The Call of Her Coochie, page 1
The Adventures of a Lust-Cursed Heroine
Book Three: The Call of Her Coochie
By Amanda Clover
Cover artwork by AJ DinoRokski (Twitter)
This book and all its contents are copyright 2023 by Amanda Clover. All rights are reserved and no portions may be reproduced unless for the use of brief quotations for review purposes.
All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18. This is a work of parody and any resemblance to real people or situations is coincidental.
Table of Contents
Book Three: The Call of Her Coochie
Map of Aropa
Chapter One: Nightmares of Pleasure
Chapter Two: The Mutilated and the Sick
Chapter Three: The Darkness Upon Vinecio
Chapter Four: Wanderlust in a Cursed City
Chapter Five: The Party Favor
Chapter Six: The Viscount’s Bed
Chapter Seven: The Thing Beneath the Blasted Cathedral
Chapter Eight: Lessons in Satisfying Ropers
Chapter Nine: What’s a Harlot of to a God?
Chapter Ten: No Laurels, No Resting
Map of Aropa
1
Nightmares of Pleasure
Sophie Almodóvar climbed down the trellis and into the nighttime fragrance of her mother’s flower garden. Her bare feet pressed into the cool grass and the manicured blades tickled beneath the hem of her nightshirt.
Margaret landed beside her, more delicate and tentative. Her dark eyes full of innocent wonder as she caught her first glimpse of the moonlit garden. Sophie took her sister’s hand and they stepped into this lingering memory of their mother.
“They’ve kept it just as it was,” whispered Margaret.
“I told you!” Sophie squeezed Margaret’s hand. “The red and pink roses are just as mother planted them. Look, there are the carnations Aunt Selina gave mother here. And here, someone has planted even more lilies.”
“It’s incredible,” laughed Margaret. “Maybe it’s her ghost! Maybe she is watching over us still, Sophie! Tending to her garden and to her family as before!”
Margaret spun happily, letting her fingers drag across the petals of the roses.
“She may watch over us,” agreed Sophie, “but I think father is secretly paying Mateo and Hugo to care for the garden. I saw them carrying in sacks of earth last week and Hugo keeps a key to the courtyard gate around his neck.”
“Do you think he could give us the key so we can come here whenever we like?” asked Margaret, still spinning happily.
“No, we mustn’t let on that we know mother’s garden is still here. If Rowena discovers this place, she will burn the plants and salt the earth. She will send Mateo and Hugo away.” Sophie reached for her sister’s hand. “Now stop spinning like that, you are making me dizzy.”
She caught Margaret’s hand and stopped her spinning. The childlike nightdress that Margaret wore lost its frilly embellishments and became old, yellowed sackcloth. Margaret turned, six years older, paler, with her eyes ringed by dark circles and her cheeks sunken in her face. She was still beautiful, but her delicate frame was too skinny and her dark hair was stringy and uncombed.
“Margaret?” Sophie let go of her sister’s hand. “What… what has happened?”
She took a step back and hissed with pain as she stepped on rose thorns. The flowers of the garden began to writhe and wilt around them. Petals blackened. Stems twisted and turned brown. The walls of the courtyard grew taller and taller until they were the harsh stone walls of a prison. The four-columned steeple of a Pateric cathedral rose like a dagger against the moon.
“No,” moaned Sophie, taking another step back and feeling more thorns bite into the heels and arches of her feet.
“Sophie,” whispered Margaret. “Sophie… it’s better like this. It’s better… here…”
Two naked women stepped from the withering underbrush. Their bodies were obscene and naked. Breasts huge and pendulous. Limbs plump. Cunts thatched with thickets of dark hair. Upon their heads they wore the black and white habits of Brides of Mardoch. Their faces, save for their evil smiles, were hidden in shadow.
They took Margaret in their arms and their clawed fingers began to peel away her filthy nightshirt. They caressed her slender body. Pinched at her small, tan nipples. Rubbed fat fingers over Margaret’s bare mound.
“N-no,” gasped Sophie. “Margaret. Get away from them.”
