Article 12465 of alt.sex.cthulhu: From: chfrost@aol.com (CHFrost) Newsgroups: alt.sex.cthulhu Subject: Story: The Rutting Room - Part II Date: 13 Feb 1997 07:45:06 GMT Note: I did not write this story, so don't bitch at me if you don't like it. This is a bastardized version of the original story that I found on the net! Important Safety Tip: This is a Lovecraft based, gothic horror story and is extremely graphic! It includes - f/M, f/F, F/M, f/f, F/f, ff/M, M/f, ?/fu, mc, nc, incest, oral, anal, hermaphroditism, transformation, portal openings, ect... Age Limit: 18 THE RUTTING ROOM - Part II Adapted by Wendy Palmer From a story by Grant Morrison "It's monstrous!" I finally blurted. Indeed, it was singularly the most monstrous exhibition of unrestrained erotic debauchery that I had ever witnessed. Yet, even as I confessed my disgust vocally, l not deny the dark excitement it made me feel. My penis pulsed with horrible, otherworldly vigor, near ripping through my trousers as the room's power thrummed mightily through me. The years of medical training I had undergone helped me refocus on clinically surveying the bizarre revelry. It was at that point that I noticed something quite odd about the writhing bodies of the men and women - the private parts of the room's hapless denizens (penises, gonads, vaginas, and mammaries) exhibited abnormalities of size, shape, and degrees of tumulescence! It was as if a super-normal amount of blood and life forces were somehow being channeled through their sex organs. Finally turning away from the forbidding sight, I beheld Mrs. Bedlow. I now noted similar erotic abnormalitie, much less pronounced in her, yet present nonetheless. I quickly theorized that proximity to the room, and/or duration inside it, had to be the cause of these freakish distortions of human flesh. "What ho... Look there!" Valentine shouted, pointing at the upper walls of the obscenely insane room. The very walls of the room appeared were now shifting through strange geometric patterns! I felt like I was watching a nightmarish four-dimensional origami at work on the architecture of the place. I received the distinctive impression that an intelligence other than man was behind it. Something sinister. I was somehow able to sense that it was trying to get the the patterns on the wallpaper into the correct pattern, like it was working a kind of chinese puzzle to unlock a secret hiding place. The patterns flowed into suggestive shapes. Wet slits gaped opened in the walls, and then were sealed. It was at that very moment that the door slammed shut in Valentine's face. He silently produced an embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his damp brow. Turning around, he calmly asked Mrs. Bedlow, "Who are the others in there?" Mrs. Bedlow looked up from her wet loins. "Sarah Jane Mcleod, our maid," she said. "Giselle's father, and a constable. They were all trapped there." Feeling sympathic, I walked over to her, my painfully unruly erection slowing my pace as I attempted to offer her my support. Helping her to her feet, she was suddenly overwhelmed, her remarkable restraint dissolving upon contact with me. Without warning, her hands grabbed the straining shaft of my penis through my trousers, as she begged, "Fuck me! Please... Please... Fuck me!" Valentine simply gave me a slight nudge of hi elbow and a knowing wink, then rapidly strode down the stairs, leaving me alone with Mrs. Bedlow. "My good woman, you are married," I said, trying to extract her hands from my throbbing manhood. "Please! I'm going mad with desire!" she wailed. "Help me! I beg of you. I need you!" My befuddled mind reeled under the pervasive influence of The Rutting Room. I had sworn an oath to uphold the Hypocratic Oath. She was my patient. It was my duty to help her. I had to, however I was unable to bring myself to render her unconscious. Something inside my mind convinced me to show her the milk of human kindness. All I did was simply pull off my coat, Mrs. Bedlow did the rest. Her hands unzipped my fly, darted in, and withdrew my hard prick in one fluid motion. Her eyes locked with mine as she pressed back against the wall, looking down as her hands guided my throbbing hard-on between the dripping lips of her hot labia. I was stunned by the sensation as I felt her luxuriant vagina pull my shaft deep into itself. Her hips then began whipping up a wet froth of passion between our thrashing thighs. I nearly collapsed as Mrs. Bedlow threw her arms up around my