Rampant Propaganda – 6 [❤️❤️]

You chomp down another vinegar-soaked cheese curd and skim through the provisional edition of your newspaper. You are Rampant Corruption, and this body is giving you weird cravings.

It must be a dwarf thing. Rampant’s original memories had her frequently eating truffles drizzled in honey, pickled potatoes, or even raw onions.

Yuck. At least you’re taking care of this body properly now! June and July happily reported that nothing was wrong and to eat when you feel like it. They also said to keep away from alcohol and drugs.

Duh! The first rule of dealing is to not use your own product. Rumpelstiltskin is partying enough for your three bodies anyways.

You huff and cross out an articles about a masked man gallivanting around Hacksonville in the nude. A strange crimefighter that stops crime by exposing himself to criminals to scare them away. You make a note in the margins, ‘Hearsay: no pictures, no story!’

Of course, you know the ‘Masked Thundercock’ is more than an urban legend. That’s clearly October indulging himself. Thankfully, you’ve got Seeing Eyes and your main three imps keeping overwatch, destroying magic cameras and marking witnesses so a demon could hypnotize them into forgetting what they saw. Your other spawn are a lot more well-behaved than him, mostly because they tend to inhabit loaner bodies to experience a less lewd life.

October’s been pretty responsible in taking care of witnesses, though you wish he’d stop ‘fixing’ crime in public. He insists that the elves who came back from Haven throw themselves at him.

You know that after the first few may have been happy accidents, but after that…well, it’s clear he’s tracking a bunch of sluts who refuse to think of themselves as sluts.

You’ve got the recordings to prove it. Very hot recordings…they’re popular in Haven.

You reach for another cheese curd and find nothing but the wrapping paper. You sigh and lean back in your expensive ‘Big Bawss’ chair. You’ve had to buy a new one recently because your butt got stuck on the armrests of the last one.

You could afford it, easily. The newspaper is doing fine, turning more than enough profit to keep itself going and pay your workers far more than your competitors. Partly because you don't rake in much as Rampant, which makes your underlings like you even more. Mostly because your hardest workers are Cloth, Latch, and Tropo. There’s always at least one of those three in Hacksonville to help you find your next scoop. Otherwise, most of your ‘clean’ funding comes from publishing.

Your legion of ghostwriters (plagiarized stories from Earth and the less saucy books made by Haven citizens) have exploded in popularity overnight. A journalist from a rival newspaper even credited this boom of new stories as responsible for making Hacksonville a burgeoning city for the arts.

Even now, a trickle of tourists come from all along the east coast. Which is a problem.

Because there aren't just tourists, but citizens from the west escaping from the escalating demon incursion. That means more eyes, and more people likely to leave when they see something sketchy before a demon can hypnotize them. The seeing eyes that Haven citizens operate through the Astrologer's Tower have really helped steer your more obvious spawn to be more subtle.

Your ‘not clean’ source of income helps keep them busy. While the businesses Rampant manages on paper are on the up and up, most of your wealth comes from taxing those coming into Haven. After the whole elven invasion mess, the other two gangs have been a lot more respectful. They were waiting to see what would happen to whoever stepped out of line, and the Purity Front were a beautiful example of ‘fuck around and find out’. Not to mention they're more willing to fork over their dough for your basic magical products. You'd be raking in so much more money if you had anyone capable of making weapons, but the amnesia poisons and magical disguise amulets are big enough cash cows for the Hacksonville-side supply as is.

Thanks to all the money you’re making, you can easily afford to make another portal. You’re not sure where to put it yet. Not in Camelot, that’s for sure. Waaaay too risky.

You pick up the wrapping paper for the cheese curds. Channeling magic through the greasy newspaper, you grin when some of the words begin glowing a bright blue.

Jackpot.

A more recent venture has you selling ‘misprints’ for super cheap to food vendors. Every bag of fries, burger, gyro, kebab, or whatever other fantasy street food being sold in this city has a chance to be something else entirely.

Channeling magic makes certain words glow, detailing instructions on summoning imps from Haven. Nobody would think to look for instructions on how to get a demonic servant from what’s essentially trash. And if anybody asks, you can prove none of the printing presses in Hacksonville made them based on the unique flaws in your newspaper’s fonts.

