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The rumours surrounding the Estate I stood before were as fanciful as they were numerous. From what I could discern, the truth was that its last owner - Neville Covington the Third - was an eccentric millionaire born into his fortune thanks to his oil magnate father. He'd gone to the best schools, studied under the best tutors to eventually become a quite brilliant physician. Along the way he had married a woman known around town to be exceptionally timid but exceedingly beautiful. However, rumours being what they are, he was said to be neglectful in their love, focused too solely on his work and 'other hobbies'.

As I struggled to pry the wrought-iron gate open far enough to squeeze through, I had to wonder how everything had gone so wrong for them. The mansion jutting up from the unkempt gardens rife with weeds was grand, but broken. Shattered windows, peeling paint, neglected for too many years even before the demise of its last owner. Or rather, his 'disappearance'. That little discrepancy is what piqued my interest, my investigative nature and the lure of a story pulling me towards the mystery of Covington Estate.

The moon shone down bright from above, lighting my way across the stone driveway up to the pillared front steps, my flashlight barely registering in comparison. I ran my fingers up the closest column, the chipped white paint flaking off to stick to my sweaty fingertips. I cleared my throat before dusting the white flecks off against my jacket, before doing the same to the jacket to pass them onto the moss covered stone steps. I marvelled at how far the place had decayed in just a decade.

I thought of all the stories I'd been given as I gently nudged several garden ornaments enough to see underneath, hoping for a key but expecting none. First there was his cousin; the only living relative who had known him before he'd shut himself off from the world back in the eighties. She always remembered how headstrong he was; if he set out to do something, it would get done. A trait normally revered, especially in the hands of someone with the money to back it up. But while their childhood together was full of adventures and excitement, in Neville Covington the Third's later years, there was a much darker obsession that had garnered his interest. An obsession with the occult. An obsession which had caused the quite Catholic cousin to sever ties with him.

I couldn't blame her really, certainly not after talking to his groundskeeper. The gruff old man might not have had the best hearing by the time I arrived at his condo, but I could tell from the sharpness in his eyes that he had a perfect memory, and the stories he told were chilling. The other staff - butler, maids and chef - had complained of strange odours from the basement, of lights in the attic. Of things that sounded far too fanciful to be real, but none of that had scared him, the yard and his shed were devoid of such strangeness. No, what caused him to leave was the sudden departure of every single person within the mansion. His eyes glazed over as he recalled the exact moment, a scream he described as being of 'imperceptible silence yet deafening intensity'. I had tried to inquire further, but the groundskeeper just turned from me, staring towards the wall. It was some time before he regained his senses and asked politely for me to go. Of course, after that I had to come. There was no way I was going to leave the mysterious disappearance of the country's eighteenth richest man at 'a scream'.

Just then my relentless foot-poking proved successful as a marble bust of some caesar-looking gentleman toppled backwards, head separating from neck to reveal a key. I stared at the destroyed sculpture for a moment before reassuring myself that the ease to which it was decapitated was probably some inbuilt function and not due to my own forceful methods given the key hidden within. I quickly scooped it up, the pristine metal glinting strangely in the moonlight as I applied it to the door's lock. With a satisfying click and heavy creak, I was in.

The inside of the house - at least in the entryway - was spared the more harsh decay the outside had faced over the years, though the stench of mould and mildew were indicators it was certainly headed down that path. A plentiful arrangement of paintings covered the walls of the main foyer, stretching all the way up to the second story landing. I squinted at the small squiggle in the bottom of several of the artworks before smiling. I'd managed to speak to the painter's son by chance earlier in the day. I had been asking around the local grocer's as to any information regarding the Covingtons, and the gentleman restocking the vegetable section pulled me aside for a chat.

Apparently Neville had been an avid art collector, and the grocer's father a local artist. Many times the millionaire would come around to inquire as to the authenticity of some painting or another that he'd acquired, and would often commission pieces based on existing works by other artists. Apparently the local artist was not a fan of the mimicry, but it paid well, and he had a family to support. And looking over those paintings with my flashlight in hand, I could certainly recognise some of them. But the grocer had hesitated before his final story, stating he was just a boy but remembered the statue well as it haunted his dreams for many a year. His father had been tasked with its authentication but before even a night had passed he'd returned it to Neville, wishing no further commissions from the eccentric millionaire. I glanced around for the sculpture hoping to see it on display, but was left disappointed.