A priest of Mardoch stepped from another thicket. His vestments smeared with filth. His body desiccated and eyes sunken. His head tilting to one side as a black tongue slid from his skeletal mouth and licked Margaret’s cheek.
Sophie was horrified as the nuns lifted Margaret in their arms and parted her thighs to present her to the priest. He approached with the shriveled brown length of his cock clutched in a bony hand. Margaret smiled. Her eyes were black and glassy as they stared at Sophie.
“Yes, Sophie,” moaned Margaret. “Ohhhhh… mmmmm… this is where we belong!”
Margaret parted her lips and her mouth invited the black tongue of the cleric. He took hold of her and kissed her as he thrust his shriveled brown cock into Margaret’s bare cunt. She moaned and clung to the two nuns holding her up for the priest.
Sophie backed away from her sister’s lusty moans. She could not look away from the carnal sight of the mummified priest pounding his cock into Margaret’s tight cunt. It brought back that night in the tower. Her sister on the accursed altar. Her sister… a sacrifice to some unnamable dark god worshipped by their stepmother.
“I will save you!” cried Sophie, still backing away. “I will save you Margaret!”
She stumbled back, her ankle catching on a dry vine and sending her pitching backwards. Instead of landing on the ground, she collided with something soft and warm. Arms that folded around her and lifted her back to her feet. Soft, cushioning breasts that squeezed against her head.
Rowena Almodóvar leaned her head over Sophie’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to Sophie’s neck. Her tongue teased up to Sophie’s ear and her breath tickled hotly against Sophie.
“Oh, my sweet Sophie, your sister is at peace in the embrace of the church, yet you struggle on, trying to appease their false god?” Rowena’s hand ran up Sophie’s hip and cradled Sophie’s left breast. Sophie’s nipple stiffened and when she let out a gasp Rowena’s hot mouth was there to catch it.
Sophie strained and arched against the woman. Rowena’s caressing hands tightened like Iron. Rowena’s tongue thrust into Sophie’s mouth and Sophie tasted ashes and honey. When her beautiful stepmother broke the kiss, she trailed golden ichor from the long tentacle of her tongue. Sophie moaned, feeling the sweet liquid coating her mouth and spilling down her throat.
“Do you think I do not love you because of what I did to you and your sister?” Rowena licked her lips with that long, inhuman tongue. “I love you, your sister, and even your father. Even your pitiful mother. I love you all, for you have bought me my place among the great priests and witches of the darkborne. Because of you, Sophie, and your sacrifice, I sit upon the Dread Court.”
Sophie did not understand. She shook her head even as Rowena’s hands peeled down the shoulders of Sophie’s nightshirt and dropped the flimsy cloth free of Sophie’s breasts and stiff nipples. Rowena turned Sophie in her arms and Sophie realized her unholy stepmother was naked, her huge breasts bare and thick, pink nipples jutting. Her pale skin seemed to glow with malevolent dark light. Her blonde pubic hair could not hide the blushing mound of her cunt.
“I have ascended beyond my humanity,” said Rowena, “but I shall always be your true mother, my sweet girl. Not of your birth, but the mother of your rebirth. The mother of your darkness. Drink. Drink the milk of your mother’s breast.”
Rowena cradled a breast in one hand and wrapped her other hand around the back of Sophie’s head. She drew Sophie’s face down to her ample breasts and fed the thick nipple into Sophie’s mouth.
“Mmmmmm,” moaned Sophie, her eyes rolling with contentment as she instinctively began to nurse from Rowena’s laden breast. Warm cream spurted across her tongue and filled her mouth. The ash and honey taste of corruption trickling down her throat with each greedy swallow. She embraced Rowena. Unable to think. Unable to deny her desire to suck the sweet cream of the witch’s bosom.
As Sophie drank, the mark on the back of Sophie’s neck pulsed with pleasure. The darkborne mark seemed to grow stronger the more that Sophie suckled. But she could not stop. In fact, as she sucked, she thrust a hand between her thighs, pulling up her nightshirt and pushing fingers into the hot folds of her cunt.
