The Bride of Dagon

Author's Note

Hello friends! If you found this story your looking for one of two things, women being brutally raped by monsters or an erotic horror story inspired by the Cthulhu Mythos. If those don't float your boat you should flee for your life. I did something with this story I've never done before I TRIED TO MAKE THE STORY INTERESTING! Because of this it suffers some as a pure stroke story, those you you looking to masturbate with the quickness need to do some skimming. I would appreciate some comments as to whether or not I succeeded in making an interesting story, cause if not I can go back to writing fast beat off style stories. Enjoy!

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My name is John Dumonte, and I am a member of the Silver Fist. In fact, you might say, I AM the Silver Fist. The first, the founder, their leader, and the voice and right hand of the struggle. I have written this for you my brothers and sisters, for it is in your name that we fight, and I would have you know the truth.

There are some who would prefer that the truth be forgotten. I don't condemn them because I understand their fear is all too real, though they wish it were madness. They believe there is no sense in hope, that the struggle cannot be won therefore we should simply forget about it and hope that calamity doesn't fall in our time. I don't need to point out the selfishness in this way of thinking.

As I said though I understand it. Our struggle is one against foes who cannot be killed, who know no fear or pain, creatures, for men they are not, that view us as little more then toys. But their arrogance my brother... it will be the key to our victory, as great Achilles fell to a simple arrow so shall we exploit the weaknesses of our monstrous opponents and toss them back into the Abyss from whence they came.

I will share with you a story of one of the victims of our foes. Through this you will know that their works are evil and must be stopped. Once you understand the depravity and evil that we fight you will, I believe, see that this is something which cannot be ignored.

Her name was Rebecca Dawson, and she was a beautiful girl. Spectacled, sophisticated, a child of high birth and esteemed in her community as both pious before the Lord and scholarly in the ways of society. If some found fault with Ms. Dawson it was in her confidence, her professional attitude, and her zeal for sport which some saw as unbecoming of a woman. She was a free spirit, traveling often and exploring New England as if it were some far off frontier, with herself as the bold Daniel Boone.

Tragedy stuck her with a suddenness as unexpected as it was complete and ruinous. On the first of May, 1932 Ms. Dawson decided to take a vacation into the coastal areas of New England, and chance upon some adventure to delight her mind. She was found by a group of picnickers on the beach with her garments torn, glasses broken, and skin bruised. She was taken to a nearby hotel where a physician tended to her. She did not receive the tender care due one who had suffered so badly though, because within a few days she was committed to Arkham Asylum, another raving lunatic unfit to walk in society.

I must say that the treatment inflicted upon her by men was as uncaring as what the beasts had done, but it was partly her own fault. When questioned about her injuries she descended into violent outburst, screaming about fish men and a great lord of monsters. Twice she attempted to slit her wrist, once she stuck out at the doctor tending to her. She could not be calmed and so she was passed into the hands of those whom it was thought knew best what to do with her.

For four months she rotted in a cell, the first month she had to be force fed because she had resolved to end her miserable existence through starvation. As with a Greek tragedy there was hope in the 4th act that she could be helped. One Doctor Waite was intrigued by her case. He spent uncounted hours with her, hoping to dispel her delusions, or at least shake her from the all consuming depression which threatened her life. A student of Freud, he believed that all inmate's psychosis ought to be helping them cope. In this case however Ms. Dawson's fantasy world was actually worse then anything he could have speculated may have happened to her. He drew up some details of the case and published them in the American Journal of Psychology. I am an avid follower of this publication, for our enemy shows his plans in the madness of men, and in their ravings I have come to learn more about them then they could possibly realize.

I arrived at the Asylum in September. I presented myself to the staff and to Doctor Waite under an assumed identity. I claimed that I was a researcher in rare forms of mental disorder, and that upon reading of the case I decided to come offer my assistance. This this was easy for me to pass off, before I began my struggle I was a magician. Acting came naturally to me. What's more, in a sense I AM a researcher into mental disorder. My tall stature, well kept goatee, and knowledge of the field impressed. Doctor Waite seemed overjoyed after I had introduced myself. He told me that a fresh perspective was precisely what her case needed and that he would be more then willing to let me work with her. He invited me to his office where we sat and he told me everything he knew and much that he had guessed about Rebbecca Dawson.

