Jackson in HRPG-World: 2-1 Exploding Kiwis in the Nether Regions

Time to kick off another mini-serial to run here over the next few weeks. I think we'll corrupt a few more innocent childhood gaming memories and continue Jackson's adventures in HRPG-World.

Jackson in HRPG-World: 2-1 Exploding Kiwis in the Nether Regions

Where was he now? Ian Jackson thought.

He was standing on a giant conveyer belt running through some kind of madhouse factory. Giant gears clanked and clacked amongst puffs of steam. A lunatic carousel tune played in the background.

This didn’t look like the usual hackneyed, sub-Tolkienesque setting he expected for a fantasy role-playing computer game. It was a cavernous factory, more suited to a first-person-shooter or horror game, although the crazy organ-grinder music playing in the background seemed a poor fit for either.

Jackson wasn’t alone on the conveyer belt. He might have been tempted to describe them as toys. They were yellow and looked like a plushy doll of a cartoon character—some kind of flightless bird with a long bill. A kiwi?

The dolls were hideous. They looked as though they’d been put together by demented lab assistants working under Doctor Frankenstein. The stitching was crude, visible, and looked more like scars. None of the dolls had legs or feet. Instead, a pair of miniature cartwheels was attached to the sides of their bodies. Jackson doubted they were toys. Children were more likely to run screaming than play with these.

They were also alive.

Jackson watched as one of the bird-doll-things sat up and blinked oversized cartoon eyes. It was maybe about three-foot in height. The thing turned a head and looked around. In animation it looked like a real-life cartoon gone horribly wrong.

More bird-doll-things stirred as the conveyer belt reached an end illuminated with purple and red spotlights. More of the bird-doll-things waited for them, but they were brown in colour rather than yellow and directed the new arrivals with the scowling efficiency of airport security personnel. Jackson watched as the bird-doll-thing ahead of him hopped off the end of the belt. It was given a leather bum bag and pointed in the direction of a growing queue.

Then it was Jackson’s turn. He stepped off the end of the belt. The brown bird-doll-thing was halfway through the motion of giving Jackson a bum bag when it paused.

Jackson was about average height by human standards, which meant he towered over the three-foot-high bird-doll-thing. The brown attendant turned and found its bill level with Jackson’s crotch. It tilted its head up a little, then a little more, and then tilted it up a lot more until it could actually see Jackson’s face. It blinked slowly, as if aware something wasn’t quite right with the picture but not exactly sure what.

“Um, where is this place?” Jackson asked.

Crazy oompah carousel music continued to blare away in the background.

“You’re in the Nether Regions, mate,” the bird-doll-thing said.

Nether Regions? Must be the setting for this game.

“What am I supposed to do?” Jackson asked.

He wanted to ask, ‘What is my objective in this game?’ but most characters he came across, even the obvious designated game tutors, rarely gave any indication they knew this was really a computer game.

“Work for the masters, pay off your debt, get reincarnated back to the living world, mate.”

“Living world?”

“You’re dead, mate,” the bird-doll-thing said. “These are the Nether Regions. Souls are reincarnated here in the form of k’winnies and must work to pay off the debts their sinning accrued during their life, mate.”

“Dead? No no no,” Jackson said, shaking a finger.

He wasn’t dead. It was just a computer game. He was trapped inside until . . . well, he wasn’t sure exactly. He’d thought it was until he completed the game, but the rules—and the game—kept changing.

“Mate, they all say that,” the brown bird-doll-thing—k’winny?—said.

“Look at me,” Jackson said. “Do I look like I belong here?”

The k’winny peered at him. It frowned. Or rather Jackson assumed the expression was a frown given that it had a cartoon bird face rather than a human face. It blinked. Then it turned around and fetched a novelty yellow baseball cap that resembled the top half of one of the k’winny’s heads. The bill had a slender beak stitched into the fabric and there were a pair of large googly eyes glued to the front. The k’winny motioned for Jackson to duck down and then it reached up to place the k’winny cap on his head. It looked up and smiled. All was right in its world again.

Jackson glanced up at the cap on his head and shook his head.

The k’winny bent down, retrieved the greyish-brown bum bag it had put aside and handed it to Jackson.

“This is to hold your tāra, mate,” it said.

That meant nothing to Jackson. He held the bag up and looked at it in bafflement.

Something bumped against his leg. Jackson turned and saw another blearily blinking k’winny had come off the belt.

“Move along, mate,” the brown k’winny said. “You’re holding things up. Move along. Move along, mate.” He directed Jackson with a limb that was somewhere between a wing and an arm and looked fit for neither purpose.

Jackson walked away shaking his head. Maybe it was one of those games where he had to do a bunch of everyday shit for a couple of hours before the real plot became apparent. JRPGs never seemed in any hurry to actually start.

He joined a line of yellow k’winnies. Two of them looked back at him in surprise. At least until they saw the yellow cap on his head, at which point they went back to grumbling amongst themselves as if nothing at all was out of place.

“K’winnies!”

A shrill voice ripped through the factory. The voice was high-pitched, as though the owner was small, but it blasted through the air as if expelled by the lungs of a giant.

“Oh k’winnies,” the voice warbled.

“Shit. It’s Pihanga.”

Jackson turned his head. All the brown k’winnies had suddenly vanished. When he turned his head back the yellow k’winnies had vanished as well. Jackson was left alone to face the small party walking towards him.

Not quite alone. The k’winnies were still there, but hidden behind the barrels and crates littering the floor of the factory. Jackson saw a yellow head poke up from behind a barrel.

“K’WINNIES!”

The head hastily ducked back down. Jackson wondered if he should be joining it, but by then it was already too late. The party, a strange trio of individuals, had reached him.

At the front was a girl. Sort of. She had the dainty body of an adolescent girl or gymnast, but she also had horns, a tail and a pair of vestigial bat wings that looked too small to be anything other than ornamental. A devil girl, in miniature. Her eyes were the colour of raspberry juice. She gave off the air of a stroppy and spoilt teen and dressed as though she hadn’t yet learned the difference between party girl and streetwalker. Spiky black air erupted in defiance of gravity from two pigtails and her pointed ears were adorned with gaudy, lizard-skull earrings. Her red gloves and boots—long enough to reach her elbows and thighs respectively—covered more flesh than the rest of her clothes combined. Shorts that were little more than panties hid her crotch while a band of red leather was all that covered her chest. Not that there was much to cover—she was as flat as an ironing board.

“Aha, here’s one,” she said, looking at Jackson.

Behind her stood a pale-faced man in evening wear that had seen better days. Jackson assumed he was a vampire—one of the old school Nosferatu, not one of those stupid twinkly fairies from Twilight. He was hunched, had a hook for a nose, wide staring eyes and fangs so long they made him talk funny. Jackson supposed he should be scared of him, but he couldn’t quite muster fear in the face of what appeared to be a walking cartoon caricature.

“Are you sure Mithtreth Pihanga? It lookth a little large and . . . awkward for a k’winny,” the vampire said with a reedy lisp.

“Of course it’s a k’winny, Schreck,” the little devil girl said. “See,” she pointed at the yellow cap on Jackson’s head.

Jackson looked up at the bill of the baseball cap. They couldn’t be fucking serious.

The third figure giggled. Jackson had no clue what she was doing here. She looked like an angel—in the cartoon sense. Fluffy white wings too small for flight stuck out from her back. A white ribbon was tied in her long blue hair. She had a similar flat-chested figure to the devil girl, Pihanga, but less of it was visible beneath her sensible white robes. Was it Halloween in the madhouse or something?

“Come with me, k’winny,” the stroppy little devil girl ordered.

“Fuck off,” Jackson retorted.

Pihanga pulled out a gun and shot him in the face.


Given the source material, I may have trouble keeping this one under control . . .

A Succubus for Freedom: Excerpt 6

There are six brand new stories in my new collection, A Succubus for Freedom. I've already run excerpts of five of them. Here's an excerpt from the sixth. It's the twisted homage to Robert E. Howard I talked about back here. This time it's "Barbarian vs. Succubus".

* * * *

Even exaggerated with wine-soaked bravado, none of the tales of the Seraglio of Neeb matched up to the reality. It truly was a temple to the worship of sensual pleasures. The rooms beyond were more sumptuous than even the King’s own chambers. Nanok saw pools of crystal-clear water with fragrant flower petals sprinkled on the surface. Mountains of soft silk cushions were piled upon lush, exotic furs. And the girls . . .

Nanok had never before seen such a collection of comely beauties. If willing wenches were as plentiful as apples on the ground then these maidens must be the sweetest, most succulent fruits of the Gods’ own orchard. Nanok saw sapphire-eyed willowy blondes from Fe’berg; flame-haired temptresses from wild Zeminolia; olive-skinned beauties from the islands of Oran; a dark-skinned Buronthian with her black hair twined together in long braids; girls from every corner of the map he’d travelled to and some from regions he’d only heard of in campfire tales. Their supple bodies were naked save for swathes of fine silk around their shapely hips. All were adorned with delicate golden chains and glittering precious stones. A king’s treasure in metal, stone and flesh, was Nanok’s thought.

