7 comments/ 87778 views/ 19 favorites Empire of Flesh By: xxxecil *A secret story I've had for awhile, but was saving for release this Halloween.* * He could still hear her moaning; from just outside the bathroom door, where he had sealed himself, he could hear the gleeful grunts and ribald snarls of his latest conquest. It wasn't supposed to be this way, of course. He had taken precautions; or...thought he did. Clencing the towel rack in frustration, he reminded himself of his Vow, that he would never again transform a woman. It was a lofty, beknighted goal, his Vow was the sort of goal that made you feel better for having said it; although deep in your heart, you know that it cannot be. So it was with Harrison. He should have known better, in retrospect. Darcy had spent over 24 hours in his company; more than enough time for the Curse, yet he'd only agreed to meet her in public places, where nothing untoward could happen. That's what he told himself. "Am I such a fool, that I didn't believe she could have followed me?" He shook his spiky blond head in disbelief. No...he could not afford the luxury of such delusions, there was every reason to guess what would have happened tonight. Harrison's squared jaw clenched as he bit his lip and moved the handle of a nearby mop to wedge it between the doorknob and the toilet to try and jam the door. That should hold her for the moment. His victims didn't seem dangerous; But those afflicted with his Curse seemed capable of the impossible, to sate their consuming passion. The frantic knocking, pounding on the white door made it difficult to concentrate. "Darcy...listen! You need to get to a hospital! You're not well! This isn't like you!" Harrison shouted, as if by protesting enough, he would undo the damage that was already irreversible. "You are an educated young lady! You've made the Dean's List! You told me you wanted to found a Historical Preservation Society someday! Remember your dreams! Remember who you are!" he pleaded. The initial response to his entreaties was a girlish twitter. "Silly Harry! I know who I am! I'm Linda Bordeaux! See, I know how strippers pick their names! You take yer....middle name.....aaannnnnnd...the street you grew up on! And that'll be my name when I jiggle my titties in front'a all the guys down at Titopia Triple X!" more giggling."But then, after I've saved up enough fer my first boob job, I can get a big titty name! Liiiiiiike...... Jolena Juggs! orrrr maybe... Titania Titmouse!! *te-he*" Harrison grit his teeth, knowing that his words were futile even as he spoke them. "Your name is Darcy Linda Morgenstein! You're a Classical History Major! You're doing a thesis on Cultural Dissemination of the linguistic patterns of asiatic barbarians after the collapse of the Roman Empire!" Harrison insisted. "I'm through with dumb, boring, old history. And I don't need any hospitals! I just need you to come...come out of there....come...out....in...." Strange grunts could be heard from outside the door. Was she pleasuring herself right here? "Cum....on me...cum...in me.... cum...on my tits! On my ass! On my face!!!" Her words, already muffled by the door, descended into incoherent murmurings. Nodding stoically; Harrison knew what he had to do. Darcy or....'Linda Bordeaux' as she would now call herself, was going to need help. After his Curse, Day-to-Day living could become an insurmountable challenge; but Harrison was prepared, he'd dealt with this exact situation many, many, many times before. It was not only the giggling, indecent woman who was in denial; he had tried to ignore the truth himself. But no longer. His penis reminded him of what had to be done. His stone-washed denim jeans tented and began to thrash as a phallic monster of obscene strength arose within those pants. He gripped the rampant cock through his pants, snarling with frustration. "It won't...can't....go on like this...I will NOT be ruled by you! I will escape this Curse! I will stop destroying lives! But....for now....Darcy needs help.... the kind of help that only I can give her." His ice-blue eyes shone with resolve as he unjammed the door, grabbed a tube of lipstick, and went to face the horror he had wrought. ********** It had started innocently, as all his encounters did. Each time he Cursed a woman, Harrison Coxswift told himself that this was the last time. And each time, his flinty blue eyes looked back and analyzed what he coulda'shoulda'woulda' done differently. So it was now, now he had to retrace his steps, look at the mistakes made, and Vow to not let it happen again! There were....how many? Ultimately, Harrison had never hurt anyone, physically at least, yet he felt like a serial killer for the lives he had destroyed. After a while, he had just lost count of the many, many women, all over the U.S., and Europe too. (Why did I believe that the Curse would be any different overseas?) For years, Harrison had simply fled. Running, always running away from the horror his life had become. But the women in Italy proved just as susceptible to the Monster that thrashed inside his pants - he had ruined the lives of...of...how many Italians had he corrupted? In the end, he had to leave that country sooner than he planned; the women were less inhibited, and that allowed his Curse to work even faster! But over the years, he'd worked out a....rhythm as it were. There was a means to minimize the damage done to the women that fell under his spell. The shame of it! The disgrace of what he had to do to help his victims made him loathe himself just as much as the aftermath of the Curse itself! There were warning signs; as there always were. He had agreed to help tutor Darcy mainly to assuage his conscience; for despite the wreakage his life had become, Harrison could acknowledge honestly that he was a near-genius in a wide variety of academic subjects. Not that Darcy really needed tutoring, but she was weak in a few subjects and was determined to do whatever necessary to not lose her high average. But then, in a terrible twist of fate, the subject matter turned to her specialty of Classical History. "It's the University library, very public." Harrison thought. "We're out in the open, on a couch in the central lobby on the first floor, here below all the ghosts and witch Halloween decorations. What could happen? There's no danger." That was it, that was always the lie he tried to feed to himself. No danger. No danger.... "....But this degree of fixation is just too extreme to be explained by the age difference between her and her husband Claudius!" Darcy insisted. Thumbing through hastily-scribbled history notes. She blinked her eyes as a loose strand of long, mouse-brown hair fell between her eyes and glasses. "It's enough to support a tentative hypothesis that there was some form of neglect or abuse within the Messala family." She adjusted her plain, white T-shirt, her slim chest evidenced not a trace of bosom underneath the crisp, white shirt. "Hmmm.... not necessarily," Harrison began. "Pre-Christian Roman Culture was rife with sexual license that might be considered perverse today. For instance, there was no conception of a difference between hetero and homo-sexuality; it was a more of a free-for-all. A wealthy Roman could have sexual relations with all of his female employees, or slaves, and it would not be considered a vice. This attitude surely influenced the women as strongly as the men." "But like this!?" Darcy exclaimed, her