"It's fairly obvious to me," he began "that the poor girl was raped by a gang of men. The bruises on her body must have from ropes used to tie her down. What I don't understand is why she chooses to believe that she was raped by monsters, that the bruises were made by what she describes as elongated make genitalia, with such strength and mobility that they picked her up and tied her so brutally tight as to draw blood in some spots. This seems to me a much worse fate then just being assaulted by a few drunken men, wouldn't you agree?"

I considered the Doctor's words carefully. It was true what he said. No one would want to replace a painful reality with an earth shattering horror. But as I already suspected, the woman was nether mad nor fanciful.

"Certainly," I replied "But perhaps at the time of the assault her mind was so damaged that to her the men seemed to be monsters, and that is the impression which has stayed with her. Let me ask you Doctor, how have you attempted to treat her?"

Dr Waite wrung his arms in an expression of frustration. For a moment he looked all of his sixty years, his gray beard and hair making him seem like Washington, wearied by the long winter in Valley Forge. "I have tried everything!" he lamented "Now normally with a patient like Dawson, who is still fairy new here, I wouldn't be so put out, after all healing the mind takes time, but this woman does not even begin to respond. It's like there is a brick wall between her and the very first step to any kind of recovery. I once got her to tell me the story, but since then she only sulks and ignores me, unless I prod her too much of course, in which case she flies into a rage or a fit of despair and screams her lungs out while trying to harm herself or others."

We discussed the specifics of her case for some time, at length he informed me that he had other matters to attend to and would have a nurse take me to Ms. Dawson, with the best of luck. I was led to the patients room where upon arriving I was greeted by a large guard with an annoyed expression on his face. He cautioned me against speaking with Ms. Dawson alone and offered to join me inside. I smiled at him, and informed him that I would be quite safe. He gave me a dubious smile.

Ms. Dawson had once been a beautiful woman, and some of that remained, but the last four months of her life had clearly taken it's toll. She was little more then skin and bones, her flesh a pale, sickly color. I greeted her with my most friendly bedside manner, and sat myself on her bed beside her. I half expected some sign of fear, that she would shrink back from me into the corner, but she simply looked at me disinterestedly.

I began but beating thoroughly around the bush. I introduced myself and inquired how she was feeling (fine she replied) told her what a great caretaker she had in the form of Dr. Waite and other pointless exercises in conversation. I let about an hour pass without mentioning anything to do with her attack, but then I decided to take the plunge.

"Tell me Miss, have you ever heard the name Cthulhu?" This was met with a calm expression and a denial.

"There are a lot of people," I began "who say they hear from him in their dreams. Has this ever happened to you?" Her eyes widened at this, and I knew I'd hit on something, but the panic and anger didn't show. This confirmed to me that Cthulhu and his cults were not involved. I ran through a list of names, trying multiple pronunciations of some, and got nothing from her until, "And have you ever heard the name Dagon."

A shudder ran through her body and she wrapped her arms around herself, closing her eyes.

"I see. I'm sorry for what happened to you Miss and I hate to make you relive it but I really need to know everything that you know. You see, in your encounter with this creature you may have learned something which could be incredibly valuable."

She looked at me distrustfully, the implications of what I had said sinking in. "Useful information..." she pandered "You don't think I'm crazy?"

"Do you think your crazy?" I said in all sincerity. She laughed and smiled at me. It was a hollow, frightful sound, but I tried not to show anything but a comforting, concerned face.

"That's what they tell me." I saw that Dr. Waite was right, trying to delve into the event to quickly would meet with a panic attack. Her breathing was becoming labored and her composing shaking from what we had already discussed. I decided to try an indirect route and draw her out.

