There is a small amount of smoking in this chapter, but it is extremely brief and not fetish oriented at all. As I noted when I started this series (back in June of last year…YIKES!), this series will have some sexy smoking in the fifth chapter and have a lot of it in the sixth and final chapter, but little or none in the earlier chapters. But there are other kinds of kinkiness here. For the other installments in the series, click here.
Veils of ViceBy Smokedawg
Chapter 3: This Perilous Muck
When Rachel finally awoke and had begun collecting herself, she chided her companions bitterly for letting her sleep at all—much less for so long. For putting themselves in such danger waiting while the enemy gathered its forces. For coddling her in the very den of their foes.
It was Kurt who finally pointed out that it was clear their foes didn’t think much of the Paragons’ chances, or weren’t interested in a full-scale assault. Clearly, the intent had been to lure them in here all along, and the Cabal was putting its faith in tricks and traps rather than open combat. Even the various rooms leading off from this one were nothing more than extensions of the main room, mere living quarters and sexual playrooms for whatever harem the Gigolo had once possessed or planned to bring here at some point in the future.
Her mood became less sour as she recovered some of her strength, but there was still a darkness in her eyes. Not quite anger, but close. Combined with the shame reddening her cheeks and the paleness of her skin, she looked haggard.
They waited another hour, until she declared herself as ready as she’d ever be, and they moved forward to the glistening brown satiny film that draped the doorway at the end of the room. The next veil.
* * *
After mystically ripping away that veil, the party stepped through warily. There was almost no transition from the Gigolo’s quarters to the next chamber, just a tiny room the size of a small closet that opened into a much larger room. Unlike the Gigolo’s quarters, there were no doors or other rooms leading off of it, just ornately carved stone walls, ceiling and floor, and a large pool of what looked like lightly bubbling mud that stretched from left to right in front of them, effectively blocking passage to the metallic-looking veil leading to the next challenge.
Which left all four Paragons wondering precisely what the current challenge was. They all sensed a powerful force here, but saw nothing except the room, the mud pit blocking their way, and the next veil. All of them suspected that whatever threatened them probably resided somewhere in the mud, but what the threat might be, none of them yet hazarded a guess.
Nearly 80 feet of stone flooring separated them from the mud pool, and another 60 feet, give or take, of flooring lay on the other side. The pool itself was easily 50 feet long from end to end, and was almost flush with the side walls. Only an inch or so of stone separated the pool from those walls; not nearly enough for safe passage around it, even if one of the Paragons possessed the ability to become as small as a mouse, a nigh-unheard of level of polymorphing power—and none of them were shapechangers anyway. And levitation, an almost equally rare power, also wasn’t in any of their repertoires.
“Anyone know how to walk on water?” Donald quipped.
“I’m reasonably certain that hasn’t been done for about 2,000 years,” Kurt countered.
Not one to be left out, Megan finished with, “I suppose swimming is out of the question, not that I brought my bikini anyway.”
Only Rachel stayed out of the exchange, still simmering from the previous conflict. They were in real danger, Donald reminded himself, and perhaps they should be deadly serious, but it hurt him to see Rachel so wounded inside. She had succeeded, but carried herself as if she had failed somehow; as if she still had something to prove.
When she walked over to one of the nearby walls, though, the Subtle Mouse found her voice again. “There is identifiable writing here. Asian, I think; maybe some Middle-Eastern as well. Carvings in the wall.”
Megan joined her quickly. “This section is Chinese. Mandarin. I can read that,” she announced. “The third one is Farsi; I can read a little of it. Seems to say the same stuff. The one in between and the last two I have no clue, but I’m guessing it’s also the same.”
“Plenty of visitors, just none of them European or American, I guess,” Donald said, joining the others. “Definitely Asian and Mid-East though, at the very least. Makes one wonder how the hell this chamber ended up under Lake Michigan. Was it here originally, or shifted here mystically?”
From a little farther away, having decided to explore other things, Kurt said, “Let me hazard a guess at what the carvings say. They tell us: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
“Nice try, but no,” Megan said. “Something more along the lines of: Revel in the presence of your dark and lustful god, It Which Flows. Or That Which Ripples or something like that. Some other stuff too, apparently rules for behavior here. We’re already in violation. Total nudity and shaved bodies are required.”
“Ha, ha,” Donald said.
“Actually, bugger me if I’m lying, but I’m serious,” Megan said. “Also, no food and drink, no animals, no shoes, no running and something about leaving your inhibitions on the other side of the door.” She paused. “I shit you not. It really says all that.”
