Lewd Futanari Succubus Ch. 60

Synopsis: An old man dies, torn by regret. Due to his high karma, he has "near-limitless possibilities for reincarnation". He chooses to reincarnate in a fantasy world as a voluptuous futanari succubus with big tits and an irresistible smile.

Erotic fiction that contains: Futanari/Dickgirls, Genderbending, Futa on Female, BDSM, Nymphos, Masochistic characters, Threesomes, Orgies, Facefuck, Deepthroat, Dom/Sub, Taken by Monsters, Corruption, Game elements, Lots of Depravity, etc.

"H-huh?" the skinny participant, Number Eleven gasped.

Unfortunately for Number Eleven, he was much shorter than Number Forty-four. And what was the abdomen for the sharkkin, was practically the center of his ribcage. Number Eleven looked down and felt up a hole in his chest, where his heart should have been. Even as he fell to the ground, Number Eleven could not comprehend how he suddenly ended up with a hole in his chest just a couple of seconds after a fight began. A fight that was supposed to be a sure thing! A fight where he did not even get to raise his awesome weapon.

"Oh... One down already," the announcer said quietly with zero enthusiasm, her voice barely managing a single weak echo this time. "Let us hope that the other six have not come here for sightseeing."

The announcer's comments were drowned out by the cheering of a reinvigorated crowd that now had full faith in receiving a bloody spectacle.

"Tear her to pieces!!" a bearded, unkempt, hobo-looking man shouted lifted his massive weapon and pointed it at Number Forty's slim naked back. The weapon looked like some kind of an enormous crossbow with a giant barrel mounted where the arrows should have been flying out. The unkempt hobo, Number Sixty-three, had to lean back just to counterbalance the weight of the weapon which he braced against his hip.

The hobo pressed his hairy finger on the trigger and pulled it, unleashing a three-foot-long arrow right at the girl's back. The loud mechanism and the whooshing speed of the arrow tearing through the air informed Number Forty of the type of attack that came her way, even if she was already prepared for it thanks to the hobo's ill-advised public announcement of his imminent attack.

What Number Forty was not informed of was the number of the attacks. And just as she dodged the first arrow, a second one was unleashed in her direction. Then a third, and a fourth. The barrel kept rotating, unleashing arrow after arrow for as long as the hobo-looking man kept pulling the trigger. Several arrows flew right into the group of shirtless staff but were incinerated by defensive walls of fire just inches away from their shredded muscles.

John looked up to the announcer with clear frustration but was not allowed by the hairball to retaliate against the trigger-happy hobo.

At the same time, another attack came from a different angle. Flames spewed toward the girl's position, forcing her to evade deadly attacks from two fronts. Careless aim by the elderly catgirl instantly set one of the tables ablaze as Number Forty was still near them when the announcer started the match.

John stepped back from the burning table and was able to put the fire out with a swing of his hand, but the damage was done and one of the containers with the balls was no more. A long thick vein popped on John's bald forehead as he was forced to watch the chaos that unfolded.

Number forty was quick to answer and with a wave of a hand sent her katana flying at the stationary hobo. The katana was knocked out of its path and sent swirling into the air by a giant spiked metal wheel that rolled through the arena, churning up rocks and dust as it charged straight for the girl, guided by the sharkkin with a long metal chain in his hand that connected to the spiked wheel like a yo-yo.

The girl just barely got out of the way of the whirling metal wheel that spun past her and crashed into the other wooden table, crushing it to pieces, sending splinters and wooden planks into all directions.

"The hell!? They had these kinds of weapons?" Beatrice was left with her mouth agape as she watched what was basically a crossbow minigun and a flamethrower in action.

Meanwhile, the one-sided barrage of attacks continued. What first appeared to be a simple boomerang flying the air, suddenly expanded, unleashing two feet of razor-sharp metal into each direction from its tips. The metal that was thinner than that of a katana blade, nearly sliced Number Forty's head clean off, leaving a thin cut just barely out of reach from slicing an artery in her neck.

But before the boomerang even turned back for its return flight, the girl was charged and slammed into the ground by another beastkin who wielded heavy gauntlets that extended over his forearms like massive metal armguards.

"Ghuah!" air escaped Number Forty's lungs as her back was forcibly and intimately acquainted with the rough, uneven surface of the arena.

