The Vengeful Tendril
F. Ghazi
Copyright 2012 by F. Ghazi.
Smashwords Edition
For Nora, with most grateful love.
ACT I: The Solstice Oasis
A pinnacle of mirth comprised of pine
Adorned with orbs of burnished light.
It embodies a season as deified
As the God they claimed was born this night.
Lines entwine as from the ground up they race,
Woven together at a coiling pace.
Tears of green burst from it’s gnarled face
That fall along a pyramid that widens at the base.
The tears grasp spheres of luminous shades
That hang between leaf and life.
Inches away from a sparkling rain
With a shell that mirrors her shimmering eyes.
Her image is tainted, painted as red as the surface that claimed it,
Though her features remain the same as the creator intended.
Bleached white bones wrapped by darkened tones
That twist and curve around organs and nerves.
Her skin extends across leg and breast
To under her hair that falls past her neck.
Falcate lips, softened almond Asian eyes,
Reflected in the ornaments marking solstice time.
At last unwrapped, the last gift of the night.
Hand between her thighs as she screams with delight.
As Fritzl spies from on the outside,
He morphs what he sees inside his tortured mind.
She’s Cleopatra, a Sun Goddess, writhing in her flames.
Molten gold through dripping tones
Licked by golden tongues
That flicker in her name.
An ‘S’ curvature that’s glimpsed of her
Through desert glare and fire.
A side angle, a profile,
As she crawls naked through the dirt.
Her haunches poised up in a vicious arch.
Like a scorpion in preparation
She flexes for penetration,
Curled overhead and her legs spread apart.
Sands cling to hair that blankets her eyes,
Bound by gleaming beads of sweat
That cannot compare to what’s bare and wet
Between the ridges that line her naked thighs.
The desert air he conjures from pictures in his mind
Serve as a frame for what he truly sees,
Voluptuous splendor beneath a tree
Arching her back and slipping her fingers slowly up inside.
With her other hand she paints a line,
And hooks a finger on her lip.
Her strands of hair snap like flailing whips
As she moans and groans ecstatic cries.
She winds and bends, appeasing the ache.
Shedding sweat with sand
That falls along her hourglass
Before her fingers slide out and rest on her waist.
She’s hit her climax
Like the time before last.
Fritzl slowly releases his hand,
From his stub that prevents him from being a man.
It whispers to him, from beneath his fold
With whispers that slither in likeness of what sent them forth.
The sound crawls up, hissing, “Why not fuck?”
Trudging down the crevices into his eardrums.
“No, please.” He screams,
“My ears may bleed.”
His protestation struggles against his dream,
A dream in which his passion has virile means.
Inadequacy in stature and seed,
Vengeful Tendril, the root to the fruits of the tree.
Shriveled and withered and driven by lust,
The stem can extend only as far as it must.
The object of his abhorrence,
Is the core of his diffidence.
Fritzl turns and walks away
Despite it’s insistence that he stay.
With the ever-present insinuation that salvation lies with rape.
ACT II: Garden Of The Apostles
As Fritzl sleeps, he dreams of a whirlpool
That expands calmly through shade.
Its surface is ice, both calm and cool,
A dark swirling vortex of a lake.
Lining the twisting body of water
Are a series of cobblestone walkways
That spring outwards like a veiled monster
That playfully stalks and deceives his prey.
A shower of red sprinkles through the green
That compresses the winding paths.
The poppies unleashed like the monster’s bare teeth,
As red as the blood that then falls from her hand.
In this garden a maiden chose
To occupy a bench deep within.
With each plucked rose the closer she grows
To in turn being plucked by him.
She bit and licked her crescent lips
As she bent over to pick up a rose.
Past her golden thighs, he smiled right back
To what was bare as her mini skirt rose.
Overwhelmed by instinct momentarily,
He then turns politely away.
Despite how she quite intentionally
Exposed herself to him that way.
Staring off into the heart of the lake
An idea flickers by.
