Crystal Clear 2

The gender pairing of the day is: Cis male on female-bodied agender person, with both swapping dominance.

The last few times I posted a story here I had a big long preamble with a complete list of kinks and such--but then I read a few more other stories here on LE, and I've realised y'all are a lot more nasty than I gave you credit for, lol. So instead here's just the critical content warnings:

-Use of the slur "F*g" and derivatives

-A roleplayed scenario involving arch-conservative values of femininity (ironically, used on an agender person, lol)

-Impregnation/mentions of birth and lactation

-Passing mentions of CBT (sadly. Maybe next time I'll go the whole way with that lol)

Enjoy, freakazoids!

***

Wanted: Paladin/cleric for removal and cleansing of demonic cult; location given by request to the town mayor. Villager complaints include spates of misfortunes befalling their young men (disappearances, infertility, infidelity, etc.) and suspect it to be the work of a succubus and her worshippers. The Adventurer's Guild wishes to advise those looking to take this job that--

Michael didn't need to read the rest! He'd gotten all the important parts he needed: who to ask for directions to the nearest wretched hive of scum and villainy so that he and his trusty sword Light-Bringer could burn away the filth! He'd spent

way

too long poking around pastoral countrysides killing rats and punting marmots--he didn't go through paladin training for this! He became a conduit to the holy power of the gods to slay evil! And now that was exactly what he was going to do! When the mayor attempted to pay him ahead of time in gratitude for coming to their aid, Michael laughed boisterously, took out only a coin or two to cover travel and living costs, and nothing more. Slaying evil, as he told the gobsmacked mayor, was its own reward!

However--though he was brave and righteous and holy indeed, he also was not a fool! The missive spoke of the wily and terrible succubus, a creature who would find a man of his calibre to be a very attractive target, no doubt. These demons were always pulling the same tricks, and evil never won using such low, crass tactics! Michael's soul and body was pure and honed and immaculate, as a god's warrior should be! No

slatternly

woman could hope to lead him astray! When crossed, however, these demonic beings were master wielders of vile and reprehensible magics; he couldn't afford to let his guard down for a second!

The entrance was right where the mayor said it would be; though they knew the cult's exact location, they did

not

know their numbers, nor the power of the demoness that doubtless waited within for hapless wanderers to ensnare. A common villager could not hope to scrub clean such a stain on their own, and so this place had been left to fester. Well, no more! Michael drew Light-Bringer, the longsword's inscribed runes of sacred scripture faintly glowing, illuminating a stonework tunnel buried quietly amidst a ruined temple to a long-forgotten deity. He moved at a slow creep, his muscles tight, prepared at any moment for the shadows to meld into a creature and strike at him.

He went on for a long time, but... nothing seemed to be happening. The tunnel led absurdly deep; paladin training didn't include much geology, but was that why the air gradual kept feeling warmer and damper the further he went? It was starting to get a little ridiculous--some of the stones on the tunnel walls were actively beading with condensation and giving off tiny curling licks of steam. It was starting to settle into his skin and worm under his heavy breastplate, bracers, and greaves, leaving his skin uncomfortably sweaty. The urge to take them off got more persuasive with every step, but he didn't dare. This was probably one of the succubus' tricks! Very clever, but it wouldn't work on him!

Like the very walls had taken offence, no sooner had he had that thought than the tunnel suddenly widened, finally spreading out beyond being only marginally large enough to fit him through it--and that's when Michael saw what was

on

those walls. In this hall now ten foot tall and wide, the stone walls had been painted in breathtaking frescoes of stunning detail and vibrant colour... depicting some of the most

appalling

images Michael had ever laid eyes on! A nude woman held onto a satyr's curly goat-horns and pressed his mouth between her legs to, erm, "service" her--and she... she was

menstruating

! Worse still, both she

and

the satyr looked enraptured by this torrid act! In another painting, a wincing but widely-grinning man was being violated by the phallic ovipositors of two overlarge insects in his anus and

penis

, and the disgusting pests were laying so many eggs in his body that his belly and testicles had become grossly engorged!