hazel eyes widening behind coke-bottle glasses. " According to rumors at the time, The Empress Valeria Messalina was known to have worked her way through the entire, thousand-man Praetorian Guard. She was known to have bedded all of the most attractive men in Rome, and perhaps most of the least attractive as well. Think of it! Sex with a Thousand men!" This was the first stage; unbridled sexual curiosity would afflict women prior to their surrender to Harrison's Curse. "In our c-culture, that would certainly be considered pathological, but other societies had different...standards..." her tutor stammered. What were the odds that this conversation would strike so close to home!? He knew all there was to know on this subject; Harrison Coxswift had learned more than he ever wanted to know about the corrupt Empress Messalina. Fingers nearly trembling with barely suppressed, vicarious enjoyment, Darcy read on from her notes. "But her most famous exploit was sort of a sexual olympics against Rome's most famous prostitute; a woman named Scylla; after the mythological sea-monster with an insatiable appetite for sailors. "Messalina challenged Scylla to determine who could satisfy the most men in one night." Darcy's narrowing eyes and labored breathing betrayed more than simply academic interest as she read further. "By dawn, the contest was a draw, each woman having pleasured twenty-five men each. Yet Scylla, unable to defeat the Empress was shamed, and in disgrace retired from prostitution that very day. The Poet Juvenal said that as Messalina returned to the palace, she was exhausted, but never....never satisfied! "I think she'd be worth a research project in her own right!" remarked Darcy. By now, Harrison knew that the situation had gone too far; he excused himself for a moment, and discreetly fled from the library, never intending to return. Just a quick trip back to his room to pack his bags.... Such a hasty departure was necessary; because there was more to this story: It was known only to a tiny circle of experts in forgotten lore that Valeria Messalina had dabbled extensively in Eastern Sorceries before her untimely death. And Harrison's first research fellowship had led him to Italy, where he had chanced upon an ancient, hidden and forgotten vault. It was after that day that he lost all desire to uncover secret lore and the arcane mysteries of the ancients. What he had unleashed inside that decaying, mouldering catacomb had made his life the living hell that it would be forever more. ********** "Ashley! Ashley! Yer the Best! I...l-love you babe....*unnnhh*" gurgled her latest prize, as the blond surfer released both praise and spunk into the writhing feminine form quivering above him. "I never....it's never been like this....cum...so many times..." he rasped, as sweat poured down his chiseled face. Ashley smiled and yelped in womanly passion as her pelvis, slick with sexual juices shuddered once more. While it had never been this good for the man, it had always been like this for Ashley. Not her real name of course; but one she preferred in this day and age. It might attract undue attention to call yourself Astarte these days. The cool streetlights beaming in out the third-story window cast blue pools of luminesence on her perfect skin, and her perfect mane of luxurious hair - which seemed blond at first, yet also a reddish-copper. While her lustrous tresses seemed as perfectly groomed and pampered as her silken-soft skin, neither had required any real grooming in three hundred years. But these days, the humans could do wonderful things in their salons. Perhaps she should change her style. "I....I need more...m-more..." gurgled Surfer Dude, weakly reaching towards the sleek canteloupe-like breasts that dangled inches away. But then, after the third orgasm, her men always seemed even more lustful than before they'd first cum in her. That was the effect she had. She could keep the surfer happy, for a long, long while, and herself as well. But Astarte didn't want to leave this city just yet, and therefore the last thing she needed was a trail of bodies wherever she spent the night. But before leaving, she bent low, running her moist, pink lips over her man's chest, trailing her slender tongue over his hardened body, going from navel to throat. Not merely a titilatting gesture, for she now had his scent, and could track this man from many miles away if she decided to finish him off sometime. She rose to leave, sleek curves glistening in the wan, ambient light. Astarte would have a bit of fun; she put on her pink-lace panties and custom-made bra.....and decided to make the long walk back to her car alone, at night, clad only in her underwear. She giggled with glee at the prospect of what might happen! If she was lucky, perhaps a gang of young toughs would try to rape her! That was always worth a chuckle! "Wait...I....*unnnnngh*" Surfer Dude was trying to rise, trying to follow her, but despite his youth and health, he found himself unable to muster the strength needed to push himself off the bed. "Whoa...musta had...one too many....down in the bar...tonight..." he wheezed. What an amusing century this was; Astarte mused. A thousand years ago, her male prey quickly realized exactly what was happening to them! But there was no room for creatures of myth and legend, like her. Back in those days, she'd had to simply eat and run, as it were. Feed upon no more than two men, before fleeing, or hibernating for a decade or three. But now, now Astarte could simply travel, travel the world over, gorging herself on men and their essence like never before! She chuckled as she turned back to regard her bedmate. Her sparkling blue eyes held a note of bemused cruelty.....or was it green eyes? At first, the man watching her had thought they seemed blue, or blue-green, yet now they seemed almost violet. She closed the door behind her to the cheap motel they had rented. His feelings needed no mollifying. So she strode boldly, clad only in the briefest underwear as she left down the rear stairwell to the backalley exit. The sharp nails and traces of broken glass meant nothing to her as she strode barefoot by a round-about route back to her parking lot, gliding through the darkness and dampness like the dream of a fitness model photographer come to life. Suddenly, she smelled a faint dose of a familar male essence, and heard hoarse breathing from around the next corner. Centuries of human observation told the ancient being that this was a man preparing an ambush, for her no doubt! Her smile glistening shark-like as she shuddered with anticipation. Her breasts throbbed, and began to surge upwards in the lacy cups that bound them. In moments, silky slopes rose like yeast-laden bread-dough until the jutting mounds above the lacy hem seemed as large as oranges....no...more like grapefruits...and still swelling upwards - "Slow down, Astarte..." she whispered, rubbing her bust in an attempt to control the reaction. "If I keep getting excited I'll be too top-heavy to walk to my car!" But she did not begrudge the hot moisture in her groin, as her body tingled in expectation of what was to come. Backalley muggings and rapes were the best; the same factors that criminals depended upon to catch vulnerable victims also ensured that they themselves could be vulnerable. By now, she could see the hunched shadow of the man waiting to surprise her. It was past 2 A.M., and there was no one else around these