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Visualisation Coming Together: Among the Stars a charity anthology in aid of Stills disease - read my story 'Gyozo's Mate' A collection of 13 stories; someone finds a riding crop that has been left in public, bearing a message asking them to use it to explore their BDSM desires before detailing their exploits in an email to an anonymous account, then passing on the crop so the pleasure can begin all over again… Including my story The Adventure of the Empty Box - from The Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Carnal Machines IPPY Gold award winning anthology including my story 'Doctor Watson Makes a House Call' from the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes
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Anthology of sexy stories about seductive spies that outdo 007! Read my story Maxwell's Demon A full length novel that begins 'No sexual experience required' but ends up....well you really should find out! Captivating Research- #2 in the exciting and sexy Research series of full length novels


Essemoh Teepee© 2016

She woke with a terrible pain tearing at her head. It was but a moment before she realized she was being dragged from bed by her hair. The lone tallow candle had guttered and gone out, the black night hiding her assailant. She drew a deep breath to scream and wake her mother asleep in the same room but her throat tightened. Try as she would no sound, no gasp or whimper or cry could pass her lips. Something invisible gripped her throat crushing and stopping her voice.

Fighting back, beating at whoever was dragging her body across the bare wooden boards of the floor, to then discover her wrists and ankles bound tightly with what felt like slippery leather. She tried to buck and arch her whole body, to tense every muscle, become as stiff and unwieldy as possible. Anything to fight her abduction. Now lighter than a feather, the boards no longer grazing her heels.

She felt nothing. Her body was numb, skin tingling with an icy biting cold, yet this was Midsummer Eve and the day had been unseasonably warm, with the morrow threatening to be even more so. Then she was outside, yet through no door or window. The night sky was strange, crisp and clear yet the stars did not look as they aught. There were far more than she could recall, strangely closer, bright and glittering to her gaze.  Like an autumn leaf, gently twisting in a light breeze, high in the air as the land she knew as home slid past below. A strawberry full moon slid between the oddly rounded ancient hills, making a glittering path over the gnarled and twisted woodland she floated across.

Fear, never far away, now overwhelmed any sense of wonder. The forest of timeworn trees, twisted and bent with something more than simple age, was never a place she would ever tread. The rumor and fearful whispers of terrible events and awful happenings were enough to have deterred her, even if her mother had not forbidden it.

The hamlet of simple farmers' cabins and barns where she and her mother now lived was long behind her. Further away than she had ever been before, alone, helpless and terrified. Yet she was exhilarated, excited, and aware of every sensation. Her coarse nightdress fluttering in the breeze of travel scratched against her naked skin. Her nipples, already hard and peaked from fear and chill chafed against the cloth, making them ache in a different way. The oiled leather thongs against the skin of her ankles moved, twisting around her calves, gripping tighter. The windblown ends, like snakes tongues, lightly touching the back of her knees in a way that made her whole body tingle.

The rounded hilltops grew ever closer as she twisted and turned, trapped and restrained at the mercy of an unseen force of unknown intent. Tales of the stones that crowned the hills, older than all history, slunk from her memory to ensnare her in their web of horror. Overheard words, quickly hushed, of what might have taken place within their ancient confines slithered into her thoughts, filling her with a deep horror and unease. Yet those thoughts also filled her with something else. A feeling she got when alone in the dark, when her hand would snake between her thighs to find welcoming wet warmth and a shuddering release.

At first it sounded like the wind whistling through the trees. Then, as the hilltop drew closer and the snaggle tooth ring of old stones grew clearer in the moonlight, a voice could be heard. The chanting, speaking and singing in a language that sounded not just old but somehow, wrong. Floating down, circling around and around, widdershins, a great stone, laid flat and long in the circle centre became her hard bed. Wrists pulled tight above her head, the living bonds around her legs dragging her ankles wide, binding her to the corners of the broad flat stone. She tried to scream again but this time it was the wind suddenly howling across the hill top that swept her shrieks away.

She could not see another living soul. It was only the voice that told her she was not alone in the old stone circle, on the crest of that fearful hill. It spoke to her in words she didn't understand but somehow knew their meaning.

She was ripe, ready to be taken, used. There was a need in the air, something had to happen. It had been so long, so very, very long. To be kept outside, away, without hope of return to any warmth, any softness and pleasure was too terrible to be borne. The gate had to be opened once more, it had to be allowed to enter, to return and take back what had been stolen. It had the right.

She was the way, the passage back. She would open and accept its power, become the gateway, the way back to the warmth from the cold outer places.

The stones around her were glowing with unearthly light. A dark light that had no colour she could name. No warmth came from the strange flames that licked the hilltop and the crown of stones. It was in their terrible light she saw him. The old man with wild hair from the edge of the village. Old man Whately who the villagers told her was mad, but also fearful and odd. They said he had a daughter a year younger than her, Lavinia, but she had never set eyes on the girl in her time in that place. The Whatelys were the last of the First Families, those who settled in the valley long before the rest came. Those who were in a wave that passed over the valley leaving just a few behind, like flotsam on a lonely beach. No one now came to the valley, other than on their way through. Most chose to take the longer road south and avoid the unnatural hills and cloying darkness of their valleys

She had seen sixteen summers when her father had turned their wagon north to drive through the narrow gorge leading to Dunwich. He had been feverish for days, his eyes dim and face ashen. Mother told her the autumn weather was turning and he had taken the shorter route to get to a town and a doctor. He fell dead from the buckboard as they forded the sluggish black stream in the valley overshadowed by the hills and the dark woods.

The villagers looked on as they toiled to bury him. No preacher or holy man came to say any words and his cross of branches disappeared after a week. Only the cairn of stones over his grave was untouched.

They stayed for the winter in one of the abandoned cabins, left by others who could no longer bear to look out on the looming hills and the dark meadows. Two years on they were still there. Her father's smithy tools traded for supplies and seeds for crops struggling to grow in the poor land around their cabin.

Her mother looked old and worn by work and worry and no longer laughed or smiled. She wanted her mother to hold her now, to make the horrors stop as she did when a bad dream struck.

This was no dream. The old man Whately raised a knife above his head made not of steel but ancient stone bound with leather thongs to a sliver of age blackened wood. Chipped and bruised from hillside rock to make a killing blade by the people who had been here before any others. The earlier ones who had raised the stones on the hilltops, made orgiastic celebrations of unspeakable depravity and called to things that should never be named.

She said a prayer, believing this to be her last moment. Had she but known what was to come she would have welcomed the peace of the flint blade bursting her heart in her chest. From the starry sky a flash of light as of lightning struck the upraised blade and made it spark and sizzle in the old man's hand.

He didn't plunge the glowing blade into her breast. Instead he slit her nightdress from neck to hem, the thin cloth catching aflame like tinder to flare into nothing. The cold fire did not burn her, instead the tingle and ache of the black flames made her blood pulse and throb. Her body arched and writhed on the stone with a deep need. She had the feel of approaching release that she got from her fingers when they were slippery with her own passion. She had never known a lover but her body knew that she was ready to take one.

Whately held the blade to her breast, the needle point scraping an erect nipple, making her gasp and writhe anew. With his other hand he took up a flask of old green glass and unstopped it with his teeth. The thick black fluid drizzled from the open flask onto her hot skin as he splashed her naked body. Each droplet sizzled and steamed as though burning her flesh yet she felt no pain, only the agony of even greater need and wanton desire. She thrust her hips to the sky and spread her trembling thighs wide. It was the groans and moans of the lovers bedchamber which escaped her lips, no longer screams of terror or abject fear. She was lost to the stars above the stone ring that swirled in a glowing spiral as the old man chanted and sang his foul and ancient hymn.

He stopped singing and watched the sky, waiting for what he knew was to come. He looked at the girl on the stone altar, an offering to the Elder Ones a gateway for one of their number to enter the world again. She was not the first. In a charnel pit to one side of the hilltop were the bones and rotting remains of other such offerings. Other ripe girls disappeared from their beds on Midsummer Eve to be the mate of the thing that was coming. Whately hoped he had the incantation and the potion right this time.

He had read the worm eaten pages of the book until he could trace the awful symbols in the air with his eyes closed. With each failure he had travelled further and collected forbidden grimoires and shunned tomes to help him translate and understand the book. Each summer he had selected a suitable subject and prepared the way for her appearance here, on this hilltop at this time. Each year it had ended in blood.

This time it would be different. This time he had collected all the ingredients afresh at the season and time of moon as the book demanded. This year there was a strawberry moon at the solstice. This year the girl was fresh and unsullied by being the offspring of the too few valley dwellers. She was not inbred or blighted as had been the others.

Whately looked down at her twisting body, slick with sweat and gleaming in the moonlight. Her breasts firm and round, hips full and wide, the hair on her head and between her legs lustrous and glossy with health. This one would open the gateway, this one would be an acceptable mate. This one has to be, his time was almost done, the Old Ones must return.

She was in an agony of ecstasy, every cell in her body thrilled with pleasure. She had known the satisfaction of release by her own hand but never anything like this. It felt as though she were pierced through, stretched and filled yet open to the sky. The old man's words touched her heart and core, each syllable a source of deep, penetrating pleasure. As each line was chanted, her back arched and she came, each climax stronger and more shattering than the one before.

Hi Yah Yah Yah Yah!

Hi Yah Yah Yah Yah!

She wanted to scream at him to beg him to make it hurt so good even more.

Ai Yah Hay Yah Yah!

Aiee Aiee Yah Hay Yah Hay Yah!

Her body was an arch, only her shoulders and heels touched the stone as she came again and again. The waves of sound from the ancient chanting pierced her entire being, readying her body for the ordeal to come. The endorphins and hormones released by her orgasmic ecstasy, essential to the working of this eldritch magick.

When the old man clambered onto the alter and knelt between her trembling legs, she had only the desire to feel skin on skin, to feel full up. She wanted his weight pressing her down as she thrust her hips to meet his thrusts. Penetration and the brief stinging breach of her maidenhood was the trigger for a shuddering, soul wrenching climax as he thrust strongly in her.

Whately felt the tight, rippling grip of her sex around him as she moved under him, dancing to the rhythm of his chanting. The moonlight blazed on her skin as he felt her orgasms, her squeezing core gripping his stroking length, urging him to his own release. His seed in her was the final step before the Outer One could take her as a mate. Whately reached for her breasts, crushing them cruelly, twisting hard nipples, making her gasp and take him even deeper. His back arched, hips thrust hard against her as he ejaculated, emptying himself deep inside her, completing his offering to the Old Ones. Her scream of passion rent the sky as she came, opening the path, the gateway to the empty spaces outside.

Whately rolled from her undulating body to huddle against a stone as the unearthly wind swept around the hilltop. He watched his awful handiwork unfold.

Her mother slept fitfully, held in thrall to Whately's dreadful magick. Her daughter's agony of ecstasy in extremity troubled something deeper than his control, but she did not rouse from her dark slumber. Few souls in the valley woke at the rumblings from underground, old, terrible sounds that came around this time of solstice. Fewer still rose to look through their windows and see the foul lightning that danced from hill to hill. All covered their heads back in their beds, telling themselves it was but a nightmare that would be gone by sunrise.

Whately made passes in the troubled air with his hands, symbols of protection for fear the Outer Ones mistake him for their offering. The old man knew what became of unprotected humans at times such as these. He had scooped the bloody remnants of such into the charnel pit. That was before he had understood the ancient codex better. Now he knew more of the Old Ones terrible needs, their dreadful appetite for the energy only his sacrifice could offer them. He hoped this would be successful, he felt their presence drawing near. Every hair on his body stood out charged with their monstrous power.

Whately watched the girl, floating above the stone, tethered by wrists and ankles else she be sucked away and lost. Her long fair hair waved and rippled as though currents of water flowed around her. The hair between her legs, puffed out and bristled, faint sparks of light wavering over its ends in an aurora of colours he could not name. As he watched, he saw bright sparks begin at her skin to burn along each single hair. The unholy light leaving behind silvery filaments, turning all her hair pure white.

In her mind she felt bathed in strange light, a cold black fire that lapped at her body. Where it touched her skin it would blaze with great power. When it licked at intimate places, nipples, anus and clitoris, a sparkling energy filled her with dark desires, urgent want, an unquenchable need for more and ever stronger release.

To the old man's eyes her body was being dragged up to the stars, restrained by the magickal bonds he had created to hold her to the earth. Invisible forces lashed and thrashed her writhing, naked body, taking and giving, using and filling her up in every way possible. The old man could see the faintest of outlines against the dark sky. As though the bright starlight rimed like winter frost the slithering, coiling limbs of the impossible creature that had come out of the Outer Spaces at his terrible call.

This was when all his past attempts had failed. The human body unable to take the forces at play. Flesh succumbing to the nightmare rending, bursting attentions of the flailing, thrusting tentacles that writhed and twisted around and within it. To Whately's eyes his latest sacrifice was bent and twisted in impossible ways which no body living could endure. Her screams of passion, orgasm and ecstasy could just as well be the sound of her death throes. He could not yet be sure.

There was a blaze of light, as though the moon had exploded. Every feature of the Outer One was revealed to Whately’s eyes, a vision of such unspeakable horror that nearly drove out his sanity. Worse, there was a scream, an unearthly screech of impossible power that was agony to his ears. It was an impossible sound that made the stones tremble and vibrate so much so he thought they would crumble away. He saw his pitiful sacrifice bent in an impossible arch, pressed hard against the belly of the horrifying beast, coiling tendrils around her body and limbs, thrusting between her thighs. Each one pulsing with strange colours so bright he had to shield his eyes. With one final pulse of blazing light, the monstrous creature shuddered and released her limp body to fall back to the hard stone.

Whately shouted with triumph as the Great Being faded from sight. The stars swirled above, reversing their spiral as the Old One returned to the Outer Places. But this time it had left its inhuman seed, mingled with his, filling the sacrifice's receptive womb. Whately knew his experiment had succeeded. His latest sacrifice had survived, impregnated with something horribly alien, something that had not been seen on the Earth since the Early Times. The offspring of an Old One.

He would care for the girl as the thing inside her developed and grew. She would need nourishment appropriate to the strange embryo's needs, flesh prepared with herbs in ways unknown but recorded in the worm eaten book. Blood would be needed for her to drink, fresh and still warm from the vein.

Lavinia, his daughter would have to go. This girl would take her place. Prepared in the right ways, salted and brined as the book described, his daughter would not be wasted, she would last the girl and unborn creature into the fall. Time enough to seek out other sources of the right sustenance. Whately knew there would be risks to him in nurturing mother and unholy child. The book explained that there were also boons.

He looked at the albino girl asleep on the stone. Her belly already gently rounded with the awful hybrid in her womb. Her breasts plump and swollen, full of promise. He knelt beside her on the crushed and singed grass to stroke her long, ice white hair. Whately stroked the soft skin of her belly and felt the hair between her legs brush against his palm as he cupped her warmth. His fingers explored her, finding she was slick and slippery from her otherworldly mate. The girl moaned and slowly undulated at his touch. Anticipation made him shiver with excitement.

Bending forward he kissed and licked her breast, tasting the sweat on her skin. He took a hard nipple between his lips and suckled. The ichor that filled his mouth was spicy, with an unnamable taste. The fine sprays of fluid from the pores at the tip of her taught nipple tingled on his tongue as he suckled. The alien milk burned as he gulped it down. He saw the skin on his hands change as he drank from her. The liver spots fading, the wrinkles plumping out, grey hair becoming dark again.

Whately filled his belly with youth, turning back time, growing stronger, younger with each terrible mouthful. Between his legs the blood pumped, his cock thickened and stiffened. He was harder than he could ever recall, virile again. He wanted to fuck, to bury himself deep in this girl who gave him youth, to come inside her again. There would be plenty of time for such things now. She was his to watch over, to nurture, to use. This was just another of the gifts the Outer Old Ones bestowed on their loyal servants.

He would explain away Old Man Whately's disappearance, become this new Lavinia's mate. It was not remarkable in Dunwich for cousins with the same name to so pair.

He would work anew with fresh vigour. There was much to be done to ease the way for what was to come. Now he had the time to do so. Carrying the unnaturally pregnant girl down from the hilltop in his youthfully strong arms, Whately reflected that success had come just in time.


This work is an original piece but inspired by 'The Dunwich Horror ', a classic short story by Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1928) and the Shlocky, 1970 B-Movie of the same name from American International Pictures, starring Dean Stockwell and Sandra Dee. I have put back in the sex and erotic content that both suggested but never delivered, with one or two additions of my own that seemed to fit. Can you tell what they are?

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For your own experience with horny tentacles why not find out more about the DEV© audio Teakettle - see the link in the right hand column

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