...come...

I whipped around, the beam of off-white light pointed squarely at the door. It remained open just a crack, just as I'd left it. I craned my neck to see if anyone was outside, but the moonlight illuminating the grimy stained glass showed no shadows, nor any sign of another presence. "Spooky house, spooky wind." I calmed myself, taking several deep breaths before continuing up the stairs.

Every creak of floorboards sent a shiver down my spine, as though I were half expecting each step to fall out from under me. But as I reached the landing above, my heart regained its normal speed and I finally felt capable of letting out the breath I hadn't even realised I'd been holding. A portrait of Neville Covington the Third and his wife Nancy stared down at me. Or rather, Nancy looked bashfully to her feet while Neville stared right through me. Even in death, his power was undeniable. Next to the portrait was a gold-plated light switch. I mentally cursed myself for being so stupid as not to try something so obvious, before cursing myself again that I had so foolishly thought this place would still have electricity flowing to it when the click resulted in further darkness.

With a heavy sigh I took another deep breath and pressed on. The first room appeared to be a sewing room, and while I was initially captivated by the dresses in varying states of construction, the presence of full-bodied mannequins had me leave and firmly shut the door behind me. Just, no. The next door was thankfully far less like a horror movie, revealed to be some sort of study. The walls were lined with shelves. One would have assumed bookshelves, though the distinct lack of books would suggest otherwise. However few items had been placed on them in their stead, with only a few ornaments dotted throughout. Some books remained, mostly pertaining to the medical fields Neville had been trained in, along with several volumes of encyclopaedias, but nowhere near a complete set.

The mystery only deepened when I noticed four ruts in the floor where a large chair would be, instead having nought but air atop them. The toe of my shoe traced the wide circular indent of what would probably have been one of the front legs as I pondered its disappearance. Much like the rest of the people in this house, it had apparently vanished into thin air.

...come...

I nearly tripped over a sizable text on respiratory infections as I faced the door; one hand holding the flashlight steady while the other threatened the empty air with a hastily acquired wooden cane. It took several seconds for me to relax, losing the warrior-princess stance but keeping my makeshift club. "Just think of the story." I muttered "This'll go viral, I just know it." I forced myself to believe those words so I could continue. Deciding the room had little else of importance, I cautiously stepped back into the hallway. Glancing left and right, making sure there was nobody else in sight, I made for the next set of doors.

First up was a white-tiled bathroom. And while it still appeared relatively clean and not full of backwards mirror writing or anything else that would be out of place in real life, I still decided to leave the sterile environment alone. I could however see that it connected via another doorway to the next room, which if the four-poster my flashlight could barely illuminate through the gap was any indication, it must be the master bedroom. And right I was, as opening the next door in the hallway I was greeted with a rather well furnished space.

The massive bed was still mostly intact, though given the smell of rising damp it probably wouldn't be in several years. A makeup table on one side of the bed was sparsely populated with mostly unopened or barely used beauty products, while a dressing table on the other side was littered with an assortment of ties, tie pins, and several watches. I was amazed this place hadn't already been looted by every keen-eyed thief this side of the mountains, though the realisation that they'd been smart enough to stay away crept into my mind.

...down....

"Okay!" I half growled and half yelped. I whipped around to face the door again, charging through to face whomever was riling me up. But the empty hallway beyond mocked both me and my improvised weapon. All I could hear was my own panted breath. And all I'd found was a house abandoned. No struggle, no theft, just left alone. As was I.

Alone.

"I am alone." I told myself. "At least I damn well better be." I added in a raised and threatening tone, hoping if those words were not my mind playing tricks that whomever else was would be rethinking their prank. It's not like I was quiet about my purpose in town, far from it. Someone could have easily followed me here, calling out from nearby rooms or through the vents or something. "Deep breaths, deep breaths..." I repeated my mantra as I steeled myself for the inevitable fourth disembodied utterance.