streets; that meant Astarte could feed! Truly feed! She could indulge herself without restriction or worry! Not like the half-hearted partial efforts she used with men like Surfer Dude. She was unable to stifle a low snarl in her throat as her erogenous centers came alive with heat and desire! "Y-you! I've found you!" stammered a balding, fortyish stock-broker with beady eyes and pudgy fingers. Ah yes...she remembered this one! From...two days ago... "Please! I don't know what....It doesn't matter how, but I....." through his murmurings, the she-devil gathered his meaning. He reached forth a hand, pleading....hoping....begging without words for another brush with paradise. "I remember you..." she cooed. Her violet eyes widening as she ran a delicate finger up the sumptuous curves of her ageless, womanly hips. The man also, did not care about the hard debris of the alley floor, nor did he care about the breeze tonight, as he was wandering the city clad only in a hospital gown, with the remnants of a bandage in his right arm that must have once connected an intravenous tube. "Yes....I know you. But you must tell me...speak the words...what do you wish of me?" she hissed in the darkness. "Take m-me...again...like before...but for longer....mate with me....I need to feel you....need to be inside you.....I'll do...I'll give anything..." those beady eyes widened like a deer in headlights as sweat poured down his brow. "ANYTHING!" she had no doubt. And this, this was another reminder of why Astarte had long ago put aside any notions of guilt for the final fate of her victims. Surely, the doctors must have told this man that whatever he'd been doing had placed an incredible strain on his metabolism, that he would have surely died without prompt medical attention. Surely, they would have told him. Yet he had escaped, fled while still hooked up to their equipment. Because once he had tasted her, embraced her, even the threat of death seemed hollow, if it was death in her arms. Every once in a while, there was a survivor of a long-term feeding. They always wanted the same thing. Again. Her breasts pulsed, growing yet larger, as she opened her arms wide. This survivor would get what he craved, how could she deny him? ********** He had relived the terrible moment in his mind, several times. And his excursion into the buried vault would haunt him for the rest of his life, no doubt. Yes, it dated back to at least 40 A.D., but.....these markings....no language that Harrison had ever seen, and he was fluent in ancient aramaic, latin, phoenician, and two Egyptian dialects. So this mouldering, decaying bastion could be....even older? His radio was still malfunctioning, but so great was his enthusiasm that he decided to go forward anyway, and investigate the site without waiting for his supervising professor. The chamber was simple, a star-shaped open area with an altar in the center....wait....these walls; they were imbalanced, assymetrical. At first, Harrison assumed that some of the walls had partially collapsed from eons of erosion and pressure....but no. The walls were intact, but built in accordance with the architectural design of a madman. And these etchings! A fluid, perverse script coated the gray-green walls like a smear of pestilence. The loopy icons were clearly the deliberate writing of an intelligence, yet they seemed more like a swarm of maggots than any human language. Nonetheless, like any proper student of archeology he began to take photos, and copious notes. But further into the chamber the vermiform script changed into other languages; these must be translations. Eventually, he found one at the base of the central altar written in an archaic heiroglyphic variant prevalent near the end of Egypt's Old Kingdom period. "Eihort, Eihort, Eihort - escape thy Bargain, yet borrow your power we must; For Shub-Niggurath has awakened, sealing dooms with its Lust." What the Hell? There were no Egyptian Pharoahs or Deities by those names! Under other circumstances, the intrepid researcher might have considered this some huge, insipid joke. Yet regardless, with the great age of this structure, it was a very old joke, if that. And still of great value. What was so puzzling was that this insane crypt would have anything to do with a pampered princess of Imperial Rome! Still, her private, lost diary which Harrison had scrupulously translated named this precise location as her 'Place of Passion'. Harrison was expecting some sort of cushy, 1st-century love-shack or pleasure palace! Instead he got....but wait; there in the wall at a right angle from the dusty altar - there were eight skulls deliberately embedded in the mortar. This put a new light on things; it was not uncommon for despots to use skilled craftsmen and learned scholars for special projects, then execute them. Her sexual indiscretions notwithstanding, Messalina was ruthless enough for that. These dead men had held knowledge that archeologists and anthropologists of today might consider killing for themselves! Yet no doubt, the vile empress had decided either to silence them, or ensure that there could be no repetition of the task they performed for her. Empire of Flesh The altar was dusty on top, yet he could see some straight, tall object protruding from the center of the silt and debris. With a gentle brush, not unlike the sort used by paleontologists and anthropologists for cleaning delicate bones, he brushed away the detritus to reveal.... More writings; in an a strange form of Latin, chiseled in a rim all around the square altar: SUM ES DIA DE INCOITUS SUM ES DIA DE INCOITUS SUM ES DIA DE INCOITUS SUM ES DIA DE INCOITUS "I am the Goddess of Sex?" Well, that sounded more like her. But as he brushed away more dust, the object at the center was suddenly visible. Inspite of himself, Harrison felt his cheeks blush as he beheld what could only be described as an ancient dildo. It was studded with glittering rubies, yet it was wrought with gold-leaf that seemed to flex and ripple like living tissue! The craftsmanship should not have been possible at the time to produce - There was a jarring as the walls and ceiling began to shudder. Apparently from Harrison gently moving the golden phallus. What is this, some kind of Indiana Jones movie?! Tombs and temples don't just collapse just because you touch an artifact! Yet this one apparently was! It made him wonder what use Messalina intended for - It must have been a fairly large piece of mortar that slammed into his skull; because he blacked out almost instantly! ********** He should have suspected what was happening from the way the nurse was eyeing him. But Harrison forgave the young Italian nurse her curiosity, aside from the head bandage, the hospital had also called in a urologist to examine him. Not surprising; even before he had managed to dig himself out of the wreckage and dirt of the collapsed vault, he had felt something strange, something unnatural. And now, clad only in a hospital gown he and the doctors had discovered that his penis had attained a stature that could only be described as legendary. His great shaft was longer than his forearm, and seemed to throb a deep, menacing red - as red as a ruby. The Golden Phallus of Messalina was nowhere to be found, with no evidence it had ever existed, except within him. The doctors seemed content to discharge him with a prescription for a mild sedative designed for chronic erections, they seemed assured that his condition