“Mmmmmmm,” moaned Sophie, looking up at the cruel face of her stepmother. Staring into those violet-tinged eyes. Drink her evil stepmother’s cream.
Beside her, Margaret cried out in ecstasy, bucking her hips and impaling herself on the glistening cock of the shriveled priest. The deathly cleric and the hooded nuns howled with demented pleasure of their own.
It was that howl, so like a scream of terror, that finally woke Sophie from her perverse nightmare.
It was her own hoarse cry of ecstasy, shuddering through her sweat-drenched body as she awoke thrusting three fingers desperately into her slick cunt. Her limbs quivered with the force of her orgasm and she felt some small tingle of relief. But it was gone just as quickly as it crashed inside her. A feverish dream-gasm rolling out like a receding wave from the shores of her guilty island.
She had cum agai n to perversions of her dark memories of Castilla Lorica. She knew Margaret was locked away safely in a convent, she knew not where, but surely not being molested and fucked by twisted versions of priests of Mardoch. Yet Sophie had pleasured herself to the idea of such depravity. Sophie had even allowed herself to be dominated and pleasured by Rowena.
“Not my mother,” whimpered Sophie, slowly sitting up in the lonely mountains of western Heraklion. The high desert was as unforgiving to a parched traveler as Sophie’s dreams were to her ravenous libido. She crawled to her feet, naked but for a grimy shift dress that blew and exposed her plump breasts and stiff nipples. The cool night air dried the sweat on Sophie’s body and sent a shiver through her ample curves.
The darkborne mark on the back of her neck crawled beneath the half-moon like a scorpion waiting to sting. She resisted the urge to touch it.
“Still awake, Alberto?” asked Sophie, walking over to the big brown stallion. He stomped his front hooves and swished his tail. She poured water from her waterskin into her cupped hand and let him drink. The buzz of night insects and the soft moan of the wind over the mountains were their only companions on this lonely length of road. “We still have a long way to go to reach Vinecio.”
She left their ultimate destination unspoken. The Blasted Cathedral. A cursed place beyond Vinecio where a great cathedral had fallen to unspeakable evil. A twisted church that had been taken over and destroyed.
The dark mark on her neck pulsed again, as if it did not want her to complete her latest quest. It tormented her with images of pleasures past and imagined. Trying to drive her into more acts of self-pleasure. Racking her mind with disturbing visions of what she might do with her trusty mount.
“No,” she said, staggering away from Alberto. That was a demented line she would never cross. Not even if it meant dying from a lack of sex. Was that even possible?
Four days. Four days without a man or woman. Four days on the lonely road through the mountains.
She staggered away from her horse and the dying embers of her fire and back towards the road.
“Please,” she moaned to Mardoch, looking skyward. “Please, show me a sign. One man. Any man. Deliver me from this torment so that I might prove myself worthy of your favor. Please! Any man!”
When she received no answer, Sophie fell to her knees alongside the dusty road. The wind painted the sheer shift dress across her body. A single tear trickled down Sophie’s cheek.
“Please,” whispered Sophie, feeling the urgent pulse of the mark on the back of her neck. Not knowing how much longer she could endure the hunger or what she might do if she couldn’t endure.
“Please,” she repeated one last time, another tear falling down her cheek.
Her prayer was answered by the distant creak of wagon wheels.
2
The Mutilated and the Sick
Sophie fought back more tears as she staggered towards the wagon. It was unusually tall, with a peaked roof like a house built from sturdy wood and reinforced with bands of iron. The wagon was drawn by a pair of huge oxen. Above the wagon flew a banner of a single red pillar on a white field. Sophie knew that symbol well. The Order of the Red Pillar was known throughout Aropa for providing aid and comfort to the sick.
A lone man in the brown robe of a pateric monk rode atop the wagon. He was stooped, his head shaved in a tonsure, and his shoulders weary. He seemed scarcely awake.
Sophie stood in the road and waved as the wagon approached. That made the slumped monk sit up in his seat. He called the oxen to a stop and looked around warily, perhaps suspecting an ambush. Sophie started towards him again.