A hand outstretched towards her pretty face
Pinning her down and hearing her cry.
Amorous light seeks the heat of another,
Her scent marks the air with seductive colors.
A scent of perfection he tastes with his tongue,
Scintillating shades he would kill to fuck.
Her temperature rises and the shape becomes clear,
A cleft in the mountains of a bulbous rear.
Smooth curves along the edges of a quivering plateau,
A landscape carved from the most seductive stone.
“I slither towards your
Perfect frame,
I uncoil
When you scream my name”.
“Ever closer
Towards the place,
I coil around
Your naked leg”.
As she strokes this venomous snake
It opens his jaws to bear his fangs.
No longer terrified though paralyzed,
Twitching as feeling is intensified.
Sacks of poison dripping down
His hollow aching teeth.
He sinks the fangs into her perfect flesh
To be overwhelmed by guiltless relief.
“Just one more bite
Right to the neck,
Before I slide away”.
“Just one more bite
A kiss of death,
Before I glide away”.
“Just one more bite
Your final breath,
So we can be one and the same”.
“Me.
In you,
AND ALL YOU CAN DO IS SCREAM.”
It’s glorious.
“It really is glorious isn’t it?”
Fritzl looked down upon hearing the insidious voice. It inched up further than its source ever could, and he acknowledged its words with a resentful sneer. The unfortunate dynamic between Fritzl and his pitiful stump could only ever be understood by a dear friend, or by one who was similarly afflicted, and here in this nightmare vision the closest friend he had was his impediment that could go no further than an inch away. His only friend.
“This is all beyond my grasp. I couldn’t penetrate her even if I wanted to, because you aren’t able to. Wake me up, I’ve seen enough.”
The Vengeful Tendril cackled softly at Fritzl’s spiteful request. “Oh but how wrong you are, my sad defeatist host. You could have all of this. You could have Cleopatra, or anyone else. You could have so much. Just heed my words for once, Fritzl; I know how to rid myself of this frail shell. With your help we could erect ourselves above these… regretful circumstances.”
Fritzl stared placidly at his piteous extension, so lost in the depths of self-pity that he opened himself to its suggestion, grasping desperately at this last strand of hope.
“How would it be done?” he asked his member hesitantly.
Fritzl could feel his tiny abomination grinning widely at the question. It flared its slit triumphantly from beneath the layers of clothing that sheltered it, its feeble head turned upwards to look upon the face of its host and its voice now thicker with the tones of success.
“You must make a sacrifice, Fritzl. It won’t be easy, but rest assured that your loss would be compensated for immeasurably. I can show you the way...”
The withered stem’s voice trailed off as the garden that encircled them was abruptly warped and made distorted by the appearance of five apparitions. Their arrival torched the evening sky above, painting it a deep red that seemed to gently expand and contract. The apparitions stood in a row, silent and ominous, scrutinizing Fritzl behind hideous masks.
Fritzl tore his gaze away from the grotesque beings and brought it down to his depraved little parasite, whispering in terror, “What… What are they?”
“They represent the greatest of the seven Gods who govern our world.” Replied the Vengeful Tendril. “Each of these Gods is endowed with the essence of one of the seven cardinal principles that together weave our existence into a single fabric. The five beings you see now are the apostles of the most supreme of the seven Gods, the God of Lust. I have summoned them here in your dreams so that you can fully grasp the scale of my suggestion. To invoke the power of a God! To plead to him and make a sacrifice in his name so that in turn he would, should he please, bless you in ways that you’ve only started to envisage here in your nightmares.”
Fritzl was trembling. He looked fearfully at the five apostles who remained as they had been upon first being summoned. They were unmoved, in single file, staring intently back at him.
Fritzl’s malnourished serpent whispered sinisterly now, barely audibly, “I can show you the way there, and the apostles will willingly carry your plea to the most regal and generous of the seven Gods. But only you can make this decision.”
Fritzl had had enough. He closed his eyes.
“Wake me up.”