_

"Ah~! The arsenal of the Forge of Champions on full display!" the announcer moaned with orgasmic delight as she watched Number Forty's desperate struggle to stay alive for even a couple of seconds against overwhelming odds. "Several of these weapons saw service all the way back in the Third War--YES!!"

The announcer let out a biased victorious cry when she saw the goat-like beastkin slam the girl into the ground with his giant gauntlets. The goatkin, Number Thirty-seven, was covered in gray hair and had black hooves instead of feet. One of his twisted horns had nearly half its length missing, broken and rotting at the edges. His long goatee was damp and moldy and he had a crazed look in the eyes.

"Argh!" Number Forty squirmed trying to break free from the iron grip of the beastkin that was on top of her. But the gauntlets did not budge. The goat-like beastkin locked his gauntlets behind the naked girl's back and squeezed tight, pressing her naked breasts against his hairy chest.

"You're maaaa-ine now!" the goatkin cheered while salivating with his tongue out, drooling all over the girl's face.

"The Huggers were well known for their ability to crush a Demonling's head like a melon in the right hands!" the announcer explained Number Forty's predicament. "A tiny human girl that doesn't even weigh a hundred pounds can't even dream of breaking free! The only question we now have is: whether she will die a quick death or a long and painful one?"

"Maaaa-ybe a pleasant one, egheee?" the goatkin licked his lips and stood up while holding Number Forty. He then lowered his grip to the girl's waist to arch her back and expose her pink nipples toward him.

"Pain or pleasure?" the announcer asked and giggled, getting back into her former demeanor now that her revenge was secured. "What do our dear spectators have to say?"

"Fuck her first, obviously!"

"Just kill her and be done with this! I came her or the entertainment booths!"

"Kill her slowly like the old guy!"

"Fuck her to death!"

"Hm, hm, hm," the announcer tapped her finger on the lower edge of her black mask where her chin would have been. "The crowd seems divided. Then the answer is obvious! Pain and pleasure must be combined! I'll even throw in some bonus rewards for a particularly torturous death at the end! Oh, and no time limits for this one, so no hurry!"

"Heeeee," the goatkin breathed through his mouth on Number Forty pressing his rising bulge against her. However, with both hands occupied with holding his opponent, the goatkin had trouble releasing his rising goathood from its containment in his pants.

"Having trouble?" Number Forty asked and kneed the goatkin right in his bulging groin.

However, the goatkin did not even so much as blink.

"You think you're the first to kick me in maaa~ dick?" the goatkin with a shit-eating-grin. "I've been getting maaa~ balls and dick punched, kicked, stomped, chewed since before you were born! This was barely a love tap! But if you play nice, I'll be gentle with--MAAAA!?"

The goatkin jumped into the air just before a stream of flames engulfed him and his captive.

"A sudden surprise attack by Number One!?" the announcer exclaimed. "What is the meaning of this!?"

"Are you all ill in the head!?" Number One, the elderly catgirl, cursed while she reloaded her flame-spewing weapon by sliding a fresh cartridge into the loading port. "Why are you playing around with her? That young lady killed a man and wounded another with a single attack! Kill her or be killed with her!"

"Ah, I see," the announcer chuckled. "We have another participant vying for a night with Princess Mary! A prize that will go only to the one that kills Number Forty! I did not expect that some old cat-hag would care for such things."

"Yeah, grandma! Aren't you too dried up for such things?" a female gazellekin shouted, holding a boomerang in her hand.

The old catgirl let out a manly spit and said, "That's how much I care about any of the princesses! I'm here to win! I don't care who kills her, but she dies now!"

"She has a point," the unkempt, hairy hobo shrugged and pointed his crossbow minigun at the goatkin just as the old lady aimed The Roaster in the same direction.

_

"Maaaa!?" the goatkin bleat while his eyes spun in opposite directions, pinpointing the locations of his increasing enemies while he hugged the naked girl closer to himself. "She's maaaa-ine!"

Number Forty rolled her eyes but did not even finish rolling her eyes before she was in the air with the goatkin again. Just like the elderly catgirl and the hobo did not wait for the goatkin to make up his mind before opening fire, neither did the goatkin wait to be burned alive.

