Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (108 page)

“We
Tarsus are asexual, meaning we fertilize our eggs within our own bodies. We
used to have a female of our species, but they died out long ago. After each of
us grows and fertilizes eggs inside our bodies, we need a warmer host body to
lay the eggs into so they can hatch. Luckily for your people we live long life
spans so breeding only happens every few thousand years. Every Tarsus
generation is completely independent of the last as the former generation dies
out giving birth to the next. Gark has given his all as will I after I implant
my eggs in you.” Narg turned and opened a nearby cabinet. Using his agile
under-fingers, he prepared a syringe.

“What
will happen to Dowena? Is she dead too?” Kestra almost screamed the question as
she looked at the grotesquely swollen body of her friend.

“No,
but she is as good as. She’s been seeded with Gark’s eggs and her own body
temperature will begin the hatching process. It’s quite ugly, but all
resources, including Gark’s body are used by the hatchlings. They will
literally eat their way out of her body consuming her before they consume the
Gark’s body. We use mammalian females because you have both a uterus and a
stomach to store eggs in so you can fit all our eggs inside your warm, soft
bodies.” Narg paused and added. “And your flesh is quite nutritious for our
young.” Narg seemed amused by the horrified look on Kestra’s face.

“Don’t
look so horrified, she won’t feel a thing. The eggs carry a drug which
naturally sedates her. She won’t feel the hatching.” Narg now took the syringe
he’d been preparing and injected the helpless Kestra hissing loudly as he did.

Kestra
suspected something sinister, but she was interrupted when Dowena’s huge belly
began to undulate grotesquely. Her eyes could not leave the death scene of her
loyal handmaiden until there was a spurt of blood and a tiny reptilian head
peeked out of Dowena’s belly.

Narg
hissed again. “See, she feels nothing and her body will feed the hatchlings.”

Kestra
turned away from the window. She knew her fate now and the fate of the flower
of Sarconian womanhood. To save their world they had become living incubators
and food for reptilian hatchlings who would someday far in the future return to
Sarcon to claim new slaves.

“Is
it time for you to impregnate me?” Kestra was tired and defeated and all she
wanted was the peace of death. At least she knew Dania would grow up to be
Queen and live a life untouched by the horror she had felt. She and the other
victims had spared perhaps a hundred generations of Sarconian women.

Narg
hissed, his face contorted in the configuration Kestra thought was a sinister
smile. “I chose you to bear my eggs, the moment I saw you. You were proud, an
arrogant mammal who deserved to serve us. I have one last surprise for you.”
Narg carried Kestra into an adjoining room also made to resemble what Kestra
assumed was the Tarsus native environment. He laid Kestra’s naked body on the
floor and she looked up in horror as his penis began to swell up out of his
abdomen. Soon it was worming up her vagina and Kestra felt the eggs filling her
womb. It was the same in her belly when the penis had pushed down her throat,
but while he was seeding her belly Narg made his last hiss.

“I
want you to savor the experience, Kestra. The injection I gave you. It was a
drug which will counteract the natural sedative in the eggs. You will be fully
aware when the eggs hatch inside you. Goodbye, Queen of Sarcon.” Narg’s penis
withdrew from her throat, but the huge lizard wavered and fell with a thud on
the floor near Kestra’s helpless form.

Kestra
knew there was nothing to do to save herself so she closed her eyes and thought
of Dania growing up happy and becoming a great Queen. Kestra prayed Dania would
push the Sarconian people to develop their science. Perhaps in a hundred
generations when the Tarsus again needed warm, living incubators her people
might be able to resist. It was the only way the women of Sarcon would ever
escape being the slaves of the Tarsus.

About
Jennifer Campbell

Jennifer
Campbell lives in a modern log cabin, nestles under the fir and spruce that
cover the mountain her ancestors settled under. She lives with her Master,
Jack, who she serves in an eight year M/s relationship. Not wishing to live
free or die, as the state’s motto suggests, she continues her pure submission.
Jennifer would love to hear from other submissives, especially those who are
touched by her writings about female slavery. Never wanting to forget who and
what she is, Jennifer will sometimes write when she is wearing her collar, or
her nipple chain.

