Chapter 29: The Black Avalanche and the Golden Brood

Author’s Note: I’ve mentioned this before, but now it’s official: I’m going to stop generating illustrations for this story. One reason is the difficulty of getting consistent character renderings from the generator I’m using, Grok Imagine. (They’ve got a functionality that’s supposed to allow this, but I have yet to get it to work properly.) Another reason is that, like most renderers, Grok Imagine won’t go past a PG-13 rating (basically no pussies or dicks, and rarely will it show exposed breasts) and that makes it hard to truly illustrate an explicit sex story. Another reason is the difficulty of getting it to render truly unique creatures like the transformed Thalindra and her spider-daughters.

However, probably the most important reason is that making the illustrations just takes too much time, time that I could be spending on writing. I’ve enjoyed creating the illustrations for this story, but at my core I’m a writer and the illustrations have just ended up taking too much time away from writing new stories that I want to get out.

This is not to say that there will be no more illustrations in this work; I may throw one in from time to time, especially when new characters appear. But I won’t be including half-a-dozen illustrations with each chapter; I’d rather focus on crafting a good story (and writing my other stories as well).

Natasha die Frostklaue urged Velikiy Grom up the last steep rise of the snow-shrouded hill, her bare thighs clamped tight around the colossal beast’s barrel chest. The wind whipped her jet-black hair into a wild banner behind her, strands lashing across her naked back like silken whips. Every stride of Grom’s massive paws sent a rolling surge through his midnight-black fur, and that fur, thick, knurled, and veined with pulsing black runes, secreted a steady, oily aphrodisiac that soaked directly into her bare, juicing pussy. The heat of it spread through her pink folds like liquid fire, making her swollen clit throb against the coarse pelt, her inner walls clenching greedily around nothing. She ground down harder, shameless, savoring the slick friction as her obscene breasts, larger even than Olga’s, heavy and veined with frost-blue lines, bounced and slapped against her ribs with each powerful bound.

Through the deep, unbreakable bond forged when Grom’s monstrous knot had locked inside her and flooded her womb with black seed, Natasha felt everything he felt. Battle-lust roared in his blood like thunder. Fuck-lust burned hotter still, the raw animal need to hunt, to kill, to bury that grotesque, rune-etched cock into warm, screaming female flesh whether human or otherwise. She felt the thick length of it pulsing in its sheath beneath his body, the knurled surface dragging against its covering with every stride, the flared head nudging the mouth of the sheath as if begging to be let out. The craving rolled into her own mind in waves: plunge deep, stretch, ruin, seed. Especially unwilling flesh. Especially the tight virgin cunts of those foolish Slavic sluts who still thought themselves pure.

Her twelve Blutklaureiterinnen rode in loose formation behind her, gorgeous naked goddesses of death astride their own slavering Blutklaubestien, platinum and midnight hair streaming, bodies sculpted into lethal perfection by the same black flood that had remade Natasha. None of them wore the formal black harnesses of their new allegiance yet. They were still bare, skin gleaming with frost and sweat, cunts dripping onto the aphrodisiac fur of their mounts. Olga Snowfur strode on foot far behind, somewhere in the rear. Natasha had left the traitorous bitch to find her own way back to the Reich lines, a petty spike of spite even now that loyalty to the Führer burned hotter than any old friendship or grudges.

They crested the ridge in a thunder of black paws and steaming breath. Below, trudging through knee-deep snow toward the distant front, marched a full company of fresh Rus’kiev infantry, perhaps two hundred and fifty souls in all, men and women mixed, clad in thick white winter furs more suited to long marches than battle. Supply wagons creaked at the rear, piled high with crates and barrels. They thought themselves safe this deep in their own territory. Weapons were slung, spears bundled, bows unstrung. A few laughed, voices carrying faintly on the wind. Fools.

Natasha’s lips peeled back in a feral grin, fangs glinting. Easy prey. “Forward, my sisters!” she roared, voice thick with rolling Slavic vowels and Reich iron. “Sieg Reich! Crush ze filthy Slavic pigs! Leave none standing!”

The thirteen Blutklaubestien surged as one, a black avalanche thundering down the slope. Huge knotted cocks slid from sheaths beneath their bellies, runes glowing crimson, dripping ropes of steaming black pre-cum that hissed where they struck snow. The riders leaned low over their mounts’ necks, hair whipping, breasts swaying, war-cries rising into a savage chorus of lust and hatred.