It’s only a matter of time before an amateur mage discovers this. Their curiosity will drive them to summon the creature, and by the time they figure out what they’d summoned, they’d be guilty of by association.

You chuckle to yourself and flip the provisional newspaper to the front page.

‘LOCAL ACTIVIST JOINS ENVOY TO ROOKERY; A NEW AGE OF INTERCONTINENTAL TRADE?’

You bite your lip. October better be on his best behavior when visiting. The negotiations are important; It’s been forever since you’ve been gangbanged by minotaurs.

New trade would be nice, too.

You tug at your constricting vest and pace nervously around the room. Ferrous and Thrumbor, the two minotaurs that came with you, shuffle uncomfortably in their too-small seats. Your pacing is making them antsy.

You can’t help it. You’ve been wearing clothes for two whole days. This stupid vest, these too-tight pants, this damned bolo tie! And the less said about undergarments, the better. You've been imprisoned in these textile chains for too long!

You are October, and a few hours ago, you helped Ferrous deliver his arguments to Libra’s representative.

You arrived on the Rookery by train, crossing across the channel to arrive on an island with more harpies than you’ve ever seen. You were wondering where all the harpies in Prillia were, and you found them. There must have been several million of them in this massive city, though the few walking paths were barely used. The entire city was super vertically oriented, with most floors accessible only through flight. A bit like Valentine's sapphic paradise mansion.

You still can't believe she kicked your ass when you tried to visit. Her harpy friends were there when all of you were born! They should know what a dick looks like!

It seems harpies stick to the Rookery during the colder months. The Empyrean shifts a massive air current from the south to pass by the islands, bringing warm tropical air to the harpy’s homes. While also making a wall of wind impenetrable for practically all non-Prillian vessels.

It’s not that there’s no travel at all happening between Prillia and other countries. There’s some trade happening with the city-states in the Dragon Lands, down south. But most of the contact between Prillia and the continents to the east happens through the Rookery, which is heavily managed. Even then, contact is limited to one of the UCCES states and sometimes Reeds.

You coached Ferrous on the points he had to make to help convince Libra’s owlish representatives that they should open a gap in the wind wall by Hacksonville. A difficult task, considering Libra’s still sore that the former Holy Harpy Hegemony kicked her out a few centuries ago. Still, you managed to get him to refine the finer points of ethos as a minotaur trader, logos by tackling the benefits of opening a small trade route through Hacksonville, and mostly pathos by falling back on the fact that he and his crew had been shipwrecked and that Minos had been destroyed. You’re banking on the hope that the Hegemony’s collapse mollifies the local harpies enough for them to accept a little bit more trade from the east.

“Octavius, we appreciate your help—”

“Right, the pacing.” You give the minotaurs a comforting grin. “Sorry, I’m a bit nervous. Just thinking about the chance that I can one day see my homeland…”

“I understand,” Thrumbor nods. “Maybe we can talk about something else? Take our minds off things?”

Talk about what? The second you talk about your ‘homeland’, they’ll know something’s up. You could talk about those elves that you’ve been fucking in the streets. How you didn’t even need to hypnotize them for them to rip their clothes off and worship your thick equint cock. The angry expressions they had when they sucked you off and spread their legs for you…you’d love to have them all in one place and impregnate them again and again.

Alas, you’ll have to satisfy yourself with the easy sex. Sad.

Aside from fucking haughty whores, you like discussing philosophy. Thrumbor and Ferrous don’t exactly seem the type. Though if you had to explore a new interest, it'd have to be what you witnessed on your trip here. You switched trains in Seaside City and had a few hours to spare. You thought Hacksonville was big? Seaside City was massive. And at the center of it all was a park filled with people, waving glowsticks and jumping to the beat of an intense performance on stage.

More people went to see those 'idols' than you ever thought possible. It was electrifying. You wonder if you can somehow replicate that when Ferrous interrupts your train of thought.

“Actually,” Ferrous says, “I want to know about Prillia. Is everyone in this country as stuffy as they are in Hacksonville and Seaside?”

Right, they come from a place beyond the reach of the Eternal Chastity Spell. You can talk about sex with them…though maybe not to the extent you’re hoping. Mortals can be so finnicky! In their eyes, Prillia is full of sex-shy puritans. To you, these clothed minotaurs are prudes.

