Go to the feast

You shake your head slowly. “No.” With a groan you rise to your feet. “Tokonga will need me to communicate with your people.”

The chief nods in understanding. “It is well.” He helps you to your feet, his webbed fingers lingering on your curves before departing. Together you return to the briny swamp.

You both move through the thick jungle of the mangrove marsh until you reach a hill rising from the waters. The ground is firm here, pounded flat by generations of webbed feet. All around are the familiar huts on stilts, larger than the ones you first came across, and all are coloured with the fierce tribal paint you now associate with the wugs. The earthen clearing is rounded like a dome, rising from the waters like a hump of soil. Wugs move about in frantic last minute preparations of the feast. Wood is stacked high in a fire pit in the centre of the mound. Clay plates and dishes loaded with fish, fruit and other foodstuffs have been laid out all around the circle on reed mats, but the most noticeable feature is a throne-like chair, the only actual seat, rising before the firepit. It is draped with strange hides but you can clearly see the original artistry in the heavy oak, and realize it must have been plundered in some raid on a passing ship.

The chief leads you to one of the buildings, different from the rest. Made of a tangle of mangroves, it rises from the waters like a sphere of twining roots, capped at the top by the tall bush of the tree. A slit among the roots, just above the waterline, provides the door. The chief stops before the entrance and bows to you. “Tokonga rests within the Life Room. Please, bring her, she who speaks.”

You nod. “It will be done.” You step out of the water and press through the gap in the roots.

It is dim inside, only the breaks in the tightly corded mangrove walls allowing any light, and these only reveal themselves as bars of sharp illumination. The space within the shrine is wide and large, and all around you are ceramic jars and treasures no doubt gathered by the sea wugs on their many raids. In the centre of the room there is an idol of sorts. Carved of wood, it is the exaggerated proportions of a woman’s shape, with small feet, swelling immensely in heavy curves near the hips and heavy, pendulous breasts, then narrowing once more at the head. It has no face, but is coloured green with whorls of tribal paint leading from nipples, stomach and cunt. Your face twists in disgust at the sight, unable to comprehend how such a thing could possibly be used to represent Brigettes’ beauty. Though, you cannot deny some similarity between the shapes of the two women.

At the foot of the idol lies Brigette, her green figure crouched on the floor. At your arrival she jerks up her head, brown hair flicking around a frightened face, one which swiftly dissolves into relief. “Sister! Thank the goddess!” she cries. She rushes towards you, throwing herself into a tight embrace. You gasp as her breasts crush against your own, moaning faintly at the feel of her rich cream rubbing against your cum splattered skin.

You return the embrace willingly, stroking her hair. “I’m here. I’m sorry. I had to go with the chief. There was something I…Something I needed to take care of.”

Brigette leans back, the picture of relief. “It’s alright. I was worried. What happened? What’s going on?”

“There’s to be a feast in your honour,” you quickly tell her. “They’re celebrating your return.”

“My return? For how long?”

“Only as long as we need them,” you assure her at once. “Don’t worry sister. I’ll let nothing bad happen to you.”

“Sister…” Brigette blushed. “I ah…When you were…were mating with that thing. I…”

For a moment you wonder what she’s speaking of. Then the memory of Brigette beside you, frantically pleasuring herself as you were rutted by the wug returns. Warmth rushes through you, darkening your cheek and tingling in your breasts. How would she react to know that had only been the beginning of your depravity with these creatures? It’s odd, but you suddenly want to tell her, to see how she would react, to feel the thrill at her censure or, perhaps, the allure of her approval. But common sense asserts itself, and you hold your tongue.

“It’s alright sister. But we should go.”

“Wait!” Brigette grabs your hand and at once your strength deserts you. The thought of resisting her never occurs to you and you at once turn to face her.

“Yes?”

“You can’t go out like…that.”

You look down. What does she mean? Your confusion lasts only a moment as you suddenly see the dried white streaks across your curving figure. You’re still covered in the seed of the wugs from the ceremony on the tree. You smile wryly. “I doubt they’ll complain much,” you tell your sister.

“That’s not the point. Here.”

“Sister! What are you…” You trail off in a helpless moan as Brigette leans forward. Her tongue darts from between her emerald lips to lap up some of the dried cum on your bare shoulder. You shudder. “Sister. I…” Again she silences you with her tongue, stroking the dome of your massive breast, crushing it in her strong fingers. You moan, milk dribbling from your tender teat. You know Brigette cannot help but see this, yet her efforts on you never cease. It is all you can do to stand, shaking in tortuous pleasure as your green sister runs her tongue over your skin, lapping up the lingering seed, exploring every inch of you. She leans down, her tongue running across the slight bulge of your belly where the wug eggs sit. Her breath is warm, her face level with the puffy lips of your sex.

“Here,” Brigette murmurs and her tongue darts out with the final syllable. You moan helplessly as she teases your steaming gash. “This is where he defiled you.”

“I…”

“Shhh. I will purify you,” Brigette murmurs. You can barely understand her. You can only grab at the wall as she presses her lips against your moist cunny and begin to eat you out. Your knees go limp but you refuse to drop, pressing back against the wall as her tongue swirls in your depths, cleaning your channel. She pauses. “Something has changed.” She presses her cheek against the bulge of your belly as if listening to the new life within. You hold your breath, a thrill racing from your toes to linger in your core.