And the beastkin proved incredibly nimble at avoiding enemy fire from multiple directions even while carrying a girl in the grip of his heavy gauntlets. He zigzagged, leaped, and jumped all over the arena, the flames and arrows ended up closer to hitting some of the shirtless staff or the remaining participants in the crossfire than scoring so much as a scratch on the speeding, laughing goatkin.

"It seems that Number Thirty-seven has no intention of sharing his bounty!" the announcer laughed.

With one spinning eye, the goatkin watched out for the angle of attacks while with another he watched Number Forty's titties bounce from all the movement. He reached with his tongue to lick them, but nearly bit his own tongue off when he suddenly had to evade a boomerang with its blades extended flying straight for his head.

The goatkin's and gazellekin's eyes met for a moment. Number Thirty-seven saw the beastgirl sweating. And that wasn't just from the heat of the surrounding fires. The beastgirl had hoped to strike a blow. And if she could not do so even under such circumstances, how could she hope to win later after they're done with Number Forty.

Similair thoughts must have gone through the heads of the other remaining five "allies". The sharkkin also unleashed his metal wheel at the goatkin, who again jumped several feet away from the wheel's destructive, but obvious trajectory.

"Number Thirty-seven has a clear advantage when it comes to speed," the announcer commented. "But with The Huggers occupied with keeping his prisoner in place, how can the goat hope to fight back? Will he simply choose to fuck her while he runs around? Crush her in half after he's done with her?"

The reaction among the spectators was mixed. The high of the first blood quickly wore off and many were tired of watching the goatkin run circles around the others.

"About time she got stuffed!"

"Fuck her in her pale ass!"

"If there won't be any more deaths just crush her spine and be done with this!"

"Come on, Number Forty! I'm counting on you to get me the grand prize!"

"By this point, I don't care if she gets impaled by a cock or sword. What a disappointment!"

"Yeah, the hell is this damsel in distress shit!? I wanted to see you fight that masked bitch!"

The goatkin ended up running well out of range of his opponents who now had to run up themselves to catch up. The stream of arrows ran out before the hobo even got back in range. And the old catgirl noticed that no matter how closely she approached the goatkin, her stream of flames could not reach her target.

Number Thirty-seven used this momentary breather to admire the porcelain skin on the body of his seductive captive and asked her, "What will it be?"

Number Thirty-seven then reached with his tongue to her face. The girl instinctively turned away, but that did not stop the goatkin from licking the left side of her face from her chin to her closed eye.

"Hm?" the goatkin noticed the momentary revulsion on the girl's face, clear as day. "I'm risking maaaa life for nothing? Ungrateful bitch! How about I snap your spine and throw you to that pyro-grandmaaaa to be burned alive?"

"No! You misunderstand! I'm just... Your tongue is so long... I've... I've never slept with a beastkin before!"

"O-ooh!?" the goatkin's face changed completely. Surprised and excited, he smiled lecherously, and said, "I told you I'd be gentle if you played nice."

"C-can you kiss me on the mouth?" the girl asked coyly. "Not with your tongue. With your lips... Like a man!"

"HOW THE FUCK DO I RELOAD THIS THING!?" the bearded man screamed as he fumbled with his weapon, trying to pry parts open until it slipped out of his hands and fell at his feet.

Number One grimaced when the burning stream of fire fizzled out like someone closed the valve and she reached for one of the other full cartridges that were strapped to The Roaster.

The sharkkin, however, was now within range and swung his mighty chain, ready to unleash the wheel to ruin the intimate moment.

"Better be quick!" the goatkin said to the girl and moved in for a kiss. "And undo the button on my pants while you're at it!"

_

"I can't unbutton your pants with my arms bound in your grip," Number Forty reminded the goatkin with a seductive smile and breathed in deep through her nose.

"That will depend on how you work your lips and tongue," the goatkin said and kissed his captive with an open mouth which was much larger and longer than the pale girl's.

The goatkin's lips and fur enveloped the girl's entire lower face as if the large goatkin attempted to devour her. His lips and tongue made wet slobbering sounds as they slid back and forth around the girl's closed lips.

The goatkin did not even notice that the thick coat of hair around his mouth obstructed the nostrils of the girl's small nose, making it practically impossible to breathe in air through the filter of damp stink. All he cared about was tasting his captive. And he could no longer control himself. He had to explore her mouth! He pressed his tongue between the girl's lips, prying them open by force.