"What have your sessions with Doctor Waite been like?" I asked.

She looked at the floor, rubbing her left arm with her hand. "He comes in and he tells me to explain why I was found... like I was... before I was brought here. I don't like talking about it. Every time I do he starts telling me how I'm crazy and that I need to focus on the real story... He makes me so angry." As she said this last her fist clinched and she furrowed her brows speaking low and staring at the chair across from us as if she wished the Doctor was there now so she could wring his neck.

I reached out and put my hand around her shoulder. She flinched and recoiled for a moment, then after staring at me for a moment she relaxed. I squeezed her shoulder and said, "Why do you want to kill yourself over it?"

Her anger seemed to drain out of her, whether from the intimate contact or the direction of the conversation I don't know.

Her voice cracked as she spoke, "I... I have been chosen by him."

This made my eyes go wide, because Old Ones do not pay special attention to humans. I had been surprised to learn a human had survived an encounter with one of them, but had simply assumed there had occurred a fortunate escape, which her next words proved was not the case.

"I'm to be the mother of his children."

I felt at that moment that it might be me having a fit of screaming. Could this women truly be mad? What she said was impossible, my mind could not accept it.

She looked at me with concern now, seeing my expression of horror. "Are you okay?" she asked, putting her arm around my shoulder. I breathed deep and steadied myself. "I need to know what you know Ms. Dawson."

She backed off from me a bit, "Dr. Waite wrote down everything I told him, you can read his notes."

"No he didn't," I told her "Dr. Waite wrote, 'subject has paranoid delusions of being hunted, patient believes fish men assaulted her' Dr Waite doesn't know what I know, can't understand your experience. I can. I can offer you something real in exchange for your information."

She looked at me cautiously, "I think that you have more to tell me then I have to tell you Dumonte."

I nodded. "Your right, and I want to tell you everything, but first I need to know what you know. I want you to tell me everything that happened to you, down to the smallest detail. If you do this, I can offer you protection."

The idea of hope, and someone who understood her story, had a great effect on Ms. Dawson. She lay back on the bed and I sat across from her. It was a long time before she first began, and she quickly stopped, unable to speak through the tears. Then she began again, and this is what she told me.

* * *

Ms. Dawson carried a large revolver which she had painted red with intricate designs. This was a touch to her personality that along with her zeal for hiking and indomitable will made her some kind of a vagrant in the eyes of some members of her community. But if she was a vagrant it was of the eccentric sort that somehow managed to follow the laws of society and irritate those she ought to show proper respect to.

She told me that her last moments of happiness in life were spent painting the sunset. She was out in the countryside, where she had been walking when she was struck by the radiance of the sky as the sun set and a blaze of colors lit the horizon. Once the sun was down she resolved to sleep there, and see what the sun looked like as it rose on the opposite side of the world.

She was awoken in the night by the sound of snapping twigs, at first she was not alarmed, because it was almost certainly some small animal passing her by, but thinking that she might encounter a bear, Ms. Dawson drew her revolver from her pack and crouched, waiting to see if anything should show itself.

And something did, it was a moment that would burn itself like a blazing hot iron into her mind. The creatures who stepped out of the shadows, seemingly out of nightmares and into this physical world, were not bears, nor were they any other animal modern science recognizes. They were gruesome, large things with human like form but were nothing like human. They had the appearance of reptiles, or fish, in their skin and claw like hands, large months and bulging eyes. A mockery of distortions danced upon their flesh and Rebecca stared at them in both amazement and horror.

She tells me that at first she had no intention of shooting at them. Their appearance excited her curiosity more then her fear and her first thought was to hide and watch them. but somehow, probably through scent, they already knew she was there, and they walked straight towards her.

She stepped back from them quickly, and the faster she moved the faster they came. She screamed at them to stop, and fired a warning shot, still unsure if killing such unknown beings was a good idea, but once the distance became very short she aimed the barrel of her gun at the first one's chest and fired twice.

