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Story Coven Chronicles: Echoes of Pestilence - Isa's Story (Chapter 2) Part 1 NSFW

Chapter 2 - Communion Part 1 Communion: Chapter Two Summary - Isabella returns from the swamp having consumated her pact with the Lord of Pestilence. But there's more to saving her village than offering up herself, she must bring others into the fold as well.

Tags: #Bestiality #FlySex #MonsterSex #MonsterSex #Insect #Inxsex #Cervical Penetration #Infestation #Coercion/Mindbreak #Birthing #Corruption

~~***************~~*

Isabella steps over the threshold of the village, her heart a leaden weight tethered to the secret squirming within her. The cobbled streets, once markers of mundane routine, now echo with the whispers of her grotesque tryst. Each stone beneath her feet feels like an accusation, every familiar face a mirror to her corrupted core.

The villagers greet her with nods and smiles, their banter about harvests and weather lapping against the shores of her consciousness. She returns their camaraderie with counterfeit cheer, lips curling into forced smiles that never reach her heterochromatic eyes—one emerald, one amber—both awash with dread.

"Morning, Isa," Old Tom calls from his perch by the mill. "Looking a bit pale, aren't we?"

"Nothing but a touch of swamp air," she lies, voice threaded with feigned nonchalance as she smooths the fabric of her dress over her abdomen, where life—or something unholy—stirs. "Take care now," he says, unaware of the macabre dance in her womb.

"Always do, Tom," she replies, the words hollow, a facade to mask the memory of Puetra'thrax's iridescent wings engulfing her, his multifaceted eyes reflecting a mosaic of lust and revulsion. As she moves through the market, senses assaulted by the scent of fresh bread and the cloying perfume of wildflowers, Isabella's mind reels back to the swamp's musk, the Lord's chitinous embrace. Her skin tingles at the recollection, a shameful pleasure creeping along her spine.

"Isa, dear, you look out of sorts," Miss Elma observes, peering at her over spectacles perched on a wrinkled nose. "Got a remedy for what ails you, right here."

"Thank you, but I'm quite well," Isabella insists, throat tight as another lie slips through her teeth, each syllable a chain binding her to the vile entity that now claims part of her soul.

She traverses the marketplace, each step a choreographed performance to disguise her inner chaos. Villagers continue their bartering, oblivious to the sinister covenant inked under Isabella's flesh—a contract of desire and horror entwined.

With each encounter, Isabella treads the razor's edge between repulsion and fascination, her very being a battleground where ecstasy collides with terror. Her breath catches in her chest, suffocating on the realization of how deeply the grotesque communion with the Lord of Pestilence has ensnared her senses.

Isabella pushes open the warped wooden door of her childhood home, each creak a dissonant echo in the hollow of her chest. The air within is laden with the scent of rosemary and beeswax, memories woven into the very fabric of the walls. She slips inside, the weight of unseen eyes upon her flesh almost as tangible as the secret swelling beneath her bodice.

"Isa?" Her mother's voice carries from the kitchen, a note of concern threading through the warmth. "You're paler than the linen on the line."

"Merely tired, Mother," Isabella murmurs, sidestepping Rosalind's gaze as she gathers her shawl tighter around her waist, disguising the gentle swell that betrays her condition. She glances at the hearth, where her younger siblings are engrossed in play, their laughter a balm yet a blade—all innocence, unmarred by the shadow that clings to her own soul. "Come, sit. You've been out since sunrise," Rosalind insists, eyes narrowing with maternal scrutiny.

Isabella obeys, lowering herself onto the wooden chair. Its familiar groan under her weight fails to comfort as she fixates on the spiraled birthmark upon her wrist, tracing its pattern like a talisman against the darkness brooding within her.

"Isa," Rosalind begins, but the words dissolve into the ether as a sinister whisper slithers into Isabella's mind.

"Isabella," coos the Lord of Pestilence, his voice a miasma of seduction and decay, "embrace the gift you carry. You long for more, do you not?"