His member snickered in condescending compliance. “As you wish.”
The apostles vanished instantly, along with the hellish environment Fritzl’s mind conceived as he slept.
Fritzl now lay wide-awake, his nightwear glued to him by perspiration. He could no longer bear to live on as he had and any resolve he once possessed now failed him. He turned his head down once again, past the sheets and to the source of his misery.
“I need this, I can’t go on with you the way you are.”
The reply came instantly, without mirth or sarcasm. Cold. Indifferent. In control.
“Then let’s begin.”
ACT III: The God of Lust
“Repeat after me,” hisses the Vengeful Tendril.
“Detach yourself and surrender your mind
.dream your by left images the upon dine,
Descend along the darkest caverns that you hold inside.
“.bring you’ll that future the by extinguished be will Light
“Are you confused? Feed off it.” Hisses the Vengeful Tendril.
“From beneath your clothes’ folds obey my commands,
.hand your summoning intentions black of demands
Grasp me as your mind is caught in a livid spiral,
“.tangible and real what’s be to know you all from yourself detach
“Frustrated? Silence me! Strangle me, Fritzl.” Hisses the Vengeful Tendril.
“Once my voice is gone and I’ve been asphyxiated
.liberated, me without, and alone be will consciousness your
In this nirvana reside the Gods, and the one with whom to speak
“.perpetuity all for peace this preserve to is seek you what if
“YES! Shake me harder! I’m nauseated now, almost to the point of regurgitation and when I vomit I will be silenced and you will have peace. In this silence, find the door to the God of Lust’s chamber. Make a sacrifice, at the door…”
…It was then the Vengeful Tendril puked onto the floor.
And then…
…I succeeded. I’ve lost my mind. All perspective has changed. I’ve transgressed the bounds of poetic structure and third-person narrative, where I can now speak to and see you. Without my dick’s relentless rambling I’m free within the rules of the first person perspective. And let me tell you, it feels fucking great.
I can’t tell you much about where I am or how I got here. I can tell you that there’s a gun in my hand. Somehow I’m able to see into it so that it’s power takes on a visual form before my eyes. I’m seeing this power as the snapping line of lightning and it melds the gun to my hand and travels up along my arm, straight to my brain. A thought festers in the crevices of my mind before it crackles back as another bolt of lightning. It crawls down my spine, along the nerves of my arm and down to the fingertips that are clasped around the handle of the gun. Such power. Power my shriveled, stupid little cock never had.
I can tell you that I’m standing in the middle of a narrow hallway. I’m not sure where I am, but it’s dark and deserted. It almost seems as though this particular hallway doesn’t belong to any building or structure. It’s been abandoned. It’s deprived of all that makes it a legitimate hallway, as it has nothing to connect together. It’s alone. Probably hated.
The wallpaper is old, neglected, cracked and peeling. It is of a nauseating floral design in pale green and grey hues. The walls are narrow and constricting, and all that’s behind me is absolute darkness. Ahead, there’s a regal wooden door adorned with aureate engravings. A stag’s head has been mounted on a plaque in the center of the door and it’s dead eyes stare emptily down the hallway. The spaces that separate the bottom of the door from the floor, and in and around the hinges, are glowing a deep red. This piques my interest and I wonder if the God of Lust waits on the other side.
I attempt to jar the door open but I fail with each attempt. I fail at everything. I have the intelligence to succeed but my confidence is in shambles. I blame my stunted dick for that. It’s his fault. Thinking about how he’s fucked me over prompts a sudden epiphany. I know how to open this door.
See, like any locked door, this one requires a key in order for it to be opened. But this key is unlike conventional keys. This key is a sacrifice that requires the power of the gun that rests in my hand. A sacrifice designed to push my determination to its limit.
I grip the fringes of my jeans and pull the front of them away from my body, so that I’m able to look down disdainfully at my stupid little dick. It’s as decayed and of the same sickly shade of the walls that close in tightly around me. Pathetic.