was only due to temporary swelling. But the young nurse, he should have realized that the fire burning in her eyes was more than just morbid curiosity. The first disaster, the first emergence of Harrison's Curse became apparent that night; since he'd been held overnight for observation. She was around thirty, olive-skinned and with high cheekbones. It was long after hours, but it was the ripping of her bra and buttons that awakened Harrison that night. There were no words, no explanation. From the expression in her eyes, the woman was clearly in some form of...anguish? Torment? Her perky C-cups hanging in the open hair, the nurse tackled him, straddling her groggy patient. His great, enhanced cock had softened only slightly, but sprang to attention yet again when touched by that soft flesh. Half-growling, half-moaning she ran her breasts around his shaft, cushioning his angrily red member between her soft curves as Harrison grasped her by her hips. Nurse snuffled harshly as if the aroma of his raging cock was a perfumed bouquet. It seemed to have an effect upon her, her brown eyes rolling back into her head as if intoxicated. Finally, she could stand the torture no longer, and thrust her pelvis forward, tore away her panties as if they were a plague. And finally, finally, she impaled herself upon his swollen manhood with a beastial shriek. As the rising tides of passion and orgasm arose ever higher within him, Harrison was consumed not only by a mounting lust, but by a sense of power. It was a sense of control, influence, the ability to exert his will over flesh and the works of men. As his penis slid and thrust within and without her, there was suddenly a sense of conquest, as if he could possess and copulate with any female that pleased him. As the first jet of semen blasted into her hungrily-yawning sanctum of womanhood, Harrison felt like an emperor! Was he dreaming? Or where her breasts larger, higher, fuller? Her face, already attractive smoothed and flowed into a polished beauty of lustrously curled ebon-black hair, her skin seemed to shine with a hale and healthy bronzed glow. Was the voice he'd heard next in his mind, or ears? "Vivo...Vivo.....Vivo...." And she began speaking in Latin. Odd certainly, but not impossible and yet...what she was saying... "Flesh..and blood..and life again...after millenia of darkness. Through the lives...of other women...I shall taste the pleasures of the Flesh forevermore!" There was a dim shaft of light falling into the hospital room from a crease in the door, it began nearly six inches away from the Nurse, yet as she spoke, her energized breasts surged forward. Growing, thrusting, enflating with unwholesome powers of fertility and lust. Soon, the tips of her nipples touched that shaft of light as both partners continued to slam into each other. The nurse - he never did get her name - continued to drone on in Latin in a cultured voice that did not seem her own. "I shape this vessel; into a form of my liking....and others...and many others....Their desires will be as great as my own! And death shall not quench my orgy!" The crazed slut clenching his spasming rod was forever changed. Her physique was almost comical; breasts as large as motorcycle helmets, hanging loose yet with hardened nipples that jutted upwards proudly. Her hips had grown far wider than her own shoulders, and as she slid off of the great, red rod Harrison could catch a glimpse of her ass, firm and large and thrusting behind her sharply enough that her patient could have set down the remote control for the room's T.V. upon the top of her butt cheeks. Her hair had lengthened impossibly, like a glossed waterfall of liquid ebony curls. "Men...MEN....MEN!!! " snarled the metamorphed slut. "All men...." The furled lips of her hot cunt slickened her crotch with a manic arousal more intense than any of societies' taboos, as she fled the room utterly naked, apparently to begin a life of enthusiastic prostitution. But it was after hours, and Harrison soon fell back to sleep, and it seemed that the hospital administrators never really understood what had happened that hot and sweaty night. And there were others, and others, and still others. No one truly believed in the magnitude of Harrison's discovery; the cave-in had damaged much of the evidence, but the photos would certainly be worth analyzing. But he dared not tell anyone of the change within himself. The next time occurred on a train ride back to the airport. On of the stewardesses had been paying him undue attention and courtesy. And he should have predicted what would happen when she asked him in a serious tone to speak to him in private. The auburn-haired stewardess dragged him into the men's room at the back of the train car, almost pulling his lip off with the frantic intensity of her kisses, licks and lovebites. But this time, as she thrust him against the wall, his curse cock took action. The woman hadn't had time to pull down her panties before the enchanted penis thrust outwards, ripping sword-like through the lacy fabric, and Harrison's head swam with the heady sense of tyrannical power that suffused him each time he penetrated a woman. Snarling, sweating, and grunting like a bitch in heat, the nameless woman's back arched as her blossoming breasts finally exploded through her deep-blue uniform and buttons. And he had cum...and cum..... and still cum. Even in his delirium, it was apparent that he was producing far more sperm than the average whale. He didn't see, and was afraid to ask what had become of that female attendant, she had fled after at least a dozen orgasms, fully transformed into a sex-fiend almost unrecognizable as herself. ********** The years since the day of the Curse had been filled with discoveries, pieced together from the secret journals of forbidden, arcane rituals that the empress had recorded. There came the realization of the magnitude of the plight that had been put upon him. Valeria Messalina had been unable to have enough sex during her life. Not that there weren't willing men, but as only one woman with only so many hours in a day, her wicked cravings were endless. It was as Darcy had said; exhausted but never satisfied. But now, she had found a way to finally feed her nymphomania - from beyond the grave. Those skulls he'd found, they were the remains of sorcerors who had been murdered after doing the Empress' bidding, (and probably doing her as well) Through forgotten magics, some shadow of her essence, a dark spirit of Messalina yet lingered. That wretched phallus had been imbued with the powers of primordial demons of an ante-diluvian age from before the advent of writing itself. It inflicted horrible transformations upon any woman that partook of Harrison's sperm. It shaped, molded each victim into a vessel pleasing to Messalina, and now that the Curse had been released, The spirit of the nymphomaniacal empress could exploit modern women to fulfill her perverted hungers. In his dreams, Harrison could see and hear brief flashes of the ancient slut and her dark intentions. This phallus was her ticket to immortality; after a fashion. She lived and felt and lusted whenever one of her corrupted women gave herself to a man. But to do this, the ancient demon magic warped and twisted mind as well as body. Each woman was battered into idiocy, the transformative sperm stole all but the most rudimentary intelligence, replacing it with the licentious urges that had driven the dead