“Sister. I…”

Brigette says nothing, but slides back down your front and resumes her ministrations on your channel. With a groan you cum, washing what remains in your own juices. Eagerly Brigette drinks this up as well, pressing her lips to form a seal against your slit, as the wugs had when feeding from your breast.

Then, just as quickly, it is over. Brigette stands. You watch, hypnotized, as her tongue darts about, cleaning the gleam of your juices from her perfect lips. “Better,” Brigette says, her voice heavy with arousal and satisfaction.

You sag against the wall, trying to recover your wits after that. Your skin tingles everywhere her tongue has touched, and a breeze passing through the gaps in the tree nearly forces you to your knees in a second orgasm. “I…You…”

“There. I think you are ready for this feast,” Brigette says.

You snap back to yourself. Still staggered, you nevertheless **** yourself from the wall. “I…yes. They are waiting for us.”

Brigette sighs. “Well. As you say. We must.”

You nod mutely. Like you have lost control of your body you move to the door and outside. Stepping out, the cool air of evening wafts against your sensitive skin and swirls your open robe. The moon sits high in the sky in a full circle. The chief waits outside and as you look at him, you notice how red with blood his fin has grown. Suddenly you wonder if the reason he waited so long was because he was watching as your sister licked you. His goddess, cleaning her chosen of his seed. Your body warms and you give him a knowing smile.

The chief says nothing, but you can see how the pale flesh of his cock pokes through his abdomen despite himself. You smile to yourself and follow him to the hill.

The whole village has come out. Wugs cover the hill with their pale bodies like lizards come to sun in the warmth of Brigette’s presence. The fire remains unlit, revealing only the vague shine of scaly bodies and bulbous eyes in the moonlight, watching as you both are guided to the chair. Brigette needs no instruction once you arrive, and ascends the stolen throne heavily. She fills the seat, back straight despite the heaviness of her breasts jutting proudly from her chest.

With Brigette settled, the wug chief steps before the unlit logs. “My people!” he croaks. “At long last, the goddess has returned to us. Tokonga, mother of us all, she who has molded women to bear our seed, milk to slake our thirst, who has given us all that we are, has come among us. We have been chosen. We feast tonight in honour of this time! A day that will be remembered for all time.”

You listen attentively to him speak, your milk heavy chest swelling with a strange pride. Something tickles at the edge of your consciousness. You listen attentively, finally making out a sound in the silence. A sharp click of stone against stone, repeating every few seconds, growing in volume and number. You look out across the silent crowd but cannot see where the sound comes from.

“Tokonga!” the chief continues. He waits as a chant of the name rises in a swelling mumur. “With her blessing, we will rise from the waters, and take the land. We will reunite our lost brothers of the forest and mountains. From her milk we will draw the strength of our ancestors. From those blessed by her form will come our greatest warriors. We will fill our pens to burst with brood mothers and bring together the clans. We shall be as the tide of beginning, when She had washed the earth in her life giving milk. We shall retake the lands for the wugs and Tokonga.”

You find yourself slowly nodding to the clack of stones.

“My people! Let us feed! Gather strength. For tonight begins the new time. Time of Tokonga!”

The stones gives a final click. There is a flash of sparks and the bonfire unfurls in a sudden flower of flame and heat. You are staggered, momentarily blinded by the brilliance. Sight returns slowly, and all around you the feast has begun. Wugs grab food from plates and guzzle a creamy white fluid from beakers. Fish and fruit are stuffed into huge mouths in equal measure. You look down, soon finding a plate loaded high with what appears to be a kind of juicy red berry. Curious, you take one and pop it into your mouth. Flavour bursts across your taste buds, sweet and pungent. Delicious! You eat another, and another until the sweet flavour overwhelms your taste buds. Looking to dilute it, you reach for a beaker and sniff the contents. Whatever it is, it smells thick but not unpleasant. You tip it back and sip experimentally. It is smooth and slightly sweet, but thick as well. It vaguely reminds you of Brigette’s milk, but not nearly as delicious. Nevertheless, you happily drink deeply of it.

“She who speaks?”

Surprised to be addressed, you look down to find your neighbour looking up at you. He is different from the other wugs. The barbs of his back fin are pierced with metal rings, each sporting some sort of charm. A cord belt is around his waist holding several crude pouches, while his skin is painted in a different sort of design as the other wugs. More swirls as opposed to the jagged figures of war paint. There is a thick smell of herbs about him.

You swallow the milk. “Yes?”

The wug nods. “It is good to meet you. I am Kroath. I am medicine one.”

You nod. “I greet you.”

The wug returns the look. There is something in his eye you cannot place, but it sends a strange feeling crawling up and down your spine. “It is good. I would ask of you to see me in my hut later. I would speak with you.”

You’re not sure how to react to this. Before you have a chance to reply, you hear the beginnings of drum beats. You at once sit up attentively, a new sensation taking root. It thrums through you, your breasts aching, the reverberations thudding through your body in a way you cannot explain. It thrums in your chest and your inner core. You sense rather than see a change come over the wugs. “What is that?” you ask.