

Besides, he could just ask where you got yours. He smiled at the thought of you helping him try on different frames. A date at the optometrist’s. Too bad one couldn’t help him with his second sight, which seemed off today. His other five senses were working perfectly. It was his sixth sense that needed checking.

While he was pondering why your mind was closed off, you were thanking God you’d taken the keys out of your back pocket. Otherwise you might’ve bruised Henry’s pretty face. 

From accidentally plopping your entire ass on it.

Rushing into sex hadn’t been your plan. Not this time. Henry’d gotten dressed up. Like a date. A proper date. Not just a two person “gang bang” where he’d allowed your eager holes to get acquainted with his tentacles. Switching it up. Pumping in tandem in your pussy. Near one climax, you’d gotten so wet Vecna had been able to slip his cock between two pistoning flesh-vines. That was the only time you’d shown any reluctance. And he’d withdrawn his auxiliary phalluses before fully entering you vaginally.  

You wondered how he’d managed PIV, with a seemingly Ken doll physique. Then shook your head. You’d been transported back and forth between dimensions. What was a little penile sheath between boy- and girlfriend?

Still lying casually supine on the bed, Mr. Whatsit tilted his hat back. 

Is this another illusion?

Each time you had sex had been a dream. Not just because you loved it, his tentacles and promises of letting other monstrous appendages—other monsters’ appendages—tongues, more tentacles, intermittent organs, and any combo of the three—in your orifices. Your lover hadn’t stepped foot out of the Upside Down.

Henry isn’t much of a monster, is he? Just looks like one. Not now, though.

Kind eyes, obscured by cracked lenses, and a cushiony smile.

Meanwhile, Henry was internally debating whether or not to ask you to turn around. God, he missed your breasts. They were perfect for him. The only way they could be better was to add a bit more softness, make them sag with milk. 

But he already had a bunch of other children to mind at the moment. Besides, maybe you’d prefer oviposition. You were pretty kinky. He’d love altering your biology to fulfill your joint desires. 

Joint. 

Vecna pursed his lips. For some reason, your mind wasn’t as open to him as it once was. But you were more than interested in oral, obviously. 

He hadn’t been given a proper blowjob, but you had fellated a tentacle. Deepthroated it, even. And thanked him for suppressing your gag reflex. All while taking in more appendages below the waist. It was only fair he ate you out.

“Okay,” Henry said, transferring his glasses to a pocket. It’d been a miracle yours hadn’t clacked together when Mr. Whatsit had unexpectedly appeared and swooped in for a kiss.

Then I had to go and treat his head like a couch cushion at the end of a long day.

“I’ll brace my hands on your thighs so you can bear down gently. Then we can switch positions afterwards. If you want.”

He smiled again as your grin lit up your whole face.

“Uh, you can take off your pants.”

He’s just so relieved to be alive. 

Even with beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, his skin was nowhere as soaked as your panties, which were now hanging out casually betwixt your knees. Bent over, you could feel his perspiring brow rest on your ass. He signed blissfully, before pressing his sweaty palms against your buttocks, giving them a handful of squeezes each. 

Then he got back to work. Two thumbs parted your labia, his tongue plunging into your gap instead of lapping at your clit. You thought about diddling yourself. Then decided against it, not wanting to reach ecstasy quite yet. 

Alice was the one who jabbed him with the antivirus, you remembered, as Kaplan ate your pussy from the back. Your hands braced against glass. Thank God it was reinforced. The adrenaline had left your body, when you realized you were safe(r). Now it came roaring back in excitement at the soldier’s wet applications to your snatch. He should be thanking her. 

Where is she, anyway? With Matt?

Shoveling your essence into his beyond eager mouth, his tongue then extended further than expected.

Chad Kaplan hadn’t done anything so juvenile as lick his lips at the sight of you. Even though he’d been very, very interested since your introduction. He was a professional. It’d been an emergency. So you were pleasantly surprised you both shared Gorlin’s sign. Not that he would’ve guessed it, seeing as you both had been modest up until when he’d taken your face in his hands, kissed your forehead, and directly asked if he could perform cunnilingus. 