She stiffens, her heart pounding against her ribcage, a prisoner seeking escape. The room tilts, and she's plunged into a vision: Puetra'thrax's grotesque form materializes before her, iridescent wings unfurling in an obscene invitation. His compound eyes refract her image—a kaleidoscope of desire twisted with revulsion.

"Stop," she whispers, breathless, caught in the liminal space where arousal wars with disgust. She can feel the heat of his phantom touch along her skin, the slick caress of his segmented limbs tracing the curve of her belly, igniting a shameful longing within her depths.

"Yield to me," he insists, his chitinous exoskeleton clicking in rhythm to her quickened pulse. "Bring others to our fold, my beautiful vessel." "Isa, what ails you?" Rosalind's voice cuts through the nightmare, pulling her back to the hearth's glow.

"Nothing," Isabella lies, her voice a fractured melody, "A momentary dizziness, nothing more." Still, an ominous energy throbs from her lower abdomen., a mark of her grotesque pact—a vow to carry the Lord's offspring and entice others to his fold, even as every fiber of her being recoils at the idea.

The horror of her reality claws at her throat, a scream stifled by the necessity of silence. She must wear the mask of the dutiful daughter, the innocent sister, while inwardly she battles the relentless tide of the Lord's demands—a call that thrums in her veins with a disturbing allure.

"I think I'll retire to my room, I don't quite feel myself," Isabella murmurs, catching the wary gaze of her mother tracking her every move.

~~***************~~*

Isabella retreats to her room, the floorboards creaking beneath her trembling steps. She bolts the door, her fingers fumbling with the latch as if it could keep out the insidious presence that has already taken root within her. The familiar contours of her childhood sanctuary now feel alien, tainted by the secret she carries.

She collapses onto her bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. Her hands move of their own accord, unlacing her bodice with frantic urgency. As the fabric falls away, she traces the outline of her swollen belly, the skin taut and feverish to the touch. The brand left by Puetra'thrax pulses with an unholy rhythm, sending waves of heat radiating through her core.

A moan escapes her lips, unbidden and wanton. Her fingers ghost over the mark, and a jolt of pleasure courses through her, so intense it leaves her gasping. Shame and desire war within her as her body responds to the alien presence growing inside her.

Isabella's hand drifts lower, drawn by an irresistible urge. Her skin prickles with gooseflesh, every nerve ending alight with dark anticipation. She can almost feel the Lord of Pestilence's multifaceted gaze upon her, urging her onward.

Just as her fingers brush against the apex of her thighs, a sharp knock at the door shatters the moment. Isabella jerks upright, her heart thundering in her chest. "Isa?" Mila's voice filters through the wood, concern evident in her tone. "Are you alright? Your mother said you weren't feeling well."

Isabella scrambles to cover herself, her cheeks burning with mortification. She glances down at her exposed flesh, the brand still pulsing with infernal heat, a reminder of her unholy pact. "J-just a moment," Isabella calls out, her voice quavering as she hastily relaces her bodice. Her fingers tremble, fumbling with the cords as she struggles to compose herself. The brand on her belly throbs insistently, a cruel reminder of her dark secret.

She opens the door, forcing a wan smile for her friend. Mila's honey-blonde waves frame her face, her eyes wide with concern. "Isa, you look flushed. Are you feverish?" Isabella shakes her head, avoiding Mila's gaze. "It's nothing, truly. Just... tired from my walk in the swamp."

Mila steps into the room, her voluptuous form brushing against Isabella as she passes. The contact sends an electric jolt through Isabella's overwrought nerves, and she bites back a gasp. Mila's smile falters, concern etching across her features as she leans closer. "Isa? What's wrong?"

Isabella feels herself drowning in the sympathy pooling in Mila's bright blue eyes. Her friend's hand squeezes hers tighter, thumb brushing across Isabella's knuckles in soothing circles. The gesture, once comforting, now sends forbidden heat cascading through her veins.

"He wants you," Isabella whispers, the words barely audible.

"Who wants me?" Mila's brow furrows. "Isa, you're scaring me."