“No, they’re worse.” You shrug at their confusion. “I think there’s something in the air. It reduces sex drives or something. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is for an equint like me to find a girl. I’d like to have a big family, but I doubt it’ll happen in Prillia.”

Speaking so casually about sex gets them to relax. You’re probably the first person from outside their crew to do so. You get to talking about the weird relationship dynamics in Prillia. They talk about the difficulties getting laid when the only ones they can take a chance with are from their own crew. Their DESIRE roils, and you regret you don’t have some easy pussy nearby to help them out.

They could definitely go for a brothel.

Eventually, the conversation turns to your favorite topic: your cock.

“I’ve spoken to a few equint women before,” Ferrous says. “They say that the men have…different equipment than usual?”

Before you could go into extensive detail about your fantastic schmeat, Libra’s representative pushes the ornate wooden doors open. She’s on the older side, graying feathers and crow’s feet by her big yellow eyes.

Eh, still would.

“It appears, gentlemen, that your ideas have merit.” Her eyes twitch irritably when Thrumbor and Ferrous celebrate with a hearty chest bump. “Nevertheless, the skies beyond Prillia are rife with pirates and other such miscreants. Libra will open a small hole in the storm wall at specific times every two weeks. I cannot stress this enough: do not share the coordinates and timetables with anyone you do not trust with your lives.”

She outlines the times and coordinates, the three of you listening with rapt attention. November is going to be so happy when you pass her this information.

She’s totally going to let you impregnate her in public.

You and your new minotaur friends keep yourselves well behaved as you leave the outer palace, keeping your chins high and your pants on walking through the Rookery. It’s only when you get on the train that you drop the pretenses and cheer.

“We did it! We’re going home!” Thrumbor bellows as he shakes you, tears streaming down his muzzle.

“We’re going to be rich!” Ferrous laughs. “No more Beetle bastards’ monopoly!”

“We’re going to get so much fucking pussy.” You pump your fist.

The two minotaurs look at you in surprise before slow grins spread across their faces.

“We are going to get laid for this!” Thrumbor claps you on the back.

“So much pussy!” Ferrous agrees.

“Why are you fellers yelling about kitty cats?” The conductor pokes his head into the carriage.

Two minotaurs and an equint stare blankly at the old man. Missing only a single beat, you respond.

“We’re adopting cats to celebrate.”

“Aw, that’s nice. I know you folks were stressed when you were coming up here.” He remembers you? There must have been thousands of other passengers since he last stamped your tickets. “It’s good to hear! Enjoy your trip.”

He stamps your tickets and you spend the rest of the trip back to Hacksonville in more measured excitement. The minotaurs still get the strange looks they got on the way up, but they smile at the curious Prillians, who return awkward smiles of their own.

They say goodbye with a hearty handshake and a hug that threatens to crush your spine. You wave goodbye at the train station and steadily make your way back to your apartment. A few people recognize you, reactions ranging between offering to shake your hand or scoffing and lobbing a few insults your way.

You make it to your dingy apartment, happy to drop the tired smile. The landlord is an ugly old bastard who you’ve hypnotized into believing that you’ve been renting out his worst room for the past couple years. The basement apartment is humid, specks of mold crawling up the walls.

It's not glamorous. You doubt it passes safety inspections. You’d have to be a fool to live here. A fool, or very poor. The fact nobody has lived here for years worked to your advantage, though. There’s nobody to discredit your backstory.

Also, the grate to the main ventilation duct next to your apartment has trouble closing. You could climb straight to the roof from there without any trouble. Are the high elves doing okay without you around? Those sanctimonious whores have probably swallowed their pride and gone to Dick’s already.

You hum a tune to yourself; what you imagine to be the theme song of a shadowy vigilante, to pump yourself up. You crawl into the duct and close it behind you as your song gets louder. It’s not a phone booth, but it works in a pinch to change into your costume.

You take off your clothes and put on a mask, taking care to enchant your skin so the stripes don’t appear. Now the only way people would know you’re an equint is from your throbbing horsecock pulling itself from its sheath.

Any witness would have to admit they know that equints have horsecocks.

