Chapter 1 - Unfortunate Happenings in Sharpe's Pointe

“... Thanks, Carol. In other news, terror strikes the sleepy town of Sharpe’s Pointe. Last weekend we reported on the ‘Treasures of the Ancient World’ exhibit coming to town, and yesterday - two days before the exhibit was supposed to end - a thief reportedly broke in and stole a priceless tribal mask. A security guard went missing during the theft, and experts say...”


Click.


“... Zoinks Scoob! Was that a g-g-g-g-ghost?”


Much better. Chris never could stand watching the news - at least not on the graveyard shift. Even if he had his phone, the old TV hanging up on the other side of the store, and all the cheesy tabloid magazines in world, he always found himself getting bored. It didn’t help that management insisted on playing the local “news” - as far as he was concerned, nothing newsworthy happened in sleepy little Sharpe’s Pointe, at least not enough to justify twenty-four hour news coverage. 


His mom always used to call it ‘Stephen King’s wet dream’, and for good reason. Sharpe’s Pointe is just a homey little east-coast town settled smack in the middle of nowhere; trees walling them in on all sides. It was the kind of town that only had a comparative handful of people; where everybody - for better or worse - knew everybody else, and that alone kept a lot of bad shit from happening. Unfortunately, this also usually prevented anything from happening at all - anything that wasn’t a barbecue or fundraiser or something. 


Hell, that museum robbery was probably the most interesting thing to happen in months… But he’d heard about the whole thing hours back, and he wasn’t a big enough fan to sit through another hour of local business ads and reports about church bake sales just to listen to it again. 


Idly, he checks his phone for the time - shit, he’s still got another five hours left on his shift. He’d signed on at the little gas station-slash-convenience store about two months back; he was a night owl anyway, and they paid time-and-a-half for overnight shifts, so he figured it was a pretty logical conclusion to snatch that opportunity up… And he supposed he couldn’t complain. The pay was good enough for a broke teenager, and it wasn’t exactly labor-intensive. He sat on his ass most of the time - hell, the bulk of his work was making coffee and ringing out the occasional customer.


As per usual, he zoned out for a bit, just watching cartoons while he awaited the slow trickle of truckers, vacationers, and the occasional odd bird. ‘The freaks come out at night,’ his mom always told him, usually just to teasingly follow up with ‘and you’re one of ‘em.’ 
Thankfully he didn’t end up with many weirdos - hell, the worst he had to deal with was the occasional trucker who was a bit too… Open about their purchases from the 18+ magazine rack. Oh, and Mr. Barton down the road. Something about him always made Chris uncomfortable. 


He ducks out from behind the register to go fill up his slushie cup - the sugar, he swore, helped him a hell of a lot more than the coffee - when the soft electronic ‘bell’ echoes throughout the otherwise empty store, the aged automatic doors scratching shrilly on their tracks as they open. A cold wind blew into the store, carrying with it the scent of gasoline - one Chris found to smell downright foul. Often he thanked god that the pumps were self-serve - he’d much prefer coming home reeking like coffee rather than gas.


Usually he’d hear a car running when somebody came in, so it gave him pause when he couldn’t. The midnight visitor was veiled by long, tall shelves - he didn’t see much of them, but he could hear them shuffling around in the front of the store. He pulls the lever of the slushie machine and waits for the frozen slurry of ice and sugary flavoring to grace his cup once more, and curiously, he stands on his tip-toes to try to get a better view.


What he can immediately see of them are a few long feathers peeking up over the tops of the aisles. Yellow and blue; pretty freaky. His mind conjures the image of a haggard old lady in a big, fancy hat… That’s the only thing that really fits the bill for the combination of sights and sounds. It isn’t long for that mental image to be shattered by another sound - as the visitor moves about, he can hear a very… Loose sound. Like flesh on flesh. 


Aaaaw, fuck, was it a fucking trucker that couldn’t keep it in his pants? Fuck, he really doesn’t need to deal with this now. Before he calls out to them, he tries peeking over to the mirrored dome on the ceiling - unfortunately, from his vantage point, the only thing he could really see was a freckled, pale boy with a shoulder-length mop of black hair, dressed in a knock-off polo shirt and a pair of khakis. In short, he’s just looking at himself. The manager really made that damn mirror useless by setting up so many aisles, and…

The cool feeling of slush running well over his overstuffed cup and across his hand makes him draw it back from around it, uttering “Ah, shit, shit…” as he hurriedly releases the lever. While he licks the blue icy stuff off of his fingers, he sees the feathers wobble out of the corner of his peripheral vision. The visitor shuffles closer and closer to him… But they stop. The approach didn’t worry him at all… But the pause did. Silence hangs in the store; a silence only beyond the soft sound of the visitor breathing. It sounded like their heavy breaths were passing through an open mouth, and passing through something else; something solid. Like something was over their mouth. 
An aisle separates Chris and the odd customer. He takes a tentative step forward and opens his mouth as if to say something, but he’s interrupted by a sudden, mass ‘crunch’ of a dozen plastic wrappers. While Chris stumbles back, the visitor scuttles back toward the front of the store with a rough shuffling and fleshy slapping. A couple packages even fall out of their apparently-hasty grasp, hitting the floor with a noisome crinckling.


When Chris is recovers from his momentary shock, he finds his back to the freezer cases. “What the hell am I doing?” he mutters, shoving off from it. He ignores the icy tone of fear in his voice while he psyches himself up - “It’s probably just a couple kids fucking with me. Really, that’s it, it’s gotta…” He’s interrupted by another crinkling coming from the front of the store - the freak’s tearing the packages open now. A noisome, downright ravenous chewing and smacking soon fills the store, like the visitor didn’t know how to chew with their mouth shut. 