I glance at the gun in my hand and then back at my parasitic manhood. Manhood, ha. What a fucking joke.
You’d think that the prospect of castration would be horrifying. Unacceptable. Yet as I look down at my small insignificant little burden, I feel such contempt that I hope once I’ve pulled this goddamn trigger I never see that shriveled piece-of-shit leech again.
I bring the gun to my cock. No, not cock; cock makes me visualize a horse’s dick. I don’t know why. But what I do know is that that my insipid, miniscule little nothing doesn’t deserve to be called what it scarcely is. “Prick” is more suitable. It makes me think of a toothpick. I suppose that image is conjured up in my mind because the two words sound alike. Shame this is first person. Could have been put to good use in the poetic segments don’t you think?
I place the cold circular nose of the gun against my prick, and despite its laughable surface area, it feels like an ice cube is being pressed against it. Who knew there were any nerve endings there to feel it?
I feel a tiny pulse beating down in my package. Ha, package. You open this package and you’ll find an apology note for it being empty.
The beating continues to prod the barrel of the gun, and I can feel the Vengeful Tendril getting antsy. It shuffles pathetically under the weight of the gun.
“Do it!” it shrieks.
I almost hesitate.
The pain of my self-inflicted castration is beyond anything that I expected. Dear Lust God the pain is excruciating. I’m barely aware of the gun slipping out of my hand, and of the door in front of me slowly opening. I’m barely aware of the blood splattered across the constringing corridor walls. I’m barely aware of the ringing in my ears prompted by the gun blast. I’m barely aware that the pain is desecrating the nirvana I created and is shifting me back into the familiar restraints of third person narrative and poetry.
I’m barely aware as I fall through the door, and find myself kneeling at the foot of something truly beyond all that’s human. A presence…
…The presence was gargantuan. It pulsated with a seething menace that manifested itself visually as a throbbing, deep red light that consumed all it dimly shone on.
Red. The color of passion.
With each pulse, the vile being’s features would sharpen exponentially revealing its hideous outline until the subsiding of the palpitation. The towering monstrosity resembled a stag held aloft by the enveloping red nothingness, its antlers contributing most greatly to its magnitude. They branched out both gloriously and repulsively from the sides of its head, a sprawling mass of phallic spirals that extended out deep into space signifying the being’s might and fertility. As they curled off into incomprehensible ends beyond the periphery of Fritzl’s vision, he felt them encase him completely. What struck him most, however, were the stag’s eyes.
Within the beast’s sockets, two mad round eyes stared widely into Fritzl’s own, penetrating past them and deep into his thoughts. Two blue human eyes, widened almost to the point of protrusion, set grotesquely in the center of the horrific stag’s black furred face. Bulging.
“I know why you’re here. How presumptuous. Insolent.”
A hammering voice emanated telepathically from the beast, comprised of several guttural whispers speaking in unison. Fritzl felt warm urine join the trickle of blood oozing from his genital wound.
“I am not obliged to heed the call made by your sacrifice.” It snarled. “However, I am compassionate… benevolent… and compelled to lend an ear to the unfortunate. And you are most unfortunate.”
Fritzl nodded his head rapidly and shamefully in acknowledgment, tears flowing freely down his face.
“I am sympathetic to your handicap,” continued the Stag, “unable to indulge in the pleasures facilitated by lust. What a most debilitating handicap. I find myself repulsed by the thought. However, before the God of Lust extends any of his fabulous generosity he insists you understand the implications of your sacrifice. It was but one step up the pedestal upon which I dictate what is to become of you. What you must grasp above all else is the choice I am giving you now. Turn back, without any hope of ever recovering that which you have sacrificed (what little of it there was), or accept new terms I am about to offer you now so that I may bequeath to thee that which you so yearn for. Do you understand?”
“Please,” stammered Fritzl, “Most benevolent, I have nothing. All that defined me as a man was less than a sliver of your existence. I bow to you, ashamed, and exposing the vacuous nothing where once hung something scarcely more significant than its absence. Is this not enough? Must I give more? I have nothing!”