Michael tried so very hard to not look at any of the others, but once more it was as if the walls could hear his thoughts, because as his eyes skimmed hurriedly past another, he had to do a double-take to make sure he'd seen what he thought. He had: Michael's stomach turned and his eyes went wide at the sight of a beautiful, heavenly seraphim--one of the gods' purest, most wholesome creations--lying splay-legged on top of a leering minotaur who's penetrating the angel's anus with a monstrous bull's phallus, pinching the seraphim's nipples and causing them to lactate fine streams of milk... and... And between the heavenly being's thighs, their womanhood was spread absurdly wide, giving birth to a minotaur calf... and squirting. Hard.

That was bad enough. But Michael found himself even more bewildered by the painting's

audacity

to depict the seraphim looking half-insane with lust and pleasure. Seeing one of the gods' holiest beings in such a distasteful display was practically surreal; it just didn't make sense to him to see that creature making that face for

that

reason! He quickly looked away and hurried forward--but strangely, he felt more confused than upset. It was only art--

disgraceful

art--and yet some part of his mind felt... sort of like he'd just realised there was a room in his house he'd never known was there. It was deeply confusing, pretty upsetting, but also... Didn't he sort of want to see what a brand-new room would have in it?

...No! No, he was being silly, and this was all the succubus' work! Michael redoubled his grip on Light-Bringer, kept his eyes squarely on the floor just ahead of him, and marched past every debauched image begging him to come get a closer look at the depravity they had in store. Whatever sick freak cultists lived here, excising them from this world and sending them to their demon overlords in the hells served them right! These cultists probably were more demon than human now anyway! They were probably twisted, sick beasts covered in horns and spikes and claws! They probably spoke only in eldritch tongues! They probably bathed in blood! Their leader was probably some mockery of female beauty, perverted into a vile extreme!

Suddenly, the white haze of steam lifted, and Michael raised his cleared gaze from the floor at the exact same time the

sound

hit: low demonic mutterings, eldritch whispers, wails, groans, cries of abject pain! His wild eyes looked around for the source of it; he'd entered a cavernous room, circular and stepped like a coliseum, only instead of seats, there were baths--tons of small pools of natural hot spring water. And in many of those pools, there were people--regular people, though of all shapes and sizes, but from what he could see through the odd gaps in the rising steam, there wasn't anything inhuman about them at all. It only clicked in his head a moment later that he could see their bodies. As in everybody in that room except him was naked. And those sounds he'd heard when he walked in--that mishmash of unintelligible words and the tortured moans--they were nothing of the sort. The words were plain language, and they were saying things like "That's it, take it deep", "Fuck, don't stop!", and "Yes, cum inside me, yes!" The "tortured" screaming and groaning too, that was... that was not "tortured", it was the... opposite.

It's such an overwhelming rush of sights and sounds and smells and heat that for a moment Michael doesn't know what to do with himself. Most people hadn't even noticed he was there! And the ones that had were just giving him this sort of bemused, questioning look like they were wondering why he hadn't dumped all his possessions on the floor and picked a bath to join in on. So he just stood there, increasingly awkwardly, at this point almost praying the succubus would show up and attack just so he'd know what to do.

He didn't

quite

get his wish. But eventually, his wandering, bashful gaze circled the round room until it spiralled into the middle--and what a centrepiece it was! Quite apart from the natural formations of the smooth but irregular stone pools, the "stage" floor in the room's middle had the manufactured precision of a perfect circle, and contained a likewise perfectly circular pool. Gleaming at the pool's head like a crown jewel was a marble statue--of what Michael could only call "masculine perfection". Every aspect of the musculature in its body was flawlessly modelled, its pose lounging propped up on its elbows, seeming at once at ease and calm, while also focused and attentive. And hard. That is, the man--the statue--was... very erect. And

very

well-endowed.

It was a sight so distracting that Michael almost didn't notice the centre pool's singular other feature: in its middle was some kind of... altar. Something raised out of the water, flat-topped, and roughly the size of two people side-by-side. In itself that wasn't remarkable--it was who was sitting on it. Most shocking of all, they were dressed, sort of: their thin white robe was soaked through with hot spring water and clung to their body, and yet somehow the fact that they were still technically decent made the parts he could see all the more salacious. And what he could see was motherly hips and full thighs, but a smallish if not nonexistent bust, and their face was so completely androgynous that Michael was stumped. It was that same "new room in the house" feeling again--the person he was looking at was different and unexpected... and more than a little alluring.