“Fuck, they’re… Shit!” He violently motions in the general vicinity of the chomping as if explaining the situation to somebody else. “If I get fired ‘cuz some assholes are fucking around…” The prospect alone was enough to drive him to walk around the aisle and finally try to seek out the freak. The first thing he sees when he peers around the corner is an empty display of packaged cinnamon rolls - a buck a bun, he recalls. Shit, he’d be out of a damn paycheck if that asshole gets to all of them. A little more hurriedly, he moves around the corner to find that they’d inadvertently - probably inadvertently - left a trail of scattered sweets. 


One roll. He steps a bit closer, his gait slowing. Two roll. He slows to a creep, eyes on the corner the visitor is hiding behind. Three… The chewing stops.


A hand shoots out from the corner and snags the last roll, dragging it around to its side. Chris doesn’t jump this time - he freezes. His sleepy eyes are wide as dinner plates, having just seen the last thing he expected - and definitely the last thing he wanted to see: green.


The hand was green. Green with dirty, gritty fingers. There was even a streak of orange further up the greasy-looking skin. It moved too naturally to be a glove; clung too convincingly to be makeup. At least, he surmised this based on the split-second that he saw it. The chewing since resumed, the visitor snorting and smacking their lips savagely. When it tosses a wrapper into the aisle, he can’t tell if it belonged to the fist-sized cake it’d apparently just scarfed down, or if it was one of the others’.


Chris wills his leg into motion, affording him just another step forward. “Uh…” he whimpers. It takes him a moment of inaction longer to muster the energy for another step, and furthermore to finally address the stranger. “H-hey! You can’t ju-... Just do that!” His voice cracks like he was going back through puberty. God knows he certainly feels childish.
He was quaking in his boots because of some unhinged stranger… Some freak with a penchant for dressup and sweets. Who could tell what else this freak was willing to do? Going to do? Mentally bracing himself for the worst, Chris finally rounds the corner. There, he meets the worst.


Hunched over a pile of plastic wrappers with another sweet roll in hand was… Was… Well, fuck, he didn’t know how the hell to describe it. He could easily run his wide eyes over its imposing form and go bit-by-bit to observe its… Bits. The green skin over untoned, shapeless flesh. The distended potbelly. The dense mats of brown hair coating its crotch and buried beneath its lanky arms. The filthy brown slippers stretched over its dirty feet. The most-terrible, fat, greasy log of uncut flesh hanging heavily between its legs and the fat, saggy, sparsely-furred nutsack that sat beneath it. He’d call it a ‘he’ were it not for the fat, but unsupported and saggy green tits hanging off its chest; green teats stiff in the cool air. Of course, he could easily describe these, but they were just parts of the whole. The whole was an abomination beyond his admittedly-limited capabilities of expression.

He supposed the best thing to characterize it by was its mask. A rough construction of pitted, aged wood with the three feathers sticking out from the seemingly airtight border between it and its wearer’s face. Carved into its surface was a manic grin of sharp, jagged teeth, around which icing was smeared. That combined with the curved, upturned shape of its eyes created an… Uncomfortable impression. Perhaps the most horrifying aspect about it; about its wearer, beyond the impossible tone of its flesh, the impossible girth of its genitals, and furthermore its comfort in bearing them to the world… Was its face. Rather, lack thereof. Beneath that mask, there should have been eyes. There should’ve been a mouth - hell, it’d been making so much noise! - but there was nothing but blackness, that beyond common shade that may hide something; that beyond face paint. There wasn’t anything to hide or to paint. There was nothing.


The visitor… The perverse… Thing had a cinnamon roll clawed in its hand. Though it had no eyes, Chris could feel its gaze burning into his. It shoves the roll into its wide maw, some of the cake and icing getting carved off by its jagged teeth. It didn’t look like it ate it - it sorta fell past the mask; into the void that was somehow presumably linked with its audibly-churning gut. 


Perhaps it was a hallucination brought about by fear or a crash from not having inordinate amounts of sugar running through him at the moment, but he could swear the smile only got wider. Out of the corner of his paralyzed gaze, he could see the mammoth cock twitch between its legs, squeezing out a fat yellow dollop of precum that fell like a stone into the pile of wrappers.

It smacks its invisible lips and stands up. For the size of its gut, its body is uneven and lanky, propelling it to well above Chris’ average stature. He wasn’t any more intimidated than he’d already been until it stood up on its tiptoes and raised its arms, putting on display the dense mats of fur beneath them. 


A ragged exhale rises from its mask, whistling past the dirtied confines of its mask. “H-hhhwhhh…” It sounded like a plaintive, old car being gassed up for the first time in ages; most eerily due to the fact that he could still hear it chewing at the same time. The freak looks damn-near ready to pounce on him, and the same fear that’d kept him anchored to his spot just a foot out of the aisle finally gave him enough of a jumpstart to move his arm down to his pocket. His phone - he had to call somebody. The police, the manager, the national-fucking-guard, somebody! 


His hand impacted his thigh with a dull pat, hitting only fabric and flesh underneath. Rapidly he began to pat his other pockets searching for the precious device - hell, his only form of help short of the fucking lumberjack busting in and saving him from the big bad wolf - only to find nothing. Fuck, fuck, where… His head whirls around to the register. There! A wet slapping brings his attention back to the freak, who had begun to bounce and bob on the tips of its toes, its cock stiffening and rising out of the puckered sheathe of its foreskin as it seemed to masturbate itself without moving a hand. Chris didn’t figure it was gonna stand there forever. 


Hoping he didn’t make a mistake by turning his back to it, he clumsily tries to simultaneously break into a sprint and whip around toward the register. His heart was pounding a mile a minute, and he could just barely register the sound of the freak’s dancing growing more distant… He was doing it! He’d make it! He was about a few feet away when, for the first time, the tribal decided to speak up.


