Words of the Worm

By Gerbil-Bee
published April 4, 2020
4763 words

The Cult of the Clutch embarks beyond the jungle and into the outside world, bent on spreading the word of Anha’ch to everyone and everything.

(Apologies for a very late return to the story. I kinda fell off the wagon due to irl stuff and now the coronavirus. I hope I can regain my creative spark through this quarantine period. This chapter is less lewd than my previous ones in part because I’m trying to go for some different plot ideas.) -Gerbilbee

“All together now, my children. Our’s is a will of unity, a bond unbreakable that binds both body and soul. Our’s is a truth of glory, a heritage so rich that it can never be denied. All shall know of our existence!”

  • Decree of Anha’ch

    Many months had passed since the tribe fell to Anha’ch, and the Sun God’s dissapearance. The Gods knew nothing of what had happened to their brothers, yet a constant, pricking feeling in the back of their minds gave them reason to fear that the worst had passed. The Gods had scattered from the heavens, and descended upon Earth, hoping that their presence would deter Anha’ch from looking to conquer their charges as he did with the Chint’xe. Yet the Great One was not fazed, he was hoping that his brothers and sisters would show themselves, for he had so much retribution to visit upon them. Though he knew not where his brothers and sisters hid or where their human charges dwelled, the worms he released would serve him well in locating possible areas where they held influence. Of course, not all of humanity was under the influence or care of a God. Indeed, a majority of humanity was left godless to allow them to develop naturally. To the Great One, this was very much a game of expansion as it was a game of conquest. Anha’ch preferred he be the first to arrive and assimilate these distant humans before his brothers ans sisters could come to protect them from him.

C’you, Jutah and the Cult of the Clutch had made great progress, already passing thousands of miles out of the tribe’s traditional territories. Each step they took signaled to the creep that followed behind them, claiming the land for Anha’ch’s empire. The inquisition was also successful in capturing runaway tribesmen from the night of the Great One’s invasion. Many had indeed ran off into the deep jungle and, when found, the Cult immediately set about to punish them. On one occasion , the Cult found an entire refuge full of people who had escaped the Great One. They were camped past the Tuka’chot mountains that cut through the jungle. The mountain was considered treacherous terrain and few ever went close or into it. It was considered one end of the tribe’s ancestral grounds. Chuulom, the refuge leader, believed they would be safe past the mountains, and thus he, his three sons, and a band of survivors sought safety from the Great One by traversing the mountains and setting up a small refuge in the misty jungle slopes at the opposite foot of the Tuka’chot.

The opposite side of the Tuka’chot was heavily shrouded in dense mist and fog. Even clouds tended to hang low, obscuring the canopies of the jungle. If it weren’t for the cult’s chance finding of a lone scout party, they would have passed the refuge entirely and would have only discovered it when the creep finally caught up and consumed the area.

When the scouting party of three was found, the Cult quickly apprehended them and passed them over to the Elders for their punishment. The three scouts were rather young, probably former members of a hunt-group that was broken during the invasion. They were no older than nineteen or twenty suns, and, despite being cut off from the tribe’s lands, were rather strong and healthy. Potho, Hakat and D’hami were their names. Potho and Hakat were the same age and similar builds, different only in that Potho has toussled black hair and Hakat had his brown hair swept back and tied into a small, bunned tail. They also both had different hunt-group markings, confirming that their former brothers were not with them. D’hami was the oldest, his hair was long, auburn and braided into a long tail that hung down against his spine. As the oldest, he lead the other two, and like both Potho and Hakat, his hunt-group marking was different as well. “Oh….holy sunlight, they’ve found us!” Potho squirmed with futile effort as two cultists had him down on his knees, restraining his arms, and holding his head up by his throat to look at Elder Jaali, who was presiding over this sentencing. Hakat yelled out, calling out into the heavy mist to try to warn anyone who might have been nearby. Jaali flicked a finger and one of the cultist cupped his hand over Hakat’s mouth to shut him up. D’hami was already in the process of being punished. Three cultists were over his stripped body, touching him, feeling him and triple-fucking him. His heavy groans and spasms gave unpleasant reminders to Potho and Hakat of the night the village fell. The way the cultists were handling D’hami with intentions not to be gentle, the way their slithering cocks were worming into his ass and the bulging….the unearthly bulging of eggs being layed into the living bodies. One of the cultists was forcing D’hami’s mouth open as another regurgitated eggs into him in a gooey spray. the oldest hunter’s choking was all that could be heard in this small, mist-covered space.