empress beyond the heights of sexual excess. But why? Why did all of these women assault him! They always made the first move! He remembered when he'd been in the hospital that first time, there had been puzzling electromagnetic interference with the doctor's MRI machines, there seemed to be some kind of weird magnetic field emanating from him. The doctors were baffled, but could find no medical explanation nor a reason to hold him indefinitely. Once, he'd read some rumors that military weapon engineers were theorizing that the right frequency of energy could alter the electrochemicals in the human brain, some believed that it might be possible to create a mind-control weapon with such means. Is that what he was? He didn't know, but it might make sense. There was no magical guidebook that explained the Curse of the Demon Phallus, no fairy godmother had appeared to guide him. So it seemed that his body was putting out some exotic radiation born of forbidden sorceries that altered the female brain, enough to make them so hot for his cock that they just couldn't help themselves. Most women, who just passed him on the street would feel only a twinge of desire, but repeated contact, or prolonged exposure would whittle away at the firmest resolve. What made it worse was that he ultimately couldn't stop. A woman throwing herself at him consumed him with such irresistable longing, that it was almost impossible to fight back. It was so easy, so easy to just lie back, and allow these crazed women to impale themselves upon his rigid rod - so easy to just enjoy the encounter, and grant them a full dose of his accursed semen. If he had real character, he would find a way to save the lives of these women; but he wasn't strong enough, too afraid to ever really hurt himself. So another married housewife would wrap her legs around his pelvis, and thrust her boobs in his face, and he would simply let it happen, grunting as loudly as she did as the Demon penis of Messalina spurted within its latest victim. The feeling of power, or dominance he experienced during sex was no doubt a calculated insertion: Whatever man first triggered the Curse would become instantly addicted to the sensation, relishing the corruption of as many women as possible. He was not intended to resist this abomination; he was supposed to thank his lucky stars and create a legion of giggling sluts for Messalina to tap into, that their orgasms might become hers. Death it seemed, had only increased her libido. ********* Darcy Morgenstein was lost. It was difficult to remember the last twelve hours. There had been her consuming obsession with her new tutor, Harrison. His presence had sent electrifying chills up and down her spine, and the fire...it was as if there was a burning hot coal deep within her, deep in her cunt. The hotter burned this passion, the more she began to forget. She just knew that she had to screw him, it was more important than anything else, more important than....eh....er... That was part of the effect; she just started to forget anything that might have stopped her from spreading her legs for Harrison. She felt as though she were in limbo. After following Harrison back to his room, (unable to remember a reason not to) an incendiary craving had gripped her body, and it was like a walking black-out. She knew she was doing incredible, sexual things to him, she knew she was ripping off her bra, kissing him, inhaling his scent, begging for his cock. Yet her mind was in a cloud, like moving through molasses, until finally after the second orgasm, she seemed to lose herself in a hot, dark void. She was still alive, yet disconnected from reality, like being in the womb. "Darcy.... do not fight it....accept it, and it will be more wonderful than you could have imagined..." hissed a sweet, alluring female voice. "Who..." the voice used an accent unfamiliar to her, yet it seemed....old....ancient. "You know me....but you have been.....deceived..." hissed the strange voice. "Scylla gave up the contest at dawn, after twenty-five men, yes. But I saw no reason to end my coitus - my...sexual couplings.... for many more hours, well into the morning of the next day!" "Then...y-you are -" "I am the same as you. We are both the same! And I am here to give you want you truly want, to unleash your inner nature...." Darcy felt a fiery spasm in her vagina, it was more than simply a desire to be penetrated by a man, it was a raging frenzy that would torment her until the fires could be quenched! "No...I'm not...like this...I'm not...that kind of girl..." she murmured into the black void. "Of course you are, we all are. You can claim what all women crave, whether they choose to deny it or not...." argued the sibilant, exotic voice. It seemed to come from all around her in the featureless blackness, like a disembodied ghost of cynical lust. "It....it's wrong...it is..." the writhing girl protested. "Why? Why is it wrong to surrender to your deepest urges?" "I know...I can't....I can't remember..." "Because nothing that feels so good could be wrong! Yes...the changes...they are nearly complete!" the voice was exultant. "You're trying to make me...turn me into...into..." "SAY IT! SAY THE WORDS!!" "I'm not...I'm...I'm...I'm..." Darcy's muddled mind was laboring with torrid urges and closed off memories; struggling to retain her identity, yet rapidly loosing any motivation to do so. "I'm...I'M A SLUT!!!" she shouted into the void. "We all are, dear one. Deep down, we all are......and it feels soooooo good. Doesn't it? It feels good to be the slut!" "Oh yes...yesssss......" ********** It was time to survey the extent of the damage. The new Darcy rushed Harrison as soon as he left the bathroom, plastering his face with lurid enticements that were in between licks and kisses. The Curse changed women in different ways, no two responding to exactly the same degree. This time, her hips had gotten most of the attention sweeping outwards from her pinched in waistline that sent a tingle to his groin from the promised fertility. But over the years, he had discovered that some women still retained a functional intelligence that might permit them to still remain largely independent. Would that be the case with Darcy? The ninety-pound, mouse-brown haired, academic wallflower had blossomed into a platinum-blond bombshell with ripe breasts that jutted halfway of the distance between her shoulder and elbow. Her new face was a glamourous visage of haunting, bee-stung lipped beauty. But sure enough, Harrison could detect the truth; he'd seen enough of these transformations before; and recognized patterns in her new facial features. The aquiline nose, the tilt of her eyes; yes. Many books contained photos of a sculpture once made of Messalina, and he could see that the spell crafted by the Imperial nymphomaniac was imprinting her own face, at least in part, upon each victim. And there would be a wave of depraved whoresluts brought on by diabolical sorcery; and Messalina's image would survive to the present, and attract the renewed lust of a planet of men. The despicable egomania of the act never failed to repulse him. Almost preventing his apprecation of the elegant beauty of each woman he corrupted. Almost. But for Darcy, her fate was sealed, even if she could be coaxed into wearing normal clothing, all would recognize that she had the body of a Porn-Queen. But there was one way, one sure-fire way to determine how much of her life the Curse