After getting my heart to calm down and dealing with the abundance of adrenaline pumping through my veins, I checked the remaining doors on this level. One was a guest bedroom - largely untouched, so I left it that way - and one led to a small patio. Deciding to remain indoors for the time being, I returned downstairs to look around. I did not get far. The first door I opened was to the kitchen, and it was not pleasant. From what I gathered before a particularly ornery fox snarled at me, was at some point the smell of food in an otherwise unattended galley had summoned the local wildlife, and since then had been home to a number of different creatures.

Even after slamming the door shut the stench of decay and faeces was ripe in the air. I backed off, leaving that side of the house to whatever had claimed it. I quickly found another doorway and hauled myself through before closing it behind. That scent was still there - it would probably take several showers and burning my clothes to be rid of fully - but at least I was able to breathe. And after several breaths I was able to focus enough to light my surroundings with the narrow beam of the flashlight. What lay ahead of me was a large greenhouse, a stone path set into the centre with a glass ceiling overhead shattered from several years of weather damage and what appeared to be at least one fallen branch.

To either side of the path was a tangle of overgrown trees, vines and other assorted plants. Most appeared either dead or very sickly, with only the vines seemingly thriving thanks to their escape through the holes in the roof. I assumed there would be little within this room of use, but was surprised to see my circle of light fall upon a door at the other end of the path. I approached it, assuming it would be the way out that side of the house; an option I was considering taking given the events of the night so far. But upon pushing the door open it revealed instead another less formal entryway. One would hazard a guess at it being the 'servant's entrance' back in the day. I peered around and sure enough found several pairs of boots tucked away in one cupboard along with some jackets and tools, while behind the other door was not a cupboard, but a small stairway.

Consider my interest once again piqued.

The narrow wooden stairs led down into a second study. What books weren't jammed into the assorted bookshelves lining the walls were scattered across several desks, and in one corner, a large red leather chair. A quick glance down at the feet solved one of the night's mysteries; it had been transported not to another dimension, or across the planet, but to this room. I huffed at the anticlimax. All that, for this? Everything that was mysteriously missing - aside from the people - seemed to be here in this room. And yet, there were oddities even among the expected. Huge empty sacks that - according to the lettering on the side - once contained chalk. Thick bundles of straw coated in what appeared to be tar but given the assorted mixture of vials and chunks of material combined with several mortar and pestles, I doubted it was that simple.

Lacking an answer for the question I came to the estate with and somehow with even more questions racing through my mind, I scanned over the books littering the cramped space hoping to find some sort of closure. The missing volumes of encyclopaedias were the most normal texts, with strange thesis on biblical texts and an assortment of animal biology books mixed in amongst them. The more occult-ish looking ones reminded me of the cousin's hesitance and distancing, and as a chill ran down my spine from the imagery embossed on some of those covers, I was beginning to understand how she must have felt. But it was the sexually-themed books that got my attention.

The Kama Sutra stood out immediately, its bright red cover and inlaid golden text identifying it to most anyone who had thought to experiment a little in their youth. Though several others opened to pages of sensual acts had lines of texts scrawled over them in messy and hasty cursive. I closed one to view the cover. "Corncu- uh, Con-cup-i-scentia Carnis? What is that... Latin?" Another one I wasn't even going to dare try to pronounce - Mothachadh An Anama - lay stitched together with leather straps, having at one point been presumably torn in half down the spine. The page it was open to showed several sigils aligned in a circular pattern with very busy lettering around the outside that looked like old English, but could have been just about any language from the middle ages.

...Come...

I couldn't decide where to look, my flashlight dancing across the shelves in a panic, my own thunderous heart the only other sound in existence. I breathed wildly, trying to stare at every point in the room at once while my brain caught back up. If all else failed, I knew I could get at least one decent swing in with the cane. That cane. The one on the desk. On... I looked at the cane on the desk, then at my hand that should have been holding it. It was not holding it, it had two fingers placed on the top of a thick book, slowly sliding along the gold-trimmed edges before catching on the lip of the spine. I watched in curiosity and horror as the book tipped forward, eliciting a mechanical thunk as it clicked into place.