After what appeared to be hours, the cultists removed themselves from D’hami and Jaali proceded to stand the man on his two feet and fondle his strong, masculine body. D’hami’s eyes were rolled back and a trail of slime or drool hung down the side of his open mouth. His head hung down as if he were unconcious. Jaali licked the man’s strong neck and bit down, injecting the man with the Elder’s special neurotoxin. Veins pushed up and spread out from the bite area as D’hami grunted and groaned. His muscles seemed to protrude and flex on their own as Jaali squeezed his prey’s pecs and pinched his nipples. Reaching up to his ears, Jaali began to recite the Great One’s mantra for D’hami to hear, who recited it back in slow, broken words. “Yes…yes…tell me…are there others? Are there more of you who have ran off from the one, true god?” Jaali hissed, digging his snake-like tongue into D’hami. reaching into his brain, Jaali’s wrapped around D’hami’s brain to read his mind and memories. Holding his prey tightly, Jaali drank in everything the man knew and discovered the location of the refuge. As his tongue withdrew, the Elder gave D’hami a slobbery kiss on his cheek and pushed him to the ground. With a whirl of his finger, the cultists descended upon the three hunters, ravaging them and giving them their long overdue conversions.

The Refuge held some people who were not accounted for the night of Anha’ch’s invasion. Some of the blacksmiths had escaped, and even a handful of families, hunt-groups and champions. Even priests of the Sun God, who still woefully prayed to Nixx’kli, were there. Needless to say, the entire refuge was infected with not a moment’s glance. And to make sure that no one was spared, the Cult had attacked from every and all sides, surrounding the refuge with creep so as to slow and detect anyone who would possibly try to run. By the evening, the entire refuge had been transformed into a post village, expanding the tribe’s territory beyond the Tuka’chot mountains. A selection of the finest, strongest men and boys in the refuge were to accompany the Cult as servants in labor and pleasure, and to serve as “hosts” aswell. The priests who were converted stayed behind to tend to the new village, as did some of the villager-class converts. Everyone else was sent back to the tribe’s main village for further processing. With that, the refuge was claimed and conquered, C’you, Jutah and the Cult moved on to claim the rest of the jungle.

Beyond the tribe’s lands resided many animals the tribe had only heard of in legend. Gorillas, taller than two men and stronger than five, became perfect for become heavy brutes. Engorged with writhing young, their muscular bodies would serve as durable carriers of whatever the cult desired. As the cult cut through the new territory, they had to cross yet another mountain mass. Snow did little to slow the march of the cult and within the end of a full year’s cycle from their journey’s start, they had reached through to the other side. Upon ledge, the cult was treated to the once well-received light of the sun. Before them laid a scenic landscape the likes they had never seen before.

Mounted upon ink-black beasts, formerly the cats of the jungle, the cult glimpsed upon the vast, golden valley before them. Where the mist had choked the jungle, the sun began to display prominantly above their heads, showing them an endless sea of tall grass, grazing cattle, flocking birds and….in the furthest reaches viewable to the naked eye, fields of crops and bead-sized figures tending to them. “Farmlands…..means people….people who have not heard the word of our god.” Jaali said. He licked his lips in eagerness for he held a place in his heart for those who tended to the land. Strong, able-bodied farmers, farmhands and stableboys. Delicious meat on them, succulent seed made richer from years of hard work and labor. Oh how he relished the night the tribe was turned. Jaali himself swept across the farmlands, turning precious vegetation into monstrosities. Luring the feeble-minded men and boys to their doom with an accursed offering of fruit, a temptation of sinful nectar. He reminisced of the unearthly orgy that took place, bodies drenched with the corrupted juice, vines and roots weaved and knotted around arms and legs, climbing across naked bodies like ivy on a wall. They went in and out of mouths, cocks, and assholes, connecting everyone and everything to the foul, new earth that was beneath then. Creep, born of the first, black harvest. Jaali himself pierced his own sons, offering them to the Great One in scarecrow-like bonds, each suckling on a plump, blackened fruit that wriggled in their mouths.

The cult set up their camp on a densely canopied ledge halfway down the mountain. From here, they would plan for their next mass-conversion. Jaali was adamant that a schedule be followed, and proceeded to make preparations for a ritual he had in the works. He took a group of strong slaves to his tent that afternoon.