This temple even had its own idol. At the far end of the long room, with its legs astride a walkway between two pools, stood an enormous statue of the same horned devil woman Nanok had seen on both the chains of office and capstone above the entrance. Clouds of incense wafted around the statue’s legs.

All civilised men made a worship of hedonism and pleasure, in Nanok’s opinion. At least in Neeb they were honest about it.

The girls remained queerly composed. Nanok would have expected some to flee screaming at the arrival of ten bloodstained and battle-weary men, and wouldn’t have begrudged them. He’d sacked his fair share of cities. He knew full well men with their blood up from battle, even the most noble, often committed terrible atrocities in the moments following a city’s fall. These girls seemed so unafraid Nanok wondered if they might be ensorcelled or lost in dreams of the lotus. The same enchantment seemed to have spread to Nanok’s men. Rather than charging in like lusty sailors finding port after a long voyage, they were stricken with a kind of awe. They entered quietly and respectfully, more like men on their way to worship at a temple than men looking to spend coin and seed at a bordello.

Two veiled maidens—one dusky, the other as pale as a snowfield—approached Nanok and bowed.

“Esqeta told us King Lyoncar is dead and we are to serve you as we served him,” the dusky maiden said.

“We are yours as we were his,” the pale-skinned girl said.

“What is your wish, King Nanok?” the dusky-skinned girl asked.

Nanok smiled. “I have some battle-weary dogs in need of the light touch of a woman’s hand to pick up their flesh and spirits.”

As with the veiled Esqeta, if the women balked at the presence of the sweaty, bloodstained soldiers, they hid it well. They seemed well-versed in that peculiar civilised art of quelling the fires of the heart that Nanok so often found infuriating when dealing with the sophisticated elites. The slippery sons of snakes never let on what they were really thinking. By Dhom, the battle had been hard enough as it was. He was in no mood for thawing the loins of frosty dancing wenches.

He didn’t have to worry. The two veiled maidens led him to a soft pile of silk cushions. Both ran soft hands over the iron-hard muscles of his biceps and thighs while cooing like lovebirds. Nanok grinned. As usual, the daughters of civilisation were only too eager to let in the wolf prowling outside their gates.

Nanok lay back on soft cushions. It was a welcome change from cold earth and hard pallets. Around him the atmosphere grew more raucous as his men stripped off their armour and cavorted with the harem girls. Music—an exotic caterwauling of unearthly pipes, cat-screech strings and beating drums—played in the background. Plentiful food and fine wines were brought in—a coronation feast befitting a new king. And by Dhom, why shouldn’t he enjoy it. He’d earned it through blood and steel, as was the right of all men.

“Ha ha,” Vroo guffawed. “These wenches have been starved of real men for too long. The sagging sceptre of a fat old king is no substitute for the sword of a virile fighting man.” He took a bite out of a large leg of ham and rubbed his face between the breasts of the voluptuous maiden lying next to him.

Over on a plush divan Dranitreb was attempting to woo his maiden like a yellow-bellied Kosskootan—a kiss to her hand, a kiss to her wrist, a kiss to her arm, a kiss to—

“You’re supposed to make love to her, lad, not send her to sleep,” Nanok called out. “Forgive the pup,” he said to Dranitreb’s partner. “He became a man only today.”

Dranitreb blushed. Understanding flashed in the girl’s eye. With one quick motion she had Dranitreb on his back and was astride him. Nanok smiled. The Zeminolians were renowned horse riders. The young pup was likely to find himself broken in like a stallion if he didn’t watch himself.

The corded steel of Nanok’s neck and shoulders softened as he relaxed on the cushions. The battle was won; time to enjoy the spoils. The pale-skinned maiden brought a platter of sweet grapes and fed them to him while her companion caressed his muscles with first her hands and then her lips.

Scented smoke was filling the room like a fog. He watched it spill out of the nipples and sex of the giant idol and roll across the floor like mists across the northern lakes of Abyleen. Nanok snorted, trying to clear his nostrils of the cloying perfume. The scent was pleasant, but too thick. It overpowered his senses and left him feeling diminished in the way a blindfold over his eyes would take away his sight.

A fiery ache blossomed in his body and surged down to his loins. Sensing his arousal, the dusky maiden took off his loincloth and Nanok’s cock rose with the mists. The air must be drugged. Nanok had heard of such things. Plenty of peddlers in the flesh pits of Po-Teat promised all kinds of unguents, potions and scents to help a man’s rod stay straight and true. Undoubtedly King Lyoncar had required a little something of that magic to help him fully appreciate his treasures. Nanok thought it feeble. If a man had a willing wench beside him, he needed no help.

A gong sounded. The music paused.

“Lady Esqeta will now dance for your pleasure,” the dusky-skinned maiden whispered in his ear, close enough for him to feel the soft pressure of her full lips.

Nanok’s interest pricked up. He was curious to see what the mistress of the seraglio was hiding beneath her robes. A great cloud of smoke billowed from between the legs of the giant idol. Like the breath of a dragon, Nanok thought with a small sliver of disquiet. Two slender girls—golden-skinned beauties from far-off Kallahia, waved fans as they fluttered before the cloud like exotic butterflies. The smoke faded and revealed Lady Esqeta.

* * * *

This was the last story to finish for the collection. Originally it was a simple prospect - take musclebound-but-dim stereotypical barbarian and have a succubus turn the tables on them. Then I reread all of Howard's stories and remembered his Conan, the archetypal and Ur-barbarian, is far more clever and cunning than the fantasy stereotypes that followed.

There's a little black joke at Howard's expense buried in the story. It wasn't deliberate, just a combination of words that could be taken to mean something else. I only noticed it was there when I was editing. I thought about editing it out, but that would mean acknowledging I have something other than a lump of black coal for a heart, which patently isn't true. Apologies anyway, Mr Howard, you stupid daft bugger for killing yourself so young. His genius is available to read here, and well worth checking out to see how good the early pulp masters were.

My humble effort, A Succubus for Freedom, is available now as an ebook from here, here, here, and even B&N here, although no one seems to go there anymore.

For the people waiting for a print version, I do have the full coverflat artwork now and I'm just waiting for the print manuscript to go through. I'll post here with details as soon as the print version of the book is available to buy. Sorry for the delay on that.

I'm not sure which fantasy stereotype is up next for "vs. Succubus". I have Rogue and Samurai (with a guest appearance from another of my characters) pencilled in. Any others you'd like to see?

Hentai Game Review: Violated Hero 2

Yay, another monster girl hentai game came out. Yay, another opportunity to lure fresh readers here and pimp books to them under the guise of a game review. As this is a hentai game, if you’re under 18 or likely to be offended by such things, now is the time to steer the mouse cursor up to the top left and hit the back button.

I blogged about the original Violated Hero back here. It was a game with some nicely executed H-scenes, but some rather lacklustre gameplay and a few iffy quirks. Well, it has a sequel out now from Dieselmine and the good news is they’ve managed to iron out a lot of the annoying wrinkles of the original.

They're not kidding around when they say violated...

It’s pricey at $34, but it’s a really chunky file at 1.5GB, so you do get a lot of content. Gameplay-wise it’s similar to the first one—the player wanders around two Dungeon Master-esque mazes, defeating enemies with either sword or magic. Lose (or sometimes win!) to certain enemies and you get a gorgeously rendered Game Over hentai scene where the monster girl performs a variety of different sex acts on the lucky/luckless hero.

The first maze is set in a forest and the second is set in the demon queen’s castle, both with nicely drawn backgrounds. As with the first game there isn’t a lot of strategy other than hit either the sword attack or magic attack button. The player also has the option of a special strong sword/magic attack, but each has a limited number of usages and is best saved for the bosses.

In the original the player levelled up by picking up a stat boost for each monster they killed, which meant an awful lot of tedious grinding against boring silhouette monsters to be able to beat the monster girl ‘bosses’ in order to proceed. This is mostly gone apart from six special conventional monsters (this time with full artwork rather than plain black silhouettes) hidden in each maze that give a stat bonus when defeated. Aside from them, the player levels up each time they defeat one of the main monster girl characters.

Milfy. Cute, bouncy, adorable...and general of an army focused on exterminating humanity.

The mazes are divided into five regions, each containing one of the main monster girl characters locked off behind a mystical barrier. The random encounters in each region are smaller versions of the main monster girl with lower quality artwork. Yes, the idiosyncratic pixelated artwork is back, but at least the main characters are all drawn with detailed artwork. Defeat three random encounters and the barrier pops open. Most of the time the player will do this before they even get to the barrier, so it’s not really a chore.