So when that person caught his eye and beckoned Michael forward with a small smile on their lips, he hesitated, but went. After all, he could see their body for the most part, and they clearly didn't have any succubus things going on. And if they were human, they could be reasoned with, perhaps! He could try a little diplomacy first, surely? He sheathed Light-Bringer, though he kept his hand on the pommel, and began to walk down the bath's stone steps. Then, belatedly, he realised the clank of his boots on the rock was getting just as amplified by the cave's acoustics as the voices and sounds of skin meeting skin, and his noise was starting to draw attention. In fact, he noticed with some nervousness that by the time he'd come to the centre pool's edge, he'd earned just about every eye in the room.

"Welcome," the person perched on the altar said in a voice just as soft, sweet, and confusingly-gendered as their face. Despite the gentle tone, the cavern's acoustics magnified everything so well they could probably be heard clear up to the nosebleed seats--or nosebleed pools, he supposed. "You don't seem like our... standard fare," they continued, crossing one plush leg over the other in a motion Michael couldn't drag his eyes away from. "May I ask what brings you here?"

"Yes!" he responded sharply--and far too loudly, by how clearly he heard his own voice echo back at him. Dialing it down, he tried again, this time so low it was almost under his breath, "I've, erm... received some very alarming reports from the nearby village, you see."

The cultist raised their brows. "Concerning?"

Wow! They had this tone of voice that made it sound like they were saying something lewd, but they were being so... civil! "Well... strange things happening to their um... their menfolk."

"Oh!" Their pretty lips pulled up into a smile that made Michael feel... very good. "Like what?"

Michael cast his mind back to the missive he'd read all of once. "Disappearances. Being led astray from their wives. Infertility."

Their cheery, tinkling giggle bounced off the walls and filled Michael's head with soft tingling. "Oh no, mister paladin, we'd never! We

love

virile men here, don't we?" The misty bath air filled with masculine laughs and feminine appreciative moaning. The cultist sat on the altar licked their lips and put on a bit of a pout. "It's not our fault we love getting big strong fertile men in here to load us all up with their creamy cum

so much

that some guys just... never want to leave! Isn't that right, studs?"

The din of cheering smeared into a red blur in Michael's mind. This cultist might not be a succubus--but they

had

to be the source of the village's problems! That unrepentant

lewdness

could only mean one thing! Light-Bringer blazed with holy power and Michael charged forward, clearing the distance between them in two short seconds and raising Light-Bringer to bring it down upon the cultist's head in a wrathful, righteous smite of godly--

Something hard, spiky, and massive slammed against his ribs with the force of a horse's kick. He heard the

snap snap snap

of bones cracking, the splash of him falling back into the waist-deep water--but even before his face went under, he felt fluid filling his lungs. Light-Bringer was knocked loose from his grip, clattering away past the pool's bounds far out of reach. He sank quickly without air in his lungs to buoy him, leaving streaming ribbons of blood in his wake from puncture wounds that had cut clear through his bronze breastplate. His broken ribs screamed when he tried to struggle to the water's surface or lift his chest. He had no idea what hit him--but he knew how he was going to die: he was going to drown with air not three feet away.

"Now look what you made me do!"

The words were so hazy, so garbled through the noise of bubbles and water filling his sinuses. He didn't understand. All he understood was he was going to die.

"Oh but we can't waste such a lovely thing, now can we?"

He didn't understand. All he understood was he was going to die.

"Yes, you two--hoist him up, would you?"

He didn't understand. All he understood was he was

finally

going to die. Blackness closed over his vision, and Michael closed his eyes.

And when he woke up, his gasp of air was easy and painless, there wasn't a drop of water in his lungs, and he was naked and shackled to the altar.

"Well well, welcome back!" Michael's head shot up and turned to the source of the voice--which pointed his gaze squarely into the barely-concealed lap of the cultist's translucent white robe. "Thought we might've lost you to His Lordship for a moment there," they said breezily, smiling sweetly down at Michael's pitch-dark scowl. "That's not a very thankful face to show to the person who saved your life, mister paladin."

