by Cattus Politterarum

I. A message

Wednesday when I finished at the gym, I had three missed calls from some number with a 617 area code.

My phone rang again while I was staring at the screen. I nearly dropped the damn thing, but instead I hit the green button.

“Hello?” I said cautiously.

“Is this Miss Emily Breedlove, of Virginia Beach, Virginia?” The voice on the other end was male, tremulous, old. White. The word “patrician” floated into my brain.

“Who is calling, please?” The old-person phrase tumbled out of my mouth with surprising ease.

“Miss Breedlove, my name is George Farrington Smythe, and I had the honor of representing the late P. Howard Wellcraft in matters relating to contracts and legal dispositions.”

He’d just told me he was someone’s lawyer, I thought. Or, had been? “I’m sorry?”

There was a pause. “Your…  cousin?”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. I was beginning to think this call was for a different Emily Breedlove.

“Oh, Miss Breedlove, I so regret having to break this sad news. Your twice-removed cousin P. Howard has passed on from this earthly realm…”

He burbled on for a bit, but eventually I got the gist: I was the only living relative of some old dude on my dad’s side of the family tree. I’d barely heard of him, but he’d left me a row house in Boston, and everything in it.

He gave me the address, and I looked it up on a map, and then I looked up the neighborhood on a real estate site. Apparently I was a freakin’ millionaire.

I called the nursing home where I worked, and told them I wouldn’t be in tomorrow, or, y’know, ever. Then I booked a flight to Boston.

*

George Farrington Smythe, Esq. met me in the small patch of desiccated grass in front of the three-story brick building at noon sharp the next day. He handed me three keys, because there were three locks, and a stiff, cream-colored envelope. The envelope, he told me, contained a “cheque representing the liquid assets accrued in Mr. Wellcraft’s name at the time of his untimely passing”—the way he said it, I could hear the “Q” in the word “cheque.”

I glanced inside, saw how many zeroes there were, and nearly passed out. I was a freakin’ double-digit millionaire.

Mr. Smythe would be very happy to assist me with any legal or financial matters which might arise, as loyally as he had my late cousin, blah de blah blah blah. I let him give me his business card and waved him off. I’d need help from someone with the tax shit, no doubt, but not that creepy old fucker.

*

The house was full of the unhealthy old-person smell I knew all too well. The first thing I did was open all the windows, front and back, and take down the heavy, dusty drapes that had kept the place in deep gloom, probably for decades.

There was a lot of crap in the house that was probably worth money. Old books, a whole room of leather bound volumes. Paintings and frame photos. Sculptures.

Unfortunately, a lot of it I didn’t want to take money for, because it was racist as fuck. “Lawn jockey” statuettes, blackface scenes and such. There was even, there in the heart of Yankee Boston, some Confederate memorabilia.

And when I stumbled onto P. Howard’s vintage porn stash? I ran right out of that house, took an Uber to the nearest office supply store, and bought a shredder. Then I found a store to buy a whole new set of bedding, because I wasn’t sleeping in or on anything that man touched. I got a new set of towels, too.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no prude. I get off to plenty of problematic shit when I’m in the mood. Paranormal erotica with gay werebear domination? Yes, please. Hentai anime with college girls in short skirts getting it on with monsters? I’ll plead the Fifth. But a girl has limits, y’know? And P. Howard’s kinks were way the fuck past mine. Or maybe under, if you get my drift. All the “ew.”

There were piles and piles of paper to go through, too. A lot of it was useless, decades-old gas station receipts from hundreds of miles away.

But one dossier sucked me in.

The stuff in it barely made sense, honestly. P. Howard had a weird problem with jade, it seemed, and any construction that wasn’t all right angles. (He’d sawed off the banisters on the stairs, in fact, and put weird finials on the remaining vertical posts.) There were a lot of ancient newspaper clippings—like from the 1920s ancient—with cryptic notations scribbled on them, and page after page of handwritten notes. And there was a lot more racist bullshit.

But there was a connecting thread through all of it: A story of a weird, globe-spanning cult, worshipping a humanoid creature with the head of a squid and leathery wings. They held “orgiastic rites,” and I kinda squeezed my thighs together reading about that. They supposedly had a weird chant, with too many consonants and too few vowels, but something about it was … weirdly compelling? 

