The Codex Anthronatura: Morgain

This episode focuses on degradation and humilation kinks, as well as clown fetish.

Additionally, it contains bardic lyrics courtesy of the limerick lord, pickleherring. Check their stories out.

Maypole Ribbon

In the pagan hillsides, ribald celebrations would see maidens bound to poles with colored ribbon. Then, the villagers would dance, to the chant of the maiden's most intimate secrets.

This was said to beckon the word without a speaker, a primordial telepathy, that brought with it insight, but utter madness.

In the farthest highlands, the most unwanted fringes of the pagan hillsides, lay an enclosure of cliffs, and inside, a glade. Dust-soft snow swatched the things within: the orange bulbs of dormant julias, the folly that remained of an old beast chapel, and the solemn gallery of reliefs graven from the gneiss. All save the obsidian scales of the overserpent, and the damp path left in her slithering patrol.

A tangle of naked snakes, tickling at their boobs and hissing invective in almost-silent song, hung like colleen curls over a chisel-sharp sneer. Every eye- the small specks of her living hair, and the augering glow which peered from beneath- was a brilliant orange, which cut aside even the veil of night.

At boozy sleepovers under the shadow of a single candle it was said, that only a medusa herself knew what the maddening wind had whispered to her, but each new snake on her head could pluck a new embarrassment from the minds of her victims. Every hideous dress, every burglared diary, every bra bandited from the pondside- every haunting, humiliating dream- was as unconcealable as one's own mortified face.

But drunkenly before the orange break of dawn, they slept peacefully in one another's bosoms, certain that the Queen-Cathedral's heroes had driven the snakes from the hillsides.

Every humiliating relief did she peruse, her serpent-hair tasting every crestfallen whimper depicted there. The spoiled heiress belted before her subjects, the sage lecturing nude and blushing, the maid reciting every lonely pornography she had written of her master to his face. They sang not in words, but in the radio signals of distant frenzy, and the groundwater that wallowed in their eyes like tears were as brilliant as the blossoms of the julias.

However, no matter how she lewdly, leeringly dissected their horror, not once in these centuries did they meet her gaze.

"Thou art a menace, little creature," said Morgain, scowling frenzy-eyed and ruddy-cheeked down at him- pale, raven, and trivial enough to smother beneath her great serpentine mass. But her snaky strands were weary, and her scales were chipped and ashen, and her once-punishing stare was too madness-hazed to cut his ego. On his iron-heavy balls, her flicking tongues had tasted dominance, and this was favored by her pussy; now, she held the outfit he had brought for her. "I swear revenge on thee, and I will not let this world end without seeing thy ruin."

"Put it on, you fat-tailed bitch."

Indignance flared in her, and anger hissed between her clenched fangs. "Turn around."

Qora scoffed, covered his eyes, and turned his back.

It was there she could have struck him, coiled him, squeezed him until he begged for her forgiveness. But the taste of him, the traces of superpotent cum impending in the air, kept her from it, and scalded her.

A bikini top of blue and orange linen weaved through Morgain's idle fingers. Each cup- one of stripes and one of spots- much too meager to cradle her firm and bountiful jugs. To her, whose boobs shadowed Qora's whole slender-thewed torso, they were scarce more than strung pasties. Yet still she cinched them, and little squishes of fat flesh caked out from under them.

The hat, she could scarcely witness. Bite-lipped she shut out the image, of multicolor points hanging from her head. Even her hair burst with hiss and fang, as she wore the hat; her ears stung to hear the tinkling of little silver bells.

"This leaveth not my glade," she rumbled, crushing out a mousy squeak from an orange sphere-- which, when she slackened her grip, swelled to its original shape.

"It will," Qora said with yawning arms. "I'll tell everyone I meet- might even patron a painter."

"They will believe thee not."

"Oh, but you'll have written so many wonderful lyrics about my cock, by the time I bring them to see you recite them."