neck, mashed her large breasts into my chest, and wrapped her long legs around my waist, skewering herself on my rigid pole. Riding up and down on my cock with feverish intensity, her swollen tits slapped repeatedly against my face. Burying my face in the warm embrace of her enormous cleavage, I let her rut herself into oblivion. My penis trembled, growing even larger as thoughts of the unearthly sights I had witnessed in the next room came flooding back into my mind. Faster and faster her body strove against mine, lust moving her to the point of a blistering climax. She pistoned her wet pussy on and off my steely erection with ever increasing speed and abandon. "So close... Yess... YESSS..." she screamed into my ear as a blinding flash of exploding suns suddenly filled her mind. My body shuddered violently as her chaotic release triggered my own. I poured my richness deeply into her for what seemed like hours as her vagina spasmed wildly, both of us splashing our mutual lust into the other. It was as if we were carried up to the lofty cloudtops, then rained heavily back down to earth. I held Mrs. Bedlow tightly to me till we regained our senses and our breaths, then we parted. "God bless you, kind sir!" she said in honest appreciation. "Whoever said doctors don't make house calls, dear lady?" I laughed nervously at my attempt at humor in a genuine effort to bring light to the terrible nature of the situation. Hurrying downstairs, Mrs. Bedlow holding my arm for support, I finally found Valentine brousing through the musty library. "Valentine," I began, "we must get away from this house. It..." "Please let me finish," he interjected, his magnificant mind whirling with activity. "You have surmised, as have I, that proximity to The Rutting Room results in alterations, both of body and mind." "My God, Valentine!" I exclaimed. "How do you do it?" "Merely abstract reasoning, my good fellow," he returned. Putting an old dusty book back in its place, Valentine quickly approached Mrs. Bedlow, who once more had been compelled by the strange room upstairs to engaged in masturbatory gratification. Displaying his incredible expertise in archaic wisdom, his good hand darted out like lightning, his strong fingers precisely hitting the desperate woman's pressure points at the base of her throat. With a slight whimper she collapsed into my arms, much needed unconsciousness overshadowed her. Finding the coat closet, I buddled Mrs. Bedlow's flagrantly naked body up in a cloak that I found there. Valentine then led the way out the front door to our waiting carriage. Once back at the spacious flat on Hobbs Lane, the viceral acts of sexual perversion that I had earlier witnessed, as well as my inability to refrain from being enchanted by them forced me to the lavatory to vomit out my disgust. As I next entered the main room, the haunting sounds of Valentine's piccolo pleasantly filled my ears, helping to drive away the memories of decadent cries that had come from the acursed bedroom of Imogen Bedlow. Mrs. Bedlow sat calmly drinking a stout mug of Gevalia Cafe. Sobberly dressed now, she vividly remembered every lurid detail of the preceeding hours, going in and out of shock as she recalled the insatiable nymphomania that had so claimed her body. Quickly administering a medicinal tonic to Mrs. Bedlow, soon the glassy, lust-filled blankness had left her eyes, replaced by the warm glimmer of humanity. "What are we going to do about my daughter?" she finally said. "When was your last period?" Valentine asked. Mrs. Bedlow looked up from her mug of hot coffee, frowning. "Months," she said. "I thought it was another baby." "I doubt very much that you are pregnant, Mrs. Bedlow," Valentine said. "It is my belief that a power, yet to be identified, emanating from your daughter's room: Firstly, evoked a state of hyper- receptivity in you and the others; Secondly, it then induced the extreme psychosexual manifestations in its unwitting thralls for reasons that I am still attempting to determine." "However, it appears to be attempting to remake you into an image of itself, a rutting machine. Further, I believe that it is unable to achieve orgastic discharge or replicate itself properly. Coitus for its own sake... Think of a phonograph that plays part of a tune, hits a blockage, and then starts all over again, ad infinitum." "But..I..." Mrs. Bedlow began. "I orgasmed. Not once, but many, many, many times," she breathlessly interjected, a rosy glow filling her cheeks as she