More fun
Want to support CHYOA?
Disable your Ad Blocker! Thanks :)

Chapter 3 by gunde gunde

Who to pick?

The reformed cult of Thrud

(Editor's note: This connects to the storyline involving Poppy Cherry, as seen here: https://chyoa.com/chapter/Poppy-Cherry%27s-lost-weekend.323732)

Xantitia von Weisskopf – Tits to her friends, a lifetime ago – was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Bored out of her skull with having to be the countess of Nymfonia and waste precious time that she could spent having fun on the business of actually running her county. Why couldn’t her dad have given her a lot of gold and given the county to another one of his couple hundred bastards?

He’d been out siring another one of those – given that he’d been eighty-two at the time, Xantitia had to admire his commitment – three months ago, when his heart had given out on his way back to the cold, damp and dreary pile of stones that passed for the family castle.

A week later, the family herald had come to Tharros and the fun times were over for Xantitia. Now, instead of flying the family colours in Tharros like her father had told her to, and which she’d done so well that in the greatest and lewdest metropolis in the world, the family name was now associated with sizequeen-infused nymphomania and an unquenchable thirst for cum, she was here: bored, unstimulated and severely undersexed, practically held hostage in the middle of nowhere.

To say that she was overworked would have been a stretch, considering how the latest hot political topic that she’d had to deal with was where to place a new watermill. Surely, she’d thought, you built it somewhere where there was running water? But of course, it hadn’t been that simple. Not when the dyers of the large village of Bodrom were worried that building the mill near them would make the water flow too fast for them to soak their dyestuff in it. Which was nonsense of course, but since dyed cloth was the county’s only real export goods (apart from mud, both wet and dry), anything that upset the dyers was bad for business. And since Xantitia needed more money and not less in order to be able to set things up in the county so she could switch to a life of self-imposed and luxurious exile in Tharros, anything that could hurt the county cash flow was right out.

The other prime site to constructed the blasted mill was in a stream running past Kodrin, which could generously be called a hamlet and which was located right in the middle of the county, not far from the road leading south which was Xantitia’s planned escape route. Except that someone was spreading rumours that the mill was somehow going to put the farmers out of work, which would lead to them being driven from their homes by the cruel new countess – at this point, Xantitia paused to huff deeply at such slander in a way that made her set of huge, round tits so perfect that four of the finest sculptors alive today had all volunteered to immortalize them in stone, free of charge, swell inside her way too concealing dress – and left to starve and freeze in the wilderness. So Kodrin too, then, was out for now.

“Gods, I’m wasting my prime in this complete dump,” Pinching the bridge of her nose, Xantitia let out a frustrated sigh. Her tits weren’t her only feature to have caused a stir in Tharros. Even in a city like that, the combination of beauty and sheer sex appeal that her face practically glowed with was downright ostentatious, as was the tight but generous curves and firm but discreet muscles of her body. If the platinum-haired countess could say so herself, which she could, hers was a body built for sex. And it wasn’t being put to use in its intended purpose up here, where the closest thing to a stud had four legs and neighed a lot.

“Lady... Xantitia,” The familiar croaking of Mandros, her steward, roused Xantitia from her frustrated pondering.

“Yes, Mandros, what is it?” Barely a year younger than her father and only fractionally more alive than he, the old coot had held his position for over half a century. And he looked like flint axes had still been in vogue when he’d first got the job.

No, Xantitia reminded herself, she shouldn’t be cruel about Mandros. He was just set in his ways, which was why she was wearing this prim, ankle-long, burgundy-coloured monstrosity of a dress. She’d tried to introduce Tharros fashions when she’d first come back, but after a moment of him complaining incessantly about her needing to dress ‘like a proper lady’, she’d arrived at a compromise. She’d wear the bloody dresses, but dress like a Tharros fuckslut underneath, and tell him about it. Though she never did so with enough detail to cause him a heart attack, even if she was tempted to whenever he brought up her upcoming 22nd birthday and how she was in danger of becoming an old maid. From the way he went on about it, she now had less than two weeks before her dotage would set in.