“AE’AKHUAEAIEAUEALO” At least, it seemed like it did. A sound reached from the maw of its mask to Chris’ ears, and it had a… Rhythm like a language. A distant, dead tongue of a distant time and a dead people… But it didn’t sound like anything a human would say. It didn’t sound like anything a human could say. Or an animal, or a fish, or a bug, or anything on the planet. The freak’s… The tribal’s ‘words’ were impossible to phoneticize - as it spoke more, the words bled together and clogged Chris’ ears until all he could hear was pure sound.


Pure sound that made him come to a clumsy, staggered stop just before he was able to vault over the counter. Even if he hadn’t stopped, his legs wouldn’t have been able to propel him over the chest-high wall. They feel like jelly, his heart is still hammering away in his chest, and he’d broken out in a cold sweat… But it wasn’t because of fear. Not this time.


As soon as the first ‘word’ graced his ears, his body was wracked by an onslaught of arousal. He felt it swell in his chest and bury itself in the pit of his cock, which now bulges out almost proudly against his khakis. His mouth is dry and even… Oh god, even his asshole - even more ungraced by… Attention than his virginal cock - feels something in it. The heat of need and arousal, for the most part, burnt away the icy fear inside of him… However, one last remnant remained. The tribal had done that to him… And his… State was only the result of a few ‘words’.


He couldn’t let it stop him. He’s weak and needy, and he forces his hands up over the counter, pressing himself against the glass case that displayed all the different types of cigarettes they had and he begins to climb…


“HAUAE’A’EAOUA’NEIOUO”


Another hoop and holler fell upon his ears like the salacious tongue of a possessive lover. It pried them open to drink deeper of the sound, while the more he listened, the less he actually heard. It wasn’t like he could understand it if he tried… But his body seemed to be receptive to it. He could feel his cock engorge in his pants, trapped between the glass and his own body; painfully aroused and twitching while his arms go slack and he slumps back down to the ground. A weak “A-augh…” escapes his lips… But he smiles. By frantically pawing around the other end of the counter, he finally got a hold of his phone; clutching it in his hand as if - and this would most likely be the case - he’d drop it if he relaxed just a little.


Not even bothering with subtlety, he fumbles with unsure fingers to unlock it. 0… 4… 5… 2, no, 1! 0, 4, 5… Shit, the extra 1 was still there! Shit, shit…! He hastened his already-shaky process when he heard a scuffling shuffling behind him, followed by a wet slapping - 0461-BZZ-05-delete-454-BZZ-0451! He’s got it! He-


Clammy, dirty green fingers reach around him - one surrounds his face, the moist palm clasping tightly around his nose, filling it with the stale, saline scent of sweat while the other grabs him by the crotch, the very base of the freak’s palm jabbing into the very middle of his dick and the long fingers curling around his aching balls. 


“Aah! No, no, let-...!” he wails, kicking against the madwoman(?) while they cackle “Akekekekekeke~!” Its voice is… Unsavory, raspy and rubbing him in all the wrong ways, until… “AJT’HEUOALUA” Before it even finishes - though, he can’t exactly tell when it does - the arousal strikes him again. This time it sends him well over the top. His entire body tenses and he looses a pathetic “A-awh…” as he finally cums.


The orgasm that hits him is nothing short of blissful; his cock spasms into his boxers and he feels like it paints them white with his seed, making his crotch and thighs hot and sticky and leaving a warm, hot feeling radiating from his face into the freak’s palm. Hot, heavy breaths were met with a foul, cloying scent - deeply earthy and musky, practically pouring off of the freak’s body. When the afterglow wears off enough for him to grow a little more sober, he realized he was being dragged. Only then did he begin to struggle, only worsening the wet feeling between his legs. 


With a shove, the tribal skids him a few feet across the floor when it releases him. He stops just short of an aisle, bumping his head into it when he turned to look around. He… He’s well away from the door. From freedom. He’s roughly in the heart of the store, where all the sweets and snack cakes lie. God, what was this freak’s obsession with food, anyway?


The tribal loomed over him only briefly before it squatted down, its fat, musky cock eye-level with him. More beads of viscous yellow pre fell heavily from its engorged tip, onto his chest and lap. “H-hhh-h-hhheeekekekeke…~” it almost seems to taunt. Its deft, and surprisingly strong hands attack his pants now - he barely has enough strength in him to fight it, dropping his phone and swatting at its hands until - with just one, it grabs his wrists and lifts them above his head, pinning them to the aisle behind him forcefully. A couple snack cakes are displaced and fall upon his head. 


Now that he’s closer to it, he’s got a little bit of a better look at it. On its mask, there are a few smears of paint - the same paint continues across its body in odd intervals; blue, yellow, and orange resting upon its forest green skin. It doesn’t look like makeup, and certainly doesn’t look wet at all… In fact, it looks crusty and hard. Like… Actual paint, but despite the thick sheen of sweat and grease that covered the woman, it wasn’t flaking or cracking at all. Perhaps now, at its mercy, he could see a… Distinct femininity to it; curvy due to its hips and fat tits, pot belly be damned... Of course, he mused over this while staring down the proverbial barrel of its massive, stinking cock. 


While its member wasn’t the only reeking thing about it, it was by far the most notable. Between the… Queasy feeling of post-orgasm bliss and his revulsion for the… Creature, it made him gag from its proximity. Simply being around it… Being around her was revolting. Body odor rolled off of her in waves, but her dick radiated a stink beyond just saline and the earthy tinge of petrichor and grit that wreathed her. Musky, spoiled, and sexual.


It took a bit of struggling on her part to remove his pants thanks to the saving grace of his belt. When she finally removed it, she took it in one hand and regarded it curiously. Did…She not know what it was? What, did she come out of a museum or someth-... Oh. Oooooh.


Chris only struggled harder, to no avail. Perhaps all it did was deplete his already-exhausted reserves of energy. He barely had any kick left in him when she finally yanked down his pants and boxers, revealing his spent cock to the open air of the store. Even at an average length, it looked downright pathetic next to hers. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it reflexively shriveled in fear. 