The things stopped and the target grabbed it's chest, it made a pained breathing sound and withdrew it's hands, the other stepped forward and together they examined the bullets that it held. At this moment Rebecca turned and ran at full sprint to the east. She told me she always noted the location of the last house she past when she was in the country, you never know when you might need help.

I admired this woman. She would have made a perfect member of the Silver Fist. I almost wish, no I ardently DO wish, that I could have been there that night, just to see this struggle in the night. What terror, what exhilaration she must have felt. That night she ran at full sprint for a mile or more, chased through the darkness of the woods and fields with monsters on her heels, she kept her head, she did what had to be done for survival.

Her mistake was in thinking that the house would offer protection. When she reached it she came through the door with the creatures hot on her heels and slammed it in her closest pursuer's face. The bang as it hit he thing was followed by a crashed as it was knocked on its back. She backed away from the door, panting loudly.

From the stairs she heard a woman's voice and turned to see a widower of age 40, dressed hurriedly in a nightgown. I inquired later with the police about any disturbances in the area on that night, when they told me there were none I went door to door and found the woman, she looked just like Rebecca Dawson's description, tall with long dark hair, eyes a dark silver and some of her age showing on her face, but not yet marring the beauty she possessed in youth. Her name was Catherine McNamara. When I asked her how her door frame had been damaged she went quiet and asked me to leave.

The women was shouting at Dawson, who ignored her, being fixed on the door. The first blow was not long in coming, the creatures hammered on it with an inhuman strength. Rebecca Dawson, as I have said, was a strong women. While Catherine shouted at the door that she was going to call the police Rebecca drew her revolver, deciding to make a stand right there, live or die.

When the door caved in the widow shrieked and ran up the steps. Rebecca fired her three remaining shots, the first two placed perfectly on the first creatures head. It fell back and the other jumped over it rushing at her as she attempted to reload.

Her first scream of the night was when it grabbed her sides with its claws and threw her to the ground. The gun fell next to her head and the shells scattered on the floor. She raised her legs and tried to push it away, but its weight and strength outmatched her. She told me that she lost hope when she looked over the thing's shoulder and saw the other rise to it's feet and shake it's head. Two bullets at less then 5 yards to the creature's skull had failed to stop it. Her strength gave out and claws gripped her shoulder. It pulled her to her feet and dragged her in front of the couch, forcing her to her knees and holding her there.

The beast looked up at the ceiling and both human and monster listened to the sound of struggle in the rooms above. Ms. Dawson said a silent prayer for herself and the stranger, sure that her only salvation from this house in the lonely countryside would be a spiritual one.

The widow Catherine was dragged down they steps sobbing and pleading. "Let me go... pleasssse... oh God no...." She was set up next to Rebecca in front of the couch, the two creatures holding them on their knees. Rebecca looked at her new companion, she told me she felt even more horrible when she saw the woman's tear streaked face, because she realized she had just doomed that woman by bringing the monsters there.

The intentions of their assailants become horribly clear in the next moment.

The creature holding Catherine placed it's right hand on the back of her head and pulled her face into it's crotch. At first Rebecca, watching in horror, didn't understand what it was doing. The thing's genitals were not like those of a man. There was no visible scrotum or shaft... at first. The thing rubbed Catherine's face around its smooth skin and then they both saw the horizontal slit opening, out of a pouch like orifice the creature's shaft began to emerge, which caused Catherine to stop her sobs and began to scream anew.

It's penis was dripping with a clear fluid, which seemed to ooze from pores instead of flow from the tip. In shape it was somewhat dissimilar from a man's. Instead of a mushroom like head followed by a smooth shaft it ended in a point and the whole of it was not smooth but seemed very lumpy, like a sock filled with balls of various sizes.

It pressed the tip of its fish man cock against Catherine's mouth. The frightened woman whimpered and tried to turn her head, but the beast held it steady. It forced itself between her lips and found her teeth clinched, the cock slid between her right cheek and her teeth. Caught in a tight pocket the beast began to thrust, making it's victim's cheek puff out with every in stroke.