There are five monster girls in each maze as well as four generals and the demon queen herself, making fifteen characters in total. Common types such as harpies, lamia, slime girls (Milfy is adorable), mermaids and succubi are all present, and even some more unusual creations as well. Each has their own Game Over H-scene, which is the real reason you’re here, let’s face it. In that respect VH2 doesn’t disappoint. As with the first game, the artwork is consistent and well-drawn, and each scene is fully voiced. There’s a reason for that huge file size. Most of the monster girls have at least two scenes and the generals also have a third bonus epilogue scene after defeating you as well. These range from the sexy to the…um…yeah…weird.

Insector. I'm not sure I want to unlock her H-scenes...

Dieselmine clearly had one eye on Monster Girl Quest while developing this, and there’s more of a story this time around rather than a straight dungeon crawl to the Big Bad at the bottom. In particular there are plenty of cutaway scenes building up the characters of the demon queen and her generals.

Overall it’s still a collection of sumptuously-rendered hentai scenes in search of a game, but at least the game elements are less annoying this time around. It can be bought from here and the Dieselmine website is here. If you don’t fancy all the mucking around with AGTH and locales in order to play the Japanese version, this fella is working on an English translation, so it might be worth bookmarking their site.

And finally the inevitable plug. If you like this sort of game may I also humbly suggest giving my books a try, as I’m sure you’ll enjoy them too. Sample stories can be found here.

The difference between censorship and censorship

The Edinburgh International Book Festival is running at the moment and has thrown up some interesting articles. Patrick Ness put out this brilliant polemic on censorship and in particular how social media can cause problems of self-censorship for writers worried about their words being taken out of context and misunderstood. In the latter article China Miéville made the point it's only really censorship when the police show up.

This is a familiar argument and a problem with how censorship is defined. Selena Kitt brought it up here after the problems with paypal and online retailers banning some of eXcessica’s books. The articles around the time generated some debate with other people making the point that it wasn’t true censorship—no government body was actively banning the books; the booksellers were simply refusing to stock the books, which they had every right to do. I argued back then that the semantics of whether or not it was technically censorship were moot if they resulted in the same outcome. It might not be censorship in the pedantic sense, but the end result is still a writer being unable to get their work out for readers to read. There isn’t really a word to fit this ‘soft’ form of censorship, so we tend to use censorship even though it’s not strictly accurate.

This ‘soft’ censorship is especially appropriate to social media and I think Ness has it spot on. A writer either has to censor themselves and avoid trigger topics completely, or risk something being interpreted the wrong way and then have a baying online mob (most of whom probably didn’t even read the original work in the first place) stomp all over their reputation and career.

Ness raised the example of Salman Rushdie. Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses was not banned or censored by Western governments to my knowledge, but after seeing what happened to Rushdie, only an incredibly brave or reckless writer would attempt to tackle the same topics now. Again, this isn’t censorship in the pedantic sense, but the end result is the same—certain work will not be available for the public to read. It’s a kind of censorship by the mob.

And irony of ironies, this is the week when the Save the Pearls and Weird Tales controversy erupted on the internet, a situation that exemplifies Ness’s argument (although I don’t think he’d thank me for drawing the line from A to B).

I don’t want to talk about Victoria Foyt's book too much. I’ll be charitable and assume Foyt was aiming for an anti-racist message, but rather than hit the target, managed to spin around 180° and fire the arrow right through her foot. As a result plenty of people found it racist and were offended by it. They were also offended that Weird Tales (a fiction magazine with a long history) planned to run an extract. Further exacerbating the situation, Weird Tales had recently undergone some kind of editorial coup, with the popular Ann VanderMeer turfed out by the new owners.

This is where being one of those staunch Free Speech Warriors sucks. I fear and loathe all forms of censorship, which by extension means I also fear and loathe Political Correctness, as it’s another form of censorship, albeit by people with more honourable intentions. The moment you start to think certain things should be banned, for the “good”, is the moment you start opening the door to allow other people to ban other things, for their “good”, which might be vastly different and far more narrow-minded than your own “good”. That door should be kept shut and firmly locked. Unfortunately that sometimes means ending up on the side of the river you’d rather not be. As the famous quote goes: “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

Of course, freedom of speech does not mean freedom from criticism. If someone writes something bone-headed and stupid, someone else has the right to call them out for writing something bone-headed and stupid. There is, however, a fine line between honest and deserved criticism, and hounding a writer off the internet and leaving a smouldering crater where a magazine once stood.

I fear the chilling effects Ness talked about in his polemic. Culture is poorly served if writers are grinding their work down to tasteless gruel for fear of the PC police lurking at their shoulder. Free speech should mean exactly that, not “You can write what you like, but if you write things we don’t like it’s back to rounding up trolleys at Tesco for you.” Our culture shouldn’t be ruled by fear.

Given a choice between a world where people have the freedom to write what they want and occasionally fuck it up completely, and a world where people don't write because they're scared of an online lynch mob coming after them if they do fuck it up, I'll take the former. If that means the existence of the occasional disagreeable—even bigoted—book, it’s a price worth paying.

During the rather lively discussion beneath The Guardian article someone made the point freedom to be published is not the same as the right to be published. Ultimately that decision lies with the publisher or magazine. They’re not obligated to provide a platform to writers whose work they find disagreeable, same as readers are not obligated to support businesses they find disagreeable.

I agree with that, but this is not what happened in this case. Rightly or wrongly, Weird Tales had already taken the decision to publish an extract of Foyt’s work. Then—rightly or wrongly—a pitchfork-wielding mob turned up at the gates and forced the publisher into a U-turn. In doing so they denied other readers the chance to make up their own minds on whether or not to support the magazine’s decision. That choice was taken away.

This is censorship by the mob.

No matter the provocation, we should aspire to be better than this.

A Succubus for Freedom: Excerpt 5

Continuing the excerpts from A Succubus for Freedom, here's a tasty chunk from the other new Hell-space story, "Onychophoral Dreams (The Soul Worm II)":

* * * *

It was quiet. I didn’t notice it until it was almost right on top of me and by then I was too surprised to react. She—

That’s the weird part. It’s so easy to focus on the human-like parts and forget their other . . . bits. I know I should think of it as an it, but it’s always a she.

She was right in front of me, not more than a couple of paces and as naked as the day she was born. Cute as well. She had a smile like the girls you always wanted to talk to at school, but never had the courage to ask. Those naked titties of hers were something to behold. Big, round, firm, and with the sweetest pink nipples you ever saw right in the middle of them. Pink like her hair, if it was hair.

I didn’t move. Ever since Beth . . . since Beth . . .

. . .

It’s been a while since I’ve seen a girl’s titties in the flesh. The other guys’ll go to their strip clubs, maybe get more if it’s offered, but not me. That ain’t me. Now there was this gorgeous naked girl standing right in front of me and I was so shocked I didn’t have the first idea what to do.

Except she wasn’t a girl. You only had to look down to past her waist to see that. Where a normal girl would have a cute little ass and maybe long sexy legs if you’re lucky, this girl had . . .

It’s hard to describe. Hey, you know what a velvet worm is? Proper name is peripati or puripatus or something like that.

Nephew of mine likes keeping weird little bugs for pets and that was one of them. They call it a worm, but it walks. Has these stumpy little legs—not like a millipede, more like a caterpillar.

Anyway, that’s what the girl’s lower body looked like—long, worm-like and dark pink in colour, but with rows of stumpy little triangular legs running down each side. She’d reared up so it looked like she was standing upright like a normal girl, but with that long, moist-looking worm body below the waist and fleshy little pyramid legs waving around in front of her. Even if you couldn’t see that lower peripati-whatever body, you’d still know she wasn’t a human girl. She had antennae. They grew out of her temples like the eyestalks of a slug. There was a second, bigger pair, growing out of her hips on either side of her pussy.

Ah, her pussy. It’s going to sound weird, like I’m the biggest goddamn pervert in the world, but I swear to you it was the sweetest damn little cunny you’re ever likely to see. So clean-shaven, as if it had been plucked, and with all her intimate folds tucked up so nice and tidy within her.

I know how I sound—a fucking deviant lusting after freaky demon poonang—but there was something about her exposed vagina. It drew the gaze, grabbed the eye and held it there like it had been harpooned. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m a good man, a god-fearing man. Heck, there hasn’t been anyone since Beth. Yet I was staring and gawping like I was back at puberty with my first porn mag beneath trembling fingers.

And while I was standing there and gawping like a deer in headlights those weird stalks sticking out of where her hips should be opened out into fleshy tubes and sprayed gunk all over me.

The gunk left her tubes as a jet of liquid, but it was already solidifying by the time it reached me—setting like glue or maybe some kind of stretchy rubber. The first sticky line hitting me in the chest knocked me out of my trance. I tried to struggle free, but it was already too late. She stood there and squirted more sticky threads over me until I was totally gunked up.