I can’t tell you why I did it, but I spoke the words of the chant aloud in P. Howard’s empty house, as best I could. They echoed weirdly. I shivered as a sudden chill struck me. But after it passed I felt almost as if I’d been carrying a heavy load, set it down, and now my arms almost wanted to fly up of their own accord. Only it was all of me flying up, metaphorically, not just my arms. I felt buoyant, and, TBQH? Horny.

P. Howard seemed to find the whole thing too awful for words, but he thought being “mixed race” was ghastly too, so I wasn’t inclined to take his perspective seriously. I thought the cult sounded… hot?

There was a bunch of stuff about the creature awakening “when the stars were right,” and more creatures returning to Earth, or maybe to our universe. It was hard to follow. 

And after a while, I found my head drooping as I flipped through the clippings and crabbed script. I stripped the old bedding off of P. Howard’s four-poster and stuffed it all straight into garbage bags. I installed my pristine sheets and comforter, stripped down, and crawled into the bed.

I was worried I might have trouble falling asleep in a strange—and let’s be real, creepy—place, but I was out almost before my head hit the pillow.

 

II. A dream

My subconscious conjured up some freaky-ass shit.

I was wearing some kind of hooded gray shift, hanging down to my ankles, and I was descending a long spiral staircase of strangely luminescent green stone, cool and slick under my bare feet. The air smelled odd, salty, like the sea, and musky. Like dried come.

The suggestive odor made me feel randy. The stiff fabric of the dress scratched against my stiff nipples. If the dress hadn’t been in the way, I would have fingered myself, and found myself wet.

As I went down and down, whispered words began floating up to me, as if a host of people were murmuring in rhythm.

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn, ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

Finally I neared the bottom of the stairs. The spiral wound around and descended the circumference of a vast domed chamber, dimly lit by a yellow-green radiance from no obvious source, the color of glow-in-the-dark paint. 

There were fifty or sixty people thronged around the base of the stairs, all in gray hooded robes like mine, softly chanting the tongue-torturing syllables.

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn, ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

When I started whispering along with them, I felt a rush of lust that nearly knocked me off my feet.

Several of the cultists—because that’s what they were, right? P. Howard’s “evil” mixed-race cultists—moved toward me. They folded me into a group hug, still gently repeating the chant. Under their robes, hard pricks jabbed my thighs and nestled into my butt crack. I felt a hand on my cheek and turned to see a beautiful woman with rich medium brown skin. She was several years older than me, maybe forty, but she kissed me with all the squirming hunger of adolescence.

I imagined P. Howard angrily jerking as he watched the scene. Not because girl-on-girl was hot, but because he thought lesbianism was sick and wrong. Not because the Black woman was gorgeous, but because he thought her very touch debased me. That had been his sad jam, getting off to his own disgust.

The Black woman pulled away to tug her robe over her head. I found myself kissing a man, younger than me, in his mid twenties. I thought he looked like he might have Japanese ancestry. I bet P. Howard would have hated that, too. The way he nibbled my lower lip literally made me dizzy. I sagged back into someone’s arms—and against his cock!—behind me.

The Asian man stepped back, and I felt hands at the hem of my shift, pulling it up and over my head.

We were all naked now. A tall man was the next to claim my lips. His dark and sharply chiseled features reminded me of Sidney Potier, a.k.a. the handsomest man of all time. My bold hand found his erection, long and proud. I smeared his pre-come around his cock head, and he moaned low into my mouth.

Fingers were exploring my pussy, dipping into me, spreading my wetness along my lips. Brushing teasingly—oh, God!—across my clit.

And by “God” I meant my new god. An Old God, or the Old God’s harbinger, I was honestly still unclear on the hierarchy. The squid-headed, bat-winged, dude, anyway. Cthulhu. Cthulhu.

“Iã!” I gasped as fingers speared me. “Iã! Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn! Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”

Now a finger, slick with my pussy juice, brushed against my back entrance, and pushed in. I pushed back on it, taking it deeper. I felt like a bowling ball, gripped fore and aft. I loved it.