Her breath whistles through the mask in a haggard, raspy chuckle as her mask nears his face. Foul air spills from it openly - he almost expects a green mist to follow. Her free hand runs across his stomach; soft and shapeless, though slim. Her skin feels leathery and rough, but the greasiness provides it with a… Glide that makes his skin crawl. It isn’t long before she touches his spent seed, still sticky and warm. Her palm presses into his cock and crotch and belly and rubs, his member unwillingly standing at attention as hers grows a little thicker still. When she pulls her hand away, it’s connected by a rope of cum to his crotch, which quickly and soundlessly snaps.


With another wretched cackle, she brings her hand closer to his face. “No, no, n-... Nnn!” Chris protests while craning his neck elsewhere - anywhere but near her hand. No, no, fuck…! Her dirty fingers pry his lips open and immediately impart the taste of cum and the remnants of the cinnamon rolls she so gorged upon. It doesn’t take much more effort for his teeth to come apart and for her to allow him to taste the terribly salty-sweet concoction of icing, his seed, and her sweat. 


He gags and she removes her fingers, only to smear the rest of his cum and saliva on his face. He wrinkles his nose and begins to spit off to the side. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?” he finally says, terror giving way into anger. “Let me go, you fucking freak! I’ll… I-I’ll…” And then, as she lifts him by his arms, anger melts back into fear. “J-just… Please let me go, I won’t do anything! Jesus christ, what’d I ever do to you! You… You can go! F-fine, take all the damn snacks you want! Just stop!”


At first, the tribal seems to consider his offer. It at least pauses and… Breathes, still steeping him in its musk. But then it rises up a little, if only to raise him a little bit higher. Chris already feels like he knows what’s coming. Cynically, he notes - probably him.


He hates when he’s right. The tribal begins to chant again - but unlike last time, it doesn’t stop. His eyes go wide as fire overtakes his body, his stiff cock going stiffer and stiffer still until his nuts tense and he blows his load across the tribal. Her chanting continues - still partially squatted as she is, she starts to bob and dance a little, obviously enjoying the experience. Chris really, really wishes he could say he wasn’t. 
Another harsh bellow brings him over the edge, his cock growing more sensitive. A powerful jet of white splatters over her mask, which changes her pitch to one more shrill and jovial. “N-nuh, no, s-stop, c-cut it…” he tries to complain. His thoughts of escape, his thoughts of calling someone… All of them were being thrown further and further back into his mind with every orgasm. It never got worse; only better and better and more and more mind-blowing. His seed splattered on the painted, green skin of the tribal and she loved it, and he couldn’t help but do the same. 


Finally, a particularly strong orgasm left him with… Well, nothing left to give. His tensing, spasming cock petered out with a weak jet of clearish cum that wetly hit the floor. His eyes had been rolling back and forth for a while now, his pale face cherry red and his mouth wide open and gasping for breath. Unceremoniously, the tribal dropped him. He hit the ground with a thud, and only had a brief moment of clarity - enough to paw at the familiar black rectangle of his phone before that black spot extended to cover his entire vision. The exhausted boy blacks out.







The first thing Chris feels when he wakes up is his cock. It’s sore, and everything feels swollen. The next thing he feels is hunger. There’s a churning in his gut; a nagging need for something to fill it. He rolls on the floor, and as soon as he budges an inch, he immediately feels cold. Bare flesh, covered in cold sweat, touches dirty tile, where bare flesh assuredly shouldn’t be. 


His eyes flutter open and he looks down at himself. He doesn’t see anything he hasn’t seen before. Pale skin, from his neck down to his toes. A little dusting of black hair on his crotch since his last adventure in manscaping, and… Wait, shit, he wasn’t supposed to be naked! Hurriedly, he gets up, only to displace a pile of wrappers strewn around him. Reality comes back to him… Shit, shit where’s the tribal? His black hair whips around as he, with the energy that could only come from sheer terror-wrought adrenaline, jolts awake. He barely notices how truly swollen his cock and balls are… Inches thicker, and perhaps a shade darker.


A plaintive growl turns his attention to his left. At the end of the aisle, surrounded in empty wrappers and bags and liberally covered in crumbs and bits of uneaten food is the tribal. Possessively… And seemingly satisfied, it rubs its almost pregnant-looking stomach. Chris can see his clothes in a pile… Right beneath the fat, green cheeks of the tribal’s ass. At first, it doesn’t seem to notice that he’s up - its head is upturned and resting slack against the wall. As soon as he moves an inch further, its head snaps to attention and once more he can feel its invisible eyes boring into his. 
Chris scrambles on the floor, to try and get away from the tribal, but in doing so bats his phone across the aisle. His former plans rise to the top of his still-groggy, soupy thoughts and he yelps out. Clumsily he shifts direction; barrelling down the aisle to pounce on the precious device… Just as the tribal pounces on him. He manages to clap his hands around it just briefly before he was forcefully turned around and pressed down on the floor by the excited tribal, his bare back covering the phone.


She cackles as she pins him, bits of cake flecking onto his face as they fall off of her mask and greasy body. She plops down on his crotch to keep him bound - his stiff… Changed dick beginning to harden once more, rolling across the hairy surface of her taint and nudging into the flesh of her balls. 


“N-no, get off! Let me…!” Chris tries once more to struggle, pressing his hands on her shoulder and tit and trying to shove her off. All he succeeds in doing is exciting her further, her cock sliding across his chest as it, too, hardens. This time she doesn’t bother stopping him from shoving and swatting at her - perhaps she knows how hopeless the effort is, or just doesn’t care. Instead, both of her hands rise to her mask. Her palms fall over the eyeholes and a ragged giggle seeps from its mouth, seeming almost childish in demeanor.

With a soft grinding; the sound of wood-on-wood, it slowly removes the mask. Chris’ struggles pause - he doesn’t know what the hell to expect to see beneath it. He knew the tribal’s face was some kind of bottomless void - would it look like that, or something different? After all, he was dealing with fucking magic words and masks here - anything was within the realm of possibility. Whatever is beneath the mask… He doubts it’ll be pretty.


