The Fox and the Unspeakable Horror
Story by K.M. Hirosaki on SoFurry
Imported from SF2 with no description.
_ The Fox and the Unspeakable Horror _
by K.M. Hirosaki
It is not without fear or trepidation that I bring myself to tell you this story here. What you about to read is true, and I swear I mean that in a manner that is entirely unlike the claims that preface the ribald missives that get featured in burlesque publications. This is a tale that I swear is unlike any other. I feel compelled to warn you now, though, that if you have not the stomach for the grotesque, the bizarre, and the freakish, that you take your attentions away from my story immediately and not think upon it again.
By trade, I am a private eye, and by species, I am a fox; the former, I chose with direct intent to follow in the footsteps of my father, and the latter I didn\'t choose at all, although again, it comes as a direct result of my father. I should also point out that my story takes place in the 1920s (before our lexicon held such terms as \"bling-bling\" and \"hollaback\"), and that it is set in the quaint little town of Wolfsborough, Massachusetts. One peculiar thing about Massachusetts is that it\'s got a built-in shibboleth that works like an absolute charm. Accents can be faked, some with more ease than others, but one sure-fire test, when it comes to ascertaining whether someone is actually a native Massachusettsian, is to write down the name of three Massachusetts towns at random: only somebody who was truly born and raised in the state would ever be able to pronounce all three of them correctly.
Wolfsborough, of course, does not fit this pattern, as it is admittedly rather easy to pronounce. I assure you, however, that I can flawlessly say aloud the names of Mattapoisett, Sciasconset, and Pettaquamscutt (the last of which is actually located in Rhode Island, but which is far too superb of an example to pass up, and which also serves to prove that I\'m knowledgeable of other parts of New England, as well).
Now, Massachusetts, as you may well know, is notable for two things: downright fanatical loyalty to its major sports teams, and an unusual preponderance of shambling eldritch horrors that have brought several generations\' worth of untold misery upon the local inhabitants. The funny thing about this word, \"shamble,\" is that I\'ve only ever known three things that actually shamble: the aforementioned eldritch horrors, zombies (however uncommon), and foxes that have been fucked absolutely silly.
Coincidentally enough, all three of these things have a direct relation to the story that I am about to tell.
As I said, the story takes place in Wolfsborough, Massachusetts, where I lived and where I did most of my work. I had been hired by a middle-aged wolf (friendly chap, had a nice, gentle smile) to look into the disappearance of his \"cousin.\" I put \"cousin\" in quotation marks because, first off, one typically doesn\'t carry portrait-style photographs of one\'s cousin in one\'s wallet, and also, one would have a hard time having a fox for a cousin when one was a wolf. I think you can put the picture together pretty clearly, by now. If you can\'t, it might help to know that the fox in question\'s name was Meredeth Rombault du Champarnaud, but that he more commonly known the stage name Merry Romper (recall, of course, that this is the Roaring Twenties, and that, all told, it was a rather fabulous time to be a drag queen).
The initial information I was able to scrounge up on Merry Romper wasn\'t much, but I was at least able to learn that he was a frequent sight at both The Firkin and Jerkin and at O\'Donnough\'s. Also, by all accounts, he had substantial trust funds and inheritances, and he had little to no problem with things rolling smoothly off of his tongue (the least of which being words like \"Narragansett\"). Some people might say that O\'Donnough\'s and the Firkin were houses of ill repute, but honestly, their repute was quite good insofar as what they were reputed for. This meant, at the very least, that people had their eyes on Merry Romper, and that as soon as his tail was no longer a constant sight, people would have keened in on it right away.
So, Merry Romper was a rich fox, a pretty fox, and a fox who stood in the spotlight on a very glitzy stage. There were plenty of people who could have benefited from making him disappear, but those people would have to have some big cojones if they wanted to try pulling it off. Rumor had it that Mr. Romper (that is, Mr. Rombault du Champarnaud, Merry\'s father) had hired a pair of cops to keep permanent watch on his Bohemian son; rumor also had it that those were two very, very lucky cops right there. The long and short of it was that my anonymous wolf\'s \"cousin\'s\" disappearance was perhaps not entirely unanticipated, but that it was extremely odd that nobody in the circles he scampered through knew who could have pulled the strings.