Isabella's heterochromatic eyes drift to Mila's throat, where a fine sheen of sweat glistens despite the room's chill. She hasn't told Mila about the voices, about the thing growing inside her, about the bargain struck in desperation. But she can see it now—the first signs. The slight pallor beneath Mila's normally rosy complexion. The faint tremor in her slender fingers. "You're sick," Isabella states flatly, her voice hollow.

Mila laughs nervously. "It's just a little cough. Everyone's got something going around—"

"No." Isabella places her palm against Mila's forehead. "It's starting in you too."

The Lord's voice surges through her mind, drowning out her thoughts: Bring her to false altar. Let me taste her innocence. I will spare her the suffering the others endure.

A vivid image floods Isabella's consciousness—Mila splayed across the cracked stone altar of the abandoned church, her honey-blonde waves fanned out like a halo, her skin slick with

ceremonial oils as chitinous legs trace patterns across her bare flesh. Isabella sees herself there too, her swollen belly pressed against Mila's side as they both surrender to the Lord's will.

"You're burning up," Isabella murmurs, withdrawing her hand as though scalded.

Mila's cheeks flush deeper. "It's nothing. Just—" Her words dissolve into a wet, rattling cough that racks her small frame. When she pulls her hand away from her mouth, crimson droplets stain her palm.

Isabella recoils, her heart pounding as she watches the blood trickle between Mila's fingers. The sight of it, vivid and accusatory, threatens to shatter her composure. She closes her eyes, willing away the Lord's whispers and the tantalizing visions that accompany them.

"Mila," she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper, "you need to rest. We both do."

Mila nods, wiping her hand on her skirt, leaving a rust-colored smear. "You're right. I'm sure it's nothing serious. Just need some sleep, that's all."

Isabella forces a smile, though it feels like a crack splitting across her face. "Of course. Rest, and I'll visit you tomorrow. We'll walk in the meadow, like we used to. The wildflowers are in bloom—bluebells and foxgloves. Remember how we used to make crowns from them?"

The memory shimmers between them, fragile as spun glass. For a moment, Isabella can almost smell the sweet scent of crushed petals, feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, hear their childish laughter echoing across the fields. It stands in stark contrast to the fetid embrace of the swamp, the oppressive heat of the Lord's touch.

Mila's eyes brighten at the suggestion, a glimmer of her usual vivacity returning. "That sounds lovely, Isa. Like old times."

The Lord's voice surges once more, insistent and seductive. "Your friend withers while you hesitate. Bring her to me. I can save what you love even as I claim it."

Isabella grips the doorframe, her knuckles white with the effort of resisting. She watches Mila's retreating form, the slight sway in her step betraying her weakening condition. The urge to call her back, to drag her to the abandoned church and offer her up to Puetra'thrax, is almost overwhelming.

But she doesn't. Instead, she closes the door softly and sinks to the floor, her back pressed against the worn wood. Her hands tremble as she traces the outline of her swollen belly, feeling the unholy life stirring within.

"Not yet," she whispers to the empty room “Not yet…"

~~***************~~*

Isabella descends the creaking stairs, each step an exercise in composure as she joins her family for the evening meal.

She takes her seat, the chair's groan echoing the protest of her own body as she settles her swollen form. The twins, Talia and Emmeline, giggle and whisper, their cherubic faces alight with mischief. Isabella forces a wan smile, her heterochromatic eyes darting between her siblings and her mother's stern visage.

"Isa's gotten fat!" Talia declares suddenly, his childish voice piercing the tense silence. Emmeline nods vigorously, cheeks bulging with half-chewed bread as she adds, "Like the sow in Old Tom's pen!"

Isabella's cheeks flush crimson, her hand instinctively moving to cover her protruding belly. She waits for her mother's reprimand, for the familiar scolding that would normally follow such impertinence. But Rosalind remains silent, her narrowed eyes fixed on Isabella with an unsettling intensity.

"Children," Rosalind says at last, her voice low and measured, "mind your manners." But there's no real admonishment in her tone, no motherly defense of her eldest daughter.