It was odd hearing someone who, to your knowledge, was normally so composed—even in a life or death situation—just lose himself completely. 

Kaplan’s (para)military, though. Or was. For an unethical pharmaceutical company. An onslaught of monsters and mutated people couldn’t shake him. 

An IT guy, you concluded, has to remain calm in emergencies. 

Just as you were pondering whether to grab his hair and throw yourself backwards on his face, he stopped. Neither of you spoke. Don’t be shy now, C.K. Then he licked your thigh. Tongue feeling wider than it had inside you. You chalked that up to the fact he’d been trying to stick it up there as deep as possible. (Make out with my cervix lol, ew.) It was pressed flat. Savoring you. 

A split second later you peeked down and spotted a bandaid on your left cheek. 

Oh yeah, I was injected, too. 

At some point. 

It was hard to keep track of everything that had happened since the train ride, your mind fuzzy with lust as it was. 

Your lover continued tentatively licking your thigh, like he was struggling to decide his next move. Frowning in confusion, but not reluctance, you noted his appendage was actually coiling around your leg. How freaking long is it? you thought, amazed as he dipped into your underwear. Comparing your initial discharge to the stuff he was getting straight from the source. Then he pulled your panties straight down your calves and dove in again. 

You almost yelped when he finally made you sit on his face. Tongue continuously writhing inside. Putting your faith in his uncanny strength, you lifted one hand from the window to cover your mouth. When you removed it, strands of drool connected your lips and fingers. Probably how Kaplan’s fingers would look if his mouth wasn’t engulfing your gash. The idea of getting digitally fucked made you shudder. Not quite in pleasure. His nails were really digging into your hips.  

Am I high? 

You were basically using him as a stool. He was sturdy. Still, you figured it was only polite to bend forward, so as not to cut off his air supply. Though something told you he’d hold his breath ad hoc. It was like he’d been born for this. To become a licker.

Licker. That word brought back a memory.

“Well,” a man in a white lab coat explained, “you owe us a Licker. With interest.” 

You tried to protest, but it was hard to be taken seriously restrained as you were, in stirrups and cuffs. Zero modesty. The staff seemed equally split between ignoring you and openly leering at your spread privates. And the cold, sterile room left your nipples ever hard. You couldn’t so much as shift an elbow to conceal them. 

At one point another doctor (?) sauntered in and cupped your vulva without warning. When he placed a thumb on your perineum, you begged him to remove it. Wary of his intentions. Nobody had done anything to really hurt (read bruise) you yet. Aside from the IV. No telling what was in it. 

You were hushed, told “you’re not getting penetrated so get your mind out of the gutter.” Then you noticed the syringe. 

“‘No penetration’?!”

“No digital penetration,” he drawled. “For now.”

Umbrella Corp only hired personnel that, if not ignorant, lacked ethics. Even when it came to obstetrics.  

Eyes wide, you saw what lay beyond the glass. Your rendezvous with Chad Kaplan wasn’t as consensual as you’d thought it was. He honestly liked you, though you believed he wouldn’t be doing this in front of an audience if he had a choice. In fact, if everything went according to plan, you figured, the former computer whiz would be too territorial to…

What? Let others around his nest? His mate?

Lickers didn’t generally attack each other, unless they were fighting over prey. Which you were, in a way. Though there wasn’t enough research into their mating habits. 

Hence why I’m here, you shuddered as Kaplan ground his nose into your taint. Another memory from your last encounter with an Umbrella employee flitted in.

“Welcome to the Licker Breeding Program.”  

Kaplan, of course, was no longer an employee. He was a test subject. Like you. 

Your juices were getting everywhere. Before his tongue finally withdrew, fast as a tape measure. You tried to settle your feet flat on the floor again, hands once again braced against the window. Like you were about to be subjected to a pat down. Kaplan paused again. Why, you didn’t know.  