Where The Heart Is

By
Saskia Walker

Come
home, Rhiannon. Come back to me.

Rhiannon
Bryson stirred in her sleep, her awareness sharpening as she faltered on the
edge between reality and her dream world. The man called to her again, luring
her to him. In the dream she was out on the moors and she struggled to move, to
look back over her shoulder and seek out his image. The old manor house was
there just as it had been so many times before, shadowed and looming against
the high crags. Then he stepped out of the mist that surrounded the house,
strode over, and lifted her in his arms.

I
know this man.

His
face was so familiar that it was etched in Rhiannon’s memory, and his heart
beat hard and fierce against hers, locking its beat to his own. He held her
tightly, so tightly she could scarcely breathe. When he dipped to kiss her
mouth time and place morphed, and she was rolled onto a bed. Then he was
between her thighs and thrusting into her, stretching her open, claiming her.
His body arched and bucked, as if he were desperate to find his release within
her. Ethereal touches tantalized her body. Struggling against the torpor of
sleep her skin was feverish, the ache at her center demanding. She felt his
kiss against her throat—and at the moment of climax, his bite.

As
always, it was the bite that woke her.

Rhiannon’s
eyes flashed open and she swallowed hard, panting for breath in the wake of her
sleep-drenched orgasm. Blinking into the darkness she rested her hand on her
chest and found the skin damp. Her core was still in spasm, and she ached for
the ghostly presence that had aroused her so. Denying the truth of her
situation she threw off the bed covers and sat bolt upright. It was a strange
phenomenon, one that she could not ignore. Her pussy was slick—her groin suffused
with the heat of her climax—and a man’s name was on her lips: Edgar.

The
thundering of her heart and the ache of loss made her cry out in frustration.
She ran her hands through her hair and looked around her bedroom, sad to be
back in the here and now.

“Who
are you, Edgar?” she whispered into the night.

That
old familiar ache for the place that haunted her dreams lingered. Home. Somehow
she knew that. Deep down in her soul she knew that he’d called to her from
home.

* *
* *

That
weekend Rhiannon stood on the wilds of the Yorkshire Moors and let the place
fill her senses. The atmosphere was like no other, up here where the high crags
seemed to brush the sky. It was here that she felt closer to him—the man
who stalked her dreams—more so than at any other time in her waking
hours. This was the place that made him call to her, she was sure of it. The
very thought made her heart beat a little faster, her anticipation building as
she hiked out across the landscape. The late-September sun was burning into the
horizon, warming the purple and yellow swathes of rough heather on the far
hills, picking out the thick, lush moss that covered the rocks. Blustery wind
streaked the sky with fast moving wisps of cloud, filling the air with the
heady scent of peat and heather.

This
place had fascinated her since she’d been brought up here on a hiking trip as a
teenager. The dreams started soon after. Strange, erotic dreams they were,
featuring an old manor house out here on the high rolling hills, where eerie
mist and gaunt shadows suggested movement, ghosts, and strange creatures. As
she grew into adulthood, the man had stepped out of the mist and into her
dreams.

“Don’t go out on the moors alone,” she’d been told many a
time.

Rhiannon couldn’t heed the advice because the place called
to her. The sense of timelessness on the moors seemed to tune into her very
soul, and the peculiar heritage of the landscape also kept her a lonely
bookworm, studying everything she could find as she tried to make sense of her
connection to the place. Folklore and legend were just a small part of it. The
area had been a hotbed for UFO sightings in the 70’s and 80’s. All of that, and
more—something innate and inexplicable—compelled her to the place.

It
was quiet and desolate today, and the silence of the moor was somehow filled
with anticipation. That sent a shiver up her back and kept her senses keen as
she followed the well-trodden path. It was narrow but worn by footsteps, some
places inset with blocks of stone, a testament to how old the trails were.

It
was easy to get lost up here, so the guidebooks said, but if you stuck to the
path you couldn’t go wrong. Mostly she did, but not today. Today Rhiannon
strayed from the path into the wild, and yet that wild place felt more familiar
to her than her lonely flat in town and the local bookshop where she worked.
Here, she felt right, as if she belonged to the moor.