...Down...

The word shot through my spine, but I was frozen in place as the bookshelf shuddered away from my grip, sliding backwards into darkness as a stone threshold was revealed beyond it. I'm not sure how long I stood staring at the void, it could have been seconds, it could have been hours. But when I finally regained my sense of mind I nodded, exhaling loudly. "Nope." I turned to leave, but couldn't bring myself to travel more than a few steps before stopping. I looked at the void again, scanning the flashlight over the ground to reveal the top of what appeared to be a spiral stone staircase.

... come down...

I wasn't sure if that voice was mine or not, the events of the night must have taken its toll on my mind, because what I was considering was absolute madness. "Do you? Do you need to know THAT badly?" I asked myself, the mystery of the Covington Estate felt as though its answer was just down those steps. But so was darkness. And a door that seemed to have only been opened once in the last ten years, who knows when the next person would be along. I might get to the bottom and discover a pile of corpses and a door without a handle on the other side. It's then I remembered the cane.

Stepping back to the discarded makeshift club, I gave it a few test bends, before nodding in acceptance of the minor stress test's result. With a deep breath I placed it in the doorway on the latch side, hooking it around one part of the doorway itself so even if the door closed automatically it wouldn't be pushed clear. "That solves that problem." I muttered to myself, happy I'd at least saved myself from being locked in, while realising now I had even less reason to get out of the spooky - almost definitely haunted - mansion.

I psyched myself up just enough to take the first step, and the rest followed suit as though I were on autopilot. The spiral stone stairs descended into the darkness below, and I did my best to count the revolutions. One, two, was I really now three stories underground? Four? I reached my guess of seven before the ground levelled out to jut off in one direction. Old stonework lined the walls and ceiling, very old stonework. In my research the original house had been built in the early 1700's, and while it had burned down several times, this tunnel certainly appeared to be old enough to have been part of the original structure. But I couldn't waste time musing as to the age or possible archeological importance of the tunnel, as up ahead I could see... light?

...Come...

My body froze, and so did my heart. It took a lot of willpower but I flicked the flashlight off as quietly as I could. There was just enough of the flickering orange luminance for me to gauge my steps as I crept through the passage at a snail's pace. As I neared the lit room, I gasped. A torch. An honest to goodness lit torch; its flame a foot high, flickering with the golden orange glow one would expect from it. It sat within a wrought iron brace upon the opposite wall, and given the consistent lighting throughout what little of the room I could see, there must have been others lit too. There had to be someone else here, someone screwing with me. There was no other possibility. Part of me wanted to storm in and demand answers, but the part of me that won out wished to approach as cautiously and quietly as possible.

Step by agonising step I shuffled closer, ears alert for any sound other than my breathing or the crackle of torchlight. But as I reached the room, it was obvious that I was alone. Though room was the wrong word. Altar. That was the right word. In the centre of the circular space - lit on seven sides by the same kinds of torches I'd already spied - was a raised circular dais about seven feet in diameter. Around its base lay a wide channel filled with white powder; no doubt the chalk from the bags upstairs, but the subtle sparkling of it alluded to something else as well.

...lay... lay down...

Taking a deep breath I did my best to ignore the voices on the edge of hearing. There were more interesting things to do than lie on a cold stone altar. But the thought of the cold stone against my skin seemed to flip a switch in my senses; I could feel the heat radiating from the torches now, the flames slicing through the damp air to form beads of sweat on my brow. After a moment's consideration I removed my jacket, folding it neatly before placing it neatly upon the dais. Taking a moment to stretch, I turned to face away from the stone slab, which is when I spotted it.