“Do not dare to presume you can barter with the most august of Gods.” Fulminated the Stag viciously. “I brought you here and I will dictate the terms. Either leave now, back to your petty existence without your shriveled little shell or any semblance of manhood, in a world that gravitates around my terms and where you will be unable to function by them. Or, opt to accept my second option, and surrender yourself entirely to me and receive tools of pleasure unlike any you could have hoped for. Become endowed as no man has ever been, and satisfy your innermost desires without fear of any repercussion. All I ask in exchange is simple obedience. Should I call upon you to administer my gift upon those I ask of you, you must obey. Those are your terms. Decide.”
As the Stag’s ominous thought-speak rang with its final words, Fritzl felt his knees tremble. He knew there was no going back, despite the screaming of his conscience pressing for him to decline the Stag’s offer. He stared feebly into its wild human eyes, its blue drilling agonizingly into his own dark black. As he lost himself in the gaze of the dark Stag, his thoughts drifted disconcertingly to fantasies of sliding along the curves of its snaking antlers. He was shaken of this unnerving reverie by the materialization of a deep throbbing. It could be felt in accompaniment to the pulse of red light that bathed the backdrop, and it throbbed more percussively as the light began to pulsate more rapidly. The throbbing soon reached a climax and Fritzl felt his body seize up in anxious anticipation of what was about to occur… before it came to an abrupt halt. Pulsations in both light and percussive thumping were snuffed out, leaving Fritzl screaming into a silent darkness with frustration. However his screaming was soon cut off by a new sound that emerged from the darkness, a disembodied voice whispering sinisterly into his ear. The voice of Fritzl’s member. The instigator.
“Do It.”
Fritzl stared timidly into the wide blue eyes of the Stag that still stared brightly through the darkness. Though he could no longer see the rest of the entity, he could sense its vast presence before him, encircling him with its all-encompassing antlers.
Fritzl parted his lips and moved his tongue, wobbling with anticipation.
“I agree.”
Then everything changed.
The Stag bellowed a primal scream of triumph, its eyes now spinning feverishly in all directions. A deep light erupted throughout the ethereal landscape, blinding Fritzl as it washed over all around him. From the wound that marked his sacrifice, a bulge emerged, wriggling and bubbling violently before unexpectedly bursting from his groin. The explosion birthed a serpentine horror that split into multiple heads, a hydra of repressed sexual desire. From the end of the sprawling tangle of thick, flailing vines, Fritzl heard the voice of the Vengeful Tendril now deeper and laughing maniacally. And upon hearing the laughter of his accomplice as he looked upon his hefty appendages that were now an extension of himself, Fritzl laughed too. He laughed and laughed, lost in a madness he was now eternally condemned to. Laughing even as he was transported back forever changed, back to his own world where nothing would ever be the same again.
ACT IV: The Resurrection
Entangled in vines,
A gentle caress.
Oceans in the eyes
Of a maiden who’s blessed.
Graced to mount a steed most long
To the hymn of a nightingale’s shimmering song.
Cocooned in a web
Save for lips parted wide.
An invitation,
Welcoming all inside.
A tender exfoliation of her pores,
A cleanse that leaves her asking for more.
As the apostles of Lust watch all from afar
All just described in Fritzl’s mind wasn’t what happened at all.
Ensnared by vines
That grope her breasts,
Tears in her eyes
As she’s slowly undressed.
Defaced and entwined within his wreath and rot
Her hymen bleeds as she screams all night long.
In a seminal web
Her mouth’s open wide,
Begging for death
As it slides down inside.
A brutal breach of her most private door
A forced entry that leaves her screaming, “no more.”
The vassal of Lust deludes himself
As he wields the extensions of hell itself,
Into believing that all he inflicted was wanted
Enslaved to the spire that he once admonished.
All that was human now withered away
As his soul and the Tendril’s places exchanged.