When the mask is finally off, the tribal titters again. It sounds… The same. Like it’s speaking from behind the mask. It jarringly moves the mask to one side while she herself craned her neck over toward the other. Chris’ brow furrowed as he looked upon it… It was wearing another fucking mask. It was identical to the last, right down to the same streaks of paint. While unenthused, his fears only worsened at this revelation. If she had another mask… What was she going to do with the old one?


The tribal forces it down onto his face, providing him with an answer. The mask feels like it falls loosely upon him; ill-fitting and… In a word, mundane. He can’t see with her hands pressed over the eyeholes, but still he writhes and struggles beneath her, his hands reaching for the mask to pry it off. Just before she finally gets up off of him, he feels something amidst fear and swelling arousal - it’s just as indescribable as she is. Just like her, it’s… Wrong. It passes quickly, but confusion remains. What was…?
Chris doesn’t have time to ruminate over it. He’s being moved - picked up and pulled around by his head. The tribal has a firm grip on the mask and its fingers extend beyond it; past the feathers and through his hair. Before the hands are removed, he notices the smell surrounding her getting worse. It was thicker, more sour and pungent, and… Amidst the sound of slapping flesh, and his own body limply bumping into his surroundings, he can hear another bodily growl.


Suddenly, he feels the mask hit something soft. Soft and fleshy and indescribably malodorous. It… Oh god. Oh, god no. When the hands pull away, he finds himself face to face with her asshole. At least, that's what he assumed it was, given its placement - how it looked, however, told him it was something different entirely. It was too thick; too wide, yawning open needily. Standing starkly against her green skin, it was an earthy, dark brown color; crusted and textured just like the smears of paint across her body.  The pungent odor radiating off of it... Made him think that it wasn't paint. Or maybe the paint was... God, what was with this freak!?


Her hands were behind his head now, pushing him closer to that thick, somewhat hairy brown donut between her legs. Now, he was a little… Appreciative of the mask. It provided an aegis against the foul smelling flesh and… As he thought that, there was a gentle swell of happiness in his chest. Happiness? Before he could muse over it, he was shoved deeper, the mouth of the mask - and his mouth - positioned just above the tribal’s pucker while green flesh sandwiched his head on both sides. He can feel air leaking from the gaping hole, tickling his lips and singeing his nose. 


Suddenly, it tenses, and with a bassy, wet noise the tribal bathes him in hot, sulfury, rancid gas. Beneath the mask, Chris’ eyes immediately begin to water and he gags, sputtering and coughing and spitting while the tribal shrilly cackles. It was the kind of gas Chris would expect to be visibly rancid - carried on clouds of green. 


It in itself was colorless… But there was something odd about what it touched. As it cascades hotly across his pale skin, Chris feels uncharacteristically hot; feverish and itchy. His shoulders and chest, just like his cock, seem to darken a shade. It happens subtly; and the only thing he can really feel is himself beginning to sweat. The gas almost feels like it’s seeped into his skull, clouding and murking up his thoughts… But likewise warming them. Heat bounces from his face to the mask, making it stuffy and humid. Deeper than the physical heat was a returning sense of arousal. His cock slides against his thigh; greasy from its contact with the tribal. Against his will - or perhaps not, because he had greater concerns at the moment - it hardens further… Much further than normal.



The tribal unceremoniously released him, allowing him once more to hit the ground. The first thing he does is draw in as deep a breath as he could - but even then it was still thick with the tribal’s musk and the lingering gas that seemed to cling to his body. He hoarsely coughs as he exhales, rolling weakly on the floor. His stomach was doing loop-de-loops, but somehow he didn’t… No, he couldn’t vomit. He grasps his stomach, weakly groaning while the tribal turns around, surveying him. 


Adding insult to… Insult, the tribal gives another wooping cry that made Chris tense and stiffen. She began to dance a little as Chris’ nuts and cock visibly swelled. Though his mind was fogged with lust and revulsion, he… He could still get some help. He still had a plan. He just needed to get his phone… Through herculean effort, he managed to roll a little and reach behind himself, peeling his phone from his sweaty back and lifting it up before him.


Wait, what was this thing again?


The thought was fleeting, disappearing as soon as it came. For as long as it stayed, his eyes were those of wonder as he looked at the phone in his hands. Why had he thought such a thing? The sight of the tribal lowering itself onto all fours and crawling toward him was enough to force his musings away as he eagerly entered his passcode and opened up the phone. 9… 1… 1.


In the time it took for the phone to ring twice, the tribal had already approached and had nestled itself between his legs. A gangly hand wrapped around the thick base of his cock, making the masked boy wince. God, it felt so good… B-but he had to focus!


“911, what is your emergency?” a man on the other line muses. Before he gets an answer, a sick, squelching sound echoes through the phone - a slurp and a splut that made his gut churn. All he does is sigh. “If this is another prank call, I’m tracing this number and sending a cruiser down there.” he threatens.


“H-hnn… Hnnno! No, no, no!” Chris shouts, panicked, his voice a little ragged from the coughing and a little squeaky from the source of the sucking sounds… The tribal had squeezed his dick into the maw of its mask. Despite the lack of a mouth, it certainly… Felt like there was one. A soft, sloppy orifice that slobbered wetly on his growing member. 


“I’m b-buh-being att… A-auuhnn… I need help! I neEd yOu toOOo se-e… E’ENAEEOAKHAUELEAH” The words spill out of his lips - though they feel like they come from somewhere else - before he even knows what he’s saying. Only as a red hot shot of arousal fills him does he realize he’d spoken in the tribal’s tongue. 
Chris squeals and cums down the tribal’s throat, dumping cum noisomely into the void. He’d practically been firing blanks before - and with that, he gave the last of what he had left. Yet, somehow, he gave more and more… Each jet of spooge coming out darker; tainted. Just like the tribal.