“I
know this place,” she said aloud as she kept the high crags in her sights. Her
words were whispered away on the wind. She hurried on, and reached a spot where
an ancient wedge of stone erected on the hill marked out the lay lines on the
moor. The occult insignia carved into its head was barely visible nowadays, it
was so weather beaten, but she’d read enough about it to find and recognize the
sturdy rock.

Rhiannon
observed in awe as the lowering sun sent a shiver of light across the ancient
wedge of stone, exposing its worn carvings. The thrill of discovery quickly
fired her blood. She reached out and touched the stone. Static clung to her
fingertips and then shot up her arm. Rhiannon trembled, but could not break the
contact. Light pooled around the stone and as she watched, in awe, it was
picked up on the far hill and arced across the moor, a prism of startling
illumination lighting the underside of the sky. As quickly as it had appeared
it was gone, and she withdrew her hand.

The
sound of footsteps behind her made her jolt.

Rhiannon.

Her
breath hitched. It was his voice, calling her name. Bracing herself she turned
to seek him out. As she did the sky grew dark and the earth fell from under her
boots. Skidding down into a ditch, her body rolled, her face hit the ground,
and the scent of moss filled her nostrils. When her jaw was forced shut by a
series of impacts she coughed and tasted blood in her mouth. The scrape of
rough, exposed rock tore at her legs. Pain seared her skin and bit deep into
her left leg, and then she felt the thump of hard earth against her back.
Winded by the sudden fall, she grunted heavily. Consciousness faded and she was
gone.

* *
* *

When
Rhiannon came to, the sky was growing dark. She quickly tried to gain some
sense of her whereabouts. She’d fallen about five feet, as deep as she was
high, into a peat bog. Her leg was pulsing with pain, as was her head. She thumped
the earth with her fist, incensed. She’d pulled something in her calf, a
sprain, at the very least. Glancing down she struggled to see in the gloom. The
fabric of her combat pants was ripped to shreds around the painful area and up
as far as her knee. Her shirt was torn too and her chest was exposed and badly
scratched. Blood darkened the rip in her pants and she swore again. She needed
medical attention, but how was she going to get out of this bloody ditch?

Raw
fear hit her. She was out on the moor and dusk was fast turning into night. The
folklore witches were probably the least of her worries. Who knew what madmen
were out here? Never mind the UFOs, more recent reports of big, wild cats
preying on the local farms had hit the news. The tradition of the dark moor had
called to her regardless, that fatal attraction of fear and desire latching her
to the place, beckoning to her relentlessly. It was no one’s fault but her own,
whatever happened. Hot, futile tears stung the back of her eyes. She’d strayed
from the path today, and she’d found the rock marking the lay lines. It felt
significant, and she was afraid.

The
sound of footsteps focused her. She recalled the sound from earlier. Had she
dreamed it?

“Hello?”
It was a feeble effort that caught in her throat. There was someone else out
here, but she wasn’t at all sure if that was a good thing or not.
Friend or
foe?
That’s what they called out during the war. Halt, who goes there,
halt, friend or foe? As if any fool would say “Foe,” and get shot on the spot.
So she didn’t ask if it was friend or foe, she just hoped, and prayed to a god
she didn’t believe in.

A
dark shape blocked out the remaining light—a figure looking down at her.

Fear
built into a solid wall at her back. Looming and silent, its posture suggested
a creature about to pounce. It made her think of the local TV news, a man
scared witless by what he thought was a big cat. An escaped panther the
reporter had suggested, a few weeks back. Was she going to find out why that
man had been so afraid?

The
figure moved across her line of vision, squatted and leapt—on all fours.
She gulped for oxygen, her heart hitting panic rate, and her mouth drying. It
thudded down into the ditch, the dark shape moving toward her, but as it did,
light spilled behind it, haloing it. Moonlight. Had she been out that long?

“Please,
don’t hurt me.” Her voice was barely audible.

