Hunting in the Grave
Story by Wolvun
The creature below the graveyard is a massive, pumpkink-like creature similar to the other pumpkolossi. It’s cold stone-like skin protects it from harm as it manipulates the surrounding sedimentary for its own diabolical ends. Taking it’s prey from below and dragging them though the dirt to its hidden grove underneath. Weakness include it’s insides which can be exploits though the mouth or eyes holes when open. While difficult to defeat due to its quick turning and control, with a large enough or big enough force is able to overcome this monstrosity.
Pipin sighs and closes the book. Adjusting her shawl as well as the wrap around her hips. Her Mistress, the Witch of Words, already had accounts of this creature. There was no new knowledge for her to consume here. The guerilla group of rebel slaves she regularly traded secrets and information with, the Ill Manored, never stopped telling and retelling the tale of how they had brought down this one. In a place like the Samhien Manor, victory against any such creature or witch were uncommon at best. It makes sense to squeeze as much morale inspiration from it to push for further victories.
Not that the Ill Manored had anything to do with Pipin or her Mistress. The rebel group had to constantly struggle and hide from the Harvest Witches, lest they be captured and tortured again and examples made of. Their plight was uphill, a battle to release more slaves, to liberate everyone from Misery Manor. Yet the Witch of Words and Pipin enjoyed relative safety while roaming the halls, the Harvest Witches seemingly uninterested in conflict with them. Pipin long suspected that her Mistress must have had some sort of deal struck with them.
Still, it bothered her that the Teacher who had given her so much purpose, in teaching and helping her not only survive but thrive here, to be sequestered within the Blue Library. An unused book tucked behind a row on a shelf.
So Pipin would also work with the Ill Manored too, to ensure that when her Mistress didn’t have a specific mission for her, she could always try to be learning something new to bring back to the Library. She had become obsessed with consuming knowledge, learning new things, to revealing new information to her Mistress. That satisfying tingle she got when she saw her Mistress’ eyes light up with new words. That satisfying tingle when she could understand something new. That satisfying tingle she got when she ventured out and faced dangers.
So she had fallen into a role of some sort of information broker for the Ill Manored, trading hidden knowledge that they might need on their missions, in exchange for regular updates from their constant movements and activities. She was their source of deep knowledge and lore, they were her eyes and ears of the current goings-on. The arrangement worked well for both of them, although Pipin found her loyalty more closely tied to the Witch of Words, than that of the captured sex slaves in the Manor.
However sometimes they could be a challenging group to work with. Under constant threat they are a rightfully paranoid group. With the odds so thoroughly stacked against them, rumours and suspicions are better squashed with truth and fact before they fest amongst the group and become misery. Making them worse for dealing with the real threat before their eyes.
Hence why Pipin now roved the Samhein Graveyard, horny for answers. A strange, chilling place that has seen much disuse. Or at least, unintended use. From the Witch of Words’ records, those buried in the dirt of the Graveyard go into a magical state of deathlessness. Protecting and keeping someone exactly as they are. They do not need to be dead for this effect to happen either. A fatal wound will not heal, nor will it kill the person. They may feel it, yet it will never end. This stood out to Pipin, as while the applications for awful torture make sense for the Harvest Coven to employ, it seems to be rarely used by them, and doesn’t even seem to be the type of magic that they typically create or excel at.
Trusted flashlight in hand, Pipin continued to walk. Other hand with her familiar book held open. Pages fluttering and turning without purpose, Glancing down out of habit as the page turns to the written instruction and simplistic map of how to get down below.
A chill drew her attention. The Blue Book shivered. Cover creasing like a growl as Pipin sweeps the flashlight about. But a creeping fog would not let it through. A familiar tingle. Something new.
Dropping the flash light as she focuses. The mental, magical logic of why the cold thick air could ignite into a flame at her finger tips. She found herself hot before the flame even appeared, excited by the start of the new adventure. She had become competent and confident, and with that confidence came the tingles between her legs.
The fog intruded no further. The figures it had been hiding moving forward. Walking? Floating? It was unclear as their thin clothing shifted ethereally in the still breeze. Their faces hidden behind pale veils.