Across her fangs ran a venom tongue, and her cinder-black tail idled in a malicious sidewinder. The orange ball folded out through her clenching fist, like the pulp of pestled tea leaves. But her truth lay in the anticipating folds of her pussy, which began to sheen, and treacle down her ashen scales, like a beckoning path for Qora's legend-long cock.

So she held the sphere, and lifted it, and killed her last instinctual protest. Then, she placed it onto her nose.

"Turn thee around."

With glacier eyes, he perused Morgain, and contoured her grand curves- and though she twiced his height and silhoutted against the sky, she felt perceptibly smaller in his gaze. And the first knowing statics of a distant airwave gritted in the throats of her snakes, when his smirk began to split into a snaggle-toothed laugh.

"End thy mirth, little creature."

"How cute," he said, with a cruel rattle in his voice. "Do you like it? Do you think you look pretty with that little nose on, you worthless clown?"

"How dareth-"

"No. Answer politely."

"I feel low..." she made out, shying beneath the mountain's winding breeze, stifling the tickle in her clit. "Milord."

"Aye? How low?"

"Common. A maiden in the breeding ball, blush-cheeked and..."

"Whimpering," he snickered. The signals again tunneled her gaze, with want to augur for an insult beneath that wretched smile. But she couldn't bring herself to face him, to strike him with her scything stare. "Are you as low as a little jester? Aching to entertain a king?"

More invective stirred inside, but choked. She refused to answer, until the alpine breeze was perfumed and saturated by his balls, until her ever-more-pathetic leering could not pry from his shaft. Chaos's first kissed inched at her mind, and brought flickers to the eyelight of her serpent-hair. Finally, she replied. "May this clown-bitch suck thy royal cock, milord?"

"Sing me a song first, fool. If I like it, you may."

All her rage instead blazed like static, and every speck of noise which seeped into her mind wakened like an eye. A sneer once ever-distant was near, and once blind was instead intrigued. An supersense, a bond to a greater broadcast, sparked in her recesses; she was heard, and something sang back. A tune slipped from her lips, beneath the first glittering tear.

"How this gorgon doth wish thou hadst dicked her..." Morgain squeaked, as feebly as a grass whistle. "I'm the spoils and thou art the victor. Thou canst..."

The words cluttered her throat; only a half-sob emerged. Shame surrounded her, and vised down on her as though it was she caught in the serpent's clutch. Though her mouth had stopped, her vagina flowed unfettered, and sparkling wetness webbed her great onyx folds. Qora's look, a stern anticipation, sent a minor orgasm shocking through her tail.

"Thou canst have any hole, but I'll suck out thy soul..." she sang with a broken breath. "'Cause my tongue is a boa constrictor!"

And when her throat eked out her last meager chirp, she peeked her squeezing eyelids to see Qora's ice-white smile. And all the reliefs, spark-eyed and awakened, were a part of the roaring signal; what were once sorrowed, cringing faces were drawn now in sadistic cheer.

It nearly slew her, to reach to the orange nose, and squeak it.

"Balls first, bitch."

And the hillsides' greatest serpent coiled up, and prostrated beneath. Her great snake-crown lay in the twilight shadow of his ballsack, her stare undefiant and frenzy-fogged. Her little glade, discarded fragment of the hillside crusades, was now an amphitheatre, abright with many mirths; she, the chorus who performed the frequencies of madness.

Morgain's lapping tongue reached out to cradle his mace-head balls, the prize which overhung them so near, but forbidden yet. And as she brought close his fullest nuts, and took them to her pillow-lips, her nose pressed against his cock, and squeaked again.

With her air-tasting tongue, like the old pagan oracles she put her worship on display. The roar of noise was nearer to the chants of an audience, and each voice named another weakness seen in her: the timid thing with ribald poems, the maiden-serpent fingering herself at mass, the fearsome monster with a tenderness for size. She drank deep of his nuts, and every gulp was worth it.

Even her mighty fingers could not close about his nuts; her drool cascaded them to string between those fingers, as glittery in the sunset as gemstones.

"Isn't that better, clown?"

Her words bubbled through her spit, were gagged by her worshipful tongue. "Yes, milord. I adore thy balls."