The invading hands left me and I groaned my disappointment, but then the throng of cultists lifted me up, bending me nearly in half so my knees were nearly bumping my tits. Two glorious cocks plunged into me, one in my pussy, one in my ass. They pounded me steadily, easily finding an alternating rhythm. Fingers slid into my mouth. I licked cunt taste from them hungrily, and when they withdrew, they applied themselves to my clit.

I was going to explode. I was going to come like a star going supernova, scattering my atoms across the universe.

“Iã!” I screamed. “Iã! Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn!”

I woke up literally climaxing. My fingers were actually drilled into my pussy and my butt. I was bucking and writhing, the heel of one hand pressing hard against my clit as I spasmed.

“Iã!” The words from the dream were still in my mouth. I yelled them aloud in P. Howard’s darkened bedroom as my orgasm rolled on and on. “Iã! Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn!”

I came so hard I knocked myself out for a few minutes. When I came to, I stumbled down the hall to the bathroom and washed up. I’d had sexy dreams before, sure, but I usually woke up before “the good part.”

I’d certainly never woken up fingering myself before.

“Iã,” I muttered, and crawled back into bed.

*

I had another freaky dream. Not sexy freaky this time, though, just incredibly specific freaky.

This time I was in a small room with faintly glowing pale jade walls. I understood, in that dream-logic way, that it was a side chamber from the huge room where I’d been so deliciously fucked. The room was crammed full of antique-looking objects and furniture, including a rolltop desk, opened up, and on it were bronze tubes that I likewise understood contained old scrolls and maps. The Asian man I’d kissed—and fucked, probably—was there, and he was tracing the shapes of numbers on the wall, in the space between blurry gilt-framed photos. He drew the same sequence, over and over. I knew that they were coordinates, latitude and longitude. Twenty-four something and negative seventy-six something. It was very important, somehow, that I memorize both numbers to several decimal places. So I did. I wanted to make the man happy, he’d helped to give me such a lovely orgasm. I wanted to make my god happy. He? It? They? I wasn’t sure of Cthulhu’s pronouns, but Cthulhu was promising to make me come even harder.

This time when I woke up, I grabbed my laptop, and typed the coordinates into a map site before I could forget them. They were in the Caribbean, off of the Abaco Islands, which, the Internet informed me, were known for their underwater caves.

I booked a flight to Abaco and a hotel for the weekend.

Why the fuck not? I was a multi-millionaire now, after all, or at least I would be when Smythe’s “cheque” cleared. If I had a dream featuring a lat-long, I could just go there. It didn’t mean I believed any of it, it was all from reading P. Howard’s weird journals before bed. But Abaco sounded cool. I could get laid there as well as anywhere, I bet.

It was still only half past three, so I went back to bed.

I was hoping for another orgy dream, but it seemed the god was done with me for the night.

 

III. A voyage

On my first morning in Abaco I went past a place with the charming name Mudd Peas, where there was a horrible hurricane disaster a few years back, because that’s where all the charter boats seem to leave from. Hiring a boat for the day wasn’t cheap, especially without a reservation, so it was fortunate that I was rich now.

“Can you take me here?” I showed Captain Pinder the coordinates from my dream.

I followed him into the— bridge? cockpit? I wasn’t sure what it was called on a boat like this—where he looked up my latitude and longitude on an actual nautical chart, which was pretty cool.

My renta-a-captain scratched his beard for a moment. “Nothing there but a dead coral reef. No good for fishing.”

“But can you take me?” I insisted.

He shrugged. “Your money.”

So out we went. I could feel it when we got close, an excitement that was sexual but also, not? I didn’t want the captain’s dick, or my own fingers; I wanted something neither of us could give me. Bleached coral shimmered like some phantasm, seemingly just beneath our boat. I leaned over the rail.

“I have to get down there,” I murmured. I was done telling myself I didn’t believe it.

“We have to get out of here,” the captain countered. Our environs were affecting him quite differently. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought he was seasick.

I gave in and let him take us back. 

I had a cocktail at the hotel bar, and enjoyed the attention of a few men and at least a couple women checking me out. I debated letting one of them pick me up, but decided I’d rather save myself for the possibility of another Cthulhu dream.

I read more of P. Howard’s dossier, hoping my subconscious would pick up the hint. My racist cousin had translated the chant as “in his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.” He thought Cthulhu was horrible, and that the Great Old Ones were even more horrible.