Pipin glance over her shoulder. More of these Veiled Wraiths were coming. All weightless. All with hands outstretched. Closing her eyes, adjusting her reasoning. Causing the ball in her hand to sputter. Embers spraying out before her. The Veiled Wraiths did not slow. Did not react as embers landed around them or pass though them.
“That’s plenty.” Pipin mutters.
Closing her book and scooping up her flashlight. The Ill Manored hadn’t mentioned these. Whether they were knew or not was relevant. These creatures weren’t what she was here for, although she found herself on a sudden sexual burning edge as her familiar book began scribbling notes of her observations of the creatures. Neither the Ill Manored nor the Witch of Words had mentioned these things before. She was going to bring back some new information from these alone.
The tingles were here, physically vibrating through her legs at her sheer internal excitement. But her rational mind stayed calm. These creatures frightened her, they weren’t being harmed by magic. She knew she shouldn’t be here.
Instead, she should be over there.
One moment, the Veiled Wraiths were around her. The next, she was outside of the fog. Her insides revolting. Her eyes stung. Everything was sensitive. She had just reasoned, with the help of her familiar book, why she wasn’t where she had been. That by all the possible theory and logic, she should have been been standing outside of a crypt she had seen faintly in the flashlight’s light.
If the Witch of Words had teleported, she would have come out without effect. But Pipin’s logic still needed work. The fact her insides were now revolting and trying to escape out her mouth was proof of that. She left an unanswered question about why she should be here, and her body was trying to compensate. Painfully.
She didn’t dare try to reason herself better. Even if she knew everything about her own body, she would have to guess what she hadn’t reasoned well enough in the first place. Instead, leaning against the wall, she made her way into the crypt. Following the stairs down.
Pipin felt it in the dug tunnel. The same she felt in the forest, lake and well. Yet it was so much sharper. She had been practicing and hoping it was enough, but the sudden poorly reasoned teleport, her body wasn’t ready for the eruption of arousal in her body. No mere tingle this time, she was brought immediately to the edge of orgasm, bending her at the knees in her shock.
But she shouldn’t have felt anything. The pumpkolossus had been destroyed already. What was happening? Following the sensation. Trying to keep herself focused.. Something had happened. Seems the Ill Manored had had good reason to be paranoid after all.
To stave off the lust, she focused on the tunnel itself. Some places dug well, other places poorly. All around were signs of a struggle. The Ill Manored had carved this tunnel themselves to get at the creature’s underground lair. Unlike the Well, this one had no need to tunnel. Only to pull it’s prey down. So the Ill Manored had to dig and protect and fight until they found the creature. She admired the level of organisation and effort that had gone into this battle. She might have underestimated how committed and competent they were as a group.
The Harvest Witches were definitely not this organised as a group. Maybe with the power of the Ill Manored and the understanding of the right advantage to press, a move could be made on the Head of the Harvest Coven…
A tomb, was the best she could describe. Slabs of stone. Thick, hard, slabs. Hard stone that wanted to lay on her, to protect her, to take her and secure her forever in safety. In constant screaming orgasm.
The dirt, the marks of tools used, of struggle and fighting. She tried to focus. What did she see. Walk, move, observe, learn. It was tricky, learning gave her the tingles too. The idea of knowledge was the most arousing thing for her. And in a dangerous place, too. A deathtrap, with a monster. Dirt falling from above her. The darkness hiding dangers. Coffins split open. Split open. Like her legs. She could stop and just spread herself a part. Broken. Broken apart and wait for eternity. Broken rubbles crossed the floor of this place. Skeletal bodies. Bones. Bones for her. Waiting to be together. Death and desire. Broken and burst pumpkinks lay across where they had fallen. Landing, dropping, drooling. Coming for her, to taste her. Taste her in her eternal desperation. In disturbing poses as though dropped from the ceiling. All around her. On her. Over her.
Pipin could no longer keep it back. Chanting softly to herself, she puts away the flash light to free up a hand to play with her breasts. While the reasoned magic adjusted her eyesight. She wouldn’t need to do this long. There was nothing here.