Throughout documented history, there have been many cases of people who have disappeared without a trace, never to be found. In Merry Romper\'s case, I was lucky to have at least some leads, and I\'d already been forming some suspicions and inclinations, too. Still, with this being Massachusetts and all, I wasn\'t about to discount the possibility that some of what I\'d always heard of as Old Wives\' Tales might actually be true. First and foremost, however, I am a professional, and so it behooved me to start by looking at the case from a professional standpoint, following Occam\'s Razor.
The logical place to check first was, of course, Merry Romper\'s residence. He lived in a grand little penthouse up on the north side, where the grand little penthouses in Wolfsborough tend to be located. There were no cops outside of his door, on beat, hired, or otherwise, and I confess that I was already getting a chill that wasn\'t just from anticipation. Yes, I was about to break into the private living quarters of a well-known drag queen, and I\'d probably be the first person in there, since the police hadn\'t been notified, and that probably meant that things were going to be preciously undisturbed, but that wasn\'t what I was excited about.
Working a little magic with a bobby pin (which I swear is a legitimate trade tool and nothing pertaining to cross-dressing), I unlocked the front door. Once the door was open even a crack, my nose picked up the smell of blood, but I was undaunted, and pushed the door the rest of the way open. In rather spectacular style, Merry had an enormous vanity mirror set up opposite the front entryway, presumably so that the first thing he\'d see whenever he came home was himself. I couldn\'t help but stare at myself in that mirror (and for the record, since I didn\'t mention, my picture could very well appear next to the dictionary definition for \"roguishly handsome,\" especially when decked out with my gumshoe hat and trench coat); maybe I thought I\'d see some insight, faced with the grim specter of the inner self, but instead, all I saw was the same old dick that I always was.
I went to the nearest dresser and started rifling through it at random. To go by his clothing, Merry Romper had had quite the slender and pretty measurements, and I took a moment to try to picture what he must\'ve looked like, and what it would have felt to have had my hands on both of his hips. I noted to myself that this all made it that much more of a shame that I would never get a chance to know Merry Romper, since—near as I could tell—Merry Romper was now little more than a messy red smear on the wall and headboard of the bed. That, by far, was the saddest notion to have crossed my mind all day.
As it would turn out, though, it would be far from the oddest notion I would end up having that day. In case you\'re wondering—rightly so—what the case of a disappearing drag queen has to do with any sort of unseemly horror, please be advised that I honestly have not lost track of my tale. The dark and mystifying parts of the story become quickly relevant here (or, as is the case with the enormous blood stain, I suppose that the \"dark\" aspects have already begun).
A cursory investigation of Merry Romper\'s living space revealed a few interesting clues. The most obvious of these was that, despite there being quite a fair bit of blood all over the walls and the bed, there was no body, nor were there pieces thereof. This was both disturbing and unusual, but it was also an admitted relief, since I quite doubt that I could have coped adequately with either. Not only was there no body, but neither was there any sign of struggle. This fox was definitely someone who looked like he kept his personal affects in meticulous order, and yet nothing looked disturbed: the mirror was unblemished, the bric-a-brac on his nightstands were all still carefully arranged, and not even a single stick of lipstick seemed out of place. Clearly, if something had happened to Merry Romper in this room, it hadn\'t come to fisticuffs, or even to flailing and slapping.
I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, puffing away as I started to deepen my search. His underwear drawer, while fascinating in its own right, yielded little in the ways of insight or clues; probably, this would be the first place most folks would think to look, so I wasn\'t surprised, but I still made sure to take my time, just in case. Finding nothing, I continued my search, barreling my way through drawers and cabinets and cases until I came across something that struck me as odd. Granted, compared with what was to come, it wasn\'t that odd at all, but for what I had to go with, this was my first lead.
What I had found, buried underneath old sweatshirts that looked like hand-me-downs that had been stored in the back of his closet for the sole purpose of being forgotten, was a large cigar box. Not only are cigars entirely unladylike, but by all accounts, while Merry Romper was known to frequently stick things in his mouth, he didn\'t smoke. Also, this particular cigar box was large and heavy, which probably meant that it held cigars of a size that were more suited for jamming doors open than for smoking.