At that point I noticed the sticky gunk was eating right through my clothes like acid and I really started panicking. I thought for sure I was going to be melted in freaky alien slime. I thrashed around like a berserker.

Not that it did me any good. The thick threads stretched, but they were strong like thick rubber and stickier than glue. The girl thought it was funny. She stood there with her arms under those perfect pink titties and her shoulders moving up and down like she was giggling.

I was a crazed animal at this point. I was dreading the moment when the slime finished eating through my uniform and started to cut into my flesh.

It didn’t happen. As corrosive as the gunk seemed to be to clothes—and hair—I didn’t feel any pain or loss of sensation when it reached my skin. It felt warm, sticky and kind of pervy. Yeah, a weird description, I know, but that’s how it was. The stuff covered me and I felt all dirty and excited at the same time, like I was about to have illicit sex with that girl at school everyone warns you to steer clear of.

I kept pulling at the sticky, stretchy filaments, but my motions were slower now, like a punch drunk boxer on the ropes in the tenth round. I was stuck fast and knew it.

“Have you quite finished?”

Yeah, she spoke perfect English. It was a shock to me too. I stopped struggling and stared at her like I was an inbred redneck.

Her voice was high and sweet, kind of like a young woman being all teasy and girlish. She had that kind of face as well, if you ignored her weird antennae things.

“You won’t break loose, no matter how hard you struggle,” she said.

She was right. I was all trussed up in her sticky white ropes. What unnerved me was part of me seemed perfectly happy with this.

“What do you want?” I asked.

She didn’t miss a beat. She reached down and hooked a finger right up between the folds of her pussy. I swear that sweet little face went and gave me a smile dirtier than the filthiest jezebel.

* * * *

Out now on Amazon, B & N, Smashwords and other ebook websites.

A Succubus for Freedom: Excerpt 4

A Succubus for Freedom is already out as you might have seen. I don't have exact details on when the print version will appear - hoping to have more information on that soon. In the meantime here's another excerpt from one of the new stories, "Come on the Candle". (Sorry about the repetition for the people who've already picked up a copy - I'll make it up with a new Jackson in HRPG World mini-serial starting here after I'm done with the ASfF promotion season.)


* * * *

“She looks like a devil,” Vince said.

The candle looked like the kind of prop you’d expect to see in an old Hammer film about Satan worshippers.

“That’s because she is,” Annette said. “She is Arpella, spirit of lust and temptation. The ritual is a rite of cleansing. By spraying his seed onto the candle, a man is—in essence—telling her: ‘Take this. It has no hold on me.’ It’s a way of demonstrating he has transcended the pleasures and desires of the flesh.”

“Arpella?” Vince queried. “Not Lilith?”

The sculpture looked like a Lilith, or one of those succubus demons from a computer fantasy role-playing game.

Annette laughed. “That’s a Christian invention,” she said. “They took their stories from the Romans and modified them, just as the Romans took theirs from the Greeks, and the Greeks took theirs from sources long forgotten in the dust of history.”

Vince looked at the candle. “This ritual. All I have to do is light the candle and masturbate over it?”

As genuine as Annette sounded, he couldn’t quite shake the fear the attractive shopkeeper was having a joke at his expense.

“That’s right,” she said.

“Sorry. I’m picturing this in my head and it looks . . . well . . . a little ridiculous to be honest.”

“Smell the wax,” Annette said.

Vince put the sculpture to his nose and took a cautious sniff. Oh. That smelt kind of nice. Exotic. Like perfume or incense, but with a hint of something else. His previous mental image of him jerking away in front of the candle was swished off screen and replaced by a picture of a dusky desert maiden belly-dancing in a cloud of scented smoke.

“That’s the real magic,” Annette explained. “The wax is impregnated with a special blend of aromatic compounds and essential oils. As the wax melts they’re released into the air and inhaled by the user.”

“Oh. It’s a kind of aromatherapy,” Vince said, understanding.

“Yes,” Annette said. “The smoke will help you relax and achieve the perfect state of mind for flushing all the tensions from your body.”

That was good to hear. Vince was a little apprehensive about the ‘flushing’ part.

“Actually,” Annette lowered her voice, “one of those compounds is quite a potent aphrodisiac. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the force and strength of your release.”

The shop owner might have the voice of a prim and proper schoolmarm, but right there and then she gave him a look as filthy as any of the nymphs from the naughty films Carolyn had forbade Vince from seeing.

* * * *


It's Annette Brite up to more mischief. This one is best described as like "Bubble Bath", but with smoke. I haven't forgotten about that foam succubus minion either. I'll be catching up with her in the next collection.

And yeah, I know, Vince is a bit of a strawman. . .

A Succubus for Freedom: Out Now!

You can’t escape . . . You won’t want to escape . . .

Succubi and other monstrous femme fatales abound in M.E. Hydra’s fourth collection of wild, warped and wickedly dark erotica. Lie back and enjoy as alluring sirens ensnare helpless prey in thirteen weird tales of sex and horror. They'll give you pleasures beyond your wildest dreams, and terrors beyond your darkest nightmares . . .



Here's the full list of the stories:

A Succubus for Freedom
Exile
Guard Duty
Don't Fuck the Flowers
The Biggest Tits in the World
A Night at McHooligans
Barbarian vs. Succubus
Onychophoral Dreams (The Soul Worm II)
Naga Massage Review
Come on the Candle
What Bad Boys Get For Christmas
Riding the Medusa
Locked in with a Succubus

Some of the titles will be familiar, but I managed to boost the original story content up to nearly half. Six of the stories are brand new and only appear in this book. I also modified a couple. "Locked in with a Succubus" should now have an ending that makes more sense. "The Biggest Tits in the World" is actually my lowest rated Lit story, partly because of some scale issues in what happens. No problem - Lovecraftian Geometry to the rescue!

The six brand new stories feature the stone tablet succubus being thoroughly evil in a hefty 11K word novella (if you like your demon girls BAD, you'll really enjoy this), the Robert E Howard 'Conan' homage I mentioned in previous posts, something a little experimental with some lush descriptions of hell, an odd succubus summoning rite with candles and smoke, and two Hell-space stories featuring some bizarre (and sexy) monster girls.

Why are the chapters for "Locked in with a Succubus" alternating with the other stories instead of in one place?
Originally it was a weekly serial and I wanted to preserve that feeling of having a 'pause' between each chapter. It's one of those things that might work or could suck. It wouldn't be any fun being independent if I couldn't do the odd bit of experimental craziness now and again...

The book can be found on amazon, and in amazon UK (where no one actually reads me, which is ironic considering they're the only people that might understand some of my more obscurer references! :) ). It's also on B&N, smashwords and also directly from eXcessica's own site. I even put it on various romance fiction sites, because that's where we upload books, although I pity the poor person downloading it in search of fuzzy paranormal romance.

I hope everyone enjoys it anyway. Sorry it was so late coming out. It does mean I can now finally get back to Succubus Summoning 201, another project I've fallen a little (okay a lot!) behind on. I would love for people to leave reviews, but appreciate that amazon's insistence on real names might make that unappealing for some people. Please feel free to let me know what you think in the comments below or even email me directly at manyeyedhydraATgooglemail.com. The same for any suggestions. I can't guarantee I can satisfy all of them, but I don't mind tweaking scenarios to cater to specific fetishes (especially ones I haven't got around to covering yet) or even tweaking character descriptions if there's someone/thing you'd like to see in a story.

A Succubus for Freedom: Out this Friday!

Yep, that's right. A slot opened up and so it will be out August 3rd after all. It means I'll have to compress my book plugging, but hey, who wants to read book plugs when you could be reading the actual book.

Here's an extract from the title story, "A Succubus for Freedom", to celebrate:

* * * *

Andy thought the girl from his dream was just that—a dream. Then he saw her in the flesh a few nights later while they were playing a gig at The Wyld Hart.

The Wyld Hart was an odd sort of pub. It was too far off the beaten track to be absorbed into the bland franchise chain conglomerates and it didn’t have the history and character to be one of those defiant locals’ haunts. It wasn’t really the town’s rock pub either—that was The Drunken Choir out on Newcastle Street, where the bikers hung out—but it had been colonized by the metal and emo kids from the town’s schools and college. They had nowhere else to go, so they fetched up at The Wyld Hart because it had a jukebox that wasn’t full of R’n’B and Landfill Indie.

The landlord didn’t mind. The kids brought custom and even if they were ‘funny looking’, they were a lot less bother than their peers, who normally required scraping off the vomit-sodden streets every Saturday night.

Scott Battersby was normally around anyway, and no one messed with Scott Battersby.

