A Devoted Acolyte (FTM cthulhu cult transformation)

> **Trigger-Warnings:**
>- Non-sexualized animal sacrifice
>- The term "cunt" used for a trans man
>- Substance abuse
>- Pregnancy

How is it that our world, once blighted by sunlight and English frivolity, has fallen to depths once reserved for only the most fearless among dark pupils? You ask of our God, at once kind Lover and cruel Father, who crushes us in His dreaming embrace. You seek me, an elder brother among babes, searching for logic in a world cloaked in darkness, wreathed in sharp teeth that gnash at your presence? Come, I will tell you my part in this tale.

For years, I have knelt in supplication to our Master. This is no easy path that I tread, the demands of our God are plentiful and heavy and I am devoted to my core. Nevertheless, the rewards I reap can only be supplied by Him. Namely, my freedom.

My initiation was agonizing and sweet in equal measure. I spent a lifetime waiting for that moment – the night that my Master took me as one of His own. Make no mistake, I had been His all that time, but only in spirit. It was in flesh that He eluded me, stirring at the edge of dreams, refusing to claim me as I wished – nay, as I craved.

I was nearing madness when the telegram arrived, letting me know that my patience had borne fruit. I would receive my reward for long years of service and devotion.

I glanced at the clock. Nineteen-hundred hours, late enough to dream, surely. I let the servants know that I would be indisposed and ascended to my room, where I kept a small medicine chest filled with laudanum and other items of occult significance. I unstopped the bottle of sleeping medicine, measured out the proper amount with a practiced eye, and downed the bitter, honey-sweet tincture. I then lit the censure, luxuriating in the sweet-smelling incense that wafted throughout the room, and laid myself upon my bed to dream.

The draught pulled me down, an anchor that drew me to the Great Old One's lair.

I blinked, staring about the small room in which I roused. This was no great hall, but a dungeon filled with faces that looked as hungry as mine, the cloaked figures that moved between us flitting about in the candle-light. We were stripped procedurally, golden manacles placed upon our wrists, chained together in a line as our nude bodies were anointed by the attendants of our Master. All modesty was set aside as we prepared for our sacrifice.

In dreams, we are remade, flesh mended and re-formed to match our true natures. In London, I was Ms. Fennley, a spinster with too much money and very little interest in mortal men. In the halls of Great Cthulhu, I am Edmund, a man flat of chest and voracious in appetite. It is this hunger, unsatiated for decades, that drove my steps from the little room and up to the great hall of my Master. Our chains echoed in the tunnels that wound, adder-like, to our destination and my rebirth.

As the hall unfolded itself before us, I felt the need to catch my breath. The sight was familiar, a vast room with darkness encroaching all sides, such that I could not be sure of its end. All around, censures smoked with myrrh, casting the room in a torch-lit haze. There was but one change: before me was a golden dais and, upon that, God.

I remembered our teachings and kept my eyes cast down, to avoid looking upon His writhing face. Although I burned with a need to behold His visage, I would wait my turn. The room was pleasantly warm but still I shivered, naked body alight with the knowledge that it would soon be His.

The priests brought forth their first offerings, lambs that shrieked before their throats were cut and lifeblood drained into bowls that gleamed in the flickering light. We stood still at the priests' approach, each eagerly awaiting the sigils to be painted upon us, our bodies made perfect by their ministrations. When I looked upon them, the symbols shifted and squirmed with power beyond my comprehension.

I had been here many times, often listening to priestly lectures in the Great One's hall, sometimes waiting in an adjoining room as this initiation ritual was performed, aching with jealousy and need. The pride that our mundane world taught me to quash swelled within me, a euphoria that rivaled the laudanum that overwhelmed my senses up in London.

I stole a glance beside me as a priest approached the first of us, a young woman with mousy hair and sad eyes. A question was whispered to her and, when she nodded her assent, they separated her chains from that of the group and drew her forward to meet our God.

Soon, her little cries filled the room as she was taken, the minutes stretching until they felt fit to burst. I wanted so badly to look upon my Master's visage, to witness His ecstasy as I heard the woman moan and pant into the heavy hair. I could not trust myself to avoid His eyes, so I kept mine lowered to the worn and stained flagstones.

When my Master was done with her, she was placed back to the ground and given a robe, her initiation full and complete, much like her belly that swam with horrors unknown to man.

Again, the next initiate was chosen, and again He had them. My heart squeezed as I listened to my compatriots, taken systematically and used for a greater purpose. Only the awareness of my coming turn quelled the ache that bloomed in my chest and between my legs.

When the priest came to me, I nearly sobbed with relief. Her skin was smooth but her old eyes were alight with an eternal flame reserved for His favorites, a flame that I coveted.

"Edmund Fennley," she began in a voice like cracked stone, "your Master calls to your blood. Will you join Him, give of yourself completely, and carry your reward into the waking world?"

"Yes." I breathed. There was no other answer that could have passed my lips.

She disconnected my chains from the group and pulled me forward. The flagstones were worn, the path before me walked for millennia. The dais was hot beneath my bare soles, alive with a thrum that existed just below my hearing. Finally, I stood at the feet of my Master, the one I would soon call Lover, Great Cthulhu. His seed pooled between webbed feet, thick white rivers that steamed even in the warm hall.

His voice rose from the depths of my mind, curling around my senses until His honeyed words rang in my ears, echoing as if from a deep well.

"Edmund, my prince. Look well upon my face."

Haltingly, I rose my eyes to meet His.

He was beautiful. Immense, powerful, shimmering aquamarine, He sat before me on a throne hewn from white bone. His eyes shone amber, the pupils slitted and cephalopodic. His face was smooth, sweeping uninterrupted from strong jaw, to sloping brow, to proud skull. His lower face was a nest of tentacles, twisting and reaching in the firelight. They beckoned me forward and I stepped on shaking legs to meet Him.