I tugged the cigar box\'s lid, and I could feel that it was wedged shut. It wasn\'t locked, I could see, so I tugged harder, and with a loud fwoop, it flew open. I nearly lost hold of it, and with a rustle and a flutter, a piece of parchment whirled through the air before it came to rest atop Merry Romper\'s divan. Another trembling sensation went up my arm, spine, and tail as I reached for it, with yet another to follow once my fingers came in contact with the crisp, wrinkled, ancient paper.
Whatever it was, I could tell that it was folded up upon itself. I held it up to the light, and seeing how thick and brittle it was, I decided that I\'d rather not fiddle with it there. I stuffed the potential clue in my coat pocket, rifled through the underwear drawer one last time for good measure, and then sauntered back to my office, careful to the leave the fox\'s room bloody and undisturbed for the cops when they\'d eventually be called to the scene.
I couldn\'t help but think and wonder as to what could possibly have done something like that to little Merry Romper. As awful as kidnapping and possibly torturing a rich urbanite scion in the name of money or jealousy was, it was actually rather terrifying to think that the tales of elder demon beasts were true, and that one of those had so thoroughly destroyed the little fox that neither hide nor hair remained of him. Having never even met him, I felt a twinge of pain and sympathy. Nobody deserved a fate like that. I knew that I needed to get to the bottom of this mystery soon, for his sake, if nothing else.
With the grizzly scene out of my mind, after getting to the office, I felt myself getting more and more preoccupied with finding a way to unfold the parchment as quickly as possible. It was like I was dying and desperate to read it, as if whatever was written on it actively wanted to be read, and it was calling out to me. There was some compulsion to just poke my nose in it, which is different from just the normal vulpine tendency to poke our noses in other people\'s business in that, whenever I wasn\'t actively thinking about deciphering the paper\'s secrets, I would begin to hear menacing voices whispering my name from the shadows, and so focusing on finding a way to unravel this clue quickly became an excellent means of fending off steadily-encroaching terror.
Seeing as microwaves were some decades away from being invented, I wasn\'t able to try that trick where you stick the paper in along with some water, and besides, that\'s a trick for removing stamps from envelopes and not for unfolding crisp and decaying paper. At a loss for anything else (and since I was loathe to bring this parchment anyplace else), I decided to just press my luck, and I took dainty hold on the document with my claws, and tried to just work really, really slowly.
The parchment, as it turned out, was not nearly as brittle as I\'d assumed, and it folded out—quite nicely, I might add—to reveal its contents. Writing was scrawled all over it, looking like it was penned by the hand of someone who had drunk several servings of coffee whilst on no sleep. Prominently drawn in one corner was the outward face of a building that I immediately recognized, from the cyclopean architecture thereof, as the Wolfsborough Public Library.
The Wolfsborough Public Library, I am told (and I must take the word of others on this, as I have no way to verify it myself), when viewed from above, forms the shape of the ancient Lemurian symbol for \"Here.\" I can only surmise that the symbol in the opposite corner, which appeared to be penned in blood, was the symbol in question. The actual text on the page, though, however illegible, was at the very least readable, and so I focused my attentions on that.
After stumbling over the letters, tripping over some older spellings, and finally figuring out that the silly symbol that looks like a badly-drawn ‘f\' is actually an ‘s,\' I found myself reading what was clearly a warning. It told of a book that, when read by mere mortals, would slowly and unceasingly drive them mad, well past the brink of sanity, since it was filled with pretentious nonsense terminology and proper names that all seemed to require unnecessary apostrophes and impossible-to-pronounce consonant clusters. However, if one could get past the fact that the Great Ancient Ones apparently utilized a great amount of phlegm when naming things, then \"ye untolde horrores withine\" would be ripe for the plucking.
This book was known as the Gibberstämmer Tome, and its Dewey Decimal call number at the Wolfsborough Public Library was 299.99.91. Massachusetts being the home to anomalous, diabolic, and phantasmagoric terrors that it is, the Wolfsborough Public Library actually has a very large section dedicated specifically to books of this type, although readers very rarely wander into it, as its creaking floorboards sound like the wails of the dead under one\'s feet, iridescent eyes seem to peer out from the shadows, and the hallway leading up to it is a bit chilly and drafty.