Most people assumed Scott was the landlord even though this wasn’t the case. He did rent rooms up on the first floor and spent most of his time either behind the bar or manning the door, but he didn’t own the pub. Scott looked intimidating—bald and squat like someone had taken a seven-foot person and squashed them down to six—but he was a decent enough bloke in Andy’s opinion. Unless he was in a mosh pit. Then you stayed the fuck out of his way. Andy and the band had gone with him to a Megadeth gig. Scott had been quiet for most of the night, and then “Hangar 18” came on and a neat hole formed in the crowd around him as Scott started moshing. Scott was old school.

Scott read the board they’d chalked the band’s name on as they were setting up their gear.

“Perverts In Satan’s Service?” he said, doubtfully.

“Our new band name,” Stidolph said. “Cool, isn’t it.”

“You do know what it spells out?” Scott said.

Both Andy and Chris gave him the dejected ‘yeah, we know’ look.

Chuckling, Scott shook his head and walked away to tend the bar.

Confusion fluttered across Stidolph’s face. “What’s the problem? Is there something wrong with the band name?”

Andy put a hand on his face.

Stidolph wasn’t exactly the brightest spark, but he was still a decent frontman. The gig kicked off and straightaway he was snarling out lyrics and prowling the front of their makeshift stage as if possessed by the spirit of Ozzy himself. Of course, it would have looked more impressive had he been, you know, taller than five-foot-four.

They were halfway through a cover of Dimmu Borgir’s “Succubus in Rapture” when Andy saw the girl from his dream amongst the collection of onlookers that might loosely be termed the crowd. It was impossible to miss her. She wore a lurid red corset that accentuated her cleavage, an indecently short miniskirt and kinky red fishnet tights. Goth-wear with the kinkiness dialled up to eleven. Andy was so surprised to see her he fucked up and missed a few beats. It didn’t matter as Chris did the same. The only one who didn’t fuck up was Daniel, and that was because he was staring at the floor.

The girl watched them all the way through the set. She leant against a pillar in the centre of the room and looked so hot Andy wouldn’t have been surprised had the old oak timber caught fire. Both Stidolph and Chris were convinced they were the ones she had eyes for and showed off accordingly. Andy was a little unnerved. She looked exactly like the girl he’d dreamt about a couple of nights ago.

She wasn’t the only unexpected onlooker. As Andy was packing away his kit at the end of the gig he noticed Richard speaking with Scott over by the bar. No, more than speaking, laughing and joking as if the two men were old friends. Whatever could a boring fart like Richard have in common with an old-school thrash-head like Scott?

He didn’t get a chance to ponder it further. The hot girl, her eyes smouldering, was walking towards them. Both Stidolph and Chris stepped up to introduce themselves. She walked straight past them without a sideways glance. Her burning eyes were on him. They had been all night.

“Um . . . hi . . .” he started.

The girl shushed him with a finger on his lips. Her other hand grabbed a twist of the T-shirt covering his chest and formed a fist. Both Stidolph and Chris gaped at him in surprise as the girl shoved him in the direction of the toilets.

Yes, for the first time in rock history, the hot chick ignored the singer and lead guitarist and went straight for the drummer.

* * * *

Hey, someone found the succubus tablet . . .

It'll end in tears. (But there'll be some hot sex along the way).

Here's the nice coming soon link on eXcessica's site. It'll also be out on Amazon, B & N, Smashwords and the other usual places. I'll put the links up on Friday. There will be a print version, but it will probably be a week or so later. Given that I've never managed to successfully synch an ebook release with a print release in my entire (short) writing history, this will not exactly come as a surprise.

A Succubus for Freedom and other tales of Obscene Orgies, out Friday!

A Succubus for Freedom: Excerpt 2

Okay, so the 3rd was a smidgeon optimistic. The 17th is looking more likely now. Sorry about that.

By way of an apology here's another excerpt. This is from "Riding the Medusa", one of two previously unseen H-space stories in the collection.

* * * *

When Gossow had first heard about Riding the Medusa he’d thought the guys were yanking his chain.

“So you let her wrap her tentacles around you and reel you right up . . . and then you fuck her . . . ?”

Gossow might look like a hick and speak like a hick, but that didn’t mean he had nothing but straw between his ears. He recognised a game of wind-up-the-new-guy when he saw it.

Of course this was early on, before he’d heard all the other rumours. Turned out H-space was a really fucked-up place, with the emphasis on fuck. The eggheads had managed to open up a doorway to super-porno-rapo world.

Erlandsson’s theory was they hadn’t left Earth at all. He reckoned their brains had been fried by some kind of failed military experiment. Here was some kind of hallucination or dream; they were really drooling vegetables back on Earth.

He could be a morose little fucker sometimes.

Gossow had stabbed him in the thigh with his knife. Not hard, just a little prick. See. No dream.

“Yeah. You let one catch you and pull you right up to her. You don’t have to do anything. Just lie back and she’ll do the rest.”

Gossow wasn’t convinced.

“It’s a jellyfish. Won’t it be cold and squishy?”

“No man. It’s fucking awesome. It’s like fucking an ass and pussy and getting a blowjob all at the same time.”

* * * *

And that was how Gossow came to be standing on a rock at dawn, as naked as the day he was born, stubby erection between his legs, with the great black expanse of Lake Latex stretching out before him. He trembled with excitement as he saw a jellyfish girl glide down out of the roiling clouds towards him.

Come and get me, babe.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Erlandsson hissed from his hiding place in the rocks.

Gossow motioned for him to be quiet.

Erlandsson was there as his wingman. A man going off to Ride the Medusa needed to have a good wingman, if he wanted to live. As good as sex with a jellyfish girl was supposed to be, it would kill a man if it went on for too long.

Initially Gossow was sceptical on that point. He didn’t know much biology, had spent those lessons drawing smiley-faced sperm in the textbooks, but he was fairly sure it was physically impossible for a man to come himself to death.

That was until he was part of the team that had found Private Wiberg.

They reckoned Private Wiberg had gotten a little too excited after hearing the stories and gone off to try Riding the Medusa without first finding a wingman. Private Wiberg had been eighteen. The body they’d found looked like it belonged to an eighty-year-old.

Riding the Medusa needed a wingman. Their job was to wait until the man had had his fun and then put a bullet through the balloon-like bell. Then pfft, the man would float gently back to earth as the balloon deflated. Technically the men had strict orders to avoid the jellyfish girls, but as the girls’ bodies always evaporated to nothingness after hitting the ground, no one would ever find out. As long as a man brought along a wingman, Riding the Medusa was easily the best recreational activity to be found at FOB Rigg.

* * * *

You just know it's all going to go horribly wrong . . . ;)

I'm still waiting on eXcessica for an ISBN number. I'll post the coming soon link as soon as it's ready and hopefully A Succubus for Freedom will hit the amazon store and everywhere else on the 17th August.

A Succubus for Freedom: We have a cover!

Tentatively, I also have a date, which is next Friday (August 3rd). I'm just waiting for confirmation on that. It will either be that or the 17th. These vagaries happen when writers write too slowly and miss their scheduled slots. :)

I'll post a more detailed follow-up including the full story list as soon as I have confirmation.

A Succubus for Freedom: Excerpt I

It's a little (lot!) overdue, but I'm down to the final editing and formatting for my 4th collection of short stories, A Succubus for Freedom and other tales of Obscene Orgies. There will be thirteen stories in total, with six of them being brand new, never-before-seen. Here’s an excerpt from one, “Exile”, to whet the appetite.

* * * *

I don’t know who They are, but I know They exist. They left me with that even as They gouged out everything else. They left me with the knowledge this is my punishment, but not what I’m being punished for.

They left me a reminder of what I’ve lost.

If I close my eyes I can see it. Somewhere else. A world of fire and passion. It’s there in my memories, a far-off tunnel I walk down until I emerge into a maelstrom of flames and screams. Countless voices soar and swoop in a crescendo of pain and fear. An orchestra of agony, playing the most sublime symphony of suffering, its instruments countless tortured souls.

It is beautiful.

Pure.

Leaping flames twist and sway across the midnight-black sky. They dance like exotic birds with long plumes of brilliant yellow, red and orange. Their partners for the dance are souls pinned on long blackened iron spikes. Ten feet high the flames reach, caressing feet, ankles, hands, sexes with long flickering tongues. The flames’ lascivious touch scorches hair, chars skin and melts fat. There are pauses in the dance, when the flames die down to flickering red embers. It’s a respite to allow fingers and toes to regrow, molten fat to solidify back into tissue, and skin to creep back over scorched muscle.

The souls scream loudest then.

Looming beyond the fires are the great iron windmills. Powered by great sails of living human skin, black cogs and gears turn ceaselessly, a constant metronome to the unending orchestra of agony. There are people caught in the gears. Caught between the teeth of unyielding metal, their bodies stretch and twist but never tear. The cogs turn and turn, contorting individuals into stretched tubes of skin and meat with a core of splintered bone.