spoke so frankly. "Yes, that's what still makes you so very human," Valentine said. She began to sob, and I reached out to take the coffee mug from her numb fingers, then handed her a hankerchief to dry her eyes. "What is it, Mr. Valentine?" she tearily asked. "What is it?! What is it doing to my daughter?!" Valentine ignored her impassioned questions, perhaps not daring to tell her the whole truth. "What do you know of the history of your house, Mrs. Bedlow?" She dabbed at her teary eyes with the hankerchief. "Not much. Before we moved in it belonged to an elderly woman, Mrs. Monteuil, I think. Her son said something about it having once being his father's private hospital. A clinic or something. That's all I know. If there was something else..." "Stop!" Valentine abruptly barked, slapping his good hand down on the arm of the chair. His eyes seemed to get a faraway look as he stood an quickly paced back and forth across the time worn persian rug that lay before the hearth. I could see he was onto something. "Monday Street. Of course! I knew I recognized the name," he said, turning to face me. "There's a book in my large cedarbox in the next room," he said. "'Cults of the Pandemonium.' Would you be so kind and fetch it for me, Dodson?" With a nod, I made haste into the guest room where I threw open the ancient cedarwood box and rummaged through the debris of dog-eared paperbacks, quickly locating Cults of the Pandemonium. Its luridly colored cover depicted a gorgeous, naked hermaphrodite dancing, while a shadowy figure beat upon a tomtom. I tossed the book to Valentine and he quickly began flipping through its pages. "I should have known!" he said. His eyes scanned a page. "Erich Horney. My God! Horney was a disciple of Wilhelm Reich. He worked at the Organon Institute in Maine, a branch of the Miskatonic University of Arkham, Massachusetts, in the early 1920's." We listened intently as Valentine summarized a brief biography of the aptly named Horney. He had adapted many of Wilhelm Reich's sexual theories and taken them in unusual and, some thought, unethical directions. "His dream was to create something which he called the Horney Chamber," Valentine explained. "This seems to have been a much more extravagant version of Reich's Orgone Accumulator. Basically, it was Horney's intention to create a room that which could harness primal sexual energy, which he believed was the ultimate expression of the fundamental forces of the universe." As he spoke, Valentine paced methodically up and down the length of the wood-paneled study. "He claimed to have succeeded in building a prototype in 1932, but development was hampered by the fact that the room's mechanisms could only be properly activated by an act of 'indefinitely long' sexual intercourse. Nevertheless, by judiciously employing four prostitutes, Horney claimed that his chamber was able to absorb and redirect sufficient sexual energy to power the flight of a small gargoyle-like homunculus." "His ultimate ambition was to create a room which could have sex with itself, thus producing an unlimited supply of raw power. A perpetual-motion sex engine." Valentine dropped the book down on his desk, "Remarkable, quite remarkable!" he said. His face flushed with excitement. "Horney was certified insane in 1937 and was taken into the private care of a Dr. Monteuil, who owned a small convalescent clinic." "On Monday Street," I interjected. "Undoubtably, Dodson," he said. "Good Lord!" I exclaimed, the reality of it striking home. "And the room?" Mrs. Bedlow said. "My daughter's room?" "By deduction," Valentine purposely said, "we can now safely assume that a fully functioning Horney Chamber was indeed built. Perhaps Horney died before he could put the room into operation. In any event, it has waited all these years for a trigger to activate it. Something to turn the starting handle, as it were." Valentine paused, lifting his bandaged hand to his brow. "Does your daughter have a boyfriend, Mrs. Bedlow?" he asked. She wagged her head from side to side. "Her father's been very protective of her." "Your husband Mrs. Bedlow, how affectionate has he been to you?" Valentine asked pointedly. "He has been somewhat distant from me this past year. He sleeps in a seperate bedroom at night." she said. "Let me be frank. Just how 'protective' of your daughter has he been?" he asked. "Valentine!" I spoke up, attempting to protect what little honor the brave woman still possessed. "I do not ask this out of purient