The Statue. There was no denying it was the one the grocer had mentioned, I felt uneasy just resting my gaze on it from where I stood. Yet as repulsed as I was with the strange shapes depicted in the relief, I could not help but walk over to it. From a distance one may have thought it to be a stone carving of some sort of ancient fertility goddess. But up close, across every subtle curve, within every suggestive crevasse was a collection of tentacles as though they were some sort of anemone in the shape of a woman. Even its face was featureless as far as a human face was concerned, instead tendrils radiated from its centre, the upper ones flowing back into hair while the lower ones drooped loose like a freshly killed squid's tentacles.

I knew I shouldn't, but I had to. I had to touch it. And as soon as my fingertips made contact with the polished stone surface of the figurine, I knew it was a mistake. A strange energy felt like it flowed straight through me, spreading from my fingertips down to my toes before echoing back. "Fuck..." I moaned, my body shivering in ways it hadn't in too long a time.

...fuck...

The voice bounced through my mind like the energy had only moments before. I knew I needed to get out, there was something wrong with this place, something... perverted. The statue was all the proof I needed to get my mind in gear and get out, but I just couldn't bring myself to. The mystery was still unsolved. The cops found no trace of the Covington's or their staff, and if I had to guess, I'd have said this room was somehow the key to it all.

...Fuck...

I stared at my jacket, wiping sweat from my brow as I realised the room was definitely heating up. With a grunt, I relented, unbuttoning my blouse before getting frustrated and simply pulling it over my head. The damp air felt clammy against my skin, but the heat was abated for the time being.

...Fuck... fuck... fuck...

The voices felt more insistent, and it took all my willpower to ignore them as I continued to survey the room. As a tingling sensation washed over my neck I glanced back at the statue. For a figure without eyes, it sure felt like it was staring at me. Shaking my head I noticed some strange shapes along the edges of the circular room. Curiosity getting the better of me - as usual - I made my way over to the crumpled pieces of paper, unfurling them to see their discarded contents.

The first scrap depicted the same sigils as the page in the makeshift study above; seven patterns spaced around a circle, with another scratched out in the centre. Where the unreadable sigil was located seemed to be just above the belly of the crudely scribed human figure in the centre, its arms and legs spread out to the edges much like the Vitruvian Man's outstretched limbs. I tried to make out the symbol but it was no use, the paper itself had been scratched to remove the ink upon it.

...Touch... Feel...

I gulped, the heat rising once more as I fixed the fit of my bra. Several seconds later I realised I wasn't so much as fixing the bra as fondling my own breasts. As I pulled my hand away, my thumb pressed against one of the covered nipples, eliciting a needy sigh as I tried to focus on the paper in my other hand. No, the papers I'd dropped on the floor.

I took another deep breath and reached down to pick the next ball of paper up. "Just. Focus."

...Fuck Us...

"Fuck off." I growled into the torchlight, un-scrunching the paper. But seeing its contents forced a gasp from my lips. On it was a crude illustration of a woman restrained, her body on display as thick tendrils pinned her limbs down. I knew it was wrong, I should have been disgusted. But something about the lewd art struck a chord deep inside me. Unlike my prior fondlings, I knew my free hand was sliding down my belly. I was completely aware as it slid behind the waistband of my pants, fingers separating underpants from my skin as I sought the slick folds beyond. I stared at the tentacles wrapped around the woman's neck as my middle finger found its mark, gently sliding one knuckle inside me.

It felt like heaven. Like I'd been edging myself for hours only to finally allow myself the pleasure. I shuddered as my index finger joined the other, and together pushed them deep inside me. My knees were weak, I stumbled, and fell. Instinctively I reached out to break my fall, both hands landing squarely in the chalk dust. I had my arse raised up to the statue as I panted on all fours, and somehow I knew it could see me. And I knew what it wanted. I pushed myself back, rocking into a standing motion before kicking my shoes off. As soon as they were discarded, so too were my socks and almost immediately afterwards my pants. It was a blur of movement and rush of adrenaline before I was naked before the figurine.

Something inside me compelled me to twirl cutely for it, showing off my assets as though for an inspection. But as strange as that thought was - and as alarmed as I should have been for having it - I quickly abandoned all but the burning need within me. With two great steps I found my feet planted in the chalk dust, turning in place to sit down on the dais. "Wha... how..." I mumbled, hands spreading out across the warm stone surface. I was struggling to make sense of it, everything logical fighting for room in my sensually crowded brain.