She shrugged at the strangeness of it, reached into the bag slung over her shoulder, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She lit up, took a deep, calming drag, and blew out the smoke even slower, then began to examine other, smaller carvings.
“Clearly, the rules must not say anything about not smoking,” Kurt muttered.
Megan smiled, and blew a stream of smoke in his direction. “And fuck such a rule even if did exist here.”
“So, it’s a community pool for hedonistic nudists that apparently hasn’t been cleaned for a very, very long time,” Donald muttered. “Or a temple for people who like mud baths a whole lot.”
At those words, Megan looked at the pool of mud and had a sudden, very strong urge to strip and take a dip. She actually liked a good mud bath every once in a blue, with or without some sexual company, so chalked it up to left-over sexual stimulation from the encounter with the Gigolo.
The other three had experienced a similar thought about luxuriating in the pool, but also silently dismissed the feeling as well as being an offshoot of the sexual tension in the previous room—or in this room, for that matter. Rachel smelled powerfully of sex and Megan had a lesser musk around her as well, which had both men at a certain degree of attention. Particularly Donald, who had just been standing right between them.
Megan, Rachel and Donald began exploring other portions of the wall, looking for any hidden writings in the ornate carvings, or for hidden switches. Kurt noticed intricate patterns in the floor that seemed neither pictures nor words, and started following them along.
There’s something important there, was the thought filling his mind, and he bent down to trace the lines and swirls with his eyes and fingers, moving slowly forward on hands and knees. He had to find out what they were dealing with.
He lurched forward with a start and a gasp a few minutes later at a touch on his shoulder and someone saying his voice softly.
“Oh, sorry Donald,” Rachel said. “Under the circumstances, I suppose that was a bad idea.”
“I’m fine. No worries, Rachel,” he answered, as he caught his breath and his heartbeat calmed down. “You’d think after facing as many boogeymen as I have over the years, I wouldn’t be so jumpy.”
“This is all very unnerving, though,” she said. “This situation is not like any fight any of us have faced, I suspect. We are being led, perhaps. We aren’t being attacked overtly, that is certain. Who knows what to expect? Or from where it will come? How many shall we face? Will there ever be a clear threat? That last fight wasn’t a fight at all. It was a game, and I didn’t know the rules and I was still trying to bluff and I almost lost. Fighting, trapping or even tricking I am used to. But putting myself in the hands of a kind of incubus, and hoping to outwit him even as I let him have his way…it made me feel dirty and cheap, and I don’t feel like we had a victory. We just avoided defeat.”
She didn’t have to add the words, “And I had to do it almost totally alone,” but Donald could see the sentiment reflected in her face and eyes.
He was pretty certain this was the most she had said at once since the four of them had met up, and was strangely flattered that she would choose him for her version of verbosity. “But we’re in it together, and that’s what’s important,” he said. “We stand together, and we’ll be fine.”
“Well, if we’re standing together, what are you doing way over here on the ground, Donald, crawling around?” She was trying to make a joke, and Donald appreciated it, even if her exhausted tone and worn face dulled the effect.
“Tracing these patterns. I’m pretty sure there are sigils and glyphs hidden in the patterns, but they’re nothing I’m familiar with,” he responded.
She bent low herself, and looked closely. “Shadowrunes,” she said after a minute or so. “Or something like them. I’ve never seen them physically carved through. I’ve seen them projected with patterned lanterns on walls, and I’ve seen them formed out of shadowstuff itself, but never carved. And they aren’t precisely shadowrunes, but they are related somehow. Why don’t you look elsewhere for something you might be able to decipher, while I examine these?”
* * *
Rachel was keenly aware of Donald for a little while, when he was nearby, but apparently he found nothing familiar, and kept moving farther away. After about 10 minutes, he settled in to examine a bit of flooring some distance away, apparently finding some success at last in located familiar symbology.
But mostly, the Subtle Mouse was engrossed in the tracings and patterns in the stone, and found herself able to tease out hints of meaning, even though it was not any darktongue with which she was familiar. She followed them, slowly, a story forming in her mind, but in jumbled fragments and vague hints. In time, she felt she could put together some coherent narrative, but in the meantime, she simply progressed. Finally, she paused, the scent of something warm and just a little earthy and musky catching her attention. The patterns had led her to within an arm’s reach of the edge of the pool. She pressed low to the ground, looking across the floor the barely visible surface of light brown muck, and watched lazy little curls of steam twirl up from the surface. The mud wasn’t boiling hot, but it was very warm, and the air was moist here. Humid so close to the pool. Sultry.