On the other end of the line, the operator is dealing with an… Unfortunate situation. He’d hung up the line - wondering why he’d picked up a prank call in the first place - and excused himself to the bathroom.







When, with a wet schlorp, Chris’ cock was pulled from the tribal’s mouth… Well, it didn’t look like his cock at all. His eyes widen behind the mask as he stares at it - a fat, greasy green log much bigger than a foot and thicker than a coke can, its head peeking out of a sheathe of foreskin. Yellowish gobs of spooge dribble down its underbelly. It isn’t his cock - it’s a damn-near copy of the tribeswoman’s. 


“Oh… Oh god.” he squeaks. “Y-you fu… F-fnghKIngh…” Chris’ lips writhe and squirm as he tries to force out just a single word in English - it wasn’t like his mouth was rebelling, but he was trying to… Remember it. It was like somebody carved out a chunk of his brain with an ice cream scoop - but slapped something else in its place. “You fUhhHENEAIOT’UAE”


Another orgasm rocked through his body, forcing out another few jets of yellowed seed onto the tribal’s fat tits. Eagerly, she smears the cum across her hands and reaches down to her own dribbling dick. Weakened and confused, feeling like he’d lost the greatest challenge of his life, Chris was easy to flip over and pick up. His cock slapped against his belly and his balls against his thighs as the tribal rose, forcing him against an isle. “N-nuh! NuIiOE-!” His internal dictionary was changing faster than his understanding, an entire language being crammed into his skull… And worse, that he knew about it. Something about this freak was changing him! It… It was the mask, it had to be!


His hands rise to the mask and grab it by the corners. It isn’t adhered to his face with any kind of glue, or held on by any string, but with every yank he gave it, it pulled on his flesh like it’d been stapled to his skin. It’s painful, but he can feel it working - if he can just…!


Suddenly, the tribal’s cock slaps wetly between his asscheeks. Oh god. Oh no, no no no… 


A dollop of pre drops mack-dab in the middle of his pucker, making him squirm and making it clench tighter. One of the tribal’s deft fingers reaches forward to tease it, prodding gently at first… But then pulling the hole open, making Chris gasp. Reflexively, he shouted to complain… But by now, his words bore little semblance to those he wanted. All that came from his lips - no, came  from the mask, were more of the tribalspeak. After that, his asshole was plenty more welcoming of the attention. It was a… Perverse thrill to have it prodded and poked and… Feeling the head of the tribal’s dick press against it… 


No! No, no, fuck no it wasn’t! He tried to reason with himself; reason with his own body while the tribal stretched his rear open with the fat head of its cock, lubed by his own changed seed. A pathetic, plaintive whine rises up from the back of his throat - as soon as the head is in, he feels stuffed to capacity. Yet, somehow, as the tribal’s dick snakes deeper into his rear, it… Makes room for it. His pucker grows thicker around the green cock, black hairs beginning to surround the growing donut. 


He can almost feel his guts shifting as the gargantuan cock stuffs him, making his stomach bulge dangerously. The tribal’s hands wrap around him, beneath his arms and onto his chest, squeezing his pecs hard. Chris, practically voiceless, can’t help but whine again. When she finally bottoms out, she rests her floppy tits on his back and her neck on his shoulder. His hair is lightly blown about as she gives another raspy, lecherous chuckle.


“EEE’AEAEWAUN… HIN’EAIEUKHOEN!” Before the tribal’s shout began to fade into noise again, it… Becomes a little more comprehensible. Chris is able to latch onto it. The sweat dripping from his body only worsens when he realizes that he can. Understanding this… The… Woman wasn’t a good sign. He should speak… What… What was it again? His tongue. The way he talks. Not like the sis… Th-th-the woman! It has the same effect, however - his cock begins to twitch, freely dribbling precum onto the floor. Though his stamina wasn’t limitless, that… Tongue was holding him just over the boundary of exhaustion, keeping him ready to fuck and cum by its demand.


He… Communicates back to her. He wants to ask ‘What was that?’ - but, of course, it comes out just the same as her words. It made his ass clench around her cock, and made his nuts swell closer and closer to the… Appropriate size; the same size as the tribal behind him. The woman didn’t respond with words - rather, actions. She pulled back and then thrust deeper into him, pounding at his tortured belly, which begins to swell with every thrust.


Then, the woman speaks again. The sound - beyond the lust - fills Chris’ head. He can’t understand a word of it, but he… He’s getting it. She’s not speaking; not really. She’s… She’s singing. He was too.
He keeps hearing it echo in his head well after she’s done talking. “AE, AE, AE”. The tribe. The tribe. The tribe. His hands are still on his head, though they’re not trying to force off the mask anymore - now, he’s just trying to keep his head from bursting. The faint grunts and gasps he emits only drive him further down the roads of lust, while she pumps his ass and his distended gut hangs over his fat, floppy, leaking dong.


She pulls her hands away from his chest, now - the flesh is puffy and soft; unlike how it’d been just a moment ago. On one side, she seems to have left a hand-print… In blue paint. On the other, she left a yellow one. It stood out against his darkened flesh - no longer was it a pale caucasian shade, rarely blessed by the sun’s presence… Now it was a shade of lime, dotted with darker freckles. It wouldn’t be long before it darkened further. Her hands wildly caressed him - his cock, his thighs, his belly and arms, leaving crusty smears of that paint across his body. It only exacerbated the darkening of his skin while he wailed in agony and lust.


AE, AE - he kept hearing it. It was sung with a long-passed sense of loss, and a burgeoning sense of desire. Wanting. It pounded in his head like a heartbeat, making him want something too. AE, AE.


His churning gut lurches and he can’t help but fart, noisily and sloppily, around the tribal’s cock as it continues to plug him. The heat, the pressure, and... Even the filth drives the tribal over the edge. With a wail from her - and then, a wail from him, the pair of them cum together. Those fat green nuts of theirs dumping what feels like gallons of rotten yellow spooge - hers into his ass, and his onto the aisle. 