Nothing truly lives here, so death has no dominion. There is only sensation.

Eternal sensation.

I walk down a path paved in mewling babies, their bodies compacted into living blocks. They stare up at me with eyes like glossy marbles and cry through tiny mouths lined with teeth as white as precious pearls. Their wails buoy me up like a feather in a breeze. Up ahead is the palace where she awaits me.

I enter her chambers and walk through into a room where she sits on a throne upholstered in human skin. The still-living heads of the skins’ owners are positioned at the end of each armrest. They chatter and gibber nonsensically to each other while she ruffles a hand through each head’s hair.

She. My vision of perfection. My avatar of passion.

My succubus.

I drink in the vision of her sitting on the throne, one lithe leg crossed over the other, like a starving vampire in the presence of a virginal beauty.

No virgin is my succubus. No trace of innocence clouds her eyes. They burn with lust and passion, fires to turn all her human prey into moths eager to cast their pitiful mortal forms into the burning sun of her desire. I feel that black hole attraction and she mine.

More than simple hunger burns in her eyes as she uncrosses her legs and stands up on obsidian black hooves. A moist tongue dabs around exquisite full lips. I take her hand and together we exit her throne chamber.

Her bed is covered in the still-living skins of a hundred virgin women. Their owners sigh and moan, and the bed undulates as they thrust their sexes at me, begging me to fill them with my prick. I ignore them. Only one sex interests me.

I throw my succubus onto the shifting bed and get on top of her. There is no need for delay or patient build-up. Our passion is a conflagration needing no spark to ignite. The close presence of our bodies is enough. Her legs wrap around me, hooves crossing behind my back as I drive my prick into her boiling sex.

* * * *

A Succubus for Freedom, coming soon. I’ll the post the exact details here as soon as I have them.

Even more Monster Girl filth from dlsite.com

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Recently, I Have Been Reading . . . Conan!

Conan, lots and lots of Conan . . .

Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian is one of those characters where you think you know who they are, but then you realise you only know the caricature of who they are. I read the L. Sprague de Camp-padded out paperbacks when I was a young lad because they were cheap and had lurid covers with warriors fending off snakes the size of double-decker buses. I came back to Conan because I had an idea for a story where the classic muscle-bound cliché of a barbarian is easily outwitted by one of my succubi.




However, Howard’s Conan is a completely different beast. Multi-lingual, well-travelled, whip-smart, adept tactician; he’s a lot more than a dumb beast with a big sword. Despite this, Conan still manages to be in significant danger in most of his stories. Howard’s Hyborian world is a dark and dangerous place, filled with hostile tribes, dark magic and the occasional Lovecraftian abomination. While Conan is freakish by normal human standards, he needs to be to survive in that world, and often only does so by the skin of his teeth.

The books I remember were padded out into paperback novels by de Camp. Howard’s original versions were stories that appeared within the pages of Weird Tales. With the exception of The Hour of the Dragon (which is still on my to-read list), the stories are all novella length. Despite the brevity, Howard managed to pack a lot of story in each tale. Given the doorstop-size of most fantasy epics nowadays, it’s astonishing to think one of the grandfathers of the genre managed to build his lushly detailed world within the slimline pages of magazines. And Howard’s world broods. Each paragraph sweats atmosphere and menace.

I believe most of Howard’s stories are out of copyright now (tragically, he committed suicide at the young age of 30). I accessed them through Project Gutenberg Australia here. Well worth a read to appreciate just how good the early pulp masters were.

As for my own muscle-bound expy, well you can see how they get on in my forthcoming collection, A Succubus for Freedom.

Let’s just say they aren’t the real Conan . . .

Literotica's Contest Scoring Explained

A question from Ed that makes better sense to answer as a short blog post (and to assuage my guilt over leaving it there for three days without replying):

"AS an author, would you say generally its better to give a story a 5 rating or none at all on literotica or just for contests?"

For Lit's contests, sad to say, no vote is indeed better than anything other than a 5 for the majority of authors. The reason is how the scoring works. For an entrant to be eligible it must pick up at least twenty-five valid votes. Once a story gets over that threshold, the score is then the average of all votes. This can throw up the counter-intuitive scenario where a story with twenty-five perfect 5 votes will place higher than a story with ninety-nine 5 votes and one 4 vote. It's not Literotica's fault. Whatever they run with is going to be less than perfect, because that's how it is when judging an activity as subjective as writing short stories.

So, while a 4 is technically a "good" vote, because the winning entries usually end up with final average scores of around 4.80+, it's easy to see it doesn't take too many "good" 4 votes to completely torpedo a story's chances of winning. Unless the author is struggling to reach the twenty-five vote threshold, they really want 5's or nothing. Knowing this, the savvy authors tend to enter very long stories with slow build-ups, warm and fuzzy endings, and obtuse titles so that the more disinterested readers have already backclicked long before they even get to a rating button.

(Now what kind of cynical, soulless monster of an author would even think of engaging in such shameless skullduggery. *whistle* Iron Girders and Steel Springs *whistle*)

At the end of the day it's best to treat the contests as a bit of fun and not too seriously. If you think a story only deserves a 4 (or a 3 or . . . ulp . . . less), give it a 4. Ultimately all literary contests are nonsense. Peel the layers back and all that lies at the heart is flawed subjective opinion.

Good for a giggle, though.

New story for Literotica's 2012 Nude Day contest

At some point soon I'll be starting previews for the my next collection, A Succubus for Freedom. Sadly there's the small matter of finishing the last two stories first so I can edit and upload the manuscript. They're putting up a bit of a fight. More news on that when I have an exact publication date.

In the meantime here's a brand new story I've been sitting on until Literotica's Nude Day short story competition opened up:

Iron Girders and Steel Springs

It's a monster at 11K words and is also a bit of a change of pace for me. Bizarrely, given how many horror stories I've written, this is the first time I've tackled this particular horror trope. Actually, if you don't count "Vampiric Boobies" as a vampire story, this is the first time I've tackled any of the big three supernatural horror tropes.

Normally I enter nasty horror stories into Literotica's contests for the amusement value. This time I thought I'd try and put a serious entrant in for a change. Hence the length, slow build-up and additional focus on characterisation (these are common features of most winning entries).

If you like it, and I hope you do, please show your appreciation by rating the story a '5' at the end (given how Literotica contests work, anything else is worse than not voting at all). If you don't like it, sorry and don't worry, we'll be back to the usual succubus-related mayhem in the forthcoming collection.

Jackson in HRPG-World: 1-4 Puff-Puff Setback

Time for the conclusion.


Jackson in HRPG-World: 1-4 Puff-Puff Setback

Moréhâgg placed a long finger at the corner of her full lips and gave him a coquettish smile.

“The next one will take me to zero health,” Jackson said.

He didn’t know what would happen then. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Moréhâgg shifted position in his lap. Her labia tightened around the root of his cock, preparing for the final suck that would take Jackson right to the Game Over screen.

“Please.”

Moréhâgg paused. She smiled down at Jackson.

“The fight has gone long enough. My Coup de Grâce move is ready.”

Coup de Grâce? Monsters had those as well?

“It’s my super special move. You’ll really like it.”

Moréhâgg started to move against him. Her hips rocked against him with light bounces that gradually increased in force and frequency. Her heavy breasts swayed as she bobbed up and down. She was really fucking him now. He felt the cloying suction of her pussy every time she lifted her hips. The cushioned cuff of her labia bulged out every time her body slapped down against him.

Jackson felt a trembling tension jangle through his legs and buttocks. A pleasant wriggling sensation squirmed in his balls. This was fucking crazy. He was about to come buckets inside a boss of a stupid JRPG.

And it was going to—

(kill?)

—Game Over him.

He couldn’t do anything. He was helpless and about to receive her ultimate attack, whatever that was.

“Can’t we talk it over?” Jackson said. “I have gold…” he added hopefully.

Moréhâgg kept her upper body still as her hips smoothly bounced up and down on Jackson. She stared straight ahead and moved her arms and hands in front of her breasts in sinuous motions that looked like some kind of weird yoga move.

“Ultimate Succu-Fuck Drain,” she said.

Her hands moved in a circle. A glowing pentagram spun out from each palm. They expanded and tipped over into horizontal circles wide enough to contain both Moréhâgg’s and Jackson’s bodies. One, its outline ghostly, sank down through Jackson until it was lying flat on the floor. The other rose above Moréhâgg until it became a floating counterpart to the circle on the floor.

This looked bad. Real bad.

“Um…Um…” Jackson started. He gave the edges of the circle he was lying within a nervous glance.