interests, but I must know," he pointed added. "What are you suggesting? She's only a teen. Her father just spends time with her. He told me he had been helping judge her cheerleader routines. Other than that, he simply talked her threw the nightmares she was experiencing. He tried calming her down...at night..." she trailed off. Her eyes went wide, the horrifying implications of what may have triggered the room into full operation becoming apparent. "It can't be. It's just not possible!" she said, beginning sob uncontrollably again. Feeling moved, I pulled out a clean hanky and went to hand it to her. Grabbing my arm, she cried long and hard into my shoulder. "There we have it," Valentine said gravely. "Nocturnal 'talks' and teenage yearnings - our trigger!" "But what can we do?" Mrs. Bedlow finally implored. "How can we stop it?" Valentine sat down facing her and took her hands. He fixed her eyes with his own. "I haven't told you everything, Mrs. Bedlow," he said. I felt a tremor trip down my spine. The sky outside our study seemed to darken. Shadows coiled in the haunted corners of the dimly lit room. "There are certain powers and dominions in our universe," Valentine said. "I can only say that they come from outside, and they are inimical to humanity. Vast, dark, powerful, and timeless. They wait at the threshold to reclaim the world that once was theirs. Sometimes we catch glimpses of their manifestations in this plane of existence. They travel in many shapes, all hideous. They come howling and clawing through our blackest dreams, feeding on our fears and doubts. "They are known by many names: The Old Ones, Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth, Haster, The Mysteries, and many others; Lurkers in the earth or beyond the barriers of time, space and dimension. I have dedicated my life to fighting them. They destroyed the only woman I have ever loved, and now they are attempting to take possession of the Horney Chamber. They will try to use its energies to create a portal, a doorway through which they can crossover and enter our world en masse." "But my daughter..." Mrs. Bedlow began. Valentine silenced her with a gesture. "Your daughter, your husband, and the others are nothing more than raw meat to The Mysteries," he said. "They are using their coital energies in order to bring the room up to full potential. When they have exhausted all the possible combinations of the human frame, The Mysteries will push them beyond the limits of the flesh. They will become expressions of raw, unfathomable desire, without stable form." The hair on the nape of my neck bristled as I became cognhe Rutting Room, and triggered its activation, were the sardonic actions of Dr. Bedlow. The doctor had watched the Imogen and Giselle growing up over the years. Even though he had been raised to be a sophisticated gentleman, his wandering eye had taken note when the girls had first begun to flower into young ladies. He later deduced that the fits of giggling that sometimes afflicted the girls were the results of their having provoked arousal in others, yet instead of discouraging this behaviour, he deploringly gave himself over to encouraging it in them. Imogen and Giselle Barnes shaired many things in common. To be sure, they were both very pretty, nay, downright stunning for their age. Giselle was a lithe, starry-eyed, perky little blonde, who wore her hair in adorable pigtails. Whereas, Imogen, was a sleek, long-limbed, sultry-eyed, raven-haired vision of teenage beauty. The simple fondness the two girls shaired, namely the use of their innocent looking smiles and adolescent sensuality to get others to do things for them, is not wholly without significance to the tragic events that transpired. They had talked about it many times before and agreed that it gave them the biggest thrill when they knew someone was getting excited by watching them dance and play. Both still young, their innocent playfulness was unfortunately taken to be an almost adult love of flirting, especially by the likes of Dr. Bedlow and Giselle's father. So on a crisp autumn day, only a few days weeks before Mrs. Bedlow called upon the services of Valentine and myself, the girls were feeling quite giddy and decided to play a little game with Imogen's father. They had noticed the funny way he looked at them at times, and had even seen a mysterious bulge growing in his trousers. They had always been told that "Curiousity killed the cat," but they also knew that cat's had 9 lives.