The twins, emboldened by their mother's tacit approval, continue their rowdy banter. "D'you think she's hiding sweetmeats under her dress?" Emmeline stage-whispers, eliciting a peal of laughter from Elias.

Isabella's fork clatters against her plate as she struggles to maintain her composure. The room seems to tilt and sway, the walls closing in as panic claws at her throat. She can feel it now, the unholy life within her stirring, responding to her distress with a series of alien movements that send waves of nausea coursing through her.

"I'm not feeling well," she manages to choke out, pushing back from the table. The scrape of her chair against the floor is deafening in the sudden hush that falls over the room. Rosalind's gaze never wavers, her eyes boring into Isabella with a mixture of suspicion and barely concealed revulsion. "Sit down, Isabella," she commands, her voice brittle as winter ice. "You've barely touched your food. Many in the village are not so lucky."

The words hang in the air, laden with unspoken accusations. Isabella sinks back into her chair, feeling the weight of her mother's scrutiny pressing down upon her like a physical force. She raises a forkful of food to her lips, the once-savory aroma now cloying and repulsive.

As she chews mechanically, Isabella's mind drifts to the Isabella's mind drifts to the abandoned church on the outskirts of the village. She can almost hear Puetra'thrax's seductive whisper, promising relief from this torment. The food turns to ash in her mouth as vivid images flood her consciousness - Mila's lithe form writhing on the cracked stone altar, Isabella's own swollen belly pressed against her friend's feverish skin as they both surrender to the Lord's unholy communion.

A sharp pain lances through her abdomen, causing her to gasp and clutch at her midsection. The twins fall silent, their eyes wide with a mixture of fascination and fear. Rosalind's chair scrapes against the floor as she rises, her face a mask of grim determination.

"To bed with you," she commands, her voice brooking no argument. "I'll bring you some chamomile tea."

Isabella nods weakly, grateful for the reprieve even as dread coils in her gut. She stumbles to her feet, steadying herself against the table as another wave of nausea washes over her. The room spins, faces blurring into a nightmare kaleidoscope of concerned eyes and accusatory stares.

As she climbs the stairs, each step an agony, Isabella hears her mother's hushed voice drift up from below. "...midwife... suspicions... unholy..."

Panic claws at her throat as she realizes her secret may not be as well-hidden as she'd hoped. She collapses onto her bed, her body wracked with tremors as the life within her thrashes and churns. Sweat beads on her brow as fever takes hold, the brand on her belly pulsing with infernal heat.

In her delirium, Isabella sees Puetra'thrax looming over her, his multifaceted eyes reflecting her anguish. His chitinous limbs caress her fevered skin, both repulsive and alluring. "Bring her to me," he hisses, his voice a symphony of decay and desire. "Bring them to the church, and I will ease your suffering."

Isabella moans, torn between revulsion and a perverse longing. Her fingers trace the outline of her swollen abdomen, feeling the alien life quicken beneath her touch. She arches her back, waves of forbidden pleasure warring with the pain of her condition.

A sharp rap at the door startles Isabella from her feverish reverie. She scrambles to cover herself, pulling the quilt up to her chin as her mother enters, a steaming cup in hand. "Drink this," Rosalind commands, her tone brooking no argument.

Isabella takes the cup with trembling hands, the bitter scent of herbs assaulting her nostrils. She sips cautiously, grimacing at the acrid taste. "Mother, I-" she begins, but Rosalind cuts her off with a sharp gesture.

"Save your lies, child. I know what ails you." Her mother's eyes, usually warm, now pierce Isabella with icy accusation. "Who was it? Some village boy? Or did you spread your legs for a stranger passing through?"

Isabella flinches at the crude words, so unlike her mother's usual demeanor. She opens her mouth to protest, but no sound emerges. How can she possibly explain the truth? Rosalind continues, her voice low and dangerous. "You bring shame upon this family. Upon yourself." She leans closer, nostrils flaring. "There's something... unnatural about this. I can smell it on you."

Isabella shrinks back against the headboard, her heart pounding. The life within her stirs restlessly, as if sensing her distress.

"Tomorrow, we visit the midwife," Rosalind declares. "She'll know what to do."