It staved off an orgasm, though. Gave you time to ponder Alice and Matt’s location. With a sinking heart, you remembered Matt had been carted off to the Nemesis Program. Whether that was part of Umbrella’s propagation efforts, you couldn’t say. Probably something in “defense.” Hopefully he was in a far off lab. And ignorant of your degradation. 

An image of an amnesiac girl being unknowingly mounted by a mutated Matt popped into your head. This infernal corporation wanted your memories intact while you were being bred. Even if they initially had to sedate you. You couldn’t say the same for Alice, a skilled combatant. Even more reason to make her birth supersoldiers. 

Vaguely aware of Kaplan’s heavy breath, you actually rested your cheek against the window. Uncaring if it left a smudge. You reached down to pat his head. Then stopped when your fingers grazed his forehead. Unblinking, you slowly met his gaze. Kaplan’s forehead had begun to split. 

No visible brain matter yet, but solid claws jutted out of where his fingernails should’ve lain flat. Blood beaded on your scratchmarks. It was a testament to his remaining humanity that your hip flesh hadn’t been sliced to ribbons. 

You could readily imagine what he’d look like once the mutation was complete. Imagined him sniffing at his moulted skin, then quickly losing interest. Because he was already past any courtship rituals. Already well-acquainted with this mate. Who could be sedated if she wasn’t “in the mood.”

You frowned at the scientist who stood condescendingly on the other side of the glass. As your head cleared, you started to formulate revenge fantasies. If only you could interrogate him for a few minutes! 

What you have done is a sin, the bishop shouted in your dreams. A multifaceted sin! 

You had fornicated. Neither you nor Damien were married. Least of all to each other, because he was Father Karras. You hadn’t initiated the act, but you’d still taken advantage of a priest’s body. That’s what you kept telling yourself. Because the idea of being violated by a demon was too horrific to entertain.

But “Captain Howdy” was violating Damien Karras’s body and soul.

A man of the cloth, you felt, was an authority figure, whether you were baptized or not. You weren’t sure if Chris was. All you knew was she wasn’t a churchgoer. You’d tried to stay out of celebrities’ and coworkers’ private lives. Chris MacNeil was both, yet something had spurred you to help her sick child. Resulting in a friendship. Not that you would ever be close enough to tell her about your “love” life.

Coitus per vaginam. No prophylactics. Maybe that counts for something. 

“A priest pressuring a layperson into an affair is nothing new,” mused Pazuzu, as he’d introduced himself, while introducing his dick to your mouth. “Karras would have eventually fallen to temptation, attempting to seduce you himself.”

You doubted like hell “Pazuzu” was the demon’s real name, or that he had anything to do with Mesopotamia. Anything ancient, for that matter. His mannerisms were too modern. Besides, knowing an entity’s true name was supposed to grant you power over them, right? You were powerless to resist his explorations of your orifices. 

But from his tone, you wondered (while opening wide), whether he was revealing painful truths or just being a sadistic liar.

Supposedly holy men coerced parishioners, true. But Father Karras wasn’t directly responsible for the dick in your mouth. Even if it was his. How culpable were you? That question kept snaking between fully and not at all. Yet it really wasn’t that dichotomous. Like in the sad tale of Faust, a fiend promised you bliss before ripping it out from under your feet. 

It’d been a while since you went to see that play. It was with some crew members, just after your big break. Had there been an incubus character? Sexual debauchery, sure. Oh, and they’d been Lust. Or Lechery or Luxuria or whatever. Maybe you could borrow the MacNeils’ ouija board and ask Kit Marlow if he’d like to dramatize your demonic dealings. 

All these things you were thinking of when you performed fellatio for the first time in the guest room. 

The demon unceremoniously undid Father Karras’s pants, instructed you to kneel, and sneered “Familiar with getting your throat stuffed?” when you complied. It might have been a rhetorical question. He then offered to shove one of those decorative candles from the window sill up your snatch. 

“No,” was your quiet answer. His shallow face grimaced as shadows under his eyes purpled, along with his lips. 

Damien hated seeing you degraded. Particularly through such lewd acts. Almost as much as he hated that Pazuzu had carte blanche access to his thoughts. So it knew how best to punish its vessel. For resisting its violations of you. For directly pleading with it. For denying that he was beginning to love you. 