Finally, the girl relented and parted her lips. Victorious, with his eyes spinning in triumphant excitement, the goatkin pushed his tongue forward. Inside the warmth of the girl's mouth, the goatkin felt something strange touch the tip of his tongue. An object with no taste, no larger than a grape, soft, elastic, with a leathery texture. The strange object gave in to the pressure of the beastkin's tongue, sticking to it, conforming to the shape of the tip of his tongue.

Feeling that something was off, the goatkin snapped out of his arousal and pulled his tongue back, and out of the girl's mouth. Thankfully, the unfamiliar item did not follow the goatkin's tongue but, before he could part from the girl, she blew into his mouth and sent the object flying into the back of his long mouth.

"HRUKH--" the goatkin choked and loosened his grip just enough for the girl to slip out of his grasp and roll away just as a giant spinning spiked wheel approached the choking goatkin. The gagging goatkin realized what was happening too late. He raised his gauntlets to protect his body and tried to jump away from the trajectory of the weapon but was struck before his hooves got even an inch off the ground.

The announcer sighed and maskpalmed while the giant viewing sphere showed in great detail the streams of blood and pieces of metal, fur, and meat flying into the air as the wheel churned the goatkin's body.

By the time the wheel rolled back like a yo-yo, Number Thirty-seven was red from hooves to horns. His elongated face was mutilated, torn all the way to the bone as if he had stuck it into a blender.

The goatkin had both his arms still raised, but one arm was pressed hard against his belly, while the other had most of its forearm turned to mincemeat. A broken yellowish bone showed prominently from the brutal wound with pieces of meat hanging from the bone and the torn appendage. One of the torn tendons wrapped around the goatkin's horn. His other arm was mostly one whole, pressed into his blood-smeared belly. However, the gauntlet was bent and heavily damaged, with several long holes along its structure. Sharp pieces of metal stuck out in all directions, torn up by the spikes of the wheel.

The goatkin's eyes were--for once--fixed in place and not spinning, though the pupils pointed in different directions. His chest was bloody, but it looked like the spikes did not reach his inner organs because the goatkin appeared to still be breathing, and as his chest moved, none of the visible blood-soaked ribs appeared to be broken through. His inner thighs had long, deep cuts from the spinning sharp edges of the wheel that filed off layers of meat.

Weak, unable to support his weight on his mutilated legs, Number Thirty-seven fell on his back. His limbs twitched from the impact and more blood spurt out of countless wounds along his body.

"Pthu! That's what you get for playing around," the old catgirl spat and reloaded her weapon.

Number Forty looked at the broken body of the goatkin while she wiped his hair and drool off her face with the back of her hand. She had no time to relax, however, because the sharkkin swung the chain in his hands and launched his deadly yo-yo straight at her.

_

Number Forty dodged the nine-foot-in-diameter deadly wheel easily enough, both the frontal attack and the returning arc of the weapon. However, the sharkkin was getting the hang of his weapon. His attacks came faster and he learned to change the arc of his giant wheel mid-attack. Even the wound in his abdomen and the deep cut in the palm of his dominant hand did not slow down the impressive physical specimen. Number Forty-four swung the mighty chain that was attached to the wheel and unleashed another attack with increasing frequency.

And just as Number Forty jumped away, she nearly fell over because of a pull on her left leg that held her in place. She looked down behind her and saw the bloodied goatkin's mutilated face, twisted and contorted from injuries, pain, and rage that showed clearly in his spinning, swollen bloodshot eyes. His face was filed off to the bone around his mouth, with a tooth hanging by a bloody threat from a half-broken jaw with blood-soaked bone showing prominently around the roots of his broken teeth.

"YOU'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE!!" the goatkin screamed.

"H-how is he alive?" the announcer asked quietly in disbelief.

"Over thirty years of dick punching and rejection have prepared me for more than this!" the goatkin bellowed as tightened his grip around the Number Forty's ankle.

The goatkin had every intention to crush the girl's ankle into liquid mush, however, his damaged gauntlet operated by his damaged arm no longer had anything close to the power it once possessed.

"AAAAHH!" the girl screamed in pain just as the sharkkin's wheel churned the rocks of the arena, speeding toward her position.

"Finally!" the old, three-foot-tall catgirl shouted and aimed her weapon at the girl, fully aware that the arc of her fully loaded flames would incinerate both her target and the goatkin. "Don't you let go!"