The day was soon ending and Jaali was in his tent. “A full moon tonight, my boys.” Jaali turned around and disrobed, facing five young men. They were escaped farmhands from the village. Each one was on their knees, hands behind their backs and looked up at the Elder, awaiting his orders. Large, slithering worms descended from the Elder’s body and wrapped themselves around one the five men. Opening their mouths, they covered over the face of their victims and breathed an intoxicating pheremone down their throats. As the five men groaned, Jaali turned to his altar. A strong stud was bound to the sacrificial display. Jaali bent down to kiss the man, but his prey resisted at every attempt, turning his face away and grunting in disapproval of the Elder’s advances. “My child, give in.” Jaali nudged the man’s cheek, licking him around his ears. Each breath he took exhued a thick, gasious cloud that cascaded down, smothering the man’s face. As Jaali’s victim squirmed upon the altar, the Elder pried his mouth open, allowing him to breathe of the gas. The man shuddered and gasped as Jaali’s miasma entered him and spread about his body. His eyes rolled back, his body convulsing with heaving thrusts, fighting his restraints. His cries and screams became gurgled as his body settled, and his eyes became blank and void of emotion. “Good, Kone….very good. Now, recieve me in faith, my boy.” Jaali’s maw gaped open to impossible lengths, allowing for a freakishly large penis-shaped appendage to come out and enter Kone through his parted lips. Once lodged inside, Jaali’s feeding tentacle got to work, sending out smaller tendrils to leech Kone of his energy and delicious seed. Pumping load after load out of his prey, Jaali ran his hands across Kone’s muscular body as his muffled moans broke out. The Elder reached down to squeeze Kone’s engorged manhood, squeezed his pecs, teased his nipples and abs with smaller tendrils. He ran a hand over his strong arms. Kone was a fine specimen, reminding Jaali of his own sons. Oh, how they cried out in pain the night of the invasion. Seeing Kone in such a helpless state only encouraged Jaali to be more agressive towards his meal. He forced his feeding tentacle deeper, making Kone gag. He held the man in a headlock, forcing their faces together in a mockery of a kiss. Jaali increased his intake, putting strain on Kone’s body. His muscles bulged, and veins began to ripple across his body as if Jaali was almost done drinking him up. Kone could do little but let out whimpers and muffled cries. “Ungh, p- pleash….don- no- no mo- no master….master….I can’t…I can’t-” Jaali continued drinking up Kone’s essence of virility in big gulps, withering the once proud man. One last gulp and Kone was dried up to the last drop. Jaali retracted his feeding appendage within his mouth and licked his lips. He felt younger, livelier and renewed. His muscle definition, while still skeletal, was vastly improved after feeding.

A hiss of freedom. Jaali turned to the five young men he had left to the worms. The worms had by now burrowed into their targets, and each men laid upon the floor, groaning. A trail of green slime dappled their lips and their bodies were slicked with sweat. Their cocks shot up and their gut noticeably churned and writhed, evidence of the creature inside of them. Jaali began drew a spiraling symbol on each of the men’s stomachs and began to chant in an ancient tongue. The worms reacted to the chanting, moving with greater force and energy, causing great pain to their hosts. The five men groaned and tossed about on the ground as the monsters within them moved. The worms lodged themselves within their host’s gut and when a comfortable position was found, they began to release a parasitic spore that slowly crept up the body, into their host’s brain. The five men cried out as their minds were taken over by the bodily invaders. Jaali chanted even faster, with more fervor. As the spores took root in their minds, the five men began to froth at the mouth, their cocks spewing forth loads of their seed as veins bulged across their body. “Yes….yes….arise my chosen ones.” After a brief struggle, the five men ceased any movement for a minute. They then immediately rose to their feet in unison. Jaali ushered the five men behind a curtain to plan for a future attack.