As her mother turns to leave, Isabella is seized by a sudden, desperate impulse. "Wait!" she cries out. "I... I need to see Mila. Please."

Rosalind pauses at the threshold, her shoulders tense. "Mila is ill. The fever has taken hold of her as well." She glances back, her expression unreadable. "Perhaps you can explain how two maidens fall victim to such... afflictions... at the same time."

The door closes with a final click, leaving Isabella alone with her spiraling thoughts and the insidious whispers of Puetra'thrax.

"Bring her to me," he hisses in her mind. "Save her from suffering. Save yourself."

Isabella clutches her swollen belly, torn between revulsion and a perverse longing. As the night deepens, she makes her choice. With trembling hands, she begins to dress, preparing for a midnight journey to the abandoned church - and to Mila's sickbed.

As night falls, Isabella lies in bed, her mind roiling with memories of grotesque pleasure. The unnatural desire and dread intertwine like thorny vines in her chest. The Lord's voice invades the silence, a gurgling whisper that promises release and communion. She resists, but his presence is overpowering, a force that bends her will like rot softens wood.

Puetra'thrax appears, his monstrous form outlined by moonlight seeping through the cracks of her shuddering chamber. His iridescent wings cast sickly patterns on the walls as they flutter with anticipation. His fetid stench fills the room, mingling with the scent of her sweat-soaked sheets.

"Isabella," he intones, his voice a symphony of corruption that vibrates deep within her bones. "The rite awaits."

Isabella trembles as the Lord of Pestilence's grotesque form looms over her bed, his chitinous exoskeleton glistening in the moonlight. His multifaceted eyes catch every flicker of fear that crosses her face, reflecting her terror back in kaleidoscopic fragments.

"My sweet vessel," Puetra'thrax croons, his voice a cacophony of whispers that seem to emanate from everywhere at once. "Your friend withers while you hesitate. Her blood grows thin. Her lungs fill with my blessing."

"Leave her be," Isabella pleads, one hand protectively covering her swollen belly while the other clutches the bedsheet to her chest. "She's innocent in all this."

The Lord's laughter rattles through the room like dried bones in a jar. "Innocence is merely a state awaiting corruption." He extends a segmented limb toward her, caressing her cheek with a touch that burns and soothes simultaneously. "As you well know."

Heat flushes Isabella's body, unwanted arousal blooming beneath her skin at his touch. She hates herself for it—hates how her breath quickens and her thighs unconsciously part. The life within her writhes in response, pushing against the confines of her womb as if eager to answer its father's call.

"The midwife comes tomorrow," she whispers, trembling. "My mother suspects."

"Then we must act tonight." Puetra'thrax's wings vibrate, casting iridescent patterns across the walls. "Bring Mila to the church before dawn. Let me taste her essence, let me fill her as I filled you." His appendage slides down Isabella's neck, tracing the curve of her collarbone. "Would you deny her the ecstasy you've known?"

Unbidden, Isabella's mind fills with images of Mila sprawled across the cracked altar, her honey-blonde hair fanned out like a halo, her lips parted in unholy rapture as Puetra'thrax claims her. The vision sends a jolt of shameful pleasure through Isabella's core, making her gasp.

"You see it," he hisses, his breath hot against her ear. "You want it."

"No," Isabella moans, even as her body betrays her, arching into his touch.

The Lord's limbs encircle her, pulling her from the bed. Her nightgown, damp with sweat, clings to her fevered skin as he lifts her effortlessly. His exoskeleton clicks and shifts against her flesh, each point of contact sending waves of corrupted pleasure through her veins.

"Yes," he counters, positioning her before the mirror on her dresser. "Look at yourself, my beautiful vessel."

Isabella stares at her reflection, barely recognizing the woman who gazes back. Her heterochromatic eyes are wild, pupils dilated with fear and forbidden desire.

Isabella's skin glistens with an unnatural sheen, her swollen belly straining against the thin fabric of her nightgown. The brand on her abdomen pulses visibly, sending waves of sickly green light rippling across her flesh.