Moréhâgg gave an orgiastic moan. The circles flared with purple-black light, forming a shining column that enclosed both of them. The stone floor suddenly vanished and Jackson was falling into some kind of purple-black matter that gave beneath him like spongy-soft cushions. The impact jammed his cock deeper up inside Moréhâgg. The squishy walls of her pussy clenched even more tightly around him. He felt his glans pushing up against some kind of soft fleshy sphincter. It gave with a pop and so did Jackson. He shuddered as a warm gush of pleasure flooded out of his trembling body.

Now he really was coming buckets.

Red numbers appeared above his head and whirled like slots on speed. One hundred…one thousand…

Moréhâgg’s eyes were closed. She looked serene as she straddled him. Her chest quivered and throbbed in time to the pulsing suction tugging on Jackson’s cock. He felt it, a soft orifice that wrapped around the swollen head of his erection and sucked spurt after spurt out of his quivering member.

…ten thousand…

Moréhâgg sighed in ecstasy and squeezed her breasts. Jackson writhed beneath her, his body no longer under his control as she emptied his balls with great lusty swallows.

…one million…

Emptied him.

Jackson passed out when the numbers hit forty-four million.

* * * *

“Bless you, child. The Almighty watches over you.”

Jackson woke up in a church with a priest standing over him.

So that’s what happened when his health hit zero. He went back to the last save point. Phew. That wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was worth ‘losing’ that fight a few more times before proceeding, he thought with a grin.

Huh, what was he doing back in his shitty starting clothes? And—

His gold! They’d taken all his money and equipment!

“Motherfucking cunt-faced bitch!”

The priest placidly ignored his outburst.

That wasn’t all. Something didn’t feel right.

“Hey dickwad, how much XP until the next level?” he asked the priest.

“You require fifteen experience points to reach level two.”

“Level two! I was level thirteen!”

“It appears you were hit by a very powerful level-draining attack,” the priest said.

Jackson wasn’t listening. He sat with his head in hands. Thirteen levels gone, sucked out of him. All the grinding he’d done over the last week, wasted.

Level one.

“Fuck.”

Oh well, nothing for it. It was back to the starting area forest. He had a lot of those annoying blue bouncing slime-things to kill.


I failed to kill my protagonist. How negligent of me. Oh well, I guess we'll hear more of Jackson's trials and tribulations at some point in the future.

For those that haven't guessed it already, the JRPG I'm referencing (hopefully obliquely enough to not have my ass sued to oblivion) is the Dragon Quest series, in this case IX. The series has a running innuendo joke about Puff-Puff. It's harmless innuendo exploited mercilessly by the corrupted cesspool I have for an imagination. The actual game is fun and perfectly safe for children.

Jackson will return in "Exploding Kiwis in the Nether Regions".

Jackson in HRPG-World: 1-3 Puff-Puff Setback

Part 3 and Moréhâgg's special moves are a little on the XXX-rated side. You have been warned...


Jackson in HRPG-World: 1-3 Puff-Puff Setback

“You seem a very angry young adventurer. It’s time to use one of my special attacks. I think you’ll like it.” Her red eyes twinkled as she smiled at him. “How about it? Would you like to see my Puff-Puff attack?”

Jackson shook his head. Puff-Puff. Really. Those wacky Japanese, always trying to get crap past the radar.

“Isn’t that some lame euphemism for rubbing your titties in my face.”

Moréhâgg smiled. She placed her hands on either side of her swollen breasts and squeezed them together. Jackson almost expected to hear some kind of stupid boing sound effect.

“Why don’t you close your eyes, relax and enjoy it,” Moréhâgg said with a voice like crushed velvet.

“Yeah right,” Jackson said. “And when I open them you’ll be rubbing two of those stupid slime creatures against the side of my head. Or it will be two sheep rubbing their asses against me. Don’t bother trying to tease me. I know this is an E10 game. There’s no way you’re getting your tits out.”

Moréhâgg pounced, knocking Jackson on his back and pinning him to the floor. She straddled his chest and unhooked the catch holding her latex corset-thing together. Her breasts—big, pink and extremely bouncy—bobbed free.

They were…impressive.

“You were right with the first guess,” Moréhâgg said with a lascivious smile. She caught her swaying mammaries and cupped them in her hands.

Jackson looked up at the swaying mounds of creamy-pink flesh. He clearly saw the perky little pink points of her nipples. What the fuck was going on here? This didn’t happen in battles. They all followed the same ridiculous yet inviolable laws.

Moréhâgg’s red eyes twinkled. Her moist lips pouted as if for a kiss. “Puff-Puff,” she breathed.

She fell forwards, burying his head in the warm space between her large and extremely soft boobs. Jackson lay back, unable do anything as she covered his face with her bosom. She twisted her upper body from side to side and Jackson felt the soft mass of her heavy breasts paff his head one way and then the other.

Giggling, Moréhâgg pressed down harder. Her arms went around the back of his head and she scooped him up into the smothering embrace of her cleavage. Jackson’s head, wedged up between her soft boobs, moved from side to side as she twisted her body. Her skin felt like the smoothest silk as it rubbed against his cheeks. His nose and mouth were pressed so tightly into her chest it was hard to breathe.

Moréhâgg had no intention of suffocating him just yet. She let his head fall away enough to allow him to take a breath. He inhaled air saturated with the heady musk of her body. Laughing, she paffed his head with her swinging breasts. Then she was pressing down again and squeezing her tits together around his face.

“What do you think, adventurer? Nice aren’t they. Have you ever felt a pair as warm and as soft as this?”

Jackson hadn’t, although he couldn’t admit that. His mouth was filled with her overflowing chest. She let him take another hasty breath and then started squeezing her boobs against the sides of his face again, squeezing them like they were super-soft rubber balls.

Was this an actual attack? What kind of fucked up game was this?

Actually, it felt pretty sweet.

At least up until the point when Moréhâgg didn’t lift up to allow him to take a breath. Instead she responded to his squirming struggles by pressing her chest down even harder, smothering him as effectively as if she’d placed a pillow over his face.

“I need you nice and pliant for my other moves,” Moréhâgg said.

Jackson wriggled as he tried, unsuccessfully, to squirm out from under her. His lungs were aching.

“And now my other Puff-Puff attack.”

She lifted her smothering bosom. Her breasts shivered and two thick purple clouds of perfume puffed out of her nipples…

…right as Jackson sucked in a much-needed lungful of air.

Ohhh…

The fumes rushed up to his brain and sent it sailing away on fluffy, perfumed clouds. He lay back on the floor and felt all his muscles relax as the tension drained from his body. Well, not all of it. Down between his legs he felt a great deal of tension straining against his underwear.

“Time to make you a little more comfortable,” Moréhâgg said. “It’s far too hot in here to be wearing all this leather armor.”

She went straight to his groin, undid the buckle and pulled down his leather leggings. Jackson didn’t resist. He thought he might be hallucinating as there were little dancing pink hearts floating in front of his vision. Moréhâgg pulled away his cotton underwear and his cock bobbed up like a hypnotized snake.

“Ooh, nice,” Moréhâgg said. She ran a moist tongue around her glossy red lips.

The hearts went away. Jackson noticed the comfortable paralysis that had kept him still had ended. He could move. He tightened his grip on his sword.

The succubus noticed too.

“Humph. Lucky roll,” she pouted. “The entrancement should have lasted for at least another two turns.”

Rolls? Turns? What was she?

Jackson started to raise his sword.

Moréhâgg poked his wrist with a single finger. “Block.”

Jackson’s hand fell back onto the floor.

Moréhâgg shifted position. The pink mountainous peaks of her naked breasts loomed over Jackson’s face.

“Double Puff-Puff.”

Her nipples were already expelling more clouds of perfume as she dropped down and mashed Jackson’s face up between the soft pillows of her breasts. Mewling in pleasure, she rubbed them against his face. Jackson’s vision vanished beneath jiggling pink flesh. Moréhâgg made a lot of indecent noises as she smothered him with her tits. Three times she pressed down hard enough to cut off his air, and three times she allowed him breaths tainted with her cloying, magical perfume.

At the end of it ‘Jackson is unable to move’ was scrolling through his head like a child’s first attempt at a goto program. A silly grin was plastered on his lips and his cock was throbbing hard enough to burst.

“Better,” Moréhâgg said. “That should keep you still for a while.”

Jackson couldn’t move, but other than that his thoughts were relatively clear…apart from the distraction provided by his raging hard-on. Moréhâgg squatted right above it. Her vagina was completely exposed, naked and not even pixelated. Jackson’s cock wasn’t pixelated either.

This had gone way beyond lame innuendo. She was really going to fuck him. That couldn’t be right. Even the sleaziest of game developers wouldn’t dare going this far.

Well apart from that crazy dude who’d made that fucked up monster girl game.

“Um, isn’t this a children’s game?” Jackson said. “E10+?”

Moréhâgg cocked her head. “You’re over eighteen aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then quit complaining.”

She sat down.

On his cock.