Bolin wiped the sweat from his brows. The sun was hanging low, edging closer to the dip of the horizon. The day was almost ending, and the workers and farmers were starting to pack up their tools and head back to town. Bolin hefted his shovel over his shoulder and made his way back to town, landing himself in the local tavern. “Make it a lager, Kemp. Southfrost if you would.” He called out to the barkeep, who proceeded to pour him a mug from a keg on the wall. “Days are getting shorter, Bolin. Strange how that is.” Kemp leaned against the counter. He was rugged man with equally rugged looks. A good man at heart, he always took the time care for himself, even with all the laborers coming in. His head was shaved save for the sides that led to a knot of red sideburns. His regular tunic was fitted to his strong chest, barely pushing on his ale-soaked apron. “You wonder if these are omens of things to come, hm?” The grizzled barkeep smirked and wiped down the counter. “Seen alot in my days as a soldier. Sometimes you just have to read the signs.” Bolin rolled his eyes. Kemp and his war stories were a mainstay at the tavern. If it wasn’t the talk of the town filling your ears, it was Kemp’s broad selection of stories from his time as a soldier. Bolin himself had considered the life of a soldier for a time, but his father had needed help with the farm, and his familial duties kept him here in the small town of Brennid. The farmhand sighed and took a big drink, sweeping back his toussled brown hair. His five 0 clock shadow was illuminated softly by the candelabra lights. “Wheres Tick off to at this hour?” Bolin steered the conversation to Kemp’s son, anything to keep him from repeating another soldier story. “Tick, huh? I think he’s off doing his pranks with your brother as usual. Just hope he doesn’t go harrasin’ ol’ Menna like he did last time. Poor woman almost emptied a quiver in him.” Bolin had a laugh. Tick and Braz were the two most energetic youths in the town. Painting on walls, toppling crates and barrels and of course, rearranging the displays outside of Menna’s shop. Bolin had to apologize on behalf of his immature brother on many occasion, but Menna was always most forgiving, even when the other townsfolk were not.

Suddenly the tavern’s doors swung wide open, ringing the bell at the top and almost banging the sides of the wall. “Well, lookie here Braz! It’s yer’ older bro!” That was Mattick Kemp for you, a brash eighteen year old with the same fire that burned when his father was a soldier. The same fire was burning in his hair, a messy tangle of red, like his father’s sideburns grown upon his scalp. Tick cracked his knuckles, displaying his well-muscled arms. His body was no stranger to hard work when he had to do it, evident by the long tank he wore that tastefully clung to his tight body. Beside the hotheaded firebrand was Braz, Bolin’s younger brother. Braz had his mother’s black hair and did work out sometimes, helping his father or brother with the manual labor around the farm, but he was still lanky when compared to the others in Tick’s gang. Rounding out the group were Kory Hamh, Meric Dhemsy, Alf Mantis and the, only girl in the group, Lissinda Ulise. Kory was one of the blacksmith’s sons, the shoulder straps of his smithy apron were undone, displaying his chiseled upper body for all to see. His enire outfit, it seems, was barely held together by his toolbelt, and even that was being weighed down by a series of hammers, tongs, and other equipment for his trade. Kory and his family were quite good friends with the Kemps, oweing to the fact that their father, Molner, and Tick’s father were both soldiers serving in the same legion. Meric Dhemsy was the only son of one of the town’s guards. He was a little on the pudgy side, with a swirl of blonde hair atop his head. He was currently in studies to become a mage and was destined to attend the Mage’s Guild Academy next Fall. If there was one reason that Meric was part of the group at all, it was the fact that he could conjure up some of the best tasting pastries the gang ever tasted. Alf Mantis was the newest addition to the group, and the youngest. His family only recently moved to Brennid from the the city of Stormburd after his father wanted to see more sunlight. Like most of the people from that region, Alf had jet black hair, a pale complexion and accompanying sunken features. His body was gaunt and frail, as if he was on the verges of snapping and falling apart. He spoke very rarely, usually only doing so to correct the grammar of his friends, fact check or to say something smart. The last member of Tick’s gang was the dainty, well-mannered Lissinda Ulise, the mayor’s daughter. If anybody questioned why the dainty blonde of all people was part of Tick’s crew, the answer would come from Liss herself. She once stumbled upon Tick and his crew trespassing into her family’s grounds. Apparently they dared one another to try to pick the most apples from the Ulise’s orchard. Instead of turning them in to her father, the girl was intrigued that the boys were doing something fun, a concept that she rarely indulged in as her father often kept her indoors. From that day on, Liss tagged along with the boys, much to her the chagrin of her father, mother and brother.