She stretched out her senses—physical, mental and sorcerous alike—and felt no threat. There was power in this room, but it was diffuse. There was no entity lurking at the edge of the pool or anywhere near it, so she ventured a bit closer to the edge, so that she could dip the tip on one pinky finger into the thick, burbling mud.
It did not burn her. Did not send any mystical emanations into her. Did not reach out to her.
It was mud. Thick and silky and warm, but still mud. She put her entire hand in there, senses still alert, and swirled it around slowly. The sensation was ripe with a filthy kind of allure. She pulled out her hand, the mud yielding her up without a fight, and she shook it from her fingers. It wasn’t scum on top of water. It wasn’t rotting filth. This was a giant mud bath, as fresh as if it had just been prepared for some freakish spa.
Is the power we sense a being that lives somewhere deep inside the mud? Rachel wondered. Or does this huge pool of muck hide some powerful magic artifact beneath its surface?
She pursed her lips and trailed her fingers along the surface of the mud. Soft, yielding, warm. Not unlike the flesh of a lover. She dipped her index finger into the pool, and scooped up a bit of the sticky, warm, thick substance, and smeared it across the floor in front of her. Nothing happened. It didn’t change or react.
But it feels nice, she thought, swirling her hand in the mud some more. Thinking how it might feel all over her skin. Wondering if it tasted dirty, or just silky and earthy. She moved closer to the edge, pressing her chest against the warm, damp floor, feeling her nipples slightly abraded by the carved stone, and with only the vaguest sense of concern that her shirt was on the ground, and she didn’t remember taking it off.
Her face hovered over the edge of the mud, the warm, sultry smell of it thick in her nostrils. She heard, just barely, Donald yell “Rachel!” and then she slid in, face-first, and swam down into the mud, which resisted her at first, as if teasing her, yet welcomed her at last, and pulled her gently forward to aid her in her swimming. Syrupy. Warm. Slick. Flowing.
She waded out a bit, turned around, and looked back toward her companions, barely noticing them; wondering why she was even bothering to concern herself with them, and she settled her feel onto the floor of the pool, shallow here—though she could sense much greater depths toward the center so far away, and she began to pull off her pants and shoes and panties, and reveled in the filth.
* * *
Everyone reacted at once to Donald’s shout, but it was far too late to stop Rachel from entering the pool. Donald began to dart toward her, before Kurt rushed up, nearly tackled him, and locked his arms around the other man’s waist, wrestling him back away from the pool.
“Donald! Think! It must have lured her in!” Kurt shouted. “Don’t go close!”
“Shit!” Megan yelled, flinging her latest cigarette, smoking and spitting hot ash, against the floor. “We weren’t fucking paying attention. We haven’t learned a shitting thing after nearly getting our asses handed to us before. No one attacks us, and we get complacent.”
“Rachel is in there!” Donald snarled. “We have to get her out.”
“No,” Megan said simply. “Kurt, keep alert for anything in the pool that might head toward her—or us for that matter—and let us know so we can kill it. Donald, you and I need to figure out how to get her to acknowledge us, and coax her out. She’s simply standing there, and the last thing we need to do is anything rash that will put us in exactly the same position.”
For at least 10 minutes, Megan used all her pneuma-related powers to get Rachel to acknowledge her voice or obey her commands to leave the pool. When that didn’t work, Megan tried some elemental magic, but her air spells wouldn’t reach the gyrating, gasping, mud-bound woman, and when she tried earth spells against the mud, she was nearly flung to the ground will the energies hurled back at her mind.
Donald wrote sigil after sigil in the air to try to snare Rachel’s attention or break through the glamour holding her, to no avail. In between those attempts, he shouted her name, with even less effect—save to make himself hoarse.
Meanwhile, Rachel writhed and danced in the muck, and noticed nothing else.
* * *
Her world was mud. It flowed around her, bubbled up her thighs and into her sex, and held her in a firm but soft embrace.
It covered her from head to toe, so deliciously and completely. Her hair hung thick and heavy and coated with brown slickness. It felt like kisses all over her skin, and it masked her face like some thin latex hood, or perhaps like makeup. It stayed so moist, and smooth, and luscious on her.