...Lay... Down...

I did as the voice asked, laying down with my back against the stone, and it felt good. I pulled myself into the centre of the altar, wondering if I looked like the figure in the drawing.

...Touch... Feel...

My fingers raced towards my aching desire, plunging deep as I vocalised the sensation. "Yes! Fuck yes..." My feet arched out as I pushed as far as my fingers would go, before contracting in as my muscles spasmed from the sensation. My heels pressed against the stone as I massaged my womanhood in ways I usually reserved for my climax, deep scooping motions that dragged my fingertips across the most sensitive parts of my passage before plunging back into my depths.

...Feel... Us...

As though summoned into my imagination by the voice itself, the sensation of hands stroking my arms and legs flitted through my mind. I paused my ministrations to check if it was just my imagination, and as soon as the flickering torchlight revealed the absence of a disembodied set of hands to match the voice, I returned to slamming my fingers down to the knuckle, willing to assume my own mind was getting the better of me. But whatever it was doing, I was happy with the result. Invisible fingers traced my firm, softly at first then more firm. I cried out in bliss as one hand felt like it was grasping my own, pulling it from my breast only to be replaced by two more.

With one hand free from tending to myself I scratched at the stone around me, the chalky prints marking it in scribbled patterns that I paid no mind to. It was not long before my other hand was pulled from its rhythmic caressing, the climax I could feel surging forward slowly receding as for whatever reason I felt the need to hold back. Except it wasn't me holding back. As though snapping out of a particularly lucid dream I leaned forward, my head looking around me to the chlaky markings on the stone dais.

The six distinct chalk markings.

With my heart beating faster and faster I stared at my recently buried fingers as they traced out the seventh symbol in my own juices. It was not my muscles that pushed those digits, it was not my will. It was something else. I realised all too late that there was no escaping whatever fate had in store for me. As my fingertip lifted from the stone I felt a rumbling beneath me, as though something far below were attempting to break out. I wrenched one arm free from the grip of the invisible hands, attempting to grab something to help pull me off the rock, but only managed to grasp a handful of chalk before something slick slid over my naked chest to pull the limb back into place.

My breathing stopped as I recounted the sensation. It was cold and hot at the same time. It felt slimy, but left no trail. Nor did it have a physical presence. Again I wondered if this were just some combination of my imagination mixed perhaps with an hallucinogenic compound within whatever coated the torches. But as I felt something press against the base of my neck, I was convinced this was no hallucination. I struggled, but it was for nought, as the protrusion turned into an appendage, the prehensile muscle slowly wrapping around my throat as several more of its kind worked their way across my extremities.

All the while those hands continued their sensual stroking, ushering gasps and moans from my lips with each touch. But through the sensory overload there was one pair that felt different. They were softer, they were warmer, and with every gentle caress I felt calm. As several smaller tendrils wound their way around my thighs, spreading my legs wider, I felt those hands cup my face, gently coaxing me towards acceptance rather than fear.

And then I felt it. A swelling between my legs. Something was pushing against my nether lips, something warm and tingly, something... pulsing. I bit my lower lip, the hands stroking my cheeks as I allowed whatever it was to enter me. The madness of it all had all but killed my conscious self, as I wanted nothing more than to be brought back to that edge, that precipice of glorious satisfaction, even if some occult entity would be the one to do so. "Fuck me." I moaned.

..Yes... Fuck... You...

There was no lover's caress, no hesitant entry, no gentle easement. In one swift stroke I knew what it was like to be filled, completely and utterly. Then empty. Then full. "FUCK!" I screamed through gritted teeth, held in place to be fucked like a toy on a stone altar by some ancient demon or god or whatever this mass of invisible tentacles could be defined as. The tendril wrapped around my throat tightened, causing me to gasp. A growling chuckle reverberated through the room as the tentacular fucking increased in pace.