Natasha raised one hand, frost-blue runes flaring across her palm. She slammed the spell into Grom’s broad chest. His roar erupted, not the natural bellow of a bear, but a sonic hammer that rolled ahead of the charge like an artillery barrage. Snow exploded outward in a perfect ring. The Rus’kiev column staggered as one, ears bleeding, helmets ringing, bodies reeling. Men dropped to their knees clutching heads. Women screamed, clutching fur hoods as if to keep their skulls from splitting. Spears clattered uselessly into drifts. The neat marching ranks dissolved into chaos just as the black tide of the bears struck.

Grom hit the front of the column like a battering ram. His massive forepaws smashed down on a broad-shouldered male infantryman, black keratin plating on his shoulders and brow gleaming as claws punched through fur, mail, flesh, and spine in one wet crunch. Blood sprayed across white snow in a steaming fan. Natasha laughed aloud, thighs squeezing as Grom pivoted, jaws closing around a screaming woman’s torso. Fangs punched through thick winter coat and ribs alike. The woman’s legs kicked once, boots drumming snow, before the bear shook her like a rag doll and flung the ruined body aside.

To Natasha’s left, Svetlana Bearheart’s mount reared, slamming both forepaws down onto a cluster of three soldiers trying desperately to form a shield wall. Bones cracked like dry branches. One woman’s spear thrust wildly upward. The bear’s jaws snapped shut, shearing spear, arm, and half her shoulder away in a single bite. Black pre-cum from the beast’s dangling cock spattered across the dying woman’s face, and her eyes rolled back in sudden, unwanted ecstasy even as blood fountained from the stump.

Irina Icevein’s beast barreled straight through a knot of six men attempting to drag wagons into a defensive circle. The impact sent bodies tumbling like ninepins. One man rolled beneath the bear’s belly. The Blutklaubestien’s cock, eighteen inches of knurled black meat, slapped wetly across the man chest as the beast passed, leaving a burning streak of pre-cum that made the soldier convulse and scream in sudden, agonizing arousal even as claws opened his guts.

The bears killed with savage economy, claws raking, fangs rending, keratin-plated shoulders battering men and women aside like dolls. Yet the riders felt their mounts’ frustration through the bond. Every downed female body was a temptation. A young blonde Rus’kiev infantrywoman stumbled directly beneath Natasha’s Grom. The beast’s cock extended from its sheath, dripping its corrupted precum in black ropes. Natasha leaned down, seized a fistful of the girl’s golden braid, and yanked her head back hard.

“Not yet, my love,” she hissed to Grom in thickly accented Reichdeutsch, voice dripping honeyed cruelty. “Kill first. Zen ve fuck zem until zey break.” Grom snarled but obeyed for now, swiping at the girl’s face before turning to lunge at a fleeing male sergeant. The man’s scream cut off as massive jaws closed around his waist and bit him in half.

Natasha’s amplified voice rolled over the carnage like winter thunder. “Run, little pigs! Run from ze true masters! Your women vill scream Sieg Reich on our bears’ cocks before ve send zem to ze camps! Your men, useless meat for ze snow!”

The remaining Rus’kiev broke. Some tried to rally around the wagons. Others simply fled, boots churning powder into red slush. The bears pursued with terrifying speed.

One Blutklaubestien overtook a cluster of four fleeing women, plump, fur-clad infantry auxiliaries with braids bouncing beneath hoods. The bear bowled the rearmost off her feet, massive paw pinning her chest to the snow. She screamed, legs kicking. The beast’s head lowered, jaws wide, then paused, nostrils flaring at the scent of her terror-soaked cunt beneath fur trousers. Its cock throbbed visibly, runes flaring. The rider, Anya Frostfang, leaned forward, stroking the plated brow.

“Soon, darling. Soon you may knot her. Finish ze rest first.”

The bear growled but released the pinned woman, lunging after the others. Claws raked across backs, shredding fur and flesh in long red furrows. One woman went down shrieking, spine opened to the sky. Another turned at bay with a short sword. The beast batted the blade aside and crushed her ribcage beneath one paw.

Farther out, a lone female soldier sprinted desperately toward a copse of pines, braid flying, fur cloak flapping open to reveal the curve of heavy breasts beneath her coat. The pursuing Blutklaubestien closed the gap in three bounds. Its rider tried to rein it in, but the beast’s lust finally snapped. With a triumphant roar it pounced, slamming the woman face-down into deep snow. Massive paws pinned her shoulders. Fangs seized the back of her hood and yanked her head back. The female soldier screamed, legs kicking uselessly as the bear ripped her fur trousers away with one swipe, exposing pale, plush ass cheeks and the pink slit between.