You climb to the roof and crouch over the edge, a symbol of sexy justice brooding over Hacksonville. Thinking about all the high and mighty elves you’re going to reduce to blubbering whores laying in puddles of their juices makes your cock throb some more.

You manifest a shadow wire and latch it onto a nearby building, running across with the grace of an equint with a massive erection. You hear a screech of fear and rush towards your target. You are a shadow in the night, the climactic cock of justice, the ever-mysterious…

“Dun-dun-daaa! Masked Thundercock!” You land dramatically in front of the robber and her victim.

“What the—”

The robber in a balaclava is stunned when you thrust your hips towards her and expertly flick a few drops of pre on her shirt. In a mad panic, she pushes her would-be victim aside and dashes out of the alleyway and into the night, cursing your name the whole time. The victim scowls at you and—

Hold on, that’s Treble! Going by the DESIRE exploding from her, she hasn’t gone to Dick’s Diner to get the cock she so desperately craves. Clearly, only a cock comparable to yours can satisfy her.

You put your hands behind your head and thrust your cock some more in her direction, flicks of pre splattering across her glare. She purses her plump lips and takes one shaky step after another towards you, slowly pulling her vest down until her fat tits tumble into the night air.

“Damn you, Masked Thundercock!” She spits on your cock and gets on her knees. “Damn you for making me do this! Desecrating my pure elven body with your h-huge, gross penis!”

She pumps your cock with her tits, her expression struggling to keep on her arrogant frown rather than flickers of pure joy from pleasuring your cock.

“Ah~, ah~, I’m not enjoying this! Your freakish mind powers will never break my spirit! Mwah!~” She kisses the underside of your cock, tongue slinking out to dig the sweat from your sheath as her panties get steadily wetter.

Soon enough, she’s got her mouth wrapped around your massive member, her pillowy boobs squeezing you tightly as she forces her head deeper and deeper on your cock.

“Gluhk-Gluhk-Gluhk-Gluhk!” She frowns your way between moments of her eyes rolling backwards, and those moments are lasting longer with every stroke of her tits.

You grumble in pleasure. Her silky black hair gets sticky with your jizz, a few strands sticking by the side of Treble’s mouth.

After a week of being backed up, you’re more sensitive; your cock twitches and Treble’s cheeks bulge out as the wave rope of cum shoots down her throat. Her eyes widen after the second rope, realizing you’re not even close to finishing. On the third, she coughs up your dick and a lot of your jizz, but you’re still not done. You shoot the rest of your load over her face and tits, slathering her in a one-man bukkake. She falls backwards, struggling for her breath, her legs spread out and her slobbering slut pussy peeking through the thin fabric of her panties.

Quinn’s tight holes, you’re so fucking backed up. You don’t even hesitate: you lift her hips up and poke your bitchbreaker into her undergarments.

“What are you—Kyaa!~” Her arms stretch back and her tongue lolls out as you shove yourself inside her, fucking her panties into her.

This isn’t the first time you fuck her, but the way she’s unconsciously slamming her hips onto your cock, shoving your member deeper inside her, with her slick passage tightening every time you hilt inside her…she’s panting like a virgin.

“Get your-mmm~StuPid~ Fat!~ Cock!~ Out!~ I’m not-hnnnng!~ I’m not cumming!~” She clenches her teeth and a spray of her arousal jets around your dick.

As if you haven’t already marked her womb as yours dozens of times, heard her denials time after time as her pussy squeezes you of your every drop, supped on her flaring DESIRE like a fine wine.

The whorish elf moans louder, gibbering nonsense as your horsecock slams into her. You swear you can feel the entrance of her womb kissing your cockhead, as desperate as the slut herself to shoot your baby batter inside her. Her arms push against the ground, trying desperately to shove herself deeper on your bitchbreaker, but the weight of her massive tits slams her backwards, splattering the layer of cum everywhere.

Treble’s tongue is lolled out and her eyes are rolled back, her haughty expression buried under layers of cum and pleasure. With a final grunt, you arch backwards and laugh as Treble squeals in ecstasy, her stomach bloating to the size of a basketball. She’s still twitching from the aftershocks of her orgasm when you pull out, a deluge of cum pooling around her.