“Hi-ho, daddy-o!” Tick called out. The gang filed into the tavern and immediately went straight up to the counter and sat on the stools, the counter, the barrels behind the counter, you name it. Tick ran into the kitchen to fetch his gang a whole jug of pepper fizz, pouring them all a cup. “To another day’s spoils, right on!” Tick raised his cup and the others toasted after him before guzzling down the fizz. Before Braz could take a sip, Bolin snagged him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him off the stool. “And what have YOU been up to this evening?” The older brother had a look of pure disappointment on him. If there was one look Braz hated to see from his brother, it was this one. The youngster blubbered, unable to answer as the other gang members jeered and tried to seperate Braz and Bolin. “Alright, alright, settle down, settle down!” Kemp ordered. “Put the lad down, eh Bolin? Not like he’s done anything bad. If he did, we’d have done heard about it.” Bolin narrowed his eyes before grunting and letting his brother go. Braz swallowed hard and immediately became his timid self once more. Bolin was always so protective of him. It became a rarity that Bolin would let Braz out of his sight for even a moment after their mother left the family. Braz grumbled and skulked out of the tavern. “Ugh! Look what you did Bolin!” Tick, Kory and Liss ran off after Braz, while Meric and Alf stayed behind. “Aye, look what’cha done Bolin. The lad’s up and left. You really ought to soften up on the boy. Ye’ know he looks up to you.” Kemp shook his head as he wiped down a mug. Bolin rolled his eyes at the barkeep, but the old man was right. Braz was always by his side as a kid, cheering him on or asking nonstop questions as to what he did and how he did it. Bolin dropped a couple coins on the counter and nodded to Kemp, then made his way out the door. “Let’s see where he’s ran off to this time.” He said, before the doors closed behind him. Kemp looked to the remaining two boys. “Grab a mop, laddies. If ye’ll help me clean, I’ve got a shiny pocket of coin for the two of you.” And at once he tossed a mop and bucket to Meric, and a wet rag to Alf.

Braz ran out into the night, clear off the road out of town. His cheeks were warm and wet with tears. Running out of town, he veered off the path, ran down the small slopes and hid in an old drain pipe. Tick and Kory passed by, calling for his name, but Braz didn’t make a sound. He wanted to be alone. After a good minute of waiting, Tick and Kory moved on, searching elsewhere. When the coast was clear, Braz bolted towards the forest. Since he was a young boy, he had found a niche for himself in the forest. Hidden away in dense foliage was his underground hideout, accessible from an inconspicuous, hollow trunk. Entering the woods, his base was simply a stomp through the bushes, a tromp under a couple branches and a scuffle’s length crawl underneath some rocks and he would be there. Halfway into his route however, something felt wrong. He noticed some of the branches were disturbed, purposefully bent and broken. Rocks were pushed to the sides and there were bare footprints in the dirt and mud. Following the tracks, they all led to his tree trunk, the piece of bark was torn open, and his outside food stores were all empty, looted, gone. Braz was furious as he drew his boot knife and lit a spare lamp, but before he could call out his thief, a scream rang across the forest, coming deeper from within. It was followed by something roaring or laughing. Braz nearly wet himself and immediately descended into his hole, but not before covering up every evidence of habitation around the stump and of course replacing the piece of bark to hide the entrance.

Braz scrambled down in a hurry. He could still hear the screaming as he slid down the tunnel. Landing on his tush, the young lad scrambled to hide beneath a sheet, though he was stalled for a moment, finding his den completely rummaged through. A noise caught his attention. Whispers and whimpering? As Braz turned his lamp around, he was immediately met with a young man’s spear aimed at him.

The scream came from the forest as Tick and Kory stood at the edge of the woods. “Braz is still out here somewhere.” Kory stammered, breathing heavily. The two were about to enter the woods to search for their friend when the scream shot out. The scream didn’t belong to Braz, but it seemed that whoever the voice belonged to was in such peril that Tick and Kory were utterly demoralized to continue their search. “No luck?” Bolin called out, catching up to the two. “No, but we were about to search the woods when we heard someone screaming inside.” Tick replied, pointing to the thick forests in front of them all. Bolin brandished a wood cutting axe he brought with him and gave a heavy sigh. "Stay behind me…let’s get this over with.

The man’s body convulsed as a tentacle jabbed into his torso, through his belly button. He began to foam at the mouth as the his stomach began to distend, beating and thrumming like a heart as his assailant laid a clutch within him. Jutah was restraining the man, holding him down with an overly-enthused grin on his mouth. “These woods themselves are not cooperating with us. This will prove…bothersome.” C’you said as he laid his hands on a tree. The bark creaked and the priest gave a gruff response and returned to his lover’s side. Since ascending and descending from the mountain pass, C’you noticed that the creep would follow no more than the edge of the mist. Even the creep they willingly created and manifested would clear up by next morning’s coming. “We can corrupt the people for all it matters, but if the land will not bend…that is something else entirely. Finish up here, my dear Jutah. I dare say our lord will not be pleased to hear of this slight impass.” With that, C’you straddled Jutah’s back, the beast they had brought along retracted the tentacle, bringing the man up to its torso. The three made their way back to the camp.

Mind control
Wanking material
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