The
creature, whatever it was, started to move towards her leg, where it was
hurting so badly.
Oh, no.
She could feel it touching her, moving against
her, nudging up the torn fabric of her combat pants. She writhed when she felt
the flap of torn fabric lifting and then the rasp of a hot, damp tongue over
her sensitized flesh, broad and wet.

Healing
you now.

The
words shot through her mind as her hands grasped at the earth.

When
she tried to rise up the creature moved, swift and sure, and began to run his
nose along the length of her leg, toward her groin, like a wild animal in heat.
Vulnerability and humiliation suffused her. Every nerve ending was wired, her
blood rushing. She had to do something. She lifted up on her elbows and as she
did, she came face to face with him.

He
— undeniably
he
— was feral, wild as the moor itself, but
she recognized him as the man she had dreamed about. He was strong and he
captured her easily, his body squatting over hers, as fit and feral as a big
wild cat, pure feline. His eyes glinted black in the moonlight, his hair long
and unkempt shrouded his face, his clothing covered in a long cloak making his
shape indistinct. He cocked his head on one side, and opened his mouth,
breathing in her scent across his tongue, audibly rasping it in. Never had she
felt so much the object of someone’s attention. Someone, or something. His
face, to all intents and purposes was human, and yet…

“Edgar?”
The question came out of somewhere deep inside her, and she reached out and
touched his shoulder, instinct driving her.

His
head lifted and he nodded at her. That simple sign sent relief flooding through
her. His eyes glistened with some secret inner power.
The spirit of the
moor?
The suggestion whispered around her mind.
Was he the truth
behind the big cat reports, this feral, half-man creature?
“You are
Edgar, and you are in my dreams.”

A sense of calm descended
on her, briefly.

He
growled low in his throat, his hands clutching at her arms roughly, as if
pleading for more, her recognition affecting him visibly. Then his head dropped
back, and she saw his strangely handsome face in the moonlight. His lips lifted
back and he bared his teeth.

When
she saw the fangs, her blood pressure dropped away into nothing.

She
was jolted back again barely moments later, because he hauled her body over his
shoulder and lifted her. Rhiannon was afraid, but clung to him instinctively.
Am
I dreaming again
? No, the thud of his booted feet on the ground
reverberated through them both. He moved fast, scrabbling out of the ditch with
her body easily latched over his shoulder. His strength seemed superhuman. He
half-ran across the moor and she clutched at the cloak on his back, jolting,
pain and fear coursing through her.

Eventually
the path became easier and he wound his way between outcrops of jagged rock. He
paused, then mounted steps and kicked open a door. Rhiannon clutched at his
back, twisting her head from side to side to catch sight of their whereabouts.
Dark as it was, she recognized it. It was the house from her dreams, and he had
taken her inside.

The
long, ostentatious hallway was covered by several of his easy strides. Agile
and fast, he climbed the stairs and took her to a large bedchamber where he
laid her out on a bed. Candles flickered in sconces on the walls, but he pulled
open heavy velvet curtains and she found herself in the spotlight of the moon.

When
her eyes flashed shut for a moment, she knew she had been here before. Strange
memories fled through her mind. Memories of waking in this bed, waking in her
lover’s arms, happy.
This is my room, my home.

How
could it be? She forced the strange images away, denying them. When her eyes opened,
a cry was lodged in her throat.

The
light filtered through his straggling hair, outlining his form. She swallowed
hard when she realized how vulnerable she was. Then he bent over her and lifted
the hem of her shirt, hauling it up and off, baring her flesh as he cast it
aside.

Rhiannon
shivered under his scrutiny, her hands instinctively reaching to cover her bare
breasts. There was no hiding from this man, if that is what he was. His wild
aura was powerful and demanding. There seemed no one else to help her, no
voices came from beyond the walls of the room, and the ghostly candles offered
the only sign of movement beyond him. Did he live here alone, way out on the
moor?

“Please...”
Even as she whispered the plea, she was not sure what it was she asked for. His
presence had affected her strangely. The pulse point deep in her cunt thudded
violently, stimuli from this strange encounter weaving its own spell upon her
baser instincts.
I should be afraid, I should try to escape, but I cannot.