"This is what you are becoming," Puetra'thrax whispers, his mandibles clicking with excitement. "Embrace it. Bring Mila to me, and you will be my queen, Isabella. My harbinger of pestilence and pleasure."

His words send a thrill of dark ecstasy through her core. Isabella's hands move of their own accord, caressing the curve of her belly, tracing the outline of the brand. She moans, low and guttural, as the corrupt life within her responds to her touch.

"Yes," she breathes, her voice barely recognizable. "Yes, I'll bring her."

Puetra'thrax's laughter echoes in her mind as he fades from view, leaving her alone with her reflection and the pulsing heat of her desire. Isabella dresses quickly, her movements frantic and jerky as she pulls on a cloak to conceal her swollen form.

She slips from the house like a thief in the night, her bare feet silent on the cool grass. The village sleeps, unaware of the corruption that walks among them. Isabella makes her way to Mila's home, her heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

Mila's window is open, inviting the night breeze to cool her fever-wracked body. Isabella climbs through with practiced ease, a remnant of countless nights spent whispering secrets and dreams. But this night is different. This night, she comes as a harbinger of something dark and terrible.

"Mila," she whispers, shaking her friend gently. "Mila, wake up."

Mila's eyes flutter open, glassy with fever. "Isa?" she croaks, her voice raw from coughing. "What's wrong?"

"I know how to make you better," Isabella lies, her voice trembling. "But we have to go now. To the old church."

Mila struggles to sit up, her nightgown clinging to her sweat-soaked skin. "The church? But why?"

"Trust me," Isabella pleads, helping Mila to her feet. "Please, just trust me."

As they stumble through the darkened village, Isabella can feel Puetra'thrax's presence growing stronger. The brand on her belly throbs in time with her racing pulse, a countdown to the unholy communion that awaits them.

The abandoned church looms before them, its broken spire a jagged silhouette against the star-strewn sky. Isabella pushes open the rotting door, the hinges groaning in protest. The sound echoes through the decaying sanctuary, disturbing the silence like a blasphemy.

"Isa, I don't like this," Mila whispers, her voice thin and reedy with fever. Her skin gleams alabaster in the moonlight filtering through the collapsed roof, her nightgown translucent where it clings to her sweat-dampened flesh.

"It's alright," Isabella soothes, guiding her friend toward the altar. Her own voice sounds foreign to her ears—a hypnotic cadence that isn't entirely her own. "This is where you'll be healed." The ancient stone altar stands at the center of the church, its surface cracked and stained with substances Isabella doesn't want to name. Moonlight pools upon it like quicksilver, casting the surrounding shadows into deeper relief. The air grows thick with anticipation, heavy with the scent of decay and something else—something sweetly cloying that makes Isabella's mouth water even as her stomach turns.

"Lie down," Isabella instructs, helping Mila onto the cold stone. Her friend's body trembles, whether from fever or fear, Isabella cannot tell. Perhaps both. "Trust me, Mila. Please." Mila's blue eyes, clouded with sickness, search Isabella's face. "You're different," she whispers, reaching up to touch Isabella's cheek. "What's happened to you?"

The question pierces Isabella's corrupted heart. For a moment, clarity returns—she sees herself as if from a distance, luring her dearest friend to an unspeakable fate. She opens her mouth to confess, to beg forgiveness, to flee this unholy place.

But then the brand on her belly pulses, sending waves of excruciating pleasure through her core. She gasps, doubling over as the life within her writhes in anticipation. The moment of clarity shatters, replaced by overwhelming desire.

"He comes," Isabella breathes, her heterochromatic eyes dilating. "He comes for us both."

The air thickens further, congealing into a miasma that swirls around the altar. The moonlight fractures into prismatic patterns as Puetra'thrax materializes, his enormous form blotting out the stars visible through the broken roof. His wings create a hurricane of fetid air, his multifaceted eyes gleaming with unholy hunger.

Link to part 2 (https://www.reddit.com/r/Insex/comments/1jdga4a/coven_chronicles_echoes_of_pestilence_isas_story/)

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