But P. Howard thought Black people were horrible, and that Black people having kids with white people was even more horrible. So I assumed he was equally wrong about everything.

Cthulhu couldn’t be dead, because Cthulhu was waiting and dreaming. I figured Cthulhu had instead experienced a little death, the “petite mort.” I thought the translation was probably something more like, “In his house at R’lyeh, fucked-out Cthulhu dreams of fucking again.”

I wanted to dream of fucking Cthulhu. I wanted Cthulhu to dream of fucking me. But my sleep that night was dreamless.

*

The next day, the dive shop didn’t want to sell me SCUBA gear without seeing my dive certification. The Internet told me it would take at least six weeks to get a dive certification, and I had no intention of waiting that long, but I watched enough tutorials on the Internet to be sure I could hook stuff up right. After what I’d felt above the reef, I was pretty sure I’d be making a one-way trip, anyway. I batted my lashes at the lean young salesman, and told him I’d left my diving cert in my hotel room, and he told me to go back and get it. I told him that was on a different island, and he said he didn’t care, he didn’t want to get in trouble if I got hurt. That was my cue to open negotiations. In the end I had to pay nearly three times the list price, but I finally got my equipment.

That night, a dream teased me. Just a taste to ensure me that I was on the right track. I was walking, naked, on the ocean floor, through a seaweed forest. I felt the sand between my toes. Gently waving fronds of seaweed teased my thighs and my boobs, but shied away from my hungry center. The water felt heavy in my lungs; I breathed, but not easily.

In the morning, lugging my unfamiliar gear around the dock where I’d found Captain Pinder, I discovered that word had been getting around about the crazy white lady who wanted to go to a dead coral reef.

The only one who would take me, in fact, was Captain Darville, a grizzled white guy with a distinctly skeevy vibe, like African Queen-era Humphrey Bogart gone bad.

Darville’s squirrelliness was actually the main reason I was willing to trust him.

“You ain’t supposed to dive alone,” he grumbled as we haggled. “If you get hurt and can’t make it back to the boat, it’ll look real bad for me.”

“What’s it worth to you?” I asked. “To take that risk?”

The answer was pretty much all the cash I had left. But I was okay with that.

I got hot and bothered again as we approached the reef, but it didn’t seem to phase Captain Skeeve like it had Pinder. Maybe he was less attuned to the supernatural.

He watched dubiously as I readied my gear and put on my wetsuit. “There’s easier ways to off yourself, if that’s what you’re after.”

“It’s not,” I assured him.

“But you ain’t planning on comin’ back.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not right away.” I wasn’t sure about later, but that was a problem for, well, later.

“You think there’s somethin’ down there.”

I nodded. “Under the reef.”

Darville shook his head almost angrily. “Ain’t nothin’ under the reef but the seabed.”

“I feel it,” I told him. “I can see you don’t. But Captain Pinder did.”

He scowled. “Your funeral.”

I shook my head as I adjusted my mask and took my first breath of canned air.

“I’ll wait an hour,” he said unhappily. “Y’ain’t got air for more’n that.”

I nodded again.

“Y’aint gotta do this,” he insisted.

I do, I thought. And I dove into the blue water.

 

IV. The temple entrance

I never would have found the cave if something wasn’t calling me to it. I had to swim the wrong way first for some distance, despite the tug, to find my way under the bone-white reef. By the time I found the dark pit hidden beneath the reef, I was deeper than I was supposed to go, lower on air than I was supposed to let myself get. The entrance was narrow, but the way soon widened. My pressure gauge suddenly started reading as if I was much closer to the surface, and I slowed my progress, wary of the risks of decompression sickness.

And then my head suddenly broke the surface of the water, as I entered an air bubble in the cave, deep under the sea floor. The pressure gauge told me the air was thicker than on the surface. I loosened my mask and took a cautious breath. The god would protect me, right? Cthulhu needed servants. I switched off my lamp, and wasn’t surprised to find the cave walls phosphorescently green. 

I emerged from the water, and stripped off my wetsuit. I was also not surprised to find a hooded gray shift hanging on a peg driven into the wall, nor was I surprised to find a spiral staircase descending even deeper into the Earth.

