Description
h2.[b][i]Displaced Urges [/i][/b]
Bonus Loop featuring Gnolls;
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SFX & VO: @SpicyGayDog
[section= Story]
In the forsaken depths of a crumbling dungeon, where the air hangs heavy with the reek of mildew and despair, you find yourself bound in ignominy. The son of Bhaal, the Dark Urge, reduced to a wretched spectacle. Your wrists, shackled by cruel iron cuffs, are tethered low to the rusted bars of an empty cell. The chains force you onto all fours, your knees grinding into the cold, uneven stone, your body bowed in a posture of abject submission. The dungeon is a tomb of silence, abandoned save for the skittering of rats, their tiny claws scratching at the edges of your awareness. You are alone—until you are not.
A low, guttural purr slinks through the darkness, and your heart lurches. From the shadows emerges a displacer beast, its sleek, pantherine form a study in predatory grace. Six legs, each tipped with claws that gleam like polished obsidian, carry it forward with a sinuous, deliberate stride. Its coat shimmers, a void-black pelt that seems to drink the scant light, save for the twin glowing blue eyes that bore into you with unblinking hunger. Two writhing tentacles sprout from its back, swaying languidly like reeds in a cursed wind, but they remain aloof, untouched in this profane dance. The beast’s gaze rakes over your vulnerable form, and a shiver of dread coils in your gut—a primal instinct that whispers of your place in this moment: prey.
It circles you once, its eyes never leaving your trembling frame, and then, with a predator’s certainty, it mounts you. The beast’s weight presses down, a suffocating force that makes your arms quake against the shackles. Its forelimbs, corded with muscle, grip the prison cell’s bars, claws scraping against the iron with a sound like a blade on a whetstone. You see them clearly now—sharp, curved, glinting with menace, a reminder of the futility of resistance. The beast’s central limbs, lithe and powerful, seize your hips, their grip unyielding yet eerily precise, claws pricking just shy of breaking skin. A low growl rumbles from its throat, vibrating through you, and you feel the heat of its body, the coarse texture of its fur brushing against your back.
Then, it begins. The displacer beast’s cock, thick and alien, presses against your entrance, its surface slick with a natural sheen that does little to ease the intrusion. It enters you with a slow, deliberate thrust, and you gasp, a sharp intake of breath that echoes in the hollow cell. The sensation is overwhelming—a burning stretch that borders on pain, yet laced with a perverse fullness that sends a tremor through your core. Each movement is measured, the beast’s hips rolling with a rhythm that speaks of both control and hunger. Its cock fills you completely, its girth pressing against your inner walls, the texture both smooth and faintly ridged, dragging against you with every deliberate stroke.
Your body betrays you, muscles clenching instinctively around the intrusion, and a wave of shame floods your mind. You are the Dark Urge, heir to slaughter, yet here you are, reduced to this—bound, penetrated, claimed by a beast that knows no master. The chains rattle as you shift, your wrists straining against the cuffs, the metal biting into your skin. The beast’s pace remains unrelenting, a steady cadence that drives you forward, your knees scraping the stone, your shoulders aching from the strain of holding yourself up. Its glowing eyes burn into the back of your skull, and you feel the weight of its dominance, a silent command to submit.
The rhythm shifts, growing urgent, and your breath hitches. The beast’s thrusts quicken, each one deeper, harder, the ridged texture of its cock scraping against you with a ferocity that sends sparks of sensation—pain, pleasure, humiliation—racing through your nerves. Its central limbs tighten on your hips, claws pricking now, a sharp sting that grounds you in the moment. The forelimbs grip the bars tighter, iron groaning under the pressure, and you catch the glint of those claws again, a fleeting reminder of the beast’s power. You'd have never stood a chance.
Your body rocks with each thrust, the chains clanging against the bars in a discordant symphony. The beast’s growls deepen, a primal sound that reverberates in your chest, and you feel its cock swell inside you, a prelude to its climