Human Experimentation
in which a rebel illithid gains some willing thralls, though not particularly with the cognizance of said thralls.
don't fuck illithids, kids.
When Ildathech returned to the village with the corpse of the necromancer in his hands, the villagers looked at him as if he was some figure of legend, some mythical hero. An elderly old man even broke down sobbing, clutching at his robes, as the surviving villagers emerged from the darkness.
As opposed to the suspicion the first time through, now there was nothing they would not give him -- room at the dingy inn, heaping plates of unpalatable food, the adoring attention of the townspeople. It was laughable.
Ildathech had reached the town at sundown, and even by the low standards he was growing to expect from human encampments it was a wreck: dusty fields, and not a single lamp lit in the shabby houses. He would have thought the entire place abandoned, save for the quaking man who approached him, unsheathed sword in hand: "Who goes there?" he called, in a quaking voice.
"Simply a passing adventurer," he'd said, and under his hood he'd grinned. The irony of his identity had not yet lost its humor. But, alas, it was not as simple as that. Even a human grew suspicious at his appearance: walking without beast of burden, cloaked in dark patchwork cloth, hood drawn so low it completely covered his face.
It would have been easy to enthrall the man, but -- inelegant. It was an affront, that the human dared even attempt to bar his way, but in this case true insight was to be gained by stepping around his pride. The man was terrified, secure in the knowledge that what great beasts lurked outside the town at night were ones he could not fight: simply ones he might live long enough to warn the town. It was under siege, Ildathech learned, half from speech and half from rooting inside the man's trembling mind. A necromancer in the hills, which was the first useful thing he'd heard all this time on the aboveground.
So: after all, he could not be much of a noble adventurer if he did not seek out the evil plaguing the town and end it. The man had warned him, thinking he went to his death in the dark of the night -- Ildathech didn't bother responding. The sun burned his eyes, after all. Things would be much easier in the night.
The necromancer's dungeon, though: that held promise. He went in expecting simply... skeletons, withered zombies. A wight, perhaps, if the necromancer was particularly skilled at binding. But no, this necromancer was inquisitive: they had been capturing humans from the town, experimenting on them while they still lived. Preparing their bodies for optimal service, once their souls departed. There were cells of howling captives and Ildathech watched from the shadows as two zombies dragged a mutated human out from its cell: one whose muscle and bone had been grown grotesquely, turning its body into a lurching monster.
Much more promising than he'd expected.
The necromancer experimented, taking cuttings of flesh and organs as easily as a gardener cut from plants. They pulsed with unlife, the human half-zombified already, biology supplemented and nearly replaced with necromantic power. It was a crude procedure, but more inventive than anything he'd seen yet. He was hungry for knowledge: he did not even let the necromancer finish their tests. He would know their goal soon enough.
The mind of a mage was protected against simple thralling, and the simpler kinds of psi spikes would destroy all the knowledge he desired. But it was still pathetically easy to reach out and touch the necromancer's mind -- their head swinging up, the awareness of something wrong spreading in their mind before Ildathech fell upon them. He batted aside spells, unraveling them even as they formed in the necromancer's mind. Inventive, yes, and clever -- but still nothing of a match to one such as him. There was such knowledge here, in the necromancer's hand-bound tomes, the journals of their experiments. But why spend time reading dusty tomes when the knowledge was right in front of him?
It ended swiftly. The mage on the floor, writhing and spitting curses, Ildathech kneeling on his back. He leaned in, tentacles twitching out from his cowl, curling around the back of the necromancer's head, slowly pulling tighter. There was a new spike of terror in their mind: they knew well what he was. But it was much too late for that to help them. Ildathech leaned in, hard lips peeling from his teeth, pressing to the back of their head. It was not quite a beak, thin lips with a sharp ridge behind them, and pursed it latched into a sharp, hard line: perfect for cracking bone and getting to the sweet inner flesh. His tentacles held the mage's head still was he bore in, body finally going limp, screaming ceasing, just before he cracked through to the skull and began to feast. Consuming the mind and the brain at the same time, psi energies and brain meat pouring into him as a sensation of mind as he fed.
He tossed aside the mess of memories, searching through the fading mind for the knowledge: the energies the necromancer poured into their still-living experiments, the chemical cocktails, the successive refinements to their ultimate goal. A hybrid lifeform, living and undead at the same time -- that was of little interest to him. But all the other things learned in the mean time, that was what would be useful. He had quite an interest in the human body.
In the Seven-Bladed City, ancient and vaster than anything the aboveground could create -- the city which he had called home -- the human body served a different purpose. Illithid reproduction, after all, had nothing whatsoever to do with the more... crude methods used by lesser species. He was spawned in thick murk, swimming in a swarming pool not unlike a tadpole. The elders dumped the eaten, brainless bodies of hapless adventurers down, food for their teeming children. It was up to the cleverest nymphs to bond to the corpse, devouring the head as they replaced it, and reanimate the body with illithid ichor. Only the strongest, most clever earned their right to live.
In a sense his story of being a noble adventurer was true, or at least true from the neck down. But a second lifetime suffused with ichor lead to certain... physiological changes, in his formerly-human body. The blue-purple pallor; the rubbery flesh; the webbed skin; the claws on his hands and feet. They fascinated Ildathech: here was his body, a crude thing obeying chemical pathways and nerve impulses, but connected indelibly to his mind; one supporting the other.
Before leaving he experimented on himself, feeding his body this-or-that set of chemicals. For knowledge, perhaps, but mostly to ride the sensation, knitting the mutated nerves back into his brain, spending hours drugged on chemical cocktails of his own devisings, always tweaking and modifying for a more potent effect. Most Illithid were whipcord thin, bodies emaciated: the body simply a concession to the fact that hands and feet were necessary.
Ildathech gloried in it, feeding his body potent chemicals, watching his muscles swell to the point of grotesquery, feeling the dead spark of the human corpse's life burn hot, bringing systems to life -- heartbeat, respiration, endocrine, lymphatic, reproduction. That had been his final experiment before he left: libido an entirely new kind of sensation, his cock lurching back to life, rubbery flesh peeling back to reveal his slimy cockhead. Coaxing out the biological signals that grew new flesh and tweaking them for his own appeal.
He fed himself chemicals, watching his balls churn and grow, dense flesh regrowing to human potency and then vastly beyond. His balls grew swollen and bloated, flesh distended and lopsided, forming a heavy ache between his legs, always just on the right side of pain. His cock grew slow inch after inch as he found the right mixes of chemicals: cavernosa thicker and thicker, glans fatter and fatter, adding elasticity to his rubbery flesh, stretching the tube of his urethra, sheathing it in spongy tissue.
It drooled constantly when aroused, a thick blue-black slime. He altered his glands, prostate and testicles, producing a foul slime, a mixture of human seminal fluid and illithid ichor, sperm revolting hybrids, mutated to the point of sterility. For what did he care of reproduction? He was interested in sex.
Over the months his withered cock surged, growing first to what he presumed would be a healthy size for an adult human, and then beyond that -- much, much beyond. The cavernosa chambers bloating, swelling fatter and fatter until they could not sustain themselves, structure so large it lost support, simply folding over itself when he flooded his length with ichor. He had to reshape his body with subtle alterations, always pushing further and further: adding ichor chambers, pulpy flesh bloating his cock, thick layers of mucosa to keep it drooling, and always, always guiding new nerve growth, wiring pleasure circuits through his flesh; long nights spent testing, experimenting.
His nipples grew fat, vestigial nubs repurposed for pure pleasure, growing thick and dark on his chest, flushed with black ichor. His thick facial tentacles writhed wildly down his chest, tips coiling around them and twisting, squeezing; each near-painful clench made his cock jerk and slap across his skin. He smeared his ichorous precome across his muscled stomach, heavy spurt after spurt sending spumes of slime over his body, until he reached the apex -- cock stiffening, chemical signals cascading down, ending with his vision whiting out, body writhing, the lurch of his cock shooting rippling through his entire body again and again.
He designed his issue with care: thick slime, pulling up his length in contraction after contraction, thick and gritty to tease the inner walls of his urethra. Immense pearls of coagulated slime, pulsing from deep inside his hypertrophic prostate, straining through the tight passages of his body with dizzying jolts of pleasure, finally emerging, distending the flesh of his shaft as they burst upwards, spraying his chest in a grotesque slurry, layer after layer of grimy coagulations and viscous wormlike cords of ichor, until he was left lying nearly-insensate in the afterglow, coated in his own reeking slime.
And even then, still half-hard, coaxing out second and third loads with hands covered in frothing slime, until his flesh was sore and his entire body ached from exhaustion. It was a pleasure all of its own to see his clinical mind dragged down low by the basest of animal impulses: that was the purpose of his investigations. It was artistry.
And for that he was exiled -- not even that. Simply the knowledge that he was experimenting on his body was enough. Letting his thinking be clouded by the chemical murk in his reanimated body -- if the Illithids knew the extent of his experimentation they would have killed him outright. He would be a pariah; a pervert. It was a perverse attachment to the carnal flesh, the desire to feel the lower pleasures, the dumb drives of an evolved creature little smarter than a shrieking monkey. If they had known just how carnal his interests were--
So he left. And where else was there to go, than the surface?
He devoured the knowledge of the necromancer: the paltry spells, the weak concoctions. Everything the necromancer had done, he could do better. It was true, he had not thought of experimenting on other humans -- it was hardly for them to experience the glory their bodies could contain. But the subtlety of the dosing, the mechanical replacement for what Ildathech could do simply by will... it was an avenue he had not considered.
And in the mean time, he had a village to return to, a brave hero returning from the darkness.
The skeletons had crumbled to bones; the zombies stood as statues without the will of the animator to guide them. The cells of humans were full of wailing. He thought of eating them as well -- a true meal was difficult to find on the surface -- but the thought of taking their memories, a lifetime of farming and toil... it was disgusting, to sully his mind like that. They were more valuable to him as tokens: savior of the missing townspeople. Some of them were as-of-yet untouched; others worse for wear: limbs replaced, flesh sloughing, muscle bloated, organs grown large for extraction. The one who had been laid out on the slab was the most advanced specimen, now that he had time to look: It had been grown into a giant, fed drugs in its food for weeks. Its teeth jutted from its mouth, excess bone growth giving it thick tusks, almost orcish in appearance. Its left arm had been temporarily removed, kept living in a vat, blood replaced with a crude animating ichor, left to grow monstrous before the necromancer reattached it. Thick bone spars erupted from its shoulder and elbow, skin sloughing into large, lapped scales. An infusion of dragon's blood, mixed with reanimating serum to quicken the flesh. The limb had twitched and grasped, imbued with a life of its own. Its flesh was a patchwork of scars, skin cut away and grafted back on, still-healing scars oozing blood and pus down its sides. No longer something human. Better, or at the very least on its way.
And so he was the savior of the town, a glorious hero. The play of heroism would soon lose its flavor, Ildathech thought, but there was no reason not to act while its humor lasted. So he took their invitation of lodgings, of food, and stayed the night.
"At least let us see your face, the face of our savior," said one of the humans. So he spun an absurd lie, of being cursed by an evil wizard, transformed into a grotesque monster that would terrify all, of foreswearing his name, of being on a quest to find one who could return him to his true form. It was the story of a tragic hero.
He was, after all, looking for mages.
So he ate, and drank, though those were not his favored pleasures of the flesh. That was what the town would give him, he decided: a warm body to fuck, a thing to unleash his lusts on. It was not even difficult to find one: a boy just out of youth, stubble beginning to grow rough on his face, muscles strong across his shoulders. He was the blacksmith's apprentice, Ildathech learned from his mind, but more important than that was his buried lust for the blacksmith, his naive, virginal lusts so consuming him it was a surprise the entire town could not read them off his face.
The boy was so grateful to the mysterious hero -- his sister had been a captive, now joyfully returned -- and his thoughts kept turning towards a fantasy of repaying the hero. Giving his body in eager payment, kissing a face that was -- scarred; the maw of a feral troll; a faceless void, writhing with dark tentacles. Never a monster that was grotesque, always one that was picturesque, erotically deformed. Always was the hero's body strong and muscled, his cock fat against the boy's front as they kissed. In that respect perhaps Ildathech would give him even more than he dreamed.
The boy's fantasy scattered when he noticed Ildathech looking his way, snatches of embarrassed lust.
He sent the villagers scattering with a thought, dull minds flitting to some other banal conversation as he stepped away. The boy stuttered when he came close, awareness rising in his mind, and Ildathech sculpted that into a simple command to follow, heading upstairs with the boy in his wake.
The lodgings were a straw bed and a dim lantern, but it would be more than enough. Ildathech sat on the bed, legs spread, his mental command evaporating as the boy looked on. He took a few wobbling steps forward, lusts boiling to the surface already, cock tented in his trousers.
"Take off your shirt," Ildathech said, not a hint of a true command, but the boy obeyed him eagerly, tossing the rough fabric aside. He was muscled, as humans went, with a spray of blond hair across his chest, a trail down his stomach, his cock tented already.
Ildathech could have pressed at his lobes, triggered the right chemicals and states of mind to have the boy as a warm body, panting and eager, desperate for anything Ildathech deigned to give him. But the boy was so eager to do it himself there was no need.
"Kneel," he said, and the boy knelt, the hot flush staining all the way down his chest splotchy red. "Come closer," he said, and the boy walked on his knees, into the spread vee of Ildathech's thighs. So close he could smell the ichor already oozing from his cock, an acrid, bitter smell to the human nose.
"They-- They're saying you were cursed," the boy said, looking up into the darkness of his cowl. "But no matter what I'm sure... I mean, I would be glad to-- to, uhm, lie with you." He looked away, broke his imagined gaze.
Ildathech pulled back his cowl, ignoring the boy's soft gasp. Facial tentacles spilled in thick cords down his chest, squirming to help as he pulled off his heavy shift. His skin was mottled purple-blue, veins of ichor dark. Flesh rubbery and heavy, smoothly drawn over his inhuman muscles, thick meaty slabs that would be the pride of any warrior. And stripped down to only his trousers, the swell of his cock was unmistakable -- certainly the boy had eyes for nothing else, a hot spike of arousal pouring through him, the growing awareness that he was about to have sex. His first time, even, bestowed as a gift onto a brave adventurer.
Ildathech pulled open the laces of his trousers, the thick swell of his shaft revealed first, a smooth, bloated offshoot from his crotch, drooling wet slime down over his balls. There was ichor already webbing between his flesh and the fabric. He tugged his cock out, the revealed flesh weighty, rubbery flesh looser and looser near the tip, excess skin collecting in heavy folds. His cockhead was flushed black with ichor, syrupy strings oozing from the tip of his foreskin. He built it to be vast, and with an actual human for comparison, it looked even vaster: thick as one of the boy's fists, so long it would have taken him four hands to hold it, and even that would have left the head peeking out. His balls were far too fat to fit in his sac, their distended flesh stretching the skin, a glossy swell hanging taut below his shaft, nearly as fat as the boy's head, skin twitching and furrowing as his balls churned.
The boy swallowed, gaze flicking up to Ildathech's inhuman face, leaning closer and closer. His thoughts were simple, too innocent to even recognize Ildathech for what he was. Simply that he was strange, that the oily purple-black sheen of his skin was beautiful in the lamplight, that the slowly-stirring mass of facial tentacles he had instead of a mouth -- knowing nothing of the sharp teeth beneath them -- were strange but hardly revolting, that the massive swell of his muscles hit raw in the boy's senses, pulses of heat going straight to his aching cock. Even fucking a monster such as himself there was no disgust in the boy's thoughts, hardly even virginal squeamishness. Just lust, growing. A slave to his impulses. How easy it was to make humans do whatever he willed.
The boy's mouth hung open, drool spilling from his lips; his eyes dilated, brown iris giving way to black. The command, when Ildathech revealed the full length of his cock, was implicit. The boy sunk forward, lips brushing the tip and catching a mouthful of grimy ichor. He just looked up adoringly, foul slime drooling down his chin, and swallowed.
In a sense Ildathech was virginal as well: he certainly had never before fucked a human. His cock throbbed, the slick lips wrapping around his cockhead a new kind of pleasure. Hypertrophic glands in his body squeezed and pulsed, internal muscles firing, sending thick masses of frothing ichor spurting up the length of his cock, erupting into the boy's mouth -- bloating his cheeks, spilling from his mouth in slimy cords, drooling down Ildathech's shaft. The boy leaned in, wrapping both hands around his shaft and pumped.
The pleasure raced up Ildathech's spine, mouth parting in an instinctive groan, and his cock erupted again, so much that the boy choked and coughed, a frothy waterfall pouring in slow motion from his mouth, dark tendrils oozing from his nose. He kept nursing Ildathech's cock, pumping, stroking, moaning against the fat cockhead. His tongue slid inside the folds of Ildathech's foreskin, lapping at pockets of slime that poured over his tongue, smearing it up across his cockhead. The boy bobbed lower, lips kissing the pillowed folds of his foreskin, pulled back with his lips webbed with long tethers of viscous slime.
The room was filled with the wet squelch of the boy's lips moving over Ildathech's cockhead, punctuated by the heavy splat when the thick tethers of slime drooling down his face grew too heavy and snapped. Ildathech cupped the boy's face, dark claws digging into his cheek, thick fingers threading through his scruffy blond hair, guiding him up and down. He pushed down, pressing the boy to take just-fractionally more, his plush lips gliding over his smooth, rubbery flesh until the fat head bashed against the back of his mouth. He gagged, again coughing dark slime across Ildathech's shaft, now thick and frothy with lather.
The boy pulled back, already breathing hard, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand -- just smearing the thick ichor over his cheek and hand. He opened wide, tongue black with slime, and took in the purple-black cockhead, gulping and gulping as Ildathech sprayed the back of his mouth with fountains of chunky ichor. He could only take a pathetic amount of Ildathech's length, the rubbery arch of his cock long enough to fill him from lips to stomach easily.
The thought filled Ildathech with heat, muscles in his stomach clenching as he tugged the boy's head lower, groaning when the fat head popped into his throat, muscles convulsing around the ridge. "Swallow," Ildathech said, probing into the boy's mind again. He swallowed, throat clamping around Ildathech's cockhead, tight enough to reward him with another gush of ichorous pre, coating the walls of his throat. "Breathe," he said, and the boy struggled, snorting a mess of snotty ichor across Ildathech's shaft -- trachea clamping, windpipe opening -- before he took in a ragged breath through his nose. "Good," he said, and guided his head lower, sheathing more of his cock into the boy's tight throat.
Ildathech groaned, head tossed back, lost in the sensation -- this was nothing like his hand. The slick wet heat, the gripping tension... he flooded his body with chemicals, a dizzying array of glands discharging, the rush hitting his bloodstream and burning their way to his brain. After all, he, too, was a slave to his body, eager to see just how coitus was performed with this body he'd shaped. The constant drool of his cock lubricated the way, syrupy slime coating the boy's throat, making his thrusts smooth, easing deeper into the boy's eager throat with hardly a hitch. The boy's throat bulged, flesh swelling from the inside as he thrust, thick squelches filling the room as he churned up the slime in the boy's throat, the passage now hardly more than an open, yielding channel for him to fuck.
The boy himself -- he groaned, mouth completely blocked, dragging in wet breaths between thrusts even with Ildathech's shaft never leaving his stretched trachea. He was beet red, hair matted to his scalp, beads of sweat dripping down his face. Wrecked, and his mind still so eager, lost in a spiral of arousal, sharp-edged pleasure racing through him with each thrust. He'd come into his trousers once already, just from Ildathech fucking his face, and hadn't even noticed yet.
Ildathech shoved the boy's head down, his gagging, spasming throat taking inch after inch of his grotesquely-huge shaft. The sloppy suction around his shaft, the wet smear when the boy's mouth pursed around his shaft -- Ildathech groaned again, pumping his shaft deeper, body taut as a bowstring. He thrust into the boy's open mouth, a slurry of phlegm and ichor squirting back over his shaft with each heaving gag. He worked the boy's head back and forth, clawed hands wrapped around his skull, hips twitching up in spasmodic jerks. The boy gurgled, purple-black slime drooling from his nose, eyes tearing up, and Ildathech paused just long enough to let him take a few shuddering breaths. Each one was a convulsive clench around his cock, buried more than halfway down his throat, the head nearly lodged under his collarbone, throbbing against his Adam's apple.
The very root of his cock vanished into the boy's drooling mouth, lips pressed flush against the muscled crest of his pelvis, chin digging into the bloated flesh of his balls. His rubbery cock was lodged down the boy's throat, under his ribcage, gushing foul, mutated slime straight into his stomach. Ildathech ground the boy's face against his body, lips kissing his crotch, scum-covered face looking up at him, still lost in lust, eyes tearing, nose running. He held the boy there, his convulsing breaths milking the whole length of his cock. It was an appealing thought, simply waiting like this, having the boy struggle and gag on his length and just drinking in the sensation until he came, minutes or hours from now.
But he was far too impatient for that. He grabbed the boy's head in both hands and drew back, scummy burbles of slime spilling between them. He snapped forward, sheathing his cock, the arch of his pelvis meeting the boy's face with a meaty smack, and then again, and again. He fucked the boy's throat, plunging back and forth. Lying back on the bed, head tipped blindly up, lost in the sensation: his cock emerging from the boy's throat coated in thick slime, the reeking, rancid scent of his pre filling the room as immense slimy chunks poured from the boy's gaping mouth, throat convulsing with each brutal plunge to the root. Ildathech groaned, facial tentacles lashing, drool spilling from his lips, sheening down his chest. The loud crack of impact, the convulsive squeeze around his length -- his cockhead throbbed, heartbeat strong, and he sprayed the boy's stomach with semi-solid ichor. He thrust, lost in lust, beating the boy's face against his crotch again and again as he brutally fucked his face, grunting and slavering as the boy gagged and heaved, spitting up a messy flood of bile and ichor across his body, smearing the mess across his face as Ildathech kept thrusting.
The sharp pulse of his orgasm came closer and closer until he tipped over the edge with a roar, barely mindful enough to use his lashing psi energies to set the boy off as well, shorting out his senses with a blinding orgasm that would forever after leave him craving what no human could give him. Ildathech's balls shuddered, thick flesh drawing up tight under his shaft, and his cock throbbed, cockhead flaring thicker, digging into the bruised flesh of the boy's throat. He came, clawing at the boy's scalp in time with each pulse. Corrupt slime -- viscous, mutated -- came in burst after burst, flooding the boy's stomach until each eruption sloshed, churning the heavy mess of foul ooze inside him. The boy heaved, froth squirting up his abused throat, grimy grey come mixed with purple-black cords squirting across Ildathech's crotch, smearing in stiff peaks and waves over his rubbery skin. The boy's throat milked him of his load, thick chunky coagulated pearls jerking down his shaft pulse after pulse until they burst into the boy's sloshing, overfull stomach like foul eggs.
Eventually the boy's thrashing grew weaker, on the verge of passing out, and so Ildathech pulled back, letting the boy's half-insensate body spill back, shaft emerging thickly-coated with slime, glistening ooze churning into bubbling froth. The mess coated his entire length, collecting in thick lines beneath, webbing in finger-thick cords between them when the boy finally pulled off, fat head popping from his mouth with a frothy explosion of slime. The boy toppled backwards, gagging and heaving, stomach bloated as he vomited up viscous come, pouring in a syrupy waterfall from his wrecked mouth, shuddering and convulsing as he tried to suck in desperate breaths between wrenching heaves. Ildathech stroked himself off, hand churning through the mess coating his cock, spraying the rest of his tainted load across the boy's body, sheening his sweaty body in a new layer of filth.
He finished long before the boy had recovered, still coughing chunks of slime onto the floorboards -- enough it was probably seeping down through the cracks to the floor below -- snorting and gasping between wracking coughs. And somehow lustful still. His chest was painted dark from Ildathech's issue, thick cords of sludge smearing down to the waist of his filthy trousers. The boy had come more than a few times already, and all without even touching his own cock -- the sheer pleasure of serving his betters bringing him off.
Ildathech knelt forward, tearing the boy's trousers off. His cock was fat and engorged, turgid with blood, his load smeared across his thighs -- but that wasn't what Ildathech was interested in. He twisted the boy's body around, presenting his ass, slightly-hairy cleft spread to show his asshole, tight and virginal. The boy struggled, still coughing, spitting up chunky black pearls; the last of Ildathech's issue, but as he pressed his still-hard cockhead against the boy's asshole there was a spark of pleasure, a heat blooming up through the boy's body. This he fed, damping the ache of the boy's ravaged throat, stoking the still-raging fire of his lusts higher: watching in the boy's mind as the chemicals hit his blood, burned into his brain, left him groaning and panting for more, facedown in a messy froth of bile and black come, reaching back to spread his cheeks.
Ildathech sunk inside, fat cockhead pressing and then sinking into the boy's asshole, sucking and convulsing. He jerked forward, muscles acting on reflex, slamming forward until his cockhead rammed against the wall of the boy's ass. He groaned, tentacles thrashing across his chest, cock throbbing, thick shaft straining against the gripping walls that surrounded it, rippling with each of the boy's wet coughs. He leaned in, claws digging into the meat of the boy's hips, cock squirming as he closed in on the entrance to the boy's guts, pushing through another convulsing sphincter, his slime-coated cock gliding easily all the way to the base, deeply embedded inside the boy's body. Ildathech hunched forward, tentacles spilling across the boy's shoulders and head, coiling around his neck. There was the temptation to feed, as always -- drool spilling down the underside of his tentacles, smearing across the filth he'd already left caked across the boy's head -- but hunger was an even baser drive than lust, and easily pushed aside. He had other vices than gluttony.
The boy wailed as Ildathech pounded into him, exhausted body pushed to its limits. Muscles convulsed around his length, squeezing and suckling, the gritty dregs of his orgasm giving more texture to his thrusts, scraping the boy's guts raw. His thighs worked, the burn of the muscle adding to his euphoria -- that this was what he'd designed his body for, sculpted the drives evolution had shaped into a masterpiece of sensation.
Heavy squelches, the wet crack of flesh on flesh, filled the room as he drove his cock into the boy, ichorous precome drooling from the bruised ring of his asshole, more and more squirting out as Ildathech drew closer to his second orgasm. He roared, tentacles lashing tight, pulling the boy's body up in an arch, tentacles tasting the rank flavor of his own issue, splattered all across his filthy face. His cock spasmed, again, again, and Ildathech groaned, letting the sensation spike and judder as he filled the boy again, his already-bloated stomach swelling further. He snarled, still thrusting, grey come washing from the boy's ass in a constant tide. His ass clamped tight, sloshing slime collecting just above, only to spasm and gape, grey slime and thick cords of ichor spilling from his ravaged ass, sliding down their enmeshed bodies, webbing between their thighs.
The boy came too, with a shaking wail, Ildathech writing the faintest hint of his pleasure onto the boy's body and leaving him a spasming wreck, slumping to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut when Ildathech finally released him. His cock pulled halfway from the boy's asshole, red flesh gaping around his shaft, and so he slid the rest of the way out, grinning at the spill of come, a thick waterfall oozing from his wrecked body. His cock was still pulsing, lumpy pearl after pearl making their way up his urethra, each final spurt spraying them across the boy's back in a messy squirt of slime, or hitting right into the target of his gaping ass, only to drool out seconds later, after a convulsive clench, suspended in ooze.
The boy was nearly unconscious, foul come drooling from his mouth and ass alike, only the vague ripple of arousal that surged through its mind at Ildathech's touch telling of his consciousness. The boy's cock was swollen, flesh bruised from the dozens of orgasms so far, and clearly taxed to its limit. In the aftermath of the mating, Ildathech's cock spilling its dregs over the boy's ass... well, he had another resource here: a pure human, untainted -- save for the ichor slowly seeping into his tissues, but that was hardly a problem -- and pure. Perhaps for the first time, Ildathech could examine the biology at his leisure.
It was easy enough to force ejaculation, coaxing the pudendal nerve to fire, the boy's soft gasp followed by his cock twitching and lolling to the side, drooling fresh issue. Ildathech did it again, and then again, giving the boy only seconds between ejaculations, until he was nearly sobbing, his emptied glands barely managing to procure droplets of fluid. Certainly the physical act of ejaculating was pleasurable, but it hardly compared to a true orgasm, which was slightly more difficult to coax out. The boy's mind and body were laid out in front of him like a musical instrument, nerves taut strings of pulsing energy, ready to be strummed to a different rhythm.
It was unconscious, like so many human capabilities. Ildathech traced pathways through the boy's body, firing them at intervals and watching the boy twitch and gasp, pleasure flooding through him. It was harder with the boy nearly unconscious, having to rouse his mind enough for the pleasure to register, but after that it was simple. Ildathech pushed, psi flooding through the boy's nerves, and he keened, body convulsing in orgasm. This time, watching closely, Ildathech drew it out, the spike of orgasm hitting him again and again, sharper and sharper as Ildathech refined his triggers, finally cresting in a minutes-long ecstasy that had the boy whimpering and sobbing, muscles all across his body convulsing as if in seizure. Eventually he grew bored of watching the boy writhe and let the cords go slack. The cessation hit him as another hammerblow; a slow, drunken pleasure flooding into him in the wake, body lax and pliant, nerves still jangling from their heavy use. His eyes fluttered, turning an adoring gaze to Ildathech, dim mind filled with feelings of trust and love. Ildathech sneered, hitting the boy with another thought-destroying orgasm just so he would not have to listen.
The human body... it was hardly impressive, in itself. But it had such great promise, that even now he was only brushing the edges of. Their brains were, of course, a disgrace -- hardly able to muster the weakest of psi -- but that simply made them all the better test subjects. It was almost a frustration to leave. Surely, if he wanted, he could take over the necromancer's cave, resume their experiments with a sharper mind. But this whole land was a foul stain: if he was going to establish a lab, it would be so much more than the necromancer's candle-lit ruins. And much more secluded, at that.
Come dawn -- not having slept; Ildathech had long ago restructured his body to not require that particular kind of upkeep -- he planned to leave the hamlet as soon as possible. There were certain goods he might require, either for his heroic persona or to aid his research, and a town where they were all too happy to give him rewards for his good deeds seemed an optimal place to collect.
But when he left there were two unexpected figures waiting on the road out of town. Ildathech nearly laughed once he got close enough to read their minds: the first, the experiment on the table: disgusted by his new body, his reunion with his parents unkind, and thinking to join the nameless hero in his quest for a wizard to heal him. And the second: the boy from last night, rehearsing some story about always having wanted to see the world, but bubbling below the surface was the need to fuck, to experience the brutal, thought-destroying orgasms Ildathech had bestowed upon him last night.
Ildathech had tired slightly of them, and so instead of bothering to converse with either of them he simply spun a hazy memory of how they thought the conversation should go and set that in their minds, letting them flesh out their own details of the 'memory'. If he never saw another lopsided farmhouse it would be too soon. But if the humans were so eager to give themselves to him as tribute, well, who was he to turn down a potential test subject?
The first hitch was they expected to sleep at night. Camps, campfires, food, tents. What human frailties, Ildathech thought as he watched them. When he began to reshape them, that would be the first thing to remove. They ate, and slept, and dreamed, and that was much preferable.
The other thing, which he had not noticed at first, was the experiment had his own lusts bolstered: the necromancer's tinctures and poisons had affected his cock as well, though clearly as a side-effect. His circulatory system was bloated, blood vessels swollen, and so his cock had grown too, so engorged he couldn't even get fully hard. His cells were budding and forking, invigorated with energy to make his muscles swell, and the effect was hardly limited to just his muscles. His balls had grown fat, and with them his inner glands as well, their systems flooding his mind with a bestial kind of lust. He slept uneasily, dreams that were little more than imagined senses, of burying his cock in a body, of draining his aching balls, and all of it tinged with disgust and desire in equal parts. He woke in the dark, shamefully touching himself with his clawed hand.
But Ildathech, upon seeing the experiment's fat cock, eagerly drooling, well -- there was another side to testing the pleasures he could evoke from his flesh. He moved closer, nearly on top of the experiment before he noticed. There was a spike of self-loathing in his mind, that the nameless hero would see him like this, but Ildathech had little patience for that, now. His own body was coming awake in eagerness. He pulled all the experiment's shameful lusts to the surface, and it was like a wave of fire across his skin, his malformed body shuddering, cock lurching in his grasp.
The experiment's cock lay turgid across his muscled stomach, and with his hand clamped tight around the base it rose sluggishly, drawn down by its sheer weight. Ildathech stripped his ragged garments and sat, pushing back against the fat head -- perhaps a human would have to stretch to take it, wait for their unconscious mind to relax their body, but he could simply command his muscles, and they would obey. The length sunk into him, cockhead ramming hard against his prostate, and Ildathech threw his head back and groaned, spraying the experiment's front with his slimy precome. He rode the cock, up and down, grunting each time the fat cap met his hypertrophic gland, sending messy squirts of slime pumping up the length of his cock until the experiment's front was completely soaked.
His body moved by itself, eager to be fucked, and so Ildathech stoked the lusts of the experiment higher, until the monster was rutting upwards with bestial bellows, slamming the full length of his cock into Ildathech's hungry ass. His cockhead sunk deep into his guts, crest of the experiment's hand, wrapped tight around the base of its cock, glancing his ass as he rode its length, the glancing jabs against his prostate nearly as aggravating as they were arousing.
It was certainly something worth investigating: he'd designed his body to be pleasured, every process in it sculpted to that end. But what of a body designed to give pleasure? Certainly that could be improved as well -- reshape the experiment's cock: much shorter, perhaps, to jab a broad, flat head directly against his prostate. Or something like a bestial knot wrapped around the base, so that its prolonged orgasm would be matched by a steady pressure. Even the slobbery fluid pouring into him could be improved: laced with stimulating drugs to be absorbed into his body, or more pearls, semi-solid goo probing and rolling inside him as he was fucked. The shaft itself needed more texture, spines and barbs, something to rasp against his guts. New vistas of experimentation opened to him, reshaping his own body to take the monstrous cock he would bestow on the experiment.
Ildathech came with a screech of his own, cock thumping against the experiment's stomach, spraying him down with wormlike strings of ichor, suspended in grey slime. He groaned, sitting back, riding each of the brutal thrusts, cock spurting and spurting as he coated the experiment's hide in his issue. He sparked its orgasm, body convulsing under him, and it shot its comparatively paltry issue inside him, shuddering and grunting under the aftershocks of orgasm. The experiment relaxed its grip on its cock, fat length losing form inside him, pulpy and heavy -- yes, Ildathech thought, there was a lot to improve here. But with his ideas, and two test subjects in dire need of improvement -- certainly he would enjoy doing the work.