As imposing a prospect as it was, it seemed that my only logical recourse was to go to the library and look for this book myself. I didn\'t want to, but I knew that I had to. Whatever had happened to Merry Romper had somehow involved this ancient and decrepit text, and at the moment, I was the only person who could find the truth. It could very well come at a terrible cost to my sanity or even my physical well-being, but I was too far along and too invested in it to stop now, so I resolved to delve deeper still.
Having now solved the parchment\'s mystery, the echoes of menace no longer resonated in my ears, and so I found my way to the library and headed right for the dilapidated section where the book was to be kept. There, nestled neatly on the shelf, in between Hushed Voices from the Blackness and At the Mounting of Madness, was the Gibberstämmer Tome, and there, written neatly on the check-out card tucked in the sleeve inside the front cover, was the signature of one Meredeth Rombault du Champarnaud. His handwriting was a welcome change from the gnarled-looking runes that embossed the heavy book\'s surface.
The inside of the book was just as foreboding, and despite my having read the parchment\'s warning, I was unprepared for just how foul and wicked the accursed text was. I can scarcely bring myself to describe it here in full, so please, let it suffice to say that the notion that another living being had dipped a pen in ink scribed out these letters under the full intent that it contained actual meaning is something far too mind-bending to ponder. To this day, any given word that happens to contain a ‘G,\' an ‘X,\' and a ‘Th\' cluster sends me into recoils of fiendish memory that wrack at my mind. The less said about these details, the better; count yourself lucky that you do not have access to the Wolfsborough Public Library.
I had little trouble figuring out which section of the book had interested Merry Romper the most, however, and as a result, I was spared from having to read the book in its entirety (and if I had, I shan\'t think that my mind would be in the state where I could tell you this story). The section in question had been dog-eared, and very recent annotations had been made in bright colored pencil. Most prominent among these notes were the words \"THIS PASSAGE HERE!\", which came complete with an arrow pointing out the passage in question.
I cannot describe how my heart pounded in my nicely-furred chest as I read those words, nor can I give adequate words to explain the non-Euclidean field trip that my brain took as it tried to parse them. My tale is chilling enough without in-depth descriptions of the Corpse City of Hasbaquabog, whose streets were lined with buildings constructed of naught but bones and pelts, and whose inner square was home to a citadel from which echoed the constant wailing of souls who were being tortured eternally beyond the veil of death and oblivion—a citadel in which slept the nigh-indecipherable horror that was Thrynqyr-Slobboloth, the Many-Tentacled Beast of the Beyond.
According to that ancient passage, Thrynqyr-Slobboloth, the Many-Tentacled Beast of the Beyond was a hideous, hideous beast with many tentacles, and he—or it—fed upon the darkness that exists with in men\'s souls, the fancifulness that exists within women\'s souls, and the wayward and disturbing anarchistic daydreams of adolescents. Also, he fed upon the flesh of the living and ground the bones of his victims to make his bread, when such was available (that is to say, at times when he roamed the earth as a shambling terror and not when he lay in that darkest of citadels as a sleeping menace beyond the pale). The book also extolled the benefits and glory that came with worshipping His Tentacularness, which included the lucky benefit of being amongst the first to be devoured by his mollusk-like mandibles whenever he arose. Presumably, being devoured was a blissful escape from the fate of having to live someplace like the Corpse City of Hasbaquabog.
The remainder of the text in question told of a way to summon Thrynqyr-Slobboloth from his distant, arcane slumber, and call him forth through space and time to one\'s own location. This section was underlined in what appeared to be eyebrow pencil. Now, at this point, you\'re likely wondering the same thing that I was thinking at this point; namely, what possible reason could anyone have for wanting to intentionally summon a many-tentacled monster?
The answer, as it will come to turn out, is actually very straightforward, lacking any real ambiguity.