But there was.
During her apprenticeship in the Blue Library she had become confused and conflicted. Learning, danger, and eye-watering arousal all melting together in her head and pussy, her body becoming a crucible of edging and perilous education, all feeding each other in an endless cycle that she was terrified might destroy her one day.
But she had also become better at understanding her own internal sexual chaos, and the tell-tale signs of the edging aura created by the pumpkolossi. There was definitely one here, teasing her, taunting her, dragging her by her clitoris’ desperation to its desperate mouth.
Mind somewhat cleared by this reminder, she continued exploring with her book out, taking notes. Regarding information on the withered bodies and dried, hollow looking pumpkink gourds. No specks of flames so clearly extinguished and harmless. Yet there was something on them…Drawing a finger across the dry, dusty rind, she looked at a clear, translucent fluid. Incredibly light, slightly sticky. Running a finger along a page of her book, it came back with an answer. Pumpkink guts. Yet this one had none of the orange-ish color nor seeds. Just a translucent mucus.
A mucus that felt sticky and harmless. So sticky and harmless, pale, white, gooey, it would be a dream to have it splash over her face, her tits. Inside her, she should never spit this out, just swallow. Swallow. Swallow as much as she can, get this insider her, all her holes, immediately-
She remembered this from the pumpkolossus in the Well, and reasoned with herself why this substance would slide without a trace off her of fingers. Even touching this substance is a trap designed to draw you in. A powerful one. More powerful than the Well goo, but thankfully she had experience. She understood what was happening.
And yet still craved it. The desire lingers.
Pipin hadn’t seen the pumpkink move as the fluid splashed on the floor and slithered back to the gourd. How the frail dried hollow body flexed. Not that it would have helped her when the hand appeared. Pipin screamed, but the translucent hand held tight. Dragging the Pumpkink gourd along. Her familiar book snapping at it like a protective animal, awakened and snarling to protect its keeper. But the mucus-like arm bends out of the way. More of it pushing out of the mouth and eye holes of the gourd onto Pipin. She wasn’t proud of it, but a heavy book enticed an instinctual reaction. Bringing the book down hard onto the gourd. Smashing it apart.
The hand relinquished. Thrashing and…steaming? Dissolving? Pipin didn’t care. Trying to calm herself down as the transulcent goo now exposed evaporates. Leaving Pipin by herself. But between the trap of temptation and her own desire, her own desire to learn what was going on, she stared confidently down the tunnel, more ready than ever. Where there was small, there would likely be big. Whatever the Ill Manored had smashed hadn’t stayed smashed. It was now on her to bring back proof to that conclusion.
Further into the slabs and rubble, Pipin still felt the arousal yet it wasn’t changing. A singular sharp “stab” of it in her side that neither rose or fell. Sure, it could have been moving around her but it seemed unlikely it would keep such a uniform distance. It felt…unnatural. A constant dig, a white noise that bore into her. Like a drill. Steadfast to drive her mad. Mad enough to get lost down here. To give up. To give up and wait for it to find her. To ease her suffering. To satisfy her. To satisfy her. To satisfy-
The signs of struggle could only do so much. Following them must surely do lead somewhere.
When she came across it, she wasn’t sure what to make of it. The pumpkolossus in the Well had been slimy sure, but that had been inside a gourd like the others. This thing sat in the broken shards of monstrous size. Bigger than the jutting slabs. Surrounded by sunken gravestones, like the centrepiece in its own horrific cemetery of desperation and death. Or perhaps those were part of it as well? Whatever had happened, the large mass of the same translucent mucus webbed everything together.
It shifted and churned in place. Shadowy shapes barely distinct in the milky white material. Pipin pulled her book out. Writing down what she can. Was this it? Focus, Pipin! Or something of it? Something for her. Or not at all? Her loins ached. While she wrote in one page in her book, the book itself filled in notes on the other page. Working together to learn more, faster. Teamwork! Flashes of the torture back in the Manor crossed her mind. A vibrator on her crotch held there in place. Mocking taunts from the Witches doing it. One pushed her to constant orgasm, while the other shocked or burned her every time she made a noise. Teamwork. Everyone at once, a singular uniform wave. A stasis of pleasure. Write! She described how even sensations had become locked. She was inside the grave soil. Her sensations were locked. Her hand moving to try and rub some relief. It did nothing. She couldn’t feel her labia or fingers as she tried. She was at the pinnacle of the edge of orgasm, and her body was immovable locked in this state of denial. Falling to her knees with a frustrated sob.
