Isle of the Dead

Coleman just wants to take a break from work and enjoy his new yacht with a group of Speedo clad guys and an open bar. The undead have other ideas in this classic short story made really dirty.

Its skin was the dark, cracked red of cooling lava and it was covered in the same black symbols as its captives. Even with its height, the massive shaft would have seemed comically large if it hadn’t both scared the hell out of me and made my lust flare to almost consume me.

The other two figures disrobed and stepped to their respective altars. I couldn’t look away even when the thousand dead men dropped whatever cock had found their mouths in the spontaneous orgy. They chanted and the volume was deafening. Their words were in the same ancient language as the demon’s but parts of it began to make sense.

“Forward… give…” and a word my brain understood but couldn’t quite grasp. “Live forever”—”die forever”—I couldn’t tell.

Vince and two other captives stepped forward. The dead chanted faster.

Vince! My brain screamed. A part of me feared for him, but most of me wanted nothing more than to be the one stepping into the creature’s embrace.

Stone’s arms crushed my ribs. His breath against my neck came in short bursts.

He felt it too.

Wordlessly, Vincent stepped to the altar. His face was expressionless except for a tinge of lust. It might not have been detectible to someone else, but I’d known him for years. It was a shadow of the look he’d get just before he excused himself from the bar to follow a bubble-butted twink into the bathroom.

His cock was as hard as I’d ever seen it as he rested his butt on the altar and lay back on the stone surface.

The two other guys were already on their backs with the rough-looking hands of their demons holding their ankles.

The larger creature rumbled again. An ancient word that meant something close to “consent.”

Vincent’s legs flew up so fast he almost kicked the creature.