Unable to move, Jackson watched as his throbbing hard-on slowly vanished inside her. It felt like he was pushing up inside a cup of some kind of warm, soft, gooey substance. Moréhâgg sighed as she reached the base of his penis. Her labia puffed up, forming a tight cuff around the root of his cock. Her pussy wriggled around him and a thick cloud of pleasure diffused down his shaft and through his body.

“Oh yes,” Moréhâgg sighed.

She closed her eyes. Her left hand squeezed the firm globe of her breast. Her pussy stopped wriggling and instead squeezed tightly around him, packing her soft squishy tissue up against every over-sensitized millimeter of his throbbing hard-on.

Jackson’s mouth fell open.

That felt nice.

At least until the familiar slap he felt every time an enemy’s attack hit him. Forty-four flashed above his head in red numbers. Moréhâgg gave a contented sigh. Forty-four flashed above her head in green numbers.

She was draining his health points to replenish her own?

Her pussy relaxed, feeling again like a cup filled with warm gooey jelly.

“Mmm.” Moréhâgg shifted position. Her chest, and the pleasant curves of her breasts, rose as she drew in a relaxed breath.

She breathed out and her pussy pressed tightly around his cock with a moist squish. Jackson’s legs quivered as he felt her soft flesh squeeze his erection with a pleasant pulsing motion.

The pleasure was again forestalled by a slap as forty-four flashed above his head in red numbers. The same number appeared above the succubi’s head in green.

She gave an indecent sigh. Her cheeks reddened. Both of her hands squeezed the bulges of her tits together.

“This is my second favorite action,” Moréhâgg said. “Do you like it.”

“I’m not sure I like what it’s doing to my health points,” Jackson said.

Moréhâgg tipped her head back and laughed. She shifted position in his lap, bouncing against him with little rocks of her hips. The gooey flesh of her pussy pressed tightly against his cock in another smothering embrace. Snugly gripped, Jackson felt more pulsing little sucks run up his throbbing shaft.

Oh…Oh…

His heels rattled against the stone floor. His hips moved against her with involuntary jerks. Her body was a soft warm centre wrapped around his most intimate organ. He thought he might have come. Something had oozed out.

He felt another weird slap as another forty-four point chunk vanished from his health and went to the demon girl straddling him.

Moréhâgg opened her eyes and smiled down at Jackson. Her face had a contented glow.

“Back to full health,” she said.

“That’s…uh…good to hear,” Jackson said. “That means you can stop, right…?”

Her three hits had taken over ninety percent of his health.

Moréhâgg placed a long finger at the corner of her full lips and gave him a coquettish smile.

“The next one will take me to zero health,” Jackson said.

He didn’t know what would happen then. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Moréhâgg shifted position in his lap. Her labia tightened around the root of his cock, preparing for the final suck that would take Jackson right to the Game Over screen.

“Please.”

Moréhâgg paused. She smiled down at Jackson.

“The fight has gone long enough. My Coup de Grâce move is ready.”


Uh-oh, things do not look good for our hero chew toy. Concluded next Saturday...

Jackson in HRPG-World: 1-2 Puff-Puff Setback

The story continues...


Jackson in HRPG-World: 1-2 Puff-Puff Setback

“Welcome to the lair of Moréhâgg the succubus, adventurer,” horny fetish-bait said. “I’m going to enjoy playing with you.”

“And ima gonna give your face a good turkey-slappin’ wiv my penis,” Jackson said.

Jackson had given up bothering to say anything sensible. It was a JRPG. No one had more than three lines of dialogue and it didn’t matter what he said anyway.

Demonic perv-magnet pouted at him. “Wouldn’t you rather I sucked it instead?”

Eh?

No time to ponder what he’d thought she said. He felt that strange swirly dislocation that indicated he was about to enter battle. His vision blurred and then cleared. He was standing in the same location, but everything around him appeared crisper, as if he was seeing it all at a higher resolution.

That included the succubus.

Jackson smiled and shook his head. So predictable. Didn’t matter what age the game was aimed at, the dirty old developers couldn’t resist sneaking in an obvious fetish fuel character for them and their audience of adolescent boys to perv over. Jackson used to be one of those adolescent boys before he’d grown up and realized how sad it was.

Moréhâgg was worthy of a good perv. She looked like filth incarnate. She possessed the mountainous silicone-enhanced peaks of a porn actress welded to an impossibly thin wasp waist—the kind of figure that could only exist in hentai. Her costume wasn’t exactly there to preserve modesty. Her shiny purple top revealed more cleavage than it hid, and the glossy material was stretched almost to bursting trying to contain her abundant breasts. The eye-shaped clasp that held the thing together at her chest looked like it might pop at any moment. Most of her flat belly, including the little dimple of her navel, was exposed. Her long lithe legs were covered in kinky fishnet stockings that ran down to a pair of sexy stiletto heels. The stockings were attached to her waist with suspenders.

Fetish fuel. Pure filthy fetish fuel.

She was also the area boss. Jackson could tell—she had her own battle theme.

That was the other stupid thing. Every time he went into battle, music would start playing even though there wasn’t a single musician in sight. Usually it was something wibbly-warbly that was meant to be rousing, but instead sounded like someone farting through a tin in a bath full of semen. Moréhâgg’s music was different—slow and slinky. Dirty.

Wait!

Jackson noticed she wasn’t wearing any underwear. He looked between her legs and saw a neat little bar of trimmed pubic hair and the shadowy cleft of her pussy.

This was…unexpected.

He remembered her words before the battle had begun. Had she actually said what he thought he’d heard her say?

Moréhâgg stood next to the throne and gave her long red nails a bored glance.

“Are you going to do something, or do I have to wait here all day?”

That jerked Jackson to attention. Yes, it was his turn.

He charged forwards and slashed Moréhâgg across her ample chest. He felt the impact and Moréhâgg doubled up. Thirty-one flashed above her head in floating red numbers. Then she stood back up straight and Jackson saw no visible mark his attack had hit her.

None of his attacks ever did. Jackson had slaughtered hundreds of stupid gonks in the ruins above and in the countryside leading up to them and his blade was still as pristine and shiny as if it had been freshly forged. Kids’ game. No blood effects allowed here.

“Is that all?” Moréhâgg taunted.

Jackson knew he’d damaged her from the numbers he’d seen flash above her head.

She looked down at his sword.

“No wonder. You’re still using that? Why didn’t you get the better one at the last town?”

“Waste of money,” Jackson muttered at his toes.

Never buy weapons. There was always the same or better hiding in the next chest. That’s how JRPGs worked.

The demon girl threw a fireball at him and he smoothly dodged it. He didn’t know how much health she had left. Probably not much. The fetish fuel enemies were usually pretty flimsy, but they often made up for it with lots of annoying status-changing attacks. Best if he finished this quickly. Time to use…

“Oh, are you going to use one of your special attacks?” Moréhâgg asked. Her eyes shone with excitement.

Who was this? She was the first character Jackson had encountered that seemed aware they were in a world constrained by weird videogame rules.

“Come on, let’s see it,” Moréhâgg said eagerly.

Jackson took up a stance with his sword. He hated this part.

“Aww, are you embarrassed,” Moréhâgg said. “You know it doesn’t work if you don’t call it first.”

Jackson knew. Unfortunately.

“Super Slash,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Stupid Japanese anime conventions. She was right though, it didn’t work unless he called it first. Jackson hated that. It always made him feel like the dorkiest Dork McDorkien.

The succubus put a hand to her mouth and giggled.

Flames flickered along the edge of Jackson’s sword.

Laugh this off, bitch, he thought.

He charged and hit her with an upward stroke that flung her backwards. Seventy-one flickered above her head in red numbers.

Yeah! That’s more like it.

“Like that, huh,” Jackson said. “After I beat you I’m going to use this ‘bad’ sword on you like a dildo. If I’m feeling nice I might even insert it hilt first.”

“Ooh, kinky,” the succubus said, standing back up with a smile on her full lips.

She threw another fireball. This time Jackson blocked it with his shield, taking no damage.

“But it’s your other ‘sword’ I’m interested in.” The succubus glanced down at Jackson’s waist. “Even if it looks a little small.”

What the fuck!

“Fuck you!” Jackson shouted.

He connected with another sideways slash and thirty-one flashed above Moréhâgg’s head.

“Fuck using my sword. I’m going to shove a hammer up there instead. No, one of my shields!”

Moréhâgg spun back around to face him. For all her exaggerated curves, her moves were as fluid as a dancer’s. She placed a long finger against her silky smooth cheek.

“You seem a very angry young adventurer. It’s time to use one of my special attacks. I think you’ll like it.” Her red eyes twinkled as she smiled at him. “How about it? Would you like to see my Puff-Puff attack?”


Come back next Saturday to see what Moréhâgg's special attack is. It's rather naughty...