You trail your horsecock up her pussy, relishing her post-coital climaxes as it flicks her twitching clit, tracing a line of cum up her bloated belly and between her tits. Her crossed eyes look at you through the haze of pleasure, and her true self shines through when she opens her mouth.

You jack off the last rope into her mouth, watching it amass in her mouth before she closes her mouth and swallows. And opens it again, sticking her tongue out, silently begging for more.

Sadly, the Masked Thundercock has more duties. He has a city to save, and can’t be held back by a single begging elf slut. You pull the ripped panties out of her cooch and slap it on her face, summoning a shadow wire to whisk you away into the night.

You are Treble, and you’re cursing the Masked Thundercock as you wipe away his gunk from your clothes. You go out every night now, finding the night air a pleasant means of meditation.

Of course you haven’t been going out every night since the Masked Thundercock first fucked you silly. That’s completely unrelated.

You’ve been in a foul mood this past week. Not only did the Masked Thundercock find you again, that striped politician came back into Hacksonville! He's proudly proclaiming a victory for free trade, but he's decided to sully the purity of Prillia even further! Advocating for  cities to accept goblin and kobolds among the refugees of the demon attacks? Madness!

How he irks you!

When you play music, it always sounds off-key. You’ve felt foul enough that you raised the rent twice in your building. If you’re miserable, your tenants should feel the same! Now that you’ve had a refreshing night (aside from the vicious fucking), you wonder if you should change your mind…No, it would be improper for you to go back on your word.

These are luxury apartments after all, which means luxury prices!

You growl as you flick off another strand of goo from your lapel. After a week of not getting raped, you thought the night was finally free. Next time, you’ll bring sunglasses. It will clash with your designer outfit, but it should protect you from whatever spell he places on you.

Except the next night, you ride on his cock behind a dumpster. He slaps his cock across your face once he’s done, leaving a trail of his delic—detestable jism over your face.

And he steals your sunglasses. Those were worth fifty gold, the fiend!

The next night, you vow to use a new enchanted tool on the market. A taser, once applied to the skin, discharges an electric current through your foe, stopping them in their tracks. That’ll show him!

Only, it doesn’t.

The second you see his cock again, you drop the taser and crawl on all fours towards the godly dick. He takes the taser and electrocute your nipples every time he shoves his stupid fat dick inside you. Once he creampies your pussy, his gargantuan cock spreads your asshole apart and he stuffs you with enough of his hot, sticky cum that you nearly get caught hobbling back to your building.

A child even pointed at you and called you pregnant!

As if you’d ever taint your bloodline with the foul miscreant’s seed!

The following nights end the same way. You go out prepared, and slink back stinking of his cum. After over a week of this, you’ve had enough. You go into the alley where he first fucked the daylights out of you and strip yourself naked. As expected, he arrives and you put your hands on the wall.

“Is this what you want, cretin?” You wave your butt at him, the fear making your pussy wet. “My delectable elf body posed like a slut, ready to be used? Your powers over my body will never break me, Masked Thundercock!”

For once, your body doesn’t go to his. You don’t crawl to him like a bitch in heat, you don’t take his mighty cock in your mouth, and you certainly don’t start panting as your pussy juices gush down your legs.

Okay, maybe the last one.

He gets closer to you, his bulbous testes gently rubbing against the back of your legs as his cock slides between your cheeks. You bite your lips and glare at the wall, ears twitching restlessly. He grabs you by the hips and leans forwards, his massive member throbbing on your back.

“The Masked Thundercock never hypnotized you, Treble. You did this all on your own.” You hear him grin through the whisper.

Impossible. You never wanted to get fucked by his gargantuan, misshapen cock. You never wanted to have his plunder your womb, stuff you so full of hot cum that you couldn’t move. You never wanted to feel it shove down your throat, or huff his musk as he facefucks you.

“L-liar!”

“Okay, then.” His rumbling chuckle tickles your ear, sending shivers down your naked back. “The Masked Thundercock will keep his bitchbreaker resting comfortably on your back.”

He leans more, pressing his hot, throbbing cock between you, his hands fondling your tits. His fingers expertly flick your nipples as he slowly rocky back and forth, his balls dangling just close enough to your twitching pussy to feel the heat radiating off them. Your breath hitches, you squirm, but you don’t push him away.