That was a mistake.
The ball of mucus shivers. Parts of it sink inward. Further and further leaving two sunken “sockets” in their place. It lifts up as the shadowy shapes in the swirling whiteness break the surface. Rounded grey-white pressed together. The impression of a leering skull with its toothy grin. Then from all over, tendrils push out. Some ends shaped like hands. Others pushing out shapes that end in a jagged point.
Pipin replied in turn with spells and movement. Her body growing number and number. She had to get away. She hadn’t been ready for this. But the stone slab and the arousal aggression of the…deathless pumpkolossus, gave her no rest. She was falling behind and felt the stab of the point in her stomach. The mucus holding flowing over it. Over Pipin and pulling them back toward the main body.
Pipin was floating. Everything pressed around her. The weight in her gut was gone, but the pleasure. The arousal. All around her. All though her. A single sharp tone. Pressing in on her, Unbreaking. Unyielding.
Pipin twitches. Unresponsive to the goo or stimulation around her. Lost in the sub space. Floating, alone within the remains of a pumkoloossus. Entombed. The Graveyard allowed no death, no suffocation or starvation. Only stillness. Forever still.
But Hunger? There is no stillness from Hunger.
While Pipin was still, her was not. The material surrounding it too thick to open. Too much to swallow. Yet so much to question. Was it an ecotplasm? Pipin jerks, her shawl drifting off her neck in the mucus. Was this the original Pumplossus’ guts still being spilled? The shawl twitches further. It’s movements growing along with the struggling familiar book. Can a pumpkink survive past being smashed in the Graveyard? Something stirs within the shawl. Devoid of a Library Card, yet not empty without the book. What would the Witch of Words say about such a being? Did those Veiled Wraiths know? We’re they with it? Against it?? Working for it??? It’s Mistress??? It’s slaves?????
Hunger is what drove Pipin to lure the book to her. What drove her to learn the Witch of Words’ ways. To seek the Ill Manored. To learn. To know. To fill the Hunger.
She was helplessly trapped in the overpowering blanket of desperate, deathless, permanent edge of denial that the pumpkolossus was using against her, the most powerful she had seen yet, a weapon of agonising arousal she had never experienced before. But within her body, between her head and from her legs, her body was a crucible of arousal, desperation, learning, hunger. The pumpkolossus was using her denial to torture her. But it made her feel hungry. It made her feel confident. The danger turned her on. The new knowledge aroused her. It empowered her.
She reasoned with herself, how could she use all the knowledge she had acquired so far to protect her from this threat. All the knowledge she had hungered for. That had filled her book. That Hunger.
That level of Hunger that cannot be held in a single book.
She called the power of all the pages she had filled with her desperate quest to satisfy her needs.
Coils of tightly wrapped pages snaked from the shawl, becoming streams of flowing, flying papers, like a octopus pulling itself from a shell. Swimming from the shawl, the paper octopus twisted around her and her familiar book, creating a spherical paper protection of pages around her. Taking the book and bringing it close to her. It landed amongst the other four covers. Opening and adding it’s own pages to the creation. The papers slicing and cutting the air around her, outside the paged sphere, twisting and forming a beak. The whole amalgamation twists and slides through the mucus. The new beak closing around Pipin and dragging her along. The long paper tendrils help push and pull. Until the paper beast bursts from the side of the gooey pumpkolossus.
The graven mucus monstrosity wretched and recoiled enough that Pipin, surrounded by a swirling tendrilled monster of her own library’s making, was able to push backwards again, back through the tunnels. Back into the dark. back into the graveyard. Back into a place where death, and chaos, and change, and orgasms, were all fair game.