The apostles observe as he has his way
…Preparing to call upon him to submit his pay.
ACT V: The Sacrament
Fritzl appraised the two youthful nymphets as their skins melded together under the binding wrap of his flailing growths. They writhed with emotions no longer discernable to Fritzl as he felt his extensions twist in and out of their various orifices so that they were interlocked in a tight knot of warm, sweat-glazed flesh.
He could feel the weakening beat of his victim’s hearts thumping along the surfaces of his serpentine organs as they slithered their way through various parts of the girls’ dying bodies. Fritzl was careful to wriggle his tentacles slowly so as not to hasten their deaths, and with each increasingly weaker heart beat, he was lubricated with their blood, and the warm trickling sensation that washed over his monstrous appendages brought him nearer to climax.
The cold stainless steel floor that stretched out beneath the two girls was smeared with fresh blood, and with each revolution along the feelers that ensnared them, they caught the gaze of their rapist in the reflection of its mirror-like surface. He presided over them in a metallic throne that lurched menacingly, as cold as the steel floor beneath them. He sat on his throne indolently, his vile phallic abominations extending forth from between his knees and out to the center of the room and into his two victims. In his mind, he envisaged himself as a deity of unparalleled sexual allure and prowess. The perfect male form and the embodiment of desirable masculine attributes.
In his mind, he was the God of Lust Himself.
To Fritzl’s two latest victims, bound together and skewered by his sprawling manhood, he was not a deity. In his throne, in a room that’s towering walls were lined with vast screens depicting live feed of his horrors from multiple angles, he was the apocalypse. The end of their world. A beast whose actions elicited silent prayers for a quick death from all those he touched. Silent prayers, because their throats were constricted by one of Fritzl’s numerous members that looped in and out of them, forming a circuit that bound the two girls together.
Fritzl watched with cold merriment as the girls inched along the circumference of his thickest extension, the one that now belonged to his old accomplice, the formerly shriveled Vengeful Tendril. They slid along the loop he had constructed, that bore in between their legs and out their mouths, so that their lips were brought closer and closer together along its surface. So close now that their lips almost touched…
Fritzl leaned forward, a numb excitement tugging at the corners of his mouth…
…The girls vanished. Fritzl’s pets were left slithering in midair over the reflective steel floor hissing violently in frustration, on the brink of regurgitation. The screens that lined the walls and that’s glow gave light to the circular room flickered and died, casting Fritzl and his phallic entourage into absolute darkness.
The darkness was soon replaced by a molten red glow that swarmed across the room and touched every surface with its malevolent radiance. Fritzl went rigid with fear, having recognized the glow as that of the God of Lust’s.
As the glow reached its menacing height, the apostles that Fritzl had once seen in his nightmares materialized before him, each donning a different grotesque mask. Though they stood spread out at the foot of his throne, he felt their presence tower above his own. He was indebted to them. They owned him. And he knew they were incapable of any leniency.
The apostle on Frtizl’s far left addressed him. It was the first time he had heard any of them speak. This particular apostle wore the mask of a gaping vulva, its details meticulous, down to illustrated beads of vaginal fluid clinging to the rims of the opening.
“We have come to collect your debt to the God of Lust.”
Fritzl pulled his bare shoulders back and sat up from his throne and responded in a deep toned façade of confidence. “ ‘ I demand simple obedience. Should I call upon you to administer my gift upon those I ask of you, you must obey.’ Yes, I remember the terms. And I stand by them. I’ll pay my debt. What does the God of Lust ask of me?”
Upon addressing the apostles, something else materialized in the center of the room, between where Fritzl stood in front of his throne and where the apostles fanned out across from him. It took Fritzl several seconds before he was able to recognize the newest occupant of the room. Lying curled and naked in a small ball on the blood stained floor, aflame as it reflected the hellish lighting, was a weeping boy of about eight years of age.
“Demonstrate your ‘unparalleled sexual allure and prowess’ for us.” Sneered the apostle, its voice grating and possessed by a gleeful contempt.