What surprised me was how far down I went before the spiral finally started to widen into the grand domed chamber of my first dream. 

The beautiful woman from my dream was waiting for me at the base.

“Iã,” I started to say, but she set her finger to my lips. Her touch was familiar.

“I’ve tasted you,” I blurted, and blushed furiously.

“And I’ve tasted you,” she said smiling. “And we will taste each other again soon. But we do not use the god’s words—or name—frivolously.”

“How—?” I was scarcely sure what to ask.

“Dream-walking,” she said. “We will teach you, once you’ve been Opened.” The capital letter was unmistakable. I shivered in delicious anticipation. “I’m Lavinia,” she said. “Welcome.”

“Emily.” It seemed strange to shake her hand, but I did it anyway.

“Come with me, Child. We will prepare you.” She guided me across the wide floor, toward a shadowed alcove.

“I’m not a child,” I grumbled. “I’m in my thirties.“

She turned amused eyes to me. “I’m nearly two hundred years old.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I was born in 1833,” Lavinia said flatly.

My mind reeled.

“I know that look,” she said warningly. “You’re about to tell me about the Civil War. Please don’t. You know the Internet runs in undersea cables, right? We have plenty of bandwidth down here.”

“Oh, good. I was afraid I was going to lose my streak in my daily word puzzle game.”

“Not to worry,” she assured me. “Most of us play that too.”

In the alcove, shallow steps led into a strangely shimmering pool.

“Strip,” my guide said, “and enter the pool.”

I did. The steps continued below the surface. The fluid was much thicker than water, and warmer than my body temperature. It pushed back against my movements, like a cornstarch colloid solution. Lavinia gestured for me to keep going until I was chest-deep. The sloshing pool lapped at my tits like a lover. It felt fantastic.

“It’s going to be invasive,” she called after me.

“What?”

“It’s going to fuck you, Emily. The god’s pool is going to fuck you.”

I hesitated for a split second. But I was here to fuck the cultists, here to fuck their god—was I really going to draw the line at more fucking? I was not. I was still confused, though.

“What? How is a pool going to—“ 

In the next instant the fluid surged up into my pussy and my ass. I gasped, and Lavinia grinned.

The viscous stuff was swirling around inside me, like some kind of liquid vibrator. There was nothing solid, but the fluid was streaming in and out of me at the same time. It was fucking awesome. Or, more precisely, awesome fucking.

“Your mouth, too,” Lavinia warned.

I didn’t think. I just opened my lips and a wave bulged up right in front of me and filled my mouth. It was sweeter than come and not as salty as pussy, but reminded me of both. I didn’t mind having that in my mouth at all, but it ran back out of me swiftly.

“Oh, fuck,” I ground out.

Lavinia’s teeth flashed white in her dark face. She’d stripped off her shapeless gray dress to press her hand between her legs, rubbing herself as she watched the pool fuck me. I pushed my own hand down toward my clit, but Lavinia shook her head in sharp negation.

“Come out now,” she ordered.

“No.” I tried not to whine. “I need to—“

“Now!” Her shout echoed from the walls, came at me from all sides. The pool sluiced out of me, a last rush that nearly pushed me over the edge.

“I need it too,” Lavinia murmured as I waded out. “But we save our orgasms for the god.”

 

V. The inner temple

Lavinia led me out of the alcove, and into a rounded tunnel branching from the main dome. It curved down and deeper. I had just enough time to think that it was uncomfortably organic before it gave onto another, somewhat smaller, dome.

The rest of the cultists were here. They all shucked their robes as soon as Lavinia and I entered. They seemed to span the whole range of humanity: tall, short, fat, skinny, light, dark, from people seemingly barely past their teens to those who looked nearly the age Lavinia claimed to be.

“Now?” I asked. “I thought we’d have to wait for, I dunno, an eclipse or something.”

“Do you want to wait?” Lavinia’s voice was gently teasing.

I shook my head.

Every cock I saw was hard. My nostrils delighted in the aroma of many aroused pussies. The cultists were clearly not all cisgender, and I smiled to think of how that would have only increased P. Howard’s horror.

I didn’t care what genitalia anyone had, or didn’t have. I just loved to get people off, and get off in return. I could sense that the cultists felt the same. Finding the Cthulhu cult was like returning to a home I didn’t know I’d been missing.

