Elsewhere Chronicles Ch. 00

Disclaimer: the following story is a work ofdark erotic fantasy fiction. It deals with mature themes and contains scenes of violence, representations of sexual situations which may or may not be consensual, and is intended for informed adult readers only. All characters portrayed in this story are adults. This work is not for profit and is intended as entertainment only. The author does not support or encourage violence or humiliation towards anyone. Characters in this story are fictional and not based on any person living or dead, and are not meant to infringe on any existing characters in other literatures.

Some of you may quickly figure out the backstory behind this one. If so, good for you. I just hope you appreciate the effort that went into this... I'm gonna say 'parody'. It's the sincerest form of flattery, so it is said.

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Sometimes, I remember how it all started. It mostly happens when I'm dreaming. It's been many years now. I could never go back, but it's sometimes difficult to remember I wasn't always here, in this different place. I was somewhere else - I was someone else - and so different from who I am today.

Still innocent.

It's hard to keep track of time without a proper calendar. That said, I know it's been at least twenty years since I arrived here; I know it from the passage of time on my body as much as from the patterns of this new existence. I may be older than I feel or look, but that's another aspect of this place which still escapes me and challenges my time-keeping skills. I have to count time as I used to even if it probably does not unfold at the same pace beyond the storm. My body and mind have both adapted to this world. That may be where the confusion stems from.

Certainly, my body doesn't betray my age. When I stare at myself in the mirror, I still recognize that young face which first laid eyes upon this realm. Pale blue eyes, golden locks; they're trimmed short to the shoulders now but they used to reach to the middle of my back. My lips are fuller and my nose is now always a bit crooked due to past experiences and injuries. It never healed properly. It's still me though, that same face... Meredith Gale, my mother would tell me, go clean your face before dinner.

When I can, when I have access to water, I always clean my face before dinner now. I can't help it. It's the little rituals remembered from the past that have kept me sane over these years of exile.

Today, I remember how it began, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror, watching the few scars that linger on my naked body. I'm beautiful and I know it - everybody knows it. Maybe that's the problem. It's often been the solution too. Neither short nor tall, not too imposing, nothing to challenge anyone with. C-cup at best and still relatively firm, hips just wide enough, just like my ass - a perfect figure for most. I'm much toner than I was when I arrived, though I was still very athletic at... 19. In 1961. That was the year. I remember it today.

It started with a storm...

"For the love of god, Meredith, hurry up!"

Meredith Gale, daughter of Charles-Henri and Emily, raced from the house to the storm shelter, backpack in hand. All around them, the wind had picked up speed. The tornado was almost on top of their Kansas farm.

"Will you hurry up!" her father yelled.

"I'm here..."

She ran past the threshold of the cellar and her father pulled the door close. They lived in Kansas: tornadoes were a way of life, with a few scares every year. They had it down to a routine by now. Secure vital belongings, race to the shelter and wait it out. Outside, the winds were picking up. This tornado was fierce, and it would be very close.

"What if it's all destroyed?" Emily Gale lamented as she grabbed her daughter's arm.

"We'll rebuild," Charles-Henri calmly replied.

The couple, both in their forties, checked the inventory. They might be down there for a few hours. They allowed their 19-year old daughter to do her own thing; she sat down and opened a book.

"Aren't you a bit old for that one?" her mother asked.

"What?" the daughter replied. "Frank Baum is a great writer and I love this story."

For a moment, Meredith watched her mother wander about the storm cellar; she admired her graying hair from which the blonde was fading, as well as her buxom figure. Meredith was way too slim for her own tastes and she hoped to blossom like her mother had. The boys really enjoyed a bit more flesh, apparently.

Outside, the wind bellowed its fierce song as the tornado struck the vicinity.

"Goddamn!" Charles-Henry called out, looking up. "That's a shitstorm of proportions."

"Charles!" the mother replied. "Language!"

"Sorry... it's a... heckuva storm."

Meredith giggled; her father only swore when the ambiance got tense, or when leaving church. He gave his daughter a playful wink before sitting down and lighting a cigarette. His wife sat beside him, nervously staring at the ceiling door as the wind slapped it repeatedly.