Fritzl stared at the weeping boy in shock, his mouth agape. He had committed countless atrocities mercilessly and without restraint, and had forsaken all similitude of morality. His weapons had been wielded unchecked, first against Cleopatra, and then on many others more… but he would not do this.
“What are you waiting for?” snarled the Vengeful Tendril. “Let us taste him. Make good on your promise Fritzl.”
“No… no, never. Absolutely not, I won’t do it.” Stammered Fritzl in horror and disgust.
“What?” snapped the Vengeful Tendril, rearing its head to face its host. “I don’t think I heard you correctly, you stupid fucking cunt. Because if I did, it means that your integrity and word as a man is as shriveled and useless as I used to be.”
“I won’t do it.” Reiterated Fritzl, now more adamant than before. “I will never do that. And you should remember little prick that the only reason you aren’t shriveled anymore is because of me.”
“Is it now?” whispered the Vengeful Tendril sinisterly. “Let’s see if the God of Lust sees things your way…”
Fritzl ignored his accomplice who was arched over backwards facing him, and spoke to the apostles, fear ravaging his stomach.
“I won’t touch him.” He declared defiantly.
The apostle to Fritzl’s far left smirked behind its vaginal mask. “As expected of one so stunted in his virility. The great God may have aided you in moving past that, but there is no saving your mind. It remains withered and impotent. Very well, we’ll collect the debt… by other means.”
The red light that bathed the room abruptly began to pulsate. The boy vanished, and the apostles began to jeer disconcertingly. With each pulse, Fritzl felt his tangle of vines throb violently, and he was overwhelmed by sudden, absolute fear. It was all so similar to how it had begun, in the chamber of the God of Lust. But it was different now, Fritzl’s call was not being heeded, his prayers were not being answered. He was to be damned.
As the throbs continued to shake his appendages, Fritzl was overcome by pure terror. The precise terror that consumed his victims before he had raped them.
Fritzl knew what was going to happen before it did.
The shortest two of his numerous tentacles snapped back against his knees like whips. Fritzl staggered from the unexpected pain and rapidly buckled onto broken knees. Two, four, ten of his writhing extensions quickly curled around his limbs, binding him in place. Despite attempting to struggle free, Fritzl found that he could not. The will he exerted over his abominations was gone. He attempted to focus his mind, and direct the tentacles elsewhere as he had been able to do in the past, but it was in vain. They were no longer under his control. They belonged to the will of the Vengeful Tendril.
As numbers of the phallic vines continued to bind Fritzl in place, the Vengeful Tendril, once a diseased husk, now watched as the dominant leader of a pack of hungry serpentine wolves. The Vengeful Tendril stared at Fritzl, smirking as his own demonic penises crushed his bones.
Fritzl stared at his member pleadingly, for the last time.
“Please… don’t.”
The Vengeful Tendril’s smirk widened. “Thanks for the makeover. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“No!”
The tentacles attacked. They swarmed down on their host, mercilessly drilling into any opening they could find, as they had done before to countless innocents. Fritzl uttered a throat-shredding scream as he felt the serpents fighting each other to be the first to slither up inside him. Fritzl screamed and screamed, but his cries of utter pain and anguish could not be heard over the sound of a deranged laugh that now rang across the walls, as several guttural laughs in unison, intensifying the beat of the crimson light that filled the lurid room. The maniacal laughter of the God of Lust blared triumphantly as Fritzl screamed the last breath in his lungs.
The tentacles coiled and tightened around his body. Fritzl’s eyes glistened with tears of agony as he stared into the face of his accomplice, who continued to scrutinize him from a short distance. Fritzl’s vision was then suddenly blocked by one of the phallic vines as it coiled around his eyes, blinding him. Despite this, he could still sense the Vengeful Tendril, now lurking inches away from his face. Then, without any remorse or hesitation, the Vengeful Tendril struck. It slid down Fritzl’s throat, silencing his scream forever.