Actually performing the ceremony to invoke Thrynqyr-Slobboloth didn\'t involve much more than reciting a chant and sprinkling around some materials that were easily enough acquired at a florist or greengrocer\'s. The tricky part of the deal was that it needed to be performed on a spot where three ley lines all intersected. Fortuitously enough, the Gibberstämmer Tome contains an appendix on ley lines, complete with lovely hand-drawn maps that were obviously created by someone lucky enough to have a protractor. Then, consulting a series of atlases, I discovered that just such a convergence point of ley lines existed right on the spot where Merry Romper\'s penthouse was built.
Was I really serious about doing this? I should have been amazed with myself for taking it all at face value that it would work. After all, this was the sort of thing that people told children to frighten them. This was the sort of thing that people wrote and sold as trashy dime novels. This was markedly not the sort of thing that grown men put their faith in while trying to track down someone who was possibly missing and more probably quite dead. Nevertheless, there I was, with the firm decision already made in my mind that I was going to do this, fully expecting it all to be very, very, awfully true.
A few quick pit stops and an hour or so later, I was back in that bloodied bedroom. This time, however, I felt like I could smell more than just the gore on the walls. This time, I felt like I could smell my own fear rising up off of my fur, and in retrospect, I was right to note that. In one hand, I had tucked the Gibberstämmer Tome under my arm, and in the other, I clutched a brown paper bag that carried the ingredients I needed: some larkspur clippings, a piece of sandalwood bark, and some thyme.
Whether it was hallucination or not, I cannot say, but I felt the book vibrating and shaking against my side. Just like when I had been struggling with the parchment, I swore that I could hear my name being muttered from random directions, and as I continued to perceive the book\'s quivering, I somehow knew that it wanted to be opened up to the page where the summoning spell was written down.
The air inside my lungs felt cold, and it was like the sensation of hands clutching at my chest from the inside, threatening to hold me bodily in place if I attempted to run due to fright. Several long moments passed, each with its own terrified heartbeat resonating in my chest, and I drew a few breaths before I finally willed myself to open the tome to the proper page.
Holding the book open across one palm, I ground the larkspur and thyme together in my hand, and then dropped the bark at my feet. My tail curled up and kept wanting to twitch, and then, I squeezed my eyes shut and steeled my resolve before opening them again in order to read the words written there aloud. Even then, just seeing those words there on the page instilled me with dread. Part of me wanted to stop, but my muzzle started to move, as if on its own accord.
\"Mekka-lekka hi, mekka hiney ho!\" I called out, and my voice sounded like it echoed from the walls, despite the fact that the acoustics of the room shouldn\'t have allowed for it.
\"Mekka-lekka hi, mekka chonny ho!\" I then spoke aloud, finishing the incantation.
Immediately, the room fell silent, and not even the sound of the rattling ventilation duct made its way to my ears. Twilight no longer poured in through the windows, and I could barely see at all as a shape began to take form on the opposite side of the room. Amorphous blackness seemed to congeal, taking its sweet time as it ebbed and clumped and agglutinated, and it gave me quite the case of the heebie-jeebies as the baleful form started to come more and more together.
Finally, the shadow seemed to give way to itself, and I could hear what sounded like something trying to breathe through gelatin. Where was once nothing but darkness was now the ominous form of what I was forced to assume was Thrynqyr-Slobboloth. His countenance was both grim and unnerving: his deformed head was like that of a cuttlefish, and it rested atop wide shoulders and a squat frame resembling that of a frog if stood upright. He also emanated an eerie, almost tangible miasma of putrescence, loathing, and vile mien.
My nostrils stung, and the insides felt like I was breathing in steam directly from a kettle. There was no hit, but there was pungency and tingling, and it sparked a spell of nausea and dizziness. I had to fight to stand upright for the next few moments, and I then forced myself to look back at the creature in front of me, pulling gumption from places that I didn\'t even know I had.
His tentacles squirmed and wriggled hideously as he first spoke in his venomous voice: \"Who dares to desecrate their own presence by summoning me forth by the impious invocation of my name, most profane among those most profane?\"
I stood, shaking, from the tips of my ears to the tip of my tail, and I dropped the book from my hand, gibbering and stammering as His Tentacularness addressed me directly, looking me dead in the eye. Had I not just relieved myself on the way over, I would have surely wet my trousers as I stood there, transfixed by terror in its purest form.