"Louder," Qora said, braiding his grip through her lust-wracked curls, coiling and crying out from smaller throats.

Minor orgasms hiccuped her moans; they managed out as stupid garble. Further yawning was her maw, to suck more. "I adore thy balls, milord!" it came louder, but the sound did not breach the glade. Even Morgain's own head was nigh-deaf to it, as though the joyous jeers were not forgotten, but her cares were.

"Scream it, bitch," snapped Qora, as her snakes slithered in lustful gauntlets around his arm, tasting his body with theirs.

"I adore thy balls, milord!" she cried, and all the hillsides cried back at her. Like the words of the great and ancient broadcast, it fell over them, and kissed them with a memory of their old ways. "They're so big and they taste so good! I am your ball-polishing jester bitch, milord!"

And, like by the clock of dreams, her actions blended, before into after and back to before again. Across airwaves came Qora's glory, as sung in clownsong; cummed-out prophecies reached into history to arouse the gaze of the Sunset Serpent, touched the dreams of once-pagan beast-maidens, and beckoned back to forsworn days to drive off the crusade.

She idolized his shaft, first with a humid, foam-flowing handjob. Into his mighty meat, to which there was no hope of equal, she massaged fervent euphoria. She matched his every pleasured breath with hers, her pussy- only for his cock's sweet ecstasy- wanting wetly.

Like the worldstorm, like the Sunset Serpent's own thunder, boomed the witnessing matrix. A thousand faces erupted in ridicule, mocking her mouthful moans; more still turned horrid, covering their spouses' eyes and clutching their amulets. Her name echoed as if through a crowd's gossips, reaching to all the hillsides which still remembered.

In gulps she swallowed him, and choked up glistening strands with which to lubricate him. Her womb erupted like with cathodes, in anticipation for a servile orgasm; a smile crept across her face, and banished the fanged scowl which lived there. "I am a cock-sucking clown bitch! I am thy personal whore, Qora!"

What was moments ago a small but persistent trail of slick, gushed in greater quantities like rivers dancing through the hills. Cum's first impending rumbles joined her, when Qora said: "Hurry up and make me cum, you stupid slut." Begged her dearly did her pussy, to frolick her tongue around his cock like maidens on a pole, and beckon the orgasm in his balls.

"I want to make thee nut, milord! I plead with thee, to cum all over me, that I might never again wash thy semen from my hair!" And her clit received like an antenna, and from it flooded ecstatic nerves, and an orgasmic cry waited in her breast to be set loose. Finally, with a vortex suck, and two fists closing to his base, Qora's first jet erupted, and so too did Morgain's orgasm.

Then beheld every witness. Morgain's hands, with rapture and fury, cannoned out more of Qora's cum with each past instant. Like the white crash of waterfalls it descended; he slathered her in slow layers of alabaster like the breath of ice-nation barbarians. Every second a new plunging shot, to splatter her so thoroughly.

Jizz pooled in the cleavage of each headsnake; they coiled one another, and kissed cum-swapping lips, in a slutty, debaucherous wassail. Morgain's own jester's bikini, ballooned with it, until the tie gave way and the thing splatted into the gold-glittering pile. In its place, a garment of semen, superpotent and sticky, and with a heavy rope joining those jugs; from the distant receivers, a hundred gasps and a thousand cheers, that her stupid, fat tits now jiggled free.

Until there was little there, but a squirming, cumming specter beneath spermy sheets. Her tail kicked up happy trails in the flurry, her hair-serpents splashing in his seed like nude maidens running from the home to the ice-speckled pond.

And the evernoise faded, but yet remained to her some inkling of its reach, like an echo to a radar.

"You're much prettier covered in my jizz," said Qora with a snow-pale sneer.

"I thank thee, milord," she replied, with an excitement rattling in her tail, even as he walked away.

But the elder frenzy, the word without a speaker, recalled Qora's promise, to regale the world with her dumbest deeds. And for the first time since ancient ages, bring new gazes- not to the mortified sculptures and graven embarrassment- but to Morgain.