"It's a sturdy door," he called out sensing her unease. "That tornado's not getting in!"

"Dad's good with his hands, mom! He built the house and it's still standing."

"It may not be standing after this," Emily blurted out, unable to contain her dread.

After a few minutes, there was a sudden lull in the sound coming from outside.

"Probably the eye," Charles-Henri stated.

No one had any notion of moving outside to check; habits formed from experience and caution told them how long they needed to wait before exiting the cellar. They would wait it out the appropriate amount of time.

"It's eerily quiet," Meredith surprised herself saying.

A loud crack suddenly resonated from the cellar door, as if something hard had struck it. All eyes turned to it. A moment later, a second crack shook the door apart. The family saw what appeared to be a metal length crash through the paneling. Everyone jumped from surprise. A loud angry voice echoed from outside.

"What the hell?" Charles-Henri cried out as he rose to his feet.

A third crack broke apart a segment of the cellar door, revealing the item that was striking it repeatedly: a large axe-head. The voice from outside repeated similar sounding words, though none of the family understood them. A boot kicked in the cellar door.

Emily and Meredith Gale screamed, even as the father stared at the broken entryway.

"What the hell?" he repeated.

The rest became a blur of movement as several creatures - monster-like people - rushed into the storm cellar. Meredith, in the far corner, watched in horror, petrified, as her father was run over by the descending beastmen. They were tall, covered in fur of varying colors from head to toe; they seemed to wear animal masks over their heads. One of them sported a large two-handed axe; the others bore no weapons other than their bulging muscles. Emily Gale screamed as one of the monstermen seized her and flung her effortlessly over his shoulder.

One raced to Meredith and did the same; when she began to resist, he slapped her hard and knocked her out for a moment.

The next thing she knew, she was being dragged outside of the storm cellar. She noticed her unconscious father also being carried on one of the beastmen's back; her mother was frantic, screaming madly but unable to break free. The creature holding her over his shoulders was much too strong for her to break his grip. His hand gripped her ass firmly.

All around them, the walls of the tornado, the eye, rose up to the reddening sky.

"Get closer!" a towering voice boomed.

As her captor turned to the side, Meredith was able to identity the source of the commanding presence. It was a woman, though the voice had hinted at a man. She was small in stature, no more than five feet, long raven-dark hair flowing on her back and dark beady eyes both contrasting with her pale skin. She wore an elegant feathery black dress with shoulder pads made of dark bones stretching a foot beyond her shoulders; her top was fully covered with no chest definition; her full legs were exposed and only a strip of cloth hanging from her belt concealed her privates. Dark and silvery leather slippers adorned her feet. Finally, she held some kind of bone staff in her hand; its tip glowed fiercely with reddish light.

Her eyes caught Meredith's glare.

"Not this time, you cunt," she spat at her.

"...what?" a very confused young Kansas girl replied.

She ordered her beastmen - clearly, they obeyed her - closer to her. From the tip of the bone staff, light began to illuminate the scene, filling the air with unnatural redness that tickled the senses.

A moment later, the sound of rushing wind tore into the air around them.

My eyes are lost on my reflection in the mirror when I hear a voice coming from the bed behind me. I turn around. She has awoken.

"Merry?"

She calls me that now. Most people do. I certainly don't mind. Maybe I no longer have a claim to my full identity. Meredith Gale - that was me before the storm.

"What's wrong?" she asks me.

"Nothing."

It's not a lie. She knows of my past; it's just a memory at this point. After so many years, I've moved on. Only the images linger and I am at peace with them.

Slowly, seductively, I walk towards the bed and examine my green-skinned friend - the only one I can come back to after all these years. Not that the others I made along the road are dead, but we've all moved on to different, hopefully better things. We made something of ourselves through the hardships and we live in that future we created for ourselves.

I wouldn't need to seduce her anymore - she is madly in love with me and as I am with her - but I still do, every single time, because I enjoy the chase, and because it fills my body with the much needed desire to keep going. When I feel myself fading, I think of myself seducing her again, like that first time, and it makes me want to return to her. She's my home now.