She yanks herself out of him with another wet ‘schlorp’, allowing him to fall forward on his hands and knees; ass up. His mask gives a hollow clunk when it hits the ground, breaking him out of his mental anguish for just a moment.. When he looks up, the first thing he sees is the mirrored ball. 


In its surface, he sees two tribeswomen. That’s the word his mind - shouting in that tribal tongue and evoking another spark of lust - comes to. The other tribal is… Well, just the same, while he finds himself… Just recognizable. Not by his face, as it’s covered by the mask. Not by much of his body, as it bears a fat pot belly and fatter green cock like hers. From his neck down to just above his elbows, he’s practically the same shade of green - it’s like a reverse-gradient, darker at the top and fading back into his natural skin tone when it reaches his stomach… Only for it to fade back to green when it hits his hips. 


No, no, no, he… This couldn’t be happening. He wants dearly to say he’s… He’s not like this f-f… This other woman. But he knows it isn’t true. His weak hands run across his gut and down to the base of his crotch, where he feels a dense, sweaty mat of fur. 
It wasn’t just that he was similar in form. He can’t even think in… His… In a different language, and there was a growing confusion on what he would want to, somehow coexisting with the knowledge that he should be. 


The woman - his mind say something along the lines of ‘sister’, making his cock twitch - cheers behind him. He can see her playing with herself again, rubbing the mixture of her cum and his ass-juices across her cock. Even if he didn’t have the view on the mirror, he’d hear it. Splat. Fap. Schlick. It fills his ears, his head already stuffed with the tribal tongue. It was using his thoughts against him. The more he thought, the more he heard it. The more he heard it, the hornier he got. It was maddening.


Her eyes were on his ass; it was as thick and hairy as hers, stained green and aching just as much as it yawned open. She steps a bit closer, but then stops. He’s trying to get up, struggling to get off the ground. He wobbles, and his ass wobbles with him. One hand reaches out and falls with a gentle slap on the tile - though he was being attacked even from within his own skull, the boy still fights.


And the tribal taunts him. He can tell, now. It isn’t a mean taunt or anything - just a tease, with a swell of… Admiration? Acceptance? Though her words are in his head, he can’t read her mind - but he doesn’t need to. He knows what she wants. She prances around him, her cock and tits bouncing and slapping against herself. 


Ch… The boy tries to retreat, but only succeeds in falling backwards, his softer ass landing with a wet slap upon his prone, weak legs. When he tries to lean back and inch himself away, the woman reaches for his mask again. She yanks it toward her, and he barely feels it give a centimeter before it drags his head forward with it. 

Her cockhead presses against one of his eyeholes, the slit a fraction of an inch inside, belching heat and radiating fragrance. The scent is familiar; like somehow her cockstink is burned into his noise; burned into his mind just as thickly as her sweat and her gas. Joined with it is a raunchier, slightly-less-familiar scent; his own ass. He… Owns that smell. He owns the whole smell. There’s part of him that feels a oneness with it; a sort of comfort. He’s in no mind to disagree.


A bead of cum, perhaps the last from her prior orgasm, falls free of the head and splatters just beside his nose, slithering down his cheek as if it has a mind of its own, rolling over his lips.
Unconsciously, he licks them. Barely anything he does is conscious at this point - his body is moving on autopilot with a course set for ‘run’. Of course, with his body beginning to disobey, and his mind absent, he wasn’t getting anywhere fast. 


The tribal pulls her cock away for just a moment, then returns it to another hole - his mouth. With the force it enters with, his upper lip is nudged upward in a sneer, with dribbling, cumsoaked tip rubbing up against his teeth. He tries to think of something to say, and his body tries to say it - both actions do him a disservice. With his mouth open, the tribal can just barely squeeze the tip of its cock into his mouth, the spongy, slick flesh worming past his gums and forcing his jaw painfully wide. 


While it does prevent him from speaking like her,  it doesn’t stop him from thinking… Increasingly like her as well. Nothing told him that it was wrong for him to have a massive cock between his lips, which seemed to stretch wider, though it wasn’t visible behind the mask. Only a deep, negative sensation even suggested it. 


He couldn’t find any help in his body; in his mind, which was growing into an entropic mess of half-thoughts, and he had no help of his body; his actions grinding to a sudden halt. Both had grown so unfamiliar, so quick… So, he seeks some form of grounding outside of his body. Something familiar - he knows he belongs here. In this… Place. He knows it, and knows what’s in it! His eyes try their best to look past the tribal’s densely-furred crotch and toward the nearby aisle. It’s stocked with packages, which he knows are…


Are… U-uh. 


He can’t read them. He can’t even remember what’s in them based on how they look. The color, the shape… Only the vague outline still rested in his mind; all the other features had been fucked out of his memory. Even that outline had begun to fade. 


His jaw is taxed, stretched to the limit by just the head of the s… Sister’s cock. It’s a little painful, at first, but the pain begins to disappear. With a thrust, and a wet, sloppy sound, his jaw seems to relax a little, permitting another few inches of cock to enter him. While it snakes deeper, the green shade upon his skin creeps further and further across his flesh. Splotchy patches rise up amongst the last vestiges of human flesh he has, like another bit of his old self had been carved from him and part of the sister had replaced it. 


Perhaps as his last act of defiance, he raises his hands - they’re green now, just like hers, but with lighter, cleaner… But no less sweaty fingertips. He presses them against her thighs, and pushes, just for a moment.
Then his hands slide closer together. Closer to the inside of her soft thighs. Closer to her balls. The wrinkled, hairy flesh falls over his hands, and then his hands fall onto that flesh. He cups her balls and begins to squeeze, evoking a chitter and cheer from the… His… Sister. 