Swirls and bubbles of muck gathered at her labia, and teased her there. Lifting her up softly, then settled her down. Flowed inside her like fingers, and sometimes like a spongy dildo, and then flowed back out of her. It was like she was being fucked, and then ejaculating her lover. Such filthy thoughts. Such filthy coating to her body. Such filth filling her up and making her feel so good.
She moved her arms about in the mud, thicker now to keep her from falling. To keep her from leaving, she realized, but why would she want to? Perhaps those others would try to remove her. Better if they couldn’t. How could she commune with her slimy lover? How could the muck take her like she wanted to be taken if she were removed?
She moaned as silky dirty slick eddies flowed around her, under her breast and then tightly around her nipples, teasing them to hardness and making her gasp. Her legs buckled just a little in her arousal, or perhaps her lover-god-pool had pulled her down a little, and the mud swirled around her neck, like 10,000 kisses all soft and warm and wet and bubbling on her sensitive skin. She moaned, and opened her mouth, and a little mud trickled in so thick and warm and tasting like cum and earth and the sea, and she let her tongue trail across the surface of the muck before it lifted her to a standing position and burbled over her legs and around the small of her back and pressed insistently against her breast. As she touched it with her fingers, gripping the mud and reveling in the squishy-slimy feelings as it flowed through her grip—and then did it again, and bunched up her toes too.
And growled quietly in passion as the mud flowed in wave after wave between her thighs, filling her and then spurting out—over and over until she screamed in ecstasy.
* * *
Donald watched in dismay. Not only was Rachel’s freedom, will and perhaps even her life and soul in peril, but she was clearly being fucked again by one of their enemies.
“The pool. The entire pool is our enemy,” Megan said. “We were looking for some discrete, single foe. Instead, it’s a damned spread-out force of nature.”
And how in the world do you attack a 16- or 17-meter-long enemy that might be tens of meters deep as well? she wondered.
“As much as I would like to be prideful and be arrogant about my capabilities, I believe that we may want to consider a hasty retreat at this point,” Kurt said.
“I’m not leaving Rachel in there as a sacrifice to cover our escape, and neither are you, you fuck!” Donald snarled.
“I don’t have time for your schoolboy fantasy love affair that you’ve concocted in your brain,” Kurt said. “That thing is going to increase its hold on Rachel, and it is already starting to use her as a transmitter. I can feel it and I am willing to wager you can as well. Going for a muddy swim is becoming increasingly enticing. It’s going to do its best to draw us to it through her, whether through desire or sympathy or concern. The longer we stay, the more at risk we are. We need help.”
“Assuming they haven’t already blocked our way back, we still can’t afford to leave, Kurt, unless we’re also willing to let all the villains down here go free,” Megan asserted. “This chamber isn’t part of the history or geology here. It doesn’t belong in Chicago. It wasn’t built under this lake. What we’ve seen, and whatever’s still ahead of us, was moved here. Moved here as a hideaway, or as a trap for us, or both. If we leave, it probably won’t be here when we get back. This whole complex, however big it is, is just a series of tiny Hedges cobbled together. The Iniquitous Ones or Infernal Ones who are behind all of this won’t wait for us to marshal some forces and come back here. It will take use weeks to mobilize sufficient practitioners of the Art for a real assault. And they will break apart the Hedges and let them lapse back to their native realms.”
“Facing this thing is like trying to fight a pond,” Kurt pointed out. “Where are its vulnerable spots? We are facing tons of sentient muck with unknown reserves of ancient supernatural powers.”
“We have a victory, and then a serious challenge, and you want to turn back? At the first stumbling block?” Donald challenged.
“I want to live to fight another day, not to cower, Donald,” Kurt said, a sharp edge to his voice. “And I certainly don’t want to stay here until I bend my knee in obeisance to a mud puddle. Do not attempt to goad me.”
“Shut up, both of you. Now!” Megan said, and put some force of pneuma behind her words to make a point with them. Both winced, and grumblingly turned to face her. “We are not going to run, because I don’t fancy our chances of getting out without being shot in the backs. We also are not going to push off and give up Rachel without a fight.”
“So, what are we going to do, then, my queen?” Kurt replied sarcastically.
Megan closed her eyes for a few moments, met Donald’s gaze, then met Kurt’s. “For one thing, when I tell you to, I’m going to need you to hurl the biggest bloody fucking death curse you can at Rachel.”
“What the…” Donald began.