Then, well, Michael

went

to say something along the lines of "Bite your tongue, vile creature!", but... he couldn't. Nothing felt like it was on or in his throat or mouth--but his voice was just completely silent, no matter how loud he tried to shout.

"Save your breath," the cultist advised the increasingly enraged paladin. "Your mouth's about to have a much better use than whatever silly words you were about to say. Don't worry now--I craft my enchantments

very

carefully, so you aren't going to drown. Just lie back now. Let it happen."

Let

what

happen? Michael twisted his head around, and quickly he landed on the sight of a dozen men waiting on the pool's edge, staring him and toying with fully hard erections. The cultist came over to them and handed them each... some kind of... silk cylinder covered in a pattern of purple curlicues, seeming a bit like the leg warmers they put on horses. They held their shape better than untreated cloth would, mostly staying upright, but it was clear they have give and stretch. Utterly mystified, there was nothing he could do but watch the cultist give one to every man.

"Ready, gentlemen?" The cultist's generous hips swayed the whole way over as they parked themselves sitting right above Michael's head. Their upside-down face watched his, an eager smile playing on their lips. "Stick it in 'em!"

All twelve men sunk their penises into the fabric tubes in a chorus of pleasured groans--while Michael's terrified scream remained silent. He

felt

them, all twelve of them at once, impossibly overlapping each other's space but feeling them distinctly regardless. Twelve cocks entered his mouth, ground their cumveins on his tongue, rubbed precum-leaking slits into his soft palate, stabbed into the back of his throat. No matter what his mouth actually did, he experienced twelve more different realities where he was being used by each man. The cultist had made good on their promise that he wouldn't drown, because it was painfully clear there was nothing really in his mouth at all to block his air--but he lived a dozen alternate lives at once where he

was

being forced to gag and choke and retch as twelve manhoods forced themselves deeper. Ten go down his throat--but a special chosen two penetrated his airway. The real Michael's body twisted and squirmed and rolled his head, but there was nothing to escape. He kept gasping from the twelve realities where he was suffocating, and ended up making his real body lightheaded from his needless panting. Lusty masculine grunts marked each thread closing as their cum spurts into the pool's water in this reality, and into Michael's achingly full belly in ten of the others. The final two came last and together, pumping his lungs full of thick semen no matter how much he thrashed and cried and silently screamed.

Then it was over. When the last man had taken the sleeve off his softening cock, all Michael was left with was his real self, unharmed if a bit dizzy, shellshocked eyes streaming tears, and soundlessly gasping despite his lungs being perfectly fine. "By His Lordship's unknowable cock," the cultist moaned reverently. Rather than explain, they simply reared up onto their knees and shifted forward until they straddled Michael's face, his entire field of vision becoming enshrouded by a translucent white curtain, and presenting him with the sight of a pink and puffy-lipped womanhood so wet the insides of their thighs were more slick than dry. Michael's affronted scoff was heard by nobody, and adding insult to injury, the cultist's fingertip appeared to gently tease their swollen clitoris, and seconds later keened deafeningly as their spasming vagina covered his face in squirts and fat droplets of crystalline lubrication.

Adding insult to the added insult to injury, then the cultist's womanhood lowered until the blushing and gleaming slit was less than an inch above his face. "C'mon," the cultist egged him on, hips wiggling impatiently. "This mess is your fault, so clean it up. Thighs

and

pussy!" A light slap clapped against his flank. "Giddy up!" Michael didn't budge. "Ooh, look at you!" the cultist's tone was mocking, but Michael definitely sensed how irritated they were getting. "Look who's the big man who

definitely

wasn't just a sobbing wreck from getting his little virgin throat fucked by a few big fat cocks!"

Michael had never had a thought this cruel before in his life, but he'd never hated someone as much as he did then: the urge to bring up his head, suck the entire crown of the cultist's slit into his mouth, and bite their clit as hard as he possibly could. It was so alluring a revenge fantasy that he almost did it. Just before he made contact though, he hesitated, and he was glad he did, because the cultist said, "Last chance, mister big strong paladin--either you start eating out my cunt like you mean it, or I do something

very

unpleasant and

very

hot to these nice full cum-sacks of yours. Let's just say if you aren't in the mood to play nice and get something sexy out of this, I have

other

ways of extracting these nice strong swimmers from your nuts. So

giddy up

!"