had stolen: Harrison buried his face in the buoyant bounty of her bosom, his face wallowing between the chasms of her spectacular cleavage, until his probing mouth found a nipple. He tried...tried to keep his cock away from her - more sex with him would only compound the bimbifying transformation. Instead, as he suckled her mountainous juggs, he thrust his thumb and middle finger down below, to tease her hardened clit and pinpoint her G-spot. Years of intimate experience yielded a yelp of surprised glee as his skillful hands enflamed her already thigh-slickening passions. Then he felt it....hardening nipples soon spurted into his mouth a creamy sluice of sweet ambrosia. Spontaneous lactation; one of the final warning signs. Women that succumbed to the Curse to this degree would have had their entire personalities erased. At this stage, it was clear that the woman had become the quintessential whore, inside and out. As he continued to suckle from her copious tits, and fondle her drencing cunt, Harrison's lip quivered in sadness from what had been lost. Her family would never gain closure, Darcy would not have enough childhood memories left to care about them, nor would she care about her plans for a future, a career. Her life was sex and lust now; she was a giggling, slutty vessel for a sex-crazed, sorcery-dabbling empress who would share her lurid joy each time a man - any man, spurted his wad inside her womb. But....if she retained even a shred of her real personality, then he had to keep her away from his cock, any more sperm would ensure that - *NNNGH!* The demon penis! It leapt out of its own accord! The swollen, reddish member seemed to act with a mind of its own! Like an unerring smart bomb, it cruised deeply into the target zone, a wet squelch was heard as her vagina was reamed yet again. At this point, the Curse was too strong to resist, for either of them. When his demon cock became fully active, the ensorceled scholar was lost in that heady dream of power and sexual omnipotence, it was as though he were the Emperor; presiding over an infinite realm of female flesh. To women, the Curse gave stunning beauty and removed all inhibitions. But to its male carrier, it fullfilled a primal male power fantasy that resonated with anyone who'd ever carried a Y-chromosome! ********** "Yeah, it's me Lou. I got another prospect for you." "Harry! You're making my day! My production's been needing a shot in the arm! What'cha got for me?" Empire of Flesh "Platinum blond, about 5'5. Wider hips than the last one. Blow-job lips and ice-blue eyes. Boobs.....I'd say about bowling-ball sized. And trust me, she's enthusiastic!" "Heyhey! They all are! Everybody you send to me acts like its her lifelong dream to strut around naked fer my camera! I dunno how you dig up all these delicious sluts, but keep 'em comin'!" "Yeah....yeah, but with this one, she's really, really horny. Most girls like to talk dirty for the audience, but this one; she really means it! You'll need somebody with a big cock to keep her in line." "Harry! Harry! You say that with every girl!" Lou reminded him. "I know the drill, she needs it at least four times a day, more if she can get it. I've handled your girls before. And I hope for a lot more! I'll wire your usual headhunter's fee to the same account number as before. I gotta tell ya kid, partnering with you was the best thing that ever happened to the Titopia Triple-X francise!" "And a reminder of the worse thing that ever happened to me...." bemoaned Harrison as he hung up. And that was how he'd survived so long without a steady job. He couldn't simply abandon his victims; they would face abuse, disease, and unwanted pregnancies on the streets, or wind up with brutal pimps. A girl that gave in completely to the Curse, like Darcy, would not only crave sex, she would find it simply impossible to refuse her body to any man. The only hope for his women was the adult entertainment industry. Here, they could thrive creating media that glorified what they loved more than life itself. The owners of skin mags and porn studios could give the girls direction and focus for their lusts; so far this option was the best chance for survival that his victims would get. But it wasn't supposed to be this way; not forever. In fact, it was Harrison's plan to escape from this cycle of transformation and pornography that led him to meet Darcy in the first place. He sought to give something back, in response for all the lives he'd destroyed. He still possessed an almost encyclopedic knowledge in a variety of academic subjects, and was struggling to slowly build a career as a professional tutor. It was in this way that he hoped to no longer have to rely on his vast network of contacts in the porn industry, and their fees he received for providing them with a steady stream of new talent. His eyes fell upon his latest disaster. Unconscious, sleeping the sleep of the sexually exhausted, lay Darcy....or 'Linda Bordeaux' as she would be calling herself. Her gleaming skin was awash in hot sweat and speckles of cum. Beneath her ample bosom, was a series of backwards numbers written in lipstick across her slick skin. When she awoke, she'd find a similar set on her ass. When viewed in a mirror, a phone number was revealed in the proper order. Most Curse victims still retained enough memory to use cars and phones, so he was usually safe in assuming that they could make contact with her new employers. Her eyelids....they had begun to flutter rapidly, as was typical. The evil spirit within her always bombarded new converts with a torrid avalanche of erotic dreams, intense fantasies that seared away any lingering vestiges of morality and inhibition. When she awoke, the new female would be a depraved, hollow she-creature, so whorish in demeanor and desires, that it seemed an insult to call her a woman, for not even the most wanton natural women could not match her on-coming perversity. Soon, it would be time to leave this city and move on, before too much suspicion was raised. The Southwest was nice this time of year.... plus, if anything went wrong, he had another agreement with the owner of Boobageddon Productions; who was predictably, very satisfied with his prospects. ********** "Astarte! Astarte! There is none other! None to.....compare to you! *Nnnngh* My love is yours forevermore!" grunted the naked Canaanite priest as he thrust into the woman who was more than woman. The priest's lust had only increased after the third orgasm, and Astarte relished the ferocity of his rampant libido as he pinned her against the jewel and gold-encrusted wall, struggling to thrust his member ever deeper in her welcoming chasm; whilst her legs wrapped around his pelvis strained to grind him tighter against her sex. She could no longer see where the Priest's hands would rove next; for her breasts had blossomed to a width so great, that they seemed close to the diameter of an ox-cart wheel. Her sensitivity increased as her mammaries enlarged, but adding yet more to her pleasure was the surprise: would her mate tweak her clit next? Or perhaps his nails would graze the inside of her thigh? Not being able to see his hands over the ponderous swell of her bosom added a mysterious thrill that only added to her pleasure. The Qedeshots kneeled and chanted before her, row after row of the cultic temple prostitutes bowed before the raised dias at the back of the temple - her temple. Her nature had so impressed the