“Shut up, Donald!” Megan shouted. “It Which Flows, or whatever that sludgy wanker’s real name is, has a vested interest in keeping Rachel alive. It will have to expend energy to protect her if it wants any hope of snaring us, since it no longer has any element of surprise. It needs her as either a lure or, as Kurt pointed out, a transmitter. And it clearly wants her, too, as it feeds off her arousal and surrender to it. So it won’t let her die.”
“And when it focuses its efforts on foiling my curse…” Kurt said.
“Donald and I will hit it at the same time, and at least try to inhibit its power, if not immobilize it entirely,” Megan said. “Donald, do you have any tricks that might allow us to pass by or help soften that thing up or just dry it up?”
“First off, why are we discussing our plans right in front of our enemy?” Donald complained. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Donald, this a primordial being, a primeval magic thing, hauled here to trap us, and the puppetmasters of this little Punch and Judy show have been ensuring that it was denied mortals and kept hungry for what it seeks,” Megan said. “It is a smart creature. Fully sentient, I am sure. Tricky. Able to form strategies. But even if it has some kind of ears, I doubt it’s bothered to learn a single human language in the eons it has existed. It knows arousal and release. It understands the biology of the creatures of this world and how to ensnare them with lust or attraction, and feed off their passions and their devotion and reward them or enslave them to stick around or draw others to it. But aside from that, it couldn’t care less about the world. It’s all about feelings and triggers and pushing buttons.”
“Big assumption, Megan,” Donald warned.
“Donald, I’ve seen things like this, though never this bleeding huge. My family has extensive books and files on things like this,” Megan said, “and every moment you argue with me, its hold on Rachel gets tighter and its ability to reach out to us through her will become more efficient and harder for us to ignore.”
“Shit,” Donald muttered, and he considered his arsenal. “I have an ice-chain sigil I could probably amp up by running it through the shadowrune workings on the floor that apparently helped snare Rachel. I also have an immobilization glyph I’ve used, but never on something so big.”
“I have a breath-spell that can chill a person,” Megan offered, reminding herself as well that she had already secretly bound Donald to her, and might be able to use him as a kind of lens or focus for her magic. “So let’s go with your ice chain. My pneuma and your sigils, and perhaps we can get some synergy going. Straight from this end to the other, we make a frozen mud bridge we can traverse, we run like hell, and we try to pull Rachel out along the way.”
“We don’t try,” Donald answered. “We do it.”
“If we can’t pull her out in one fell swoop, Donald, we keep going,” Megan insisted, “because the moment our magic is broken, we get a long dip in the mud, and I doubt we’ll ever want to come out.”
* * *
It Which Flows could feel the others. It could see them through the eyes of its newest thrall. It could hear their gibberish. None of that captured its attention, but the anxiety in Rachel’s subconscious interested it. Some of it toward It Which Flows, and fear of subservience. The rest of it toward her former companions, at the knowledge that they were planning something that might free her from the rapturous embrace of her new master.
Cold.
Its thrall was thinking cold.
Was that the plan of these others? These morsels that could feed its endless hunger? These creatures that it could fill with lust? Cold?
It Which Flows had no tricks to stop them. No power to touch them unless they came close. But it would not give up the prize it had caught.
Too long without. Too long alone. There must be a Walker who could spread its call and bring more to be thralls. This one must be that Walker to go forth. She must be kept and changed and made one with It Which Flows.
That was unquestionable.
* * *
Donald set the sigilwork for his ice chain, the most harrowing part being that he had to move all the way up to the edge of the mud pit to trace the last few trigger glyphs. Kurt held a braided line of knotted sheets from the previous chambers, tied tight around Donald’s waist and held taut. Megan reached mental fingers into his mind without his awareness, playing at the bonds she had set there, to keep his mind from wandering as It Which Flows tried to touch and tease it. Tried to lure him for a dip in the mud.
When the last swoop of his work was inscribed, Donald scrabbled away from the edge quickly, shivering, and ashamed at the huge erection pushing at the front of his pants.
Then back to the beginning of his chain, to inscribe the key rune.
Behind him, Megan nodded to Kurt, put her hands on Donald’s shoulders, and said, “On your mark, Donald, when you activate the chain.”
He gathered his will, lifted a gold and jet baton from his pack, and slammed it down in the center of the key rune.
Megan had gathered her own power as Donald had lifted out the rod, took a deep breath, and pulled up all the threads of air magic inside her, muttered “friggia,” and blew hard as Donald struck home, and as Kurt hurled death magic straight at their comrade in the muck.
