Some lite Cthulhurotica
So, inspired by the thorny hand of satan this excellent piece of work I just found, I’ve decided to try my hand at writing Cthulhurotica in order to get rid of my writer’s block.
Attempt #1:
Hemings waded out until he was up to his knees in shallows.
“If you go any further, we may have some difficulty collaborating, as it were.” Helle smiled, not unkindly, and gestured to the sodden from of his trousers.
“Easier said and done-” here he caught hold of her slender wrists, “-if you deign to meet me halfway.”
With a shriek of surprise and delight, the Cecaelid was hefted up into Heming’s stout Bostonian arms and placed upon one of the larger rocks just above the tide. Hemings wasted no time hitching his trousers down, cursing the shoes he had neglected to remove beforehand as he stumbled around their stony bed. The amusement never left Helle’s lips, but she held her arms out to him in clear want, bottom half writhing in ardor.
Hemings wasted no time, parting her squirming tentacles and seeking the slick cleft between them. He knew he had arrived when Helle gave a shout and arched back, emitting throaty ululations of pleasure. Her tendrils curled around his buttocks and bullocks, firmly but gently squeezing.
That’s about all I can do with that one. Now for a bit of fun:
“…those that dwell in the nocturnes, those who the fiery eye of the sun deigns not to look upon,” intoned Smith, giving him a wicked grin. He was more than simply pleased that he had finally gotten hold of the Nyturan Demonta, Jeffries noted, if the way his scarlet ceremonial robe tented up was any indication.
Without warning, Jeffries’ bonds were loosened and he was turned round and slammed up against the stone lectern, hands scrabbling at his belt.
“…that which dare not speak its name,” Smith growled in his ear, hot breath making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, “the worm that eternally burrows to the fruit of Eden…”
Jeffries felt a prickle of fear drowned out by a rush of arousal, with a small drop of shame mixed with ancestral horror. He wiggled his hips, telling himself that he was squirming out of Smith’s insane grasp, not aiding him in undressing himself. Something cool and wet and not entirely unpleasant probed his back channel, and Jeffries bit the cold stone of the lectern to stifle his cries.
Smith stood, discarding his scarlet robe to shew he was entirely nude beneath it. “Now,” he breathed, “the time of the worm is at hand.” Jeffries tried not to smile.
Later, as the detectives passed out small cups of coffee, Reginald babbled about profane rites and sacrifices, gesticulating wildly.
“-and with those blasphemous objects you saw before you, he intended to summon the mighty conqueror worm,” he gasped in atavistic horror, “as Jeffries can attest to.”
Jeffries felt all eyes turn to him and coughed into his hand, trying not to blush and failing.
“Yes,” he said in an unnaturally even voice, “that’s it. That’s exactly what he did.” He strangled another laugh into a cough.