priests of Jericho that they named her a fertility goddess! It was the most ideal outcome possible for her; here Astarte had comfort, safety, respect, and was regularly supplied with all the male essence she could handle! Nearly every night she limped back to her private sanctum from the well-used soreness in her pelvis! But with the feeding so easy, she had also grown careless, complacent. She had not made contingency plans, had no escape routes from the temple nor emergency contacts in case of disaster. She simply presided over daily worship that the people of Jericho might be blessed with virile cocks and fecund wombs; and her own womb was engorged with the rich seed of men! She had almost forgotten what it felt like to be hungry, to feel that gnawing heat, the rasping tingle in her groin, the labored breathing, that only a hefty dose of manseed could satisfy! But she would indeed remember what that hunger felt like in the years to come! Her paradise lasted three centuries, before the Hebrews swept through and destroyed everything; she was nearly killed in the attack. The best thing to do was to return to hibernation; only for a century at a time, and await an age when sex was again considered sacred, and when men did not ask for unreasonable commitments after they spurted themselves within a woman. That long-lost eon, the Bronze-Age smorgasbourd of Jericho had been Astarte's oldest memory. Everything was hazy, and indistinct before that rutting with the fertility priest all those milennia ago. She sat now in a hotel room in the ritzier part of a city thousands of miles and years from that time. She was thumbing through a worn and weathered pink diary that she had often used. Not to record her thoughts and memories, however. It had troubled her for centuries that she had no recollection of a childhood as humans consider it. Had she ever been a bumbling, stupid little girl with a head too large for her body? Did she ever meet her own parents? She had no idea. "...October 29, and it looks like California dodged a bullet this time;" came the voice of a female journalist over Astarte's portable radio plugged in an outlet in the corner. "Yes, seismic readings confirm a Great Quake has occurred just hours ago, but far off the coastline on the ocean floor. In other news, California Adult entertainment industries have experienced record profits - " but she had ceased listening. "What am I?" she whispered out of her window questioningly to the glittering skyscrapers, and neat avenues of palm trees common to large cities on America's West Coast. "Am I some freak of nature? Some long-lost species from a rare evolutionary path? A modern scientist might describe me thus." Am I an extraterrestrial? Was I deposited on Earth ages ago by some sort of....flying saucer? Why, what possible purpose could that serve? And where are the rest of my kind?" her demands were angry; as if by her protests she could intimidate the universe into providing an answer. "Is it true what the followers of the One God would say of me? Am I a supernatural fiend spawned by some fallen angel to bedevil mankind? If I was, would I know it?" She had never known; never met another of her kind, and found no source of answers or information. She massaged her breasts as she petted the small, pink book. "Freak, Alien, or Demon, what are you, Astarte? All I know is that I am old, impossibly old. Do I have a destiny? A purpose for my endless existence?" Being denied these answers caused her fear in the beginning, then torment in later millennia....now? She felt as though she'd been....swindled. As if the universe had cheated her of a rightful prize. If there were no answers about her past, then she decided to create them. Trying to integrate into human society would be impossible if she claimed to be incapable of remembering her childhood. So she had decided to create one. After listening to more lovers than there seemed stars in the sky, she understood the basics of childhood, enough to falsify stories of her own. She filled the small book with wholesome fictions of precocious, play-time messes, bee-stings, and wise sayings from her long-suffering mother. She kept it neutral with respect to technology, so it could be easily updated. This catalogue of false memories gave her folksy anecdotes she could add to conversations with normal humans. Letting her blend in just enough that no one would divine her true nature; yet her beauty was stunning enough to arouse man's basest instincts. But ultimately, it was not enough. Feeding prospects in this country had been improving steadily since the 1960's, but in the last few years, she'd become increasingly dissatisfied. But why? despite the moral foundations of this society, a point had now been reached where she could freely couple with hundreds of men with little or no social consequences. But it was not like ancient Canaan; here her predatory libido was merely tolerated, but there she had been worshipped! Would she ever have that blessing again? Would there ever be a time and place where women would submit to her will without question, and where she could command any man she chose to her bed without hiding her nature? Likely not. As liberated as these Americans were becoming, if it were discovered that an ageless being lurked among them that fed upon the sexual energies of men, she would be hustled off into the dark of night to a secret bunker to be poked, prodded and violated. These modern humans would never accept a living goddess among them. What was the answer to her dilemma? ".....Professor of Geophysics at UC Berkeley says that a Quake of this magnitude will indeed have repercussions, even though it did not occur on land - " But Astarte flicked off the bothersome radio broadcast, doubting that the distant tremors would affect her. Take a lover? But lovers had always failed her in the past; how could she keep a man alive long enough? What then? What then? ********** It was a pleasant enough cafe, and the Wi Fi link was working nicely, and so Harrison was able for a time to forget his troubles and enjoy the simple pleasures of people unburdened by magical curses of nymphomaniacal monarchs. Buses and cars whizzed on by outside, and an atmosphere of casual relaxation prevailed within. True, this cafe was a little close to the risque` part of town, but there was nothing in here to remind him of that. " Lorebabe69: lol, but the pyramidal influences in the architecture of the Mayans should be a clear enough indication." flashed the words across the screen of his laptop. A classic argument, he thought, as he debated with the other intelligence via instant messenger. It was so refreshing, so invigorating to have a stimulating, intellectual discussion! "Brainiac360: But you have to consider the beliefs of the ancient Egyptians at the time, their status in the afterlife depended upon a proper burial in their homeland; to leave it on some incredible voyage across the ocean would have put their souls in jeopardy." Finally! A conversation that didn't involve boobs, pussies, or how strippers picked their stage names! " Lorebabe69: Essentially true, but there are many plausible vectors for dissemination. Some have theorized that Phoenician merchants might have once attempted an extended ocean voyage that might have led to the Americas. But the technology and seamanship at the time prevented them from being able to return; a ship was most likely marooned. And it's not certain that