Her blue eyes look into mine; my eyes then wander to her forest-green figure and form, the roundness of her bald head, the strong cheek bones in her face, the sharpness of her chin; they move downwards to her muscled chest and its lovely, powerful breasts; I'm fascinated by her strong arms and legs, her tight core. I lock eyes with the green bush between her parted legs, hiding the sweet treasure of my repeated conquests.

"Did I wake you, Fiona?" I ask her.

"Yes, but that's ok. I was dreaming of you. When did you come in?"

"Not long ago."

She stares at my clothes folded on the chair near the door; she sees I've locked us in. She smiles.

"I was hoping to wake you myself," I tell her.

"Well... now you don't have to."

I climb on my knees into the bed, reaching down to plant a kiss on her muscled stomach. I start kissing upward, moving between her breasts, up to her mouth. She welcomes my embrace with passion, offering me her forked tongue to link with mine.

"How do you want me?" I inquire as I look into her soul.

"Let me taste you first," she answers.

"Which me?" I tease her.

She giggles.

"Just as you are right now," she states.

I crawl upwards as she leans backward, resting her head on the pillow. I bring my full body over her face, offering the sweet opening between my legs. Her tongue reaches out and licks along my external folds. This never gets old.

"...um... Fiona... I missed you."

The two tips of her split tongue manage to tease me independently and I feel my body reacting to her wonderful licks. She pulls one hand up and sticks a finger inside me even as her tongue wraps against my swollen clitoris.

"Aaah..."

She doesn't say a word; I indulge in her silent ministrations, closing my eyes, remembering how many times she has done this, unable to count and hoping for an infinite number of future occurrences.

"Please take me to the edge..." I whimper.

I know that's what she plans, but it feels right to ask. So many times in my life no one has asked for permission before pleasuring me or using me for pleasure. Now, I often state it just as a reflex, because I can - because I care.

Fiona is talented: the climax hits me like a lightning bolt, traversing my spine up to my brain, sending tremors along my core. Her finger moves away and her tongue takes its place between my folds, finishing me up and licking my fluids along the way.

"Fiona..." I mumble.

A moment later, I'm pulling back and falling on top of her, my face against hers, locking lips and tongue again, tasting myself: a delicious taste of which I also never get tired. I sense her legs moving; she is parting them to give me access to her bush.

"How do you want it?" I ask her.

"Your other self... please," she begs me.

I'm only happy to comply.

Meredith stared between her legs, dumbfounded. Then, she looked up at the odd man who had operated on her; she bumbled the words as they flew from her mouth.

"...what...the f... is this?"

He stared back at her, first between her legs, then back at her face, seemingly confused.

"Well, I fixed you," he merely stated.

"But... I..."

Meredith was at a loss for words. Four years after her abduction from the storm cellar, this place still managed to throw her off and completely mess with her mind and body. This time, the messing was far too literal to be understood.

Her eyes returned to the friend who had supposedly saved her life. They had met a few months prior, adventuring along the road for a while with other allies. At first, he had made her laugh. She had found him stuck in his cabin, trapped in his old ways and unable to look outside. She had befriended him rather quickly thanks to her youthful energy and had encouraged him to go out and explore the world.

He called himself S.N. Woodman, though he never explained what the initials stood for. He introduced himself as a specialist in nothing specific, a title that had mad Meredith laugh. He was tall, rather handsome despite his constantly disheveled hair. Mostly, he wore an overcoat of worn leather, with pants and boots of the same make. The surprise had come when he had revealed both of his arms were actually mechanical in nature. He had eventually told Meredith the reason behind it, allowing her to examine the magnificent handiwork of gears and bolts that allowed the man to operate artificial hands of immense precision.

Then, Meredith had been severely injured by her enemies. Her broken body had been tossed in a pile with others and left for dead. Eventually, Woodman had found her, a mess among the pile.

Dragging her back to somewhere he could repair her, he had performed a miracle in keeping her alive and even restoring her to health - except he had obviously made a mistake putting her back together.

"I... I have a dick!" she suddenly called out.

"Well... of course you do," he replied as if it were an obvious fact.

"But I didn't have one before!"

Woodman suddenly leered at her, confused.