Power flowed forth, a wave of blinding white-and-blue light, like argent fire, and slammed from one end of the pool that held It Which Flows, and straight to the end, with chilling intensity.
It Which Flows screamed silently in agony, but held fast to its anchor. Its thrall. The others might pass. The others might hurt it. But they would not have its prize, and if they tried to take it, they would become thralls as well.
* * *
Rachel danced slowly, sultrily in the waves and whorls of her new and muddy lover. Her kind master. Her source of all pleasures.
A large bubble of muck floated to the surface, between her tits, and popped suddenly, spraying mud across her chest, neck and face, and she licked it lasciviously from her lips, and swallowed her god into herself. Made herself more its slave and gratefully so. Felt that little bit of It Which Flows enter her and seed her with power. The beginnings of her change and her glorious forever in blissful, filthy, slimy passion.
She could hear its language now, begin to understand it now. So she could take its commands and spread the gospel of this slick and sordid lover-god.
Mud swirled and thickened and flowed around her upper thighs, a whirlpools of little strokes and kisses across her flesh, and it flowed up like something in between a tentacle and a cock, up between her breasts to kiss her lips muddily.
More swirling pleasure around her torso and under her arms, kissing the skin there as well. Kissing her every pore. Teasing her most sensitive flesh better than any man could. Unless perhaps it was a man covered in this same blessed filth and touching her while filled with the power of their mutual master.
She gyrated in the sludgy sea of arousal. She danced her sex down upon her yielding yet filling lover/master. She bent her head back into the mud and shook it violently, covering herself in muck and flinging it all around her.
She stroked her own slick and stick flesh and felt the exquisite ecstasy of touching her own flesh and being touched in turn by the warm, soft, sliminess all around her.
And orgasm so utterly consuming flowed through her, and around her into the mud, and back up into her sex. Her orgasm itself came back to fuck her, and begin the cycle again in a sea of shiny, moist, brown passion.
She never felt the death hurled at her, unraveled by It Which Flows, leaving it open to the other attack it suspected was coming.
She hardly noticed the sudden surge of cold passing mere inches from her flesh, so warm and wonderful and consuming was her new god, her forever lover. She frowned and wept, though, as she heard it cry out in pain in its silent language, but then It Which Flows rewarded her sympathy with more ecstasy, and made her its slave even more.
* * *
They were all surprised to see that from one end of the pool to the other, there was a frozen brown bridge, several feet wide—and Donald was perhaps more surprised than any of them, though he was the chief architect of it.
He was exhausted, but there wasn’t much time to spare, and Kurt and Megan urged him on. He lifted himself, and ran. Megan was first across the bridge, telling Kurt, the strongest of all of them right now, to grab Rachel. Donald followed Kurt, and saw him reach out, grab at one of Rachel’s slick, shining, brown arms, and saw the other man’s eyes glaze over just a bit, watched him tumble down into the muck, and then shouted his name.
Megan stopped, turned, and poured power into her voice, steeped her word in pneuma, and said, “Kurt! Abort! Flee!”
Donald the point where Kurt had tumbled in, and inscribed a Glpyh of Agony across the surface of the mud, and then a Rune of Strength with Kurt’s name attached to it. He saw Rachel go slightly rigid, then slump back into the mud, sinking beneath it, and heard Kurt gasped and leap back up on the bridge, running raggedly, his feel pushing Rachel deeper beneath the muck.
Hesitating, Donald looked down toward Rachel, being pulled slowly and surely beneath the surface. Saw her lust-filled face and one glistening muddy hand beckoning him, and he fled.
* * *
Rachel could feel her master’s anger, even cocooned as she was in bliss. She had lost her grip on the one called Kurt, and had tried to lure in the one called Donald, but in the end, the embrace of It Which Flows was enough—and everything.
She sunk deep, and the deeper she went into her god, the more passion she felt. The muck was denser with passion here, slicker with moisture, hotter with sultry promises. It filled her, even her lungs, and she welcomed the invasion and felt the changes inside her. Felt her new life begin as she shed the old one. Heard voices in her mind and even in her soul, and screamed in passion.
And her screams traveled up as bubble, each popping softly and wetly on the surface of her lover-god, as her former companions fled even closer to their defeat.
That last fact was promised not by her new god, but by someone else. Someone perhaps more insistent and powerful. Someone who whispered new commands for her, and new plans. Promised greater passions.
Once Rachel consented to become a betrayer, and become something so much more than she had been.
A slick and brown and filthy goddess more potent than the one she had moments before called master and lover and god.
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