Chapter 14: The Moon's Idols
The memory was a shard of ice in the fire of their eternity.
It flashed, sudden and brutal, in the sliver of a moment between one god’s withdrawal and another’s entry. The silken ropes. The stained-glass light of their bedroom. Benoit’s kiss. Riley’s warning. The click of the door. The safe, human heat of their bodies grinding in helpless pleasure. Then the ceiling had ripped open. Cold, silver light, not of any sun, had poured in. Hands of impossible strength, smelling of ozone and stone, had seized them still bound together. They’d screamed, then. Not whimpers, but raw, human terror.
“Benoit!”
“Riley, please!”
Their cries were swallowed by the void between worlds.
Now, a hundred years of moonlight later, they still screamed those names. But the sounds were different. Muffled, warped by the thick, divine cocks lodged deep in their throats.
They lay, as ever, on the vast obsidian altar in the Temple of Endless Night, bound breast-to-breast, hip-to-hip by ropes that were not silk but solidified shadow, cool and unbreakable. Their bodies, immortal monuments to divine hunger, were permanently altered. Their pregnant bellies, swollen with churning, godly essence, pressed together. Their breasts, forever enlarged and heavy, were flattened against one another, the oversized, ruddy nipples constantly leaking streams of rich milk that pooled between them and soaked the black silk beneath. The simple, constant friction of skin on skin was an unending torment of pleasure. Their pussies, perpetually puffy, glistening lips, rubbed together with every shared breath, every sob. Their clits, each the size of a human thumb, throbbed where they met, sending shocks of unbearable sensation ricocheting through their stolen nerves.
They were always wet. A river of divine nectar and their own helpless arousal seeped from them, making the silk beneath their asses a sodden, fragrant swamp. Their cunts had been remade—soft as risen dough, hot as a forge, impossibly tight yet endlessly accommodating, muscle and flesh obedient only to the goal of milking seed.
A god, his form a shimmer of silver and distant starlight, knelt between Jud’s spread, bound thighs. His cock, like polished marble veined with light, pushed into Jud’s sopping opening in one smooth, possession motion. Jud’s body arched, a silent scream around the cock in his mouth. His cunt, that exquisite, re-made sleeve, clenched in a violent, welcoming spasm, drawing the god deeper.
“It never loses its charm,” the god mused, his voice like a comet’s whisper. He began to move, a slow, tectonic rhythm. “This desperate, hungry hole. It weeps for every cock in the cosmos.”
Beside him, another entity of shifting cobalt shadows was fucking Paul with equal, casual ownership. Paul’s eyes, wide and streaming, stared at the cavernous ceiling carved with bleeding sigils. His mind fractured, seeking the past. The first time. The cold altar. The laughing faces of the moon gods as they held them down. The sensation of their bodies being rewritten from the inside, cells screaming as they were forged into these perfect, pleading vessels. The agony that had melted, mid-scream, into a pleasure so vast it atomized their souls. They had wailed for Benoit, for Riley, even as their new, thumb-sized clits rubbed together and sparked their first of infinite, mind-breaking orgasms.
“They’re thinking of the mortals again,” the cobalt god said, pistoning into Paul’s gripping heat. He sounded amused.
The god in Jud’s mouth withdrew his cock, slick with saliva and divine essence. Jud gasped, drawing in a ragged breath that stank of sex and power. “Please,” he slurred, his voice ruined from centuries of use. “Let us… let us go home. Benoit… he’ll be…”
His plea ended in a choked gurgle as a different god, one of smooth jade and cool intention, fed his length back into Jud’s eager throat. Jud’s body accepted it automatically, throat muscles fluttering, a low, submissive moan vibrating around the intrusion. He was not given a choice. The cock seated itself to the hilt, and there it would stay for months, a constant, claiming weight. Jud’s eyes rolled back in helpless bliss.
Paul felt his own mouth being filled again, a thick, honey-gold member pressing past his lips. He suckled instinctively, the action triggering a fresh gush of milk from his tormented nipples and a ripple of orgasm from his rubbing cunt. Tears, their only human offering, cut through the milk on his cheeks.
The procession never ended. As one god spent himself, his hot, luminous seed flooding their wombs already pregnant with the souls of his kin, another would take his place. Their pussies, those perfect, soft, moist sheathes, knew no rest. They were fucked in a slow, endless rotation. A god of fiery bronze. A god of quiet moss. A god of sharp angles and colder light. Each brought a new texture, a new rhythm, but the same result: the slow, continuous milking of divine pleasure, the swelling of their bellies, the obliteration of thought.
In the rare moments when their mouths were briefly empty, their whispers were prayers to the wrong ears.
“Riley… I’m sorry…”
“Benoit… find us… please find us…”
The gods would laugh, a sound like crumbling mountains. “They are dust,” one would say, thrusting deeper. “They are memory. You are forever.”
And forever was this: their enlarged nipples, constantly stimulated, gushing milk that mingled with the sweat and seed on their skin. Their swollen clits, rubbing together with every shift, every thrust, triggering sobbing, endless micro-orgasms that left them trembling. Their transformed pussies, always aching, always hungry, perpetually stretched around celestial cock.
They were nestled among plushies of impossible softness—strange, adorable forms of nebulas and quiet stars that watched with black bead eyes. The silks were the softest in existence, a cradle of absurd comfort for a reality of relentless use.
Another century was a single, sustained note. Jud, impaled on a cock of liquid silver, felt a climax building from a place so deep it was the core of his immortal being. It wasn’t his. It was the moon’s. It was the god’s. His body was merely the conduit. As the god roared and spilled, Jud’s world dissolved into a white-noise shriek of pleasure, his cunt pulsing, his milk flowing, his clit grinding against Paul’s in a frantic, shared convulsion. Paul, filled with a god of deep earth, came at the same instant, his scream muffled by the cock in his mouth, his body a mirror of Jud’s ecstatic ruin.
When the sensitivity peaked into something almost like pain, they wept. They clutched each other within their bonds, their fingers tangling in the silks, seeking comfort in the only constant they had left: each other’s equally broken, equally pleasured flesh. They whispered names that were now just sounds, just ghosts that danced on their tongues before the next god came to use them, to feed the endless, hungry night.