Before you could dutifully swallow your master’s semen, you found the side of your face pinned against the bed. If he’d used any more of his supernatural strength, your neck would’ve twisted. You angled yourself so your face was fully pressed against the plush mattress. Hiding from his sick yellow eyes.

“Sore knees are the least of your worries,” he rasped. The floor was wooden and the carpet was thin, unlike the church kneelers you longed for. You heard him stomp away only to return shortly. Calmer. 

“Gaze upon me.”

Once more you obeyed. Horror struck when you first saw the size of his erection. No longer average length; it was a plum-headed, veined monstrosity. And you knew it would have easily (though not for you) penetrated a cervix if it wanted. 

Father Karras internally screamed at his possessor not to rape you with it. Then he noticed the candle and wine glass. The priest didn’t know what the goblet was for. All he knew was that you hadn’t rejected the demon’s offer politely enough.   

You knew what to do. Gulping, but otherwise silent, you faced him and parted your legs. Wincing as the dry candle base split your slit. At least he hadn’t brought matches. Though, being infernal, maybe he could light it at leisure. Then he “gently” kicked most of the candle into you. “Gently,” because no amount of lubrication could make your pussy less shallow. No cervical penetration, but you felt it hit the entrance of your womb. The circumference would have been nice, at least, if you’d been aroused enough to start with.

The wick, you noticed to your dismay, was just about the only thing sticking out. Even if you managed to get wetter or even orgasm, which you highly doubted, pulling the candle out was going to be a very uncomfortable experience. There was just too much girth. You were terrified. 

Then it hit you that the candle wasn’t from this bedroom. But you knew where it came from. 

They weren’t votive candles proper, just kept around for holiday dinners, in case of devout guests. At your place. Not here, Chris’s rental. They hadn’t been blessed, you soothed yourself, so they were about as sacred as holy water before blessing. Meaning, not at all. The chalice— because really that was what it was, much more ornate than your other tableware—was placed atop your bedside table. 

Again, not a holy object, but this was beginning to feel a lot like a Black Sabbath.  

The grotesque cock, matching Father Karras’s transformed countenance, tapped the rim. Dripping precum. Revolted, you saw his nails had lengthened, sharpened into near-claws. And he was furiously jacking off with them. “Miraculously” managing to not scratch his member. You just felt relieved that this time he didn’t want you to touch that thing. It wouldn’t be like when you’d been compelled to masturbate him in the laundry room. That thing. Your beloved priest was no longer human. It truly dawned on you that what you were dealing with was unearthly.  

Careful not to spill a single drop, the self-styled deity was. The sheer volume of cum amazed you. Your lips parted next, eager to please him again. A cruel smile informed you of your misunderstanding.

“On your hands and knees.”

You obeyed, backside facing the priest. Thankfully, you recounted afterwards, your master chose to do nothing to it that night. But that session was the time you realized you’d begun referring to him as your master. Because what else were you doing but serving him?

The chalice was set in front of you, on the floor. So you drank from it. Lapping, like the obedient girl you were. Your sycophancy was expressed not in words, but actions. You wondered if Father Karras felt like a bitch, too.

The candle, which you made sure to vocally thank him for keeping unlit, pumped in and out of your compact orifice. Never leaving it, though you could almost feel yellow eyes burning into you. Picturing the normally tight pussy gaped.    

Laid out on the floor afterwards, stomach and cunt and heart full, licking the “dregs” of spunk from the bottom of the glass, you were awaiting his next command when you saw a bone pallid face in the dark, grinning nastily down at you. You followed its leer. To see the candlewick was soaked.

A hand, no, a pale claw, not unlike the priest’s converted hand, laid flat its palm, bearing another one of your chalices. 

Shivering, you knew the demon was becoming more powerful. Refractory periods becoming shorter. Summoning lesser spirits to do its bidding. (You didn’t know at the time that was his true face.) Plus all the devilry Chris had told you about.