“I have nothing to offer you,” called the monk in a soft, high voice. “I bring sick men from the monastery of Ionoklos to Vinecio. You do not want to come near to my wagon. The men suffer from a terrible disease and its vapor is highly contagious.”
“Do you have the sickness?” asked Sophie, unable to stop herself from touching her breasts as she drew alongside the wagon.
She saw now that the wagon was sealed and locked from the outside with numerous small, circular doors no bigger than a hand that could be opened with a small latch. Perhaps to insert food or water or take out soiled things. “BEWARE! PLAGUE!” was painted in large words in several places on the wagon’s side.
“You come too near already, child,” hissed the monk. “Move aside and let us on our way.”
She was surprised by the way the old monk’s eyes looked at her without any apparent interest. Like she was no more than a doe that had wandered into his path.
“Are you not afraid of contracting their sickness?” asked Sophie, leaning on the seat of the wagon and letting her breasts squeeze together enticingly.
“The unfortunate souls I carry to the refuge are infected with darkpox. Few survive this curse, but by many prayers and by His blessing I endured it in my childhood.” The monk let go of the reins and rolled up the sleeves of his robe to show Sophie his arms. Both were marked with numerous puckered pink scars. “When one survives darkpox, they need not fear its mark again. It was for this reason that I knew I must devote myself completely to Mardoch and to serve his flock. I took the oath of the Red Pillar.
“Now, move aside, child. You are endangering yourself by pressing your body against my wagon. You must… what are you doing?”
Sophie was climbing onto the running board of the wagon, her ample curves jiggling and her long legs propelling her up onto the seat beside the surprised monk. He looked at her with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“I prayed to Mardoch as well,” said Sophie, running her hand over his dusty robe. “I asked him to send me a man, any man, so that I might know carnal pleasures. It was no accident that he sent one of his chosen to me.”
“No… no I took the vow,” said the monk. “I cannot be tempted.”
It was true, the monk seemed more annoyed than enticed by Sophie’s advances. She would not give up. She reached into the folds of his robes and felt for his trousers.
“I am Sophie,” she purred. “What is your name?”
“I am Brother Bierzo,” said the monk. “Please, Sophie, stop what you are doing. I cannot satisfy your sinful urges.”
“Sinful, yes,” admitted Sophie. “But I cannot survive without them. I am dying, Brother Bierzo. Dying… for your cock.”
She reached into the flap of his trousers and felt his shorn loins and his small, flaccid cock. She ran her fingers over his penis, and it did not stir. She stroked lower and felt the absence of his stones.
“You… you have been castrated?” she gasped.
“To show my devotion to Him when He saved me I wished to sing in Mardoch’s choir,” said Brother Bierzo, gently taking Sophie’s wrist and drawing her hand from beneath his robe. “Such flesh was of no use to me. I had devoted myself entirely to Mardoch when He saved me from the sickness and few were the boys, even among the faithful, who would give themselves in this way.”
“I am… I am sorry,” said Sophie.
It all sounded terrible to Sophie, but she did not feel like throwing such judgment in Brother Bierzo’s face.
A moan escaped the wagon. It was followed by several more. Male voices murmuring and calling out.
“Who is it? Who is there?”
“A woman!”
“A girl!”
“They can hear your voice,” said the monk. “It has been days since they have heard a woman’s voice. Even longer since they have seen a woman. It is best you get down now and go. I am not the man you seek and you are only agitating the sick.”
It came to Sophie as though Mardoch had given her the idea himself.
“You cannot be helped, but Mardoch sent me to you for a reason, Brother Bierzo. I can help them! I can give them the carnal pleasures they lack!”
Her words excited the plague victims within the wagon. She heard them begin to mutter and jostle the wagon as they moved to the front to better hear her conversation with the monk.
“Them?” The monk shook his head. “Even if you were immune, they are very sick. Their skin is like stone. Dead and unfeeling. You could give them no pleasure, my child. And I would not allow you to try.”