One of Thrynqyr-Slobboloth\'s clammy tentacles whipped out, wrapped around my waist, and squeezed. \"Speak, furred mortal,\" he demanded, \"or I shall take it upon myself to assume that you are but a morsel intended for visceral sacrifice to my putrid being.\"
The thought of being eaten alive by a giant squid-thing snapped me out of my terrible reverie. \"Er, yes, Your Contemptible Majesty,\" I choked out through my dry throat. My brain scrambled for a cover story, and really, I don\'t know what I had been thinking, summoning up a tentacled beast without having thought about what I\'d do once it showed up. \"I, ah... seek only to know what we piteous mortals have done to incur your violent displeasure, O Tentacled One, so that we may rectify it, in the name of your hideous glory.\"
\"Displeasure?\" came the thing\'s garbled response, sounding almost confused. To be sure, I thought for sure that I recognized a tilting of the head of that alien form.
\"Y-y-yes, mighty Thrynqyr-Slobboloth,\" I responded. \"It seems that your previous, ah, vulpine acolyte was reduced to little more than a thin, bloody paste, and I seek only to ensure that your villainous needs are met appropriately in the future. So, then, if you could tell me what, exactly, this...\"
My voice fell silent, as it appeared that Thrynqyr-Slobboloth was still thoroughly dumbfounded by the matter of which I spoke. Once I went quiet, though, the thing\'s beady eyes narrowed in on me, and more tentacles shot from the shadows and seized me, hoisting me up by all four limbs as if I were nothing more than an orange-furred rag doll. The hammering of my heart competed to drown out the sound of the otherworldly being\'s breathing, but there seemed to be a mutual dominance between the two as both echoed loudly in my ears.
\"You seek to curry my wicked favor, as the other before you?\" the monster asked.
\"Yes, exactly!\" I replied instantly, with a fervent nodding of my head, before I had a split-second\'s realization. \"Wait, I mean, no!\"
By then, though, it was too late. Another cold-skinned tentacle had begun to make its way up the leg of my pants, coiling around and trailing up the back until it reached the curve of my buttocks. Yet another wound itself toward me, flicking my hat off of my head before it tore my coat off and shredded my shirt away from my body.
Smaller feelers join that larger one, and they started to play up and down my bare torso, as if trying to familiarize themselves with the texture of my fur or something like that. My chest felt as heavy as a rock, and each vile caress of those grotesque appendages broke through my attempts to just ignore what was happening. There was no way to kill my focus and just let the terrible treatment happen; the creature had me, and he wanted me to know it.
Now, when you\'re a fox, there are certain things that you just have to put up with as par for the course. One of the things that\'s always been something of a pet peeve (or outright frustration) is the sheer futility of trying to convince someone that, just because I happen to be a fox, it does not necessarily follow that I am a submissive little bottom. Historically, it had been difficult enough to convince certain people that my masculine instincts to dominate were quite thankfully intact, and so it seemed that it would be quite impossible to convey such a notion to an incomprehensible alien intelligence from past the veil of our reality.
So it was, then, as my various squeaks, whimpers, and growls of resistance were ignored, and with my trousers then torn away, one of those tentacles began to tease underneath my tail. The smaller feelers wrapped around the base of my fluffy pride and joy and hiked it up obscenely, while the ticker appendage grappled my leg into place, the tip of it rubbing back and forth in slow, squirming circles at my shamefully exposed hole. I didn\'t even have the presence of mind to wonder how and why this unearthly beast knew to do what it was doing; all I could think of to do was struggle, but the more I thrashed my arms and legs about in vain attempts to wrest myself free, the tighter those fiendish tentacles coiled around me.
Thrynqyr-Slobboloth\'s tentacles were more dexterous than I had originally given them credit for, and Thrynqyr-Slobboloth himself seemed to know just how to milk fear from my being. The tip of the thick feeler under my tail kept rubbing in the fuzzy run between my rump cheeks, and if the monster\'s goal was to force me to squirm uncomfortably, he was succeeding rather admirably. Here and there would come the occasional press at my tight little entrance, as if to test both my reaction and my body\'s resistance, both of which must have been plainly obvious.