Egyptians couldn't have been involved; a part of their mythology also related to a Western Paradise beyond death - "Brainiac360: And you think one of them might have tried to make a voyage to find that Paradise? "Lorebabe69: Unlikely, true but perhaps not impossible. " "Brainiac360: But very nearly impossible; it's a fascinating theory, but the Egyptians never demonstrated nautical expertise beyond what was needed for simple river barges. It wasn't until the Middle Kingdom that they even possessed knowledge of the wheel! They just didn't value innovation of that sort; there was a strong focus on the order of the universe, and the maintenence of stability." "Lorebabe69: So you believe that Mayan architecture was simply an original product of the culture with no foreign influence?" "Brainiac360: Certainly, you have to remember that this culture also produced accurate astronomy, and a system of mathematics." "Lorebabe69: Unless their other achievements were also a result of ideas imported from foreigners!" "Brainiac360: Hah! well now we're getting into shaky territory...." But Harrison saw it then. It was becoming dark, and the street lights were starting to turn on. That also meant that neon signs and lighted marquees would also begin their electric emanations. He didn't notice it before, but when the Greyhound bus pulled away, a sign up the street became visible: LIVE TONIGHT! DEE-DEE CUPS DANCES AT THE G-SPOT! No...oh no....not her! His online conversation forgotten, Harrison felt a tear rolling down his face. Once again, his accursed past rose to haunt him. Just a few years ago, she had been an accomplished surgeon at the Mayo Clinic, at which Harrison was briefly able to secure admittance at great personal expense for an evaluation of his bizarre condition. Dr. Denise Halloway was an a brilliant physician who took an immediate interest in his case....but mainly in his cock. Detailed scans produced baffling results that provoked words from the doctors such as, 'unprecedented'.....'findings inconclusive'.....' diagnosis uncertain'. Their probes and tests were thorough, but medical science simply wasn't up to challenge of whatever the Curse had done to him. And Dr. Halloway wasn't up to the challenge of resisting the impossible allure of his penis! She'd hurred to catch the same elevator Harrison was in, and when they were alone she hit the Emergency Stop button, tore through his pants like a woman obsessed, and suckled upon his penis as though it were the a font of ambrosia. She was greying, middle-aged with dark hair. Not what he was used to, but she made up for it with enthusiasm. He should have, could have stopped her, but her mouth! It was so good! Such warmth and pleasure! He was almost delirious with lust as she inhaled and deep-throated his member! His hands gripping her head, he tried at first to push her away, but his grip become more of an encouragement after the first few licks. Before he knew it, he was quivering with post-orgasmic aftershocks, and the fine-lines and wrinkles of a woman approaching fifty had smoothed and flowed into an incorrigible whore at least twenty years younger. Those screams, he would always remember the unique tone of her screams as her ripening, youthening breasts burst with health, vitality and sweet milk. It was like laughter mixed with animal slaughter - but clearly Halloway was gripped by a delight so profound that her mind was unable to cope with the onrush of power and pleasure brought by the sorcery. Near the end, she hunched topless on the ground, supported by her elbows, and panting from the pleasure. But her breasts were still growing, still enlarging, and from that position, they came to touch the ground in less than six seconds, and still they grew! Of course, he had to help her disappear using his network of contacts, and she was greedily snatched up by the Porn industries. Oh yes, she had been missed! Investigation after Investigation. Harrison had been brought in for questioning time and time again. But he was weak; too weak to allow himself to be incarcerated forever! He was....well, what could he have done? No one could have possibly believed the truth of what had happened to Halloway, and there was no way to build a criminal case against Harrison, so the matter just began to fade away. Now, with the stripper name Dee-Dee Kups (though her bosom had truly grown far in excess of that!) and decades of valuable medical knowledge locked away from her conscious mind, the gorgeous ex-surgeon delighted audiences across the country with her blond-streaked red hair, jade-green eyes, massive melons not unlike halloween pumpkins, and an impressive ability to flex her ass-cheeks in rhythm with Notorious B.I.G. 's 'Hypnotize'. How many diseases might she have cured? How many lives might she have saved had it not been for him and his damned selfish cock! Harrison logged off...he needed....needed to forget... to forget how much he loved the personality behind Lorebabe69, after all their years of chatting. She was starting to pressure him to finally meet her; and he was torn with how to put her off without putting her off. Their debates, while contentious were more precious to him than sex with 10,000 transformed whoresluts. The conflict, the dilemma weighed upon him too heavily....had to get away...forget.....end......needed it to end....to end..... ********** The last man gripped her hips firmly, fingers clenched against her firm ass as the svelte figured woman writhed and rutted atop his naked pelvis. Over the hours, his grunts had turned from passionate straining to a crazed, almost manic laughter. That's how it always became when she let herself simply go wild. When she fully indulged herself in a virile man. But this...this was purposeful. This latest one, a meaty construction worker with a stubbly beard and burly muscles that gave an aura of strength and heartiness despite an ample beer-belly. "Oooh....that was....eleven...." she crooned, feeling that liquid fire of nourishing bliss that she never, could never grow tired of. The seed of each man, every man down through the millenia, was a unique cocktail to her. The orgasming laborer spasming himself within her had a deep, salty, brothy tang; but she had only a rudimentary understanding of how humans experienced their foods. To her it was sperm, rather than food that was most important to her sense of taste. And her lower lips flexed with surprising agility to encompass and suckle the spewing rod within her clenching slit as she pressed her hands into his hairy chest, grunting as she strove to tease each last sperm cell his equipment could produce. She thrust, and ground her hips against his groin yet again, only to be met by gurgling, giggling laughs. The man's eyes rolled back into his head, his face twisted into a rictus of impossible joy. Not unexpected. "Three...two.....one..." Astarte counted, a cruel grin crossing her plump, moist lips as her prey jerked suddenly. "That would be the heart." His heart exploding, the strain too great to bear. Not uncommon for men near forty; that was the conseqence of her feeding venoms. After poisoning a man's body like this, forcing it to produce enough sperm for nearly a dozen ejaculations in less than an hour, the human metabolism was bound for disaster. And yet, while her male prey were surely aware of the strain they were under, the narcotic high also caused by her feeding venoms caused desire to increase just as the danger did.