It was too much, I could only deny myself the intense pleasure of what was happening for so long. I began to buck up into each glorious thrust, and after several grunts of my own I began to feel the being railing me match my rhythm. No man had ever been quite so rough, or quite so thorough in fucking me. I gave my limbs to the hands, to the unceasing pleasure of their groping grasps and sensual strokes that drove my libido to new heights. My breasts were being kneaded by an expert, their touch lighting every nerve with masterful movements that had me moaning like a whore. "Please, please please please..." I muttered, begging as my climax was so wondrously close.

...Give...

The hands and tentacles slowed their pace, allowing my mind a moment of time to understand what had been spoken. But before I could ask, the voice continued.

...Or Recieve...

I gulped. Those words were new. Those words had meaning behind them, I could feel it in the very depths of my soul as though my entire life hinged upon the outcome of this decision. It was hard enough to make sense of such a proposition, let alone to do so when your body was desperately trying to push itself over the brink into a mind-breaking orgasm. "Wh-what?" was all I could manage, as I felt my satisfaction creep away with every second of inaction. But the inaction was the least of my worries.

When a lover is buried inside you and they lean down to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, you can feel the bed shift to accommodate the redistribution of weight. As I stared up at the empty room, I felt reality itself bend and warp around my vision. The curved walls bulged and retreated as whatever had been - up until that moment - fucking me senseless, leaned down through the very cosmos to focus it's attention solely on me. Never before had I ever felt so conflicted: so very alone and yet entirely surrounded, intimately and totally.

...Do you... Give... or Receive...

I'd say I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders, but it was not my shoulders where I felt that weight, my abused passage throbbed with equal parts need and exhaustion. Then I felt the calming hands pass over my head, fingers pressing into my hair as they gently scraped against my skin. At any other time such an act would have been an annoyance but right then, it gave me the clarity I needed. I had never been the one to take without giving, and even then I always gave more than I got. Why change now? "Give..." I whispered. My reality was pulled back like a cheezy film effect, the background warping infinitely far away before snapping back to normal.

...Then Receive.

With a mighty thrust, the being hilted itself inside me. I felt my stomach distend from the sheer mass stretching me from inside as I screamed. The walls captured my voice and amplified it, a cascade of sound that poured over me, through me, through every tentacle binding me and every hand groping me. It was as though a billion microscopic vibrators all turned on at once and became the air around me. The scream faded into a white noise of sound, barely perceptible yet utterly deafening as my climax crashed through the bounds of reality into the universe. Wave after wave of pure bliss echoed through my being as I accepted my place in the cosmic order. There was nothing but me and this deity, their throbbing shaft buried inside me as my passage milked it hungrily.

...RECEIVE!...

The shock of having my cervix bombarded by the intense pressure of what felt like a fleshy firehose, was buried beneath the still resonating climax overpowering my mind. Volley after volley of hot fluid fired into my rhythmically contracting passage, and my body was reacting accordingly. I bucked upwards into the empty air, attempting to push deeper the invisible mass that was already stuffing me adequately. I attempted to pull back to impale myself again, but the tendrils wrapped around my thighs held me firm.

Then, as the tingling heat of his seed seeped through my very core I looked down at my body. Through the golden specks clouding my vision, I could see it. The sigil. The brand. The name. It glowed upon my distended belly as formless hands stroked and praised it for the perverse miracle it was. The tentacle around my throat allowed me just enough time to see what it was that I had 'received' before pulling my head back down onto the stone surface.

And then just as soon as it had begun, the monstrous cock pulled out of me, the tentacles unwound from my limbs and I was left once again panting alone on the dais. As the invisible lover and his helpers left, I could feel one last pair of hands gently stroke down my still bulging belly, the chalky outline of a strange symbol replacing the previously glowing lines as my eyes returned to normal.

I placed my hands where I felt the others moments before. I wondered if perhaps the others had chosen to receive, rather than give. And with that thought swimming through my mind I realised what the being wanted. "I shall give your gift to the world." I smiled, spotting the piece of paper with sigils inscribed around a circle. I struggled to lean over and pick it up, the full belly impeding me somewhat. "But this sucker's coming with me."