“Two men...” As Mandros went through his usual bout of pausing suddenly and adopting the face of a man who could the Angel of winking at him to come over, Xantitia started getting her hopes up. Men? That would be a welcome change of pace! The farmers of the county were either married and/or terrified of their new ruler – her dad might not have been the giant teddy bear she’d thought of him as a child, after all – and the noblemen that came calling weren’t any better.

Among the gaggle of chinless wonders that constituted the latter, only one had peeked her interest at all. Good-looking, muscular and rather charming, the only initial drawback about that particular suitor had been his obsessive talk about pheasant hunting. Of course, once she’d realized that that was ‘pheasant’ without the h and that her would be Prince Charming was a tyrannical loon, the romance fizzled like a fire getting an ocean dumped on top of it.

“Have come to see you...” Fighting the ice-cold hand of of for a little while longer, Mandros staggered onwards, croaking and wheezing along the way.

“Yes?” Excellent, Xantitia thought, conjuring up before her inner eye the vision of two mega-dicked studs come to save her from this horrific dry spell not of her own making.

“...Representing the cult of Thrud,” It took him a while, but Mandros reached the end of the sentence.

“Oh... poop,” Immediately, Xantitia’s hopes were dashed. Religion could be fun, when it was about magic sex potions, X-rated rituals and hypersexual members of the clergy. Even if it wasn’t that, it could still be worthwhile if its aim was to motivate its adherents into becoming better, folk. The cult of Thrud was none of those things, but merely a bunch of killjoys who thought even coming close to finding sex mildly enjoyable would condemn you to hell. Where Xantitia said cock, they said ‘sinbranch’. Where she said pussy, they said ‘shame container’. Dreary, bloody weirdos, the lot of them.

“Do I have to see them?” Xantitia tried, “I think I can feel myself coming down with something.”

“The cult is strong… in the north,” As Mandros got started, Xantitia hoped he really wasn’t going to provide her with context. Even meeting the religious nutters and being called a whore for wearing lipstick would be better than that, especially considering how her dear, dead old dad had wasted no expense furnishing the castle dungeons, “They might feel slighted.”

“Ah,” Her massive chest heaving as she sighed with relief at Mandros keeping things brief, “Guess I’ll have to see them. But let’s just make it quick.”

“I’m… always… quick… my lady!” Speeding up slightly, Mandros ended his reply with a verbal flourish by really hitting the last syllable. Beads of sweat were running down his face, which had turned a pale shade of blue.

“Well, good,” Xantitia looked at Mandros. The earnestness of his expression was killing her.

When Mandros returned, it was to present her two visitors to Xantitia. In the meantime, she’d moved next doors from behind her study to her throne room. Although honestly, to call the piece of furniture placed on a raised stone slab a throne might have been stretching it. It was a chair with slightly longer legs and no desk in front of it

“Lady Xantitia...” As always in situations like this, Xantitia wondered if she oughtn’t equip the throne room with a stool for Mandros to rest his weary bones upon, “I present… your guests.”

Looking the two of them over, Xantitia felt a slight shimmer of enthusiasm that the younger of them actually looked rather yummy, even in the extraordinarily plain brown robes that they’d both shown up dressed in. When he spotted her looking, he gasped and had a glazed look come over his eyes. The other one though was short, thin and would have looked quite old if not for standing next to Mandros.

“Thank you, Mandros,” Thinking that if she had to play the part of ruler, she might as well play it well, Xantitia gave her steward a curt nod, “You may leave us.”

“My… lady...” The bones of Mandros’ back could be heard popping as he gave his mistress a bow and withdrew to leave her alone with the zealous nutters. Not completely alone, since the door to the throne room was left open and two guards posted right outside it.

“Now, you two...” After the long silence that accompanied Mandros taking his leave, Xantitia turned her attention back towards her guests and gave them permission to speak.

“Lady Xantitia,” It was the older one that spoke first, and something about how he went about it annoyed. It wasn’t that she expected full-on grovelling, but a bit of bowing and the odd ‘Not worthy to be in your presence” would have been nice, “This is Amos, and I’m pastor Brauss. We represent the reformed cult of Thrud.”