Hours pass, and he continues teasing you. You never break.

“Huff, huff…your magnificent rod can’t tempt me. No matter how many hours you torture me!”

“Hours?” He laughs. “It’s been a few minutes, tops! The Masked Thundercock hasn’t even started teasing you that much.”

What? Inconceivable! Does this villain have terrible time-bending powers? You gasp when he pushes his length deeper into your buttcheeks, his churning testicles briefly brushing against your drooling love tunnel. He nibbles on your ears and you squeal, your pussy squirting femcum on his balls.

“Beg.”

No! You won’t! Your pride as a proud member of the superior high elves prevents you! Your is the blood that mingles with celestials! You grit your teeth in refusal, but a yipe escapes from your throat when the Masked Thundercock twists your nipples.

Hours pass. Days, then months, then years as you suffer under the scoundrel’s groping. Your pussy aches with want.

“Shove your fat fucking cock into my stupid bitch-hole!” Someone screams in your voice.

His big, juicy cock thrusts into you and you let out a sigh of relief. He lifts you up and bounces you on his titanic dick, tears of pleasure running down your face. A black orb floats down beside you, watching you as Thundercock shoves himself inside you.

It projects an image…of you, entering the alleyway and stripping naked.

“The Masked Thundercock didn’t tell you to come here and get naked.” Thundercock chuckles in your ear, and your pussy squeezes tighter on his horsecock.

The image fast-forwards to you a few moments ago. Through the veil of pleasure, you watch yourself scream out the words that caused that glorious cock to spear into your insides. You moan as you watch your own face make a series of slutty expressions.

“You wanted this. No hypnotism. Just a stuck-up bitch too proud to admit her place.” He slaps your fat tits around and your eyes cross from the pain mixing with pleasure. “And the best part? I have witnesses…”

You almost pause. But the pleasure of your inner walls squeezing every inch of his titanic womb-impaler keeps you going, even as you realize the orb looks like an eye. Others have been watching. For some reason, realizing that sends a thrill throughout your body. It’s like you’re playing in front of an audience, except they’re witnessing your most intimate moments, your greatest peaks…and you’re nothing more than an object of pleasure.

No, an instrument. And you’re being played by a master.

The eye projects all the scenes of you worshipping the horsecock in dozens of different alleyways. Your expressions of pleasure as your body impales itself on his length. And the most recent scene, your loud, lewd begging.

Something inside breaks. You know that if you never get fucked by him again, you will never be able to play properly. You will flounder and fail before a harsh audience of critics.

Your body moves automatically twisting your bitch-hole around the Masked Thundercock’s glorious member. You finally let go, accept yourself for what you are before the anonymous audience. Your tits bounce with the rest of your body and you make victory signs with your hands.

“Ehehehe!~ You’re right!~ I’m a horny fucking whore!~ I love being used!~ Fuck me, mold me into the perfect slut!~” You make sure to show off your body to floating eye, twisting your lewd body around to swing your breasts. “Just~ don’t~ fucking~ stooooop!~”

You yell out in joy when Thundercock—No, master’s bitchbreaker trembles, your pussy clamping down in excitement for what is to come. You throw your head back and squeal as he shoots his sticky hot semen inside you, bloating you until you look pregnant. He pulls out and drops you to the ground, your tongue still lolled out as you pant. The eye watches you, the audience behind it no doubt enamored by your performance.

His jizz glops out of your abused fuckhole, every trickle across your lower lips causing you to shiver and poot out more of his divine goo. You crawl over to your clothes, take out your ID and keychain, fold your clothes, and present them to him, bowing your head to the cum-splattered ground. Your blushing face is flat against the biggest puddle of your mixed love fluids, huffing that delicious aroma as you beg of him.

“Please, I can’t live as a member of society anymore. I give you everything…Master~”

The Masked Thundercock is taken aback.

“I, uh, Masked Thundercock is not sure he can take care of you in Hacksonville—”

“I own a luxury apartment complex. Since I am now yours, so is my property.”

“The Masked Thundercock will graciously accept you into his personal harem.”

You giggle giddily. You have found your true purpose: fuckmeat for the greatest cock in the world.