She thrusts again, the soft rung of foreskin finally passing his gums. Goopy pre-spunk runs freely down his throat, tasting rancid and sour as it pools up. Reflexively, he swallows, and only draws the cock deeper in. 


She thrusts again, and he almost gags when she hits the back of his throat - she hasn’t even put a third of her length in yet. Tentatively his tongue moves forward, between his teeth and her slick member, and he begins to roll it across the underbelly of that shaft. His mouth generates sick, slick noises - but they’re familiar. They’re like hers, when she was slobbering on his dick. His dick tenses as he recalls that. 


She thrusts again and she goes well into his throat, making it bulge almost comically. This… Stuff. Fucking. Sucking. Dancing. It was part of what she… Did. It was her. He understood that now. Every day, every night, it was the same blurred torrent of lust and craving. AE, AE.


She thrusts again, and his mask finally meets the mat of fur between her belly and crotch. He takes a deep, snorting inhale, and he’s bathed in that familiar musk, his eyes rolling upward. He squeezes on her balls and continues slurping, and the sister - made significantly more sensitive in her last climax - is barely able to pull back and thrust again before she dumps another load of corrupted spunk down his gullet. 


With each spasm and jet of cum he ingests, the soft flesh of his pecs begins to swell. His new tits grow an entire cup size at a time, but lacking the support of a bra, they sag over his gut. Another schlorp sends him careening onto the floor, his eyes rolling to and fro… Before, once more, spying the mirror. 


In its surface he sees two tribeswomen. Sisters. Twins. AE, AE. He rises up to get a closer look, standing shakily on his spindly legs.


He watches as the sister behind him begins to dance. She’s overjoyed - her tone says it all. She speaks and shouts and he gets hornier, not just from what she says aloud, but from his own thoughts and concerns. They fill him with the same lust. The same joy.


It swells in his chest and he stands up, steadying himself. He looks down at his hands. Her hands. The tribal’s hands. The sister’s hands. At the stiff, dripping cock. The sister had made another. Another tribal. For the tribe. AE, AE.


He doesn’t have time to avoid the sister coming for him, grabbing his hands and twirling him around, beginning to dance with him. She bounces on her tiptoes, and he - with bare, green feet, follows along. Then she throws his arms over his head and forces him backward; on his own. 


He keeps dancing. He gets horny while he’s dancing; hornier, his dick flapping out in the open, against his fat, hairy belly. He couldn’t remember being so hairy, but he was. His ass, his armpits, his crotch, all hairy and thick with sweat. The foul smell in the air reminded him of something. It reminded him of somewhere he’d never been. Dancing around a fire, millennia ago, nude and horny. 


As he thinks of it, he gets hornier. His nipples stiffen as his new tits slap and flap against himself.  He looks up to the mirror again. Two sisters dancing. AE, AE. More would be nice. They can’t move without getting hornier. They can’t think without getting hornier. That’s what their tongue does. That’s why they were sealed away. It was maddening, but it was theirs. Their tribe. Their tongue. Their smell. Their cocks. 


One of the tribeswomen looks up to the mirror. She barely registers the shape of eyes and a mouth disappearing behind her mask. Her precious mask. One day she’d give it to someone else. Another tribeswoman. Her sister barrels forth, grabbing her by the arms and nudging their cocks together, sharing the yellowed spunk dripping from them; the same that now liberally coated the floor. The sister massages her fat tits, and she returns the favor, her hands smearing more paint across her sister’s body. 


Before they go any further, her belly grumbles. Food. Needs food. She sees food near her, but it’s bound. Trapped in a clear net. Her gangly green fingers pry it open with ease and she shoves it down her gullet. More. Needs more. 


“CHIAIIIEAE” her sister cheers, motioning to the door. Sunlight. Tribe has to hunt at night. No more time. A faint memory bubbles up to the surface of the tribal’s mind. She finds a bigger net behind a wall, and stuffs more food into it. Before dawn fully breaks, the sisters run - their cocks flop across their bodies and their minds are awash in maddening arousal. Today they will feed. Tonight they will dance. 


The only thing left to make any noise is Chris’ forgotten, now cum-coated phone, buzzing softly in the heart of the store.







“Haha, it certainly is, Carol. It’s another solemn day in Sharpe’s Pointe as missing persons reports continue to be filed in the wake of the attack on the Gas-n’-Grub rest stop on friday evening. The local police estimate a total of five men and women have gone missing in total, including the campers we reported on yesterday. Detectives have suggested a link between the two, and perhaps to the reports of strange noises and lights in the woods around the town. Now, we go live to…”


Jacqueline eagerly minimizes the window on her phone. She never could stomach bad news, especially when it concerned the town. Sharpe’s Pointe was such a sweet place - her friends had always complained it was uneventful, but was there anything wrong with that? She didn’t think so. Maybe that was the optimist in her speaking. 


Besides, she was supposed to have fun today - not dwell on the dour. After all, it was field trip day! From her seat in the front of the bus, she peers back at her second grade class, grinning wide. They all looked so excited - most were busy with their own devices and conversations, but she could tell that most were focused on the field trip.


“Whoooooo’s ready to go camping?” she calls eagerly, immediately showered in a flurry of “Me me me!”’s. “Well, we’re almost there! Just sit tight a little longer, and have all of your bags ready!” Cue a mass “Yes, missus Davinburgh.” She tittered softly as she relaxes back in her seat, staring out the window. Some people found the forest scary, but she loved to look at it in a more positive light - else she wouldn’t have volunteered to chaperone this trip. 


Out the window, she spies something odd. Amidst the dense green and browns, she could’ve sworn she saw a big, yellow feather. She guffaws to herself as she imagines what kind of goofy monster would have yellow feathers. It was probably a sign or something - a marker or just something some kids nailed to a tree. Idly, she hopes that the kids won’t have to deal with any pranksters while they’re out here. Especially none with yellow feathers, she silently jokes.


In the forest, a pair of heads nod affirmingly. Tonight, the dance will grow larger still. 