Reformed? Xantitia had to tilt her head to mask her eye-rolling. Great, these people had probably come to her with new ideas on how the afterlife would involve rocks. Although she tried awfully hard not to care about it, she’d involuntarily snapped up that there were two factions of Thrud’s cult already, violently disagreeing over whether you ate rocks in heaven and broke them up in hell or the other way round.

“I see,” Still, Xantitia thought, best be diplomatic, “And you’ve asked for this audience because?”

“Lady Xantitia,” Something like the fanatic’s zeal flamed up in the older man’s eyes, “We want your patronage!”

“Patronage?” They were here to try to get their grubby hands on her money? The money that was going to get her out of Nymfonia and back to within a hundred miles of a proper man? Suddenly, Xantitia started thinking of how sad it was with all the dust gathering in her daddy’s dungeons from disuse.

“Yes,” Unaware that he was now risking ending up shackled to a wall, the old priest nodded several times over, each new bob of his head more eager than the last, “Our cult is still in its infancy. But with your support, it could flourish!”

“Really?” Throwing a quick glance towards one armrest and the small bell placed on it that would send the guards come in to escort her visitors out whether they wanted it or not, Xantitia endeavoured to reject the odd priest’s proposal in a serene but firm manner, “The thing is, I’ve already committed to an important technological investment that, unfortunately, will consume the entirety of the county’s movable funds for this year at least. All other liquid resources at my disposal are, I hate to say it, tied down for the moment. So while I’m sure your endeavours in the field of theology will be felicitious for us all and ensure positive breakthroughs in terms of liturgy, ecclesiastics and ontology, I’m afraid there’s very little I can do at this time.”

There, that ought to do it. What was the use of a good education if you couldn’t employ it to confuse those that lacked it?

“Technology, Lady Xantitia, won’t save your soul,” Drat, the old bugger hadn’t fallen for that.

“Neither will gravel,” Right, time to ring the bell and end this.

“Wait!” Seeing her reach for it made Brauss speak with a much higher degree of urgency, “It’s probably better if we show you...”

“Show me what?” Confused, Xantitia hesitated to call in the guards.

“Amos!” Grinning nervously, pastor Brauss was still looking straight at Xantitia, “Show her!”

“Right,” Nodding, the young man proceeded to pull his robe over his head.

“Wait! What is he doin...” Xantitia’s eyes widened, her mouth stayed open, her hands clutched hold of the armrests of her throne and her knees spread so wide apart they were getting close to tearing her dress apart at the bottom, “Fuck!”

Underneath his robe, Amos was completely naked. More to the point, his dick was absolutely huge, a mammoth pillar of fuckmeat easily as wide Xantitia’s forearms and crowned with fat, flared head that was only just starting to pump out precum from a pisshole that looked wide enough for her to stick her tongue into.

“Fucking monstercock...” It was only fitting that Xantitia was in the presence of a member of the clergy as she had an epiphany of her own whilst staring down the barrel of Amos’ schlong. Talking was getting difficult since her tongue was drowning in drool and the seat of her throne was turning slippery due to the clear juices pouring out from underneath her now throbbing clit.

Fuck! A battery of catapults could have opened up on the castle that very moment and Xantitia would still having been staring at Amos’ cock. It wasn’t even hard yet, and she desperately needed it to be. She needed it to be rock-hard and throbbing and ready to stretch her holes and drench her with all the cum stored in the muscular young stud’s beefy balls.

The neckline of Xantitia’s modest dress was aptly named, since it did in fact reach almost all the way up to her neck. At this point, a tear appeared in it as the dress started to rip apart from the top due to the wild heaving of her huge tits.

“Thrud is alive, Lady Xantitia,” Gone was the nervous grin of pastor Brauss from a couple of moments earlier, replaced by a triumphant smile, “And he wants sluts like you to worship cock.”

If she hadn’t been so totally cockstruck, Xantitia would have praised Thrud.

What’s next?

Want to support CHYOA?
Disable your Ad Blocker! Thanks :)