Then, with no further pretense, that tentacle began its slow, uninhibited press underneath my tail. I don\'t have much else to compare the sensation to, really, but as it happens, the skin of Many-Tentacled Beasts of the Beyond secretes a mucous-like substance with a texture and viscosity not entirely unlike that of petroleum jelly, and so while it certainly wasn\'t pleasant to have my rear end probed and violated by the creature\'s appendage, I was at least spared a good deal of chafing. It didn\'t feel good, of course, but that wasn\'t exactly the point, I don\'t think.
I was yanked up even higher and flipped so that my back was parallel to the ground. My legs were then spread apart, giving my tentacled captor an unobstructed view as his smooth tentacle pump back and forth. My teeth bit into my lower lip, and even though I knew that struggling was past useless, I couldn\'t just let myself sit by and do nothing. I yapped and snarled as the thing kept sliding in and out underneath my tail, but then a pair of smaller feels bound my muzzle firmly shut, and so all I could do then was whine and growl, and that sounded altogether too pathetic.
Desperate for anything to make the sensations I was feeling go away, I tried to just focus on the rhythm set by the tentacle that had wormed itself beneath my tail. It made for something of a distraction, but it was hard to completely ignore the fact that I was, well, getting fucked by a tentacled demon-beast. Even that minor distraction, though, was short-lived, as another one of those thicker tentacles then began to bump and tap against my sealed-shut lips.
The feelers around the side of my muzzle squeezed inward, forcing my jaw to open bit by unwilling bit, and the rounded tip of that fat tentacle pressed in between my lips in turn. This one lacked the same slick film that the one between my legs had, which I was mildly thankful for, and which left me with just the sensation of taut, smooth, turgid flesh sliding back and forth against my lips and tongue, with the occasional probing foray into the top of my throat.
I also discovered that Thrynqyr-Slobboloth also possessed some peculiar powers of mind control, for even as my body was subjected to such disgusting and unwholesome sexual mistreatment, I found myself getting aroused, slowly but oh-so-surely, starting first with a mere teasing stirring in my sheath, but followed soon by my slick length rapidly emerging thereafter. Imagine, now, the abject horror that I felt as the ghoulish fiend used his psionics to play with my mind, deceiving me into thinking that I was actually deriving gratification from the awful sensations of an overfull muzzle, a tight pressure against my prostate, and a feather-light tickle at the pads of my right paw.
Due to this wicked deception, Thrynqyr-Slobboloth\'s putrid feelers sound found the bulb of my knot, and began to squeeze and caress it along with the rest of my member, jerking and pumping my completely unwilling erection. I was then flipped backwards, so that my head was pointing downward and my face was facing away from the thing that held me. Somehow, though, not being able to see didn\'t change things much; I was still just as in the dark as I had been, and it didn\'t stop it from continuing to work its tentacles in and out of my orifices.
The tentacle at my rear slid all the way out of me, and for a moment, I thought that was done with that particular variety of torture, until I felt the blunt end of another, not-as-slick appendage pushing down in its stead. I felt a twinge of humiliation when I felt how little resistance my body put into being violated anew, and as the stalk of the tentacle bulged and throbbed inside of me, it forced the tip of my cock to start leaking down onto the fur of my tummy.
All of this came together to drive my whimpering up several notches, and I couldn\'t even focus well enough to consider fighting off the compulsion to suck needily on the featureless feeler in my mouth. The tightness around my knot increased as the tinier tentacles squeezed and tugged, and instinct sparked within me, making me moan with even louder sounds of pleasure that betrayed me to this mistreatment. All I could do was whine pitifully out from the thin space between my lips and the monster\'s flesh before another poke at my throat silenced me.
I felt myself about to pass out from the blood that was rushing to my head, but before I could, I was flipped back a full one hundred eighty degrees, facing upright and forwards once more. My face must have looked absolutely ragged and twisted, forced into a strange state between arousal, desperation, and ticklishness. When I tried to look away, my head was yanked back into place, and I could barely even pant through my nostrils as the tension around my knot became so great that I simply couldn\'t bear it anymore, and I began to empty myself out with spurt after humiliating spurt of pleasure I hadn\'t ever asked for.