The mass of people in front of me parted, and behind them I saw another shimmering pool, much larger than the one I’d bathed in. Been lubricated in, I realized suddenly. I’d been prepared to take the god in my orifices.

“Cthulhu wants to fuck me,” I murmured.

Lavinia didn’t chide me for using the god’s name this time. “Yes,” she agreed. “Cthulhu wants to fuck you. We all want to fuck you, with the god.”

Everyone suddenly started fingering each other. Lavinia tugged me up to the brink of the pool, and then her fingers began to ply my slick folds. My eager fingers found her wet lips and erect clit.

We all began to chant, softly at first.

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.  Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

Bubbles began to break on the surface of the pool. We all kept fondling each other, and our chant grew a little louder.

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.  Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

I didn’t recognize the tops of Cthulhu’s wings when they first broke the surface. They looked like two dark, steep cones of rock jutting up near the middle of the pool. It was only as Cthulhu continued to rise up that I saw the bone structure underneath the leather skin—saw that it was skin.

P. Howard had called Cthulhu “massive”, but I didn’t know how much of that was my racist cousin’s awareness of their own inadequacy. One of the dreams he’d transcribed mentioned a creature “a mile” high, but that was clearly ridiculous. (What could it possibly eat? Skyscrapers!?)

I’d sort of assumed the god would be maybe twice human size, with a twice-human-sized cock, a challenge I was looking forward to.

But the god’s wingspan was as big as an airliner.

For the first time, I felt anticipation that wasn’t purely lustful. How was I going to fuck something the size of a jumbo jet? How was it going to fuck me? Lavinia had spoken of teaching me to dream-walk, and playing daily word puzzles, after I’d been “Opened.” Was that a lie? Was I about to be literally fucked to death?!

My companion seemed to sense my unease. She leaned her head against my shoulder, tenderly, while her nimble fingers rekindled my arousal.

Then Cthulhu’s mighty, bulbous head loomed into view. The god’s skin was sleek and dark. The god’s eyes shone with holy yellow light.

We changed, as one, to using an abbreviated version of the chant.

“Iã! Iã! Cthulhu fhtagn! “Iã! Iã! Cthulhu fhtagn!”

It reverberated from the walls, multiple echoes forming a dense polyrhythm. Not “Cthulhu waits dreaming,” as P. Howard had it. More like, “Cthulhu gets horny as fuck!”

It brought such strange ecstasy to form the holy syllable with my lips. Make no mistake, I was fhtagn too.

The god’s tentacles curled up in graceful loops from the water, and rose, wavering, all around the circumference of the pool. 

They forked, and forked again and again, I realized. So while there were only seven, larger than tree trunks, below the god’s luminous eyes, there were perhaps a hundred rising around the periphery. And those were, well, cock-sized. Large, for the most part, but manageable. Some were smoothly tapered, but some had mushroom-y flares. I was back in my comfort zone. Or, to be precise, my delightful discomfort zone.

The gorgeous man from my dream was chosen first. I felt a twinge of jealousy. Two of the god’s tendrils swayed up before him. He opened his mouth and tilted his head back as one slid down his throat. The other twisted as it drove into his ass.

As full as his mouth was, there was no mistaking the ecstasy of his moans as Cthulhu fucked him.

An Asian woman received the god next. She was given three of the god’s cocks. One of them curled around her leg, supporting her as Cthulhu’s triple thrusts made her tremble.

One by one, the cultists accepted their god into every available orifice.

The chant died away as almost every mouth was filled. A new chant took its place, a wordless ebb and flow of groaning and panting. The slick sounds of steady penetration. 

Finally only six tentacles were left, waving in the air before Lavinia and me.

At last I understood. The god didn’t choose everyone, and not everyone chose the god. Without me, the ritual had been incomplete, for more than a century. The god only partially satisfied. I wondered how many they’d called out to in dreams, before I finally answered. The last member of the cult, to take the god’s last members.

With me there, every organ of the god received finally and sated, the Great Work could again advance.

 

VI. The great work

Just because Cthulhu was an ancient entity from beyond time and space didn’t mean the fucker couldn’t tease.

I watched impatiently as Lavinia clamped her lips around one of the god’s cocks.