He reached out a hand that enveloped my head, webbed fingers smoothing my hair as He inspected me. A warble arose from Him, His plush chest rising and falling as He moved His hands to my chest, arms, belly, cunt. I looked down, saw the loincloth between His legs that did little to hide His cock. That too, was beautiful – thick and gleaming with slick from my compatriots, rising under my gaze even after its many uses. I wanted to take Him into my mouth, lick Him clean, swallow as much of Him as I could manage until His hot seed spilled down my throat. No, my body had a greater purpose that night.

Seemingly satisfied by my offering, He leaned forward, breaking my reverie. He must have sensed my hunger because He extended a tentacle, probing my lips. I opened for Him, tasting salt as He slipped over my tongue to coil in my mouth. I sucked and He let out a breath from His siphons. He withdrew the tentacle and I chased it, desperate for His touch, and He reached down to take my manacles in one hand. With His other, He clasped my waist and drew me forward, supporting me as I clambered onto His lap.

He was soft yet firm, slippery skin giving way to hard muscle that twisted beneath me. His nipples were pierced, the same dark gold as my chains. Beneath me, His cock twitched and He brought it to my slick hole. When it breached me, I let out a small cry and He smoothed a hand over my thigh, both comforting and urging me on.

Haltingly, I sank down, letting Him push into my body just as He has pushed Himself into our world. I heard myself whimper at the intrusion, His girth pushing the limits of my mortal frame, dream-bound as it was.

He let out an approving warble, rolling His hips just enough to push deeper into me with every movement.

The manacles chafed, gripped and held aloft in His hand. I fought to keep my balance on His thighs as we moved, rocked by the force of His every thrust. The hand on my thigh flexed and His thumb moved to my cock, almost reflexively, moving in time with His hips. I grasped the chain held above my head, a desperate bid for control as He unmade me. A pressure built within my core and I let out a low, wanton sound as I approached what felt like a precipice.

I had touched myself before, alone in my room, clutching His statue close to myself as I shook and whimpered in the night. Despite this, I had not felt release nor known it possible for my anatomy.

As He touched me, pressing harder as He stroked, I came to what I had previously believed to be the peak of sensation. I pushed down on His cock, grinding against His hand as my movements became frenetic in an effort to surpass the extent of pleasure that I had felt in London above.

It was not so much of a release as a breaking down of my body and mind. Great Cthulhu drove me down on His cock as I screamed and shook in His grasp. My mind went blank, letting the pure carnality of flesh control my every breath and quake. I clenched to the point of pain, the sensation sharp and rich in my state, the captivating squeeze and release on the knife's edge of what I could endure.

Even after the peak of my madness passed, I was left limp and breathless, gasping for air in the incense-filled room. Great Cthulhu kept me pinned to His lap, His cock pulsing within me as I shivered and twitched.

Then He shifted, lifting me up so that He slipped from me in a gush of slick. The loss of Him was devastating and I cried out, clenching around nothing, horrified by the thought that He had rejected me, even after I gave all I could to Him.

I needn't have worried. He turned me such that I faced the open room, the pool of light spreading to reveal the priests in waiting, His remaining sacrifices, and the sea of cultists that joined us on this unholy night. As I was exposed, damp and shivering, to the congregation, Cthulhu adjusted my manacles behind me, held the chain taught such that my arms pulled me to Him, and settled me back onto His lap with a strong hand.

In one movement, He speared me, taking me for the second time that night. A bestial howl sprang from my throat, the sound echoing in the vast hall. The priests looked on passively. For how long they watched, I don't know. Beneath, sharing in our Master's great dream, we are not subject to the constraints of time.

Where He was gentle previously, Great Cthulhu then exercised His right to brutality. He held my arms back as He delved into me, each thrust sending a jolt through my form as I sank helplessly onto His cock again and again. My wrists and hips ached, echoing the delicious pain in my core that flared at His intrusion. The minutes stretches impossibly as He fucked me, the wet slap of our flesh competing with the noises that were torn from my chest. He held my waist easily, His enormous hand curling from back to belly, squeezing me tighter around His cock as He used my cunt for His own unholy purpose.

I began to pray, thanking Him for blessing me with His cock, begging Him to corrupt every part of me, to fill me with horrors beyond this world, to make me His forever. As I was on the seventh repetition of this chant, His thighs and belly tensed beneath me and His siphons let forth a rattling groan. His grip intensified, trapping me as His cock jerked and pulsed, pumping me with His seed, the pressure in my cunt building as He found His satisfaction within me.

After what seemed both a blink and a lifetime, He lessened His grasp and tipped me back to rest against His soft breast. We breathed together for a long moment as He stroked my belly, swollen with His blessings. His cock softened just enough to let His seed slip down our thighs, joining the pool at His feet.

As soon as I caught my breath, He lifted me from Him, the stimulation of His exit accompanied by a gush of hot liquid that left me shuddering. I might have felt bereft, but for His gift.

He stood me on wobbly feet and a priest approached with a robe, draping me in velvet that sent a thrill over my oversensitive skin. He laid a hand on my shoulder, calling me "brother" and taking my arm to guide me away from God. As I looked behind myself, I saw Him beckon forth another sacrifice.

I was stood, mind adrift in the wake of my initiation, and turned to watch the rest of the initiates. As I witnessed Him take the sacrifices and return them as full acolytes, my hands drifted to my belly. Something shifted and swam within me, soothed by a father's touch. I smiled, secure in my place by my Master's side and the knowledge that I would harbor the destruction of our Earth and the shackles that contained me in waking life.

In nine short months, I would become my true self and London would have no choice but to bend its knee to our new King.