The beast’s monstrous cock, thick as a woman’s forearm, knurled, rune-glowing, slammed home in one brutal thrust. The soldier’s scream pitched higher, body arching as her virgin cunt stretched impossibly around the invasion. Black pre-cum lubricated the savage rape as the beast began rutting, its hips slamming into the woman powerfully. Within moments her cries shifted from pain to unwilling, drugged ecstasy. Hips began to rock back greedily even as blood stained the snow from claw wounds on her shoulders.

The rider laughed, stroking her mount’s neck. “Good boy. Take your prize. Ze rest vill vait.”

Minutes later, silence fell across the valley save for the wet slap of flesh, the occasional dying gurgle, and the triumphant panting of thirteen colossal beasts.

The surviving Rus’kiev, perhaps thirty, mostly women, had been herded into a tight, helpless knot near the overturned wagons. Weapons lay scattered or broken. Blood steamed on snow. The ring of slavering Blutklaubestien tightened, red eyes glowing, tongues lolling, massive cocks fully erect and dripping. Their riders sat tall, gorgeous and naked atop them, legs spread wide, cunts glistening with mount-fur aphrodisiac and their own juices, breasts heaving with excitement.

Natasha die Frostklaue urged Grom forward until his bulk loomed over the cowering prisoners. She looked down at them, former sisters, former countrymen, and felt only contemptuous hunger. Weak. Inferior. Ripe. Her voice rolled out, thick Slavic accent wrapped around pure Reich venom. “Time to rape, darlinks.”

The bears needed no further urging. With savage roars that shook snow from nearby pines, the thirteen Blutklaubestien lunged into the knot of prisoners, massive bodies slamming helpless women to the ground beneath their bulk. The gorgeous riders remained astride, thighs clamped tight, feeling every brutal thrust through the psychic bond as their mounts’ monstrous cocks speared into warm, unwilling flesh.

Svetlana Bearheart’s beast pinned a sturdy brunette auxiliary first, broad hips, heavy breasts heaving beneath torn fur coat. The bear’s forepaws crushed her shoulders into crimson snow while its rune-glowing shaft, thick as a forearm and knurled with black barbs, punched between her thighs. Fur trousers ripped away like paper. The woman’s scream pitched high as the flared head forced her virgin cunt open in one merciless thrust. Black pre-cum jetted deep, aphrodisiac fire spreading through her veins. Pain twisted into unwanted pleasure. Her legs kicked, then wrapped greedily around the beast’s haunches as hips bucked upward to meet the pounding. Svetlana laughed aloud, grinding her own dripping pussy against her mount’s fur, feeling the shared sensations of that tight Slavic hole clenching around knotted meat.

Nearby, Irina Icevein’s mount chose a lithe redhead with freckled cheeks and pert tits. The bear flipped her onto all fours, jaws clamping the back of her neck to hold her still. Its cock slapped wetly between plush ass cheeks before driving forward, stretching pink folds obscenely wide. The redhead wailed, fingers clawing snow, but within moments the pre-cum turned her cries to desperate moans. She shoved backward shamelessly, begging in broken gasps for more of the beast that was ruining her. Irina stroked her bear’s plated brow, cooing encouragement as the savage rutting shook snow from both their bodies.

The third rape drew Natasha’s hungry gaze. A young blonde infantrywoman, barely twenty, golden braids torn loose, face classically pretty beneath terror, tried to crawl away only to be overtaken by Anya Frostfang’s colossal mount. The bear rolled her onto her back, massive paws pinning slender thighs apart. Its primary cock, eighteen inches of veined, rune-etched blackness, slammed home to the hilt in one thrust. The blonde’s back arched, mouth open in a silent scream as her cunt stretched impossibly around the invasion. Black pre-cum flooded her depths. Pain melted into drugged ecstasy. Soon she was shrieking, legs locked around the beast’s hips, voice raw and unaccented. “Deeper! Harder! Please, fuck me harder!”

Anya grinned down at her, grinding slowly against her own mount’s fur as the bear obliged, pounding the willing slut into the snow until her eyes rolled white.

Velikiy Grom sought a worthier prize. His red eyes fixed on the company commander, a lush, voluptuous woman in her late twenties, statuesque even in defeat. Thick golden braids framed a stern, beautiful face. Her winter coat had been half-torn away in the earlier chaos, revealing enormous breasts that spilled like fresh cream, wide hips, and a plush ass that jiggled with every panicked breath. She stood defiant amid the cowering survivors, short sword drawn until Grom’s paw batted it away like a twig.