"You didn't?"

"No!"

He paused, then his eyes widened.

"Oh my... I thought... I mean, I'd never seen your... um... lower area... without clothes on. I... thought something was missing... you were different from me... so..."

Meredith had practically passed out at that moment, only to be caught by her friends before she could injure herself again.

In hindsight, when I recall the experience, I can now see it wasn't such a bad trade off. It still isn't, especially now that we've fixed the issue to my satisfaction. It just took a bit of time and a lot of adaption.

I turn my attention to my swollen clitoris. I rub it gently and focus on my inner self - another reality I've come to live with in time. Fiona stares in amazement as, just above the crease of my vagina, a fleshy construct begins to grow out. The sensation in my own frame is quite delightful. I stare down at my emerging limb and shiver, watching it stretch and engorge with blood, already erect. Its mushroom tip forms before our eyes, enticing. I've compared it with those of men and I can honestly say it's no slouch: almost two inches wide and its length runs up a good nine inches full mast.

Fiona stares in awe as the transformation ends, biting her lower lip.

"I wish I could do that. It looks so intense."

"It is," I whimper. "But not as intense as this."

The tip of the newly formed cock comes to rest against Fiona's green-haired bush, specifically against the folds of her opening. It's not the first time she welcomes my glorious erection inside her, and it certainly won't be the last if I have anything to say about it. Not bad for a Kansas girl, I think to myself as I take my time pushing it in; I know its girth can be challenging sometimes, depending on how receptive my partner proves to be.

"Mmmmmm..." Fiona moans as her pussy lips split open and allows me access to her insides. "Dive it in..."

I'm in no rush; I still take my time burying myself fully inside Fiona; just underneath the shaft, I feel my female opening still leaking with fluids, trembling, beckoning for more pleasure. I can indulge myself in that even as I indulge Fiona with my hardness. One of my hands reaches down between my legs and I stick a finger in there; my throbbing erection reaches its full entry around the same time and my green-skinned lover shakes.

"Aaah..." we both moan at the same time.

The intercourse begins with slow thrusts inside Fiona's warm pussy, intensifying as pleasure begins to build its course inside both of us. As Fiona's hand reaches around and scratches my naked back, causing delicious pain with her strong fingernails, I take my free hand and latch it around Fiona's throat, squeezing hard as I begin ramming with force inside her. My pressure contains her moans for a while even as butterflies invade my mind from the sheer exhilaration.

When my hand leaves her throat, Fiona becomes vocal.

"Oh! By the wizard... ooh... sweet monkeys... Merry, yes... take me... make me yours... ravage me..."

I love when Fiona - any partner really - gets truly vocal; it stimulates me more than many other fetishes. I know she's enjoying the ride from the blank stare in her eyes, and I don't mean to stop - it merely happens when I eventually tense up, my shaft trembling inside her frame. All my man fluids shoot into my partner and I grunt inwardly, no sound escaping my throat. It's Fiona's voice that fills the room.

"Ah! Merry! Yes... It's so warm... so much..."

I've been longing for Fiona's company for weeks now. Just because I have other sexual partners does not change that fact. It's not about sex. It's about love - and Fiona is the only person I truly adore in this harsh, beautiful, traumatic and incredible realm. She's my one haven of simplicity in a world gone mad.

"Ah..." Fiona whimpers. "I wish you could give me babies."

"I wish it too," I whimper.

I can't have babies. I may be equipped like a man but what I provide when I release my seed can't make my lover pregnant. I can't give her the gift she truly wants. It's part of the sadness of this world. We've even considered bringing in one of our male friends to do it, but Fiona's not ready for that. She's still hoping. She remains hopeful despite everything. That's why I love her.

I simply can't afford to be like her. There aren't that many hopeful situations out there. In many ways, I must be the luckiest girl in the world, to still be alive and sane after everything that happened.

The beastman's constant apologies were growing tiresome in the end. Still, Meredith kept quiet. Without him, she would never have escaped from the Bone Witch. She had since dried the tears in her eyes, focusing on escape alone and not what she had lost.

"The W-Witch is going to b-be so mad," the beastman complained further through his stutter.