Two coiled all the way around my legs. Fine, I was inexperienced in the art of god-fucking. I needed extra support. I could accept that. I’d never been super into bondage, but the god’s firm grasp made me reconsider.

A cock danced in front of my face, tantalizing me.I tried to lean forward, but the tentacles around my legs held me firm.

I stuck my tongue out impudently. “Fhtagn me,” I challenged my god. “Come on, you fhtagner, fhtagn me good!”

The god’s cock stroked my left cheek, then my right. Then I finally got to taste Cthulhu.

Now that the god had—finally!—decided to get down to business with me, Cthulhu wasn’t shy. The tentacle speared deeper down my throat than any guy had ever gone. My gag reflex was totally gone—the magic of the sex pool, no doubt—so my enjoyment of Cthulhu’s mouth-fuck was totally unalloyed.

The tentacle twisted in my mouth and its surface rippled, letting me know that Cthulhu had tricks no human could match.

I mean, what the hell else had I gotten on a plane, a boat, and strapped on SCUBA gear for?

Cthulhu’s cock tensed in me, pulling my head down. That was novel. I’d had guys hold my head onto their cocks before—and no, thank you—but I’d never had a cock move my head before.

The god was directing my attention to Lavinia’s waist, so I could see one of the flared heads push in between her wet and ready lips. I could hear her moan louder as the god filled her pussy.

I couldn’t see the tentacle simultaneously sliding through my folds. But I could feel—holy fuck!—a zillion tiny touches, like the god was mapping my shape with a million tiny fingers. I hadn’t noticed the micro suckers covering the god’s tentacles before, but I sure as fuck felt them.

And then the god’s cock slid into me. It flexed and rippled inside, pushing and against my walls.

Lavinia pulled her ass cheeks open. I emulated her. I saw the tip of a tapered tentacle tap gently against her anus, and felt one do the same to mine.

The god surged into her, and into me. And then things got really wild. All of Cthulhu’s tentacle cocks were sheathed in willing, lustful flesh for the first time in a century. It was like completing a circuit, and suddenly I wasn’t just Emily Breedlove, I was Lavinia. I was Abraham and Yuan, the men who’d fucked me in the dream. I was Himari, the Japanese woman who had needed a little steadying, but not quite as much as me. I was Albert and Betsy and Chas and Donna. I was all of us. Abraham could feel Cthulhu’s tentacle in my mouth, I could feel the god’s cock in Yuan’s ass.

And I was coming. We were all coming. The cultists who had cocks were spurting, jizz spattering on the stone surrounding the god’s pool. Those with pussies were squirting, me included—something that had never happened to me before.

But the god wasn’t coming, not yet.

The god kept on fucking, and for just a few seconds it was too much, we shuddered like a single organism, and the god kept fucking us, and then it was good. It was better than good. We were all building together to another crescendo. We were cresting, we were peaking. My pussy pulsed again, and so did Yueh’s, and Wanda’s, and Vivian’s. Tom’s cock sent another pulse of jism into the air, and so did Sayid’s, and Roberto’s, and Paolo’s.

On and on it went. Some sane part of my mind hoped we wouldn’t do this every day, and a less-sane part of me hoped we would. Each cycle got more intense, the line between agony and ecstasy blurring, vanishing.

And then Cthulhu came. For just a glimpse of a moment, we brushed against the god’s mind.

I understood so many things, then.

“When the stars are right” was just as bad a translation as “dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.” We were aligning the stars. The Great Work was a literal cosmic mind-fuck.

Our lust roused the god from slumber, and the god fucked us. Cthulhu connected us as we fucked, and our climax sparked the god’s. The god’s mind touched other god’s minds, fucking their own cultists on countless other worlds. 

Their combined lust would rouse the Great Old Ones, from beyond space, beyond time. And now that Cthulhu could come to completion—after a century, less than an eyeblink as they reckoned time—the Great Old Ones were rising toward consciousness.

They would come, maybe even within the expanded lifespan the god’s touch had already granted me. 

They would fuck everything on Earth. They would fuck the Earth itself. Our tiny human minds would be blown apart by the Great Old Ones’ lust.

There would be no surviving it.  And I couldn’t fucking wait.

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