\"Oh, dearest me!\" Thyrnqyr-Slobboloth sputtered out then, dropping me to the floor in shock as my tender vulpine maleness quivered its last, leaving me to lie there on my back with a lingering trickle of seed down the front of my sheath. \"What in all the planes of creation was that?\" The most distinct tone in his eerie voice, then, was easily recognizable as shocked embarrassment.
The next part of the conversation, here, I shall not recount. It, by far, is probably the most revolting and horrifying part of my tale, but to sum it all up, after a discussion and a few crude diagrams used to illustrate to Thrynqyr-Slobboloth what happens to the bodies of boy foxes when they reach a certain age, his greenish skin showed a bluish tone that I\'m reasonably sure was blushing.
Thrynqyr-Slobboloth, it turned out, was not actually Thrynqyr-Slobbloth—or, rather, up until a couple days earlier, his named had been (and I don\'t know what actual consonant formations and apostrophes go in the native ancient spelling, but from his pronunciation, it sounded like) Carl.
\"So, then, what happened to the previous Thrynqyr-Slobboloth?\" I asked. \"How did you come to, ah... supplant His Great Tentacularness?\"
\"To my understanding,\" he burbled, \"he has committed truancy.\"
I blinked. \"Truancy?\" I asked. I didn\'t realize that \"Many-Tentacled Beast of the Beyond\" was a position that could be willingly vacated.
\"Indeed,\" Carl-Slobboloth replied. \"By all accounts, he fled the Corpse City of Hasbaquabog, and was last seen in Poughkeepsie, headed towards the Nether Realms of Shombledam with a fuzzy orange creature not unlike yourself in tow.\"
\"So, then, Merry Romper hasn\'t been brutally slaughtered at the hands of any elder tentacle beasts?\" I asked.
The tentacle beast shook its head. \"It would seem not,\" he replied. \"I confess that I was confused by your statements to that effect, but once I noticed that you seemed to think you were telling the truth, it made things a lot simpler for me.\"
\"A lot simpler for you in what way?\" I asked, cocking my own head.
One of the creature\'s squirmy appendages waggled dismissively. \"Oh, it\'s nothing,\" he said, and then he made a throat-clearing sound. \"Listen, I really ought to go. The mindless citizenry of the Corpse City has to be kept in line, and all, and... well... you know.\"
With that, the shambling eldritch horror made its way past me, awkwardly avoiding eye contact, and it squeezed its way out the door, made its way into the hallway, and disappeared around the corner, never to be seen again.
I was then left with nothing else to do but to put on some of Merry Romper\'s ill-fitting clothing (as mine were in no condition to be worn), and fitting myself into the least ridiculous getup possible, I, too, shambled my way back to my car.
The next morning, I called up the wolf who had hired me to look into Merry Romper\'s disappearance. I told him the unfortunate news that Merry had left him for an out-of-towner named Theodore something-or-other (inasmuch as a \"cousin\" can leave someone, of course). The wolf took it quite well, actually. After all, it was better that he was at least alive and happy, as opposed to being a bloody stain on a wall.
He still offered to pay me for my services, too, but I insisted on only accepting half of what I originally charged him, due to my failure to actually locate the poor boy (I wouldn\'t have charged him anything, in truth, but the Wolfsborough Public Library had a hefty restocking fee for the Gibberstämmer Tome, which I had left behind at the scene, and which had been confiscated by the police by the time I went back for it).
Also, seeing as the rather gentlemanly wolf was down in the dumps about his cousin\'s running away, I offered to take him out for a drink and maybe, if he had time, buy him dinner. After all, he seemed like a nice enough guy, at least from what I\'d seen. I hope that I seem a friendly fellow, even now, after all that I\'ve seen and experienced—things that mortals were never meant to know (and for reasons which I now understand more fully than I can ever convey).
Besides, since he couldn\'t pronounce \"Haverhill\" right on the first try, I knew that he was an out-of-towner himself, and that meant that he would be none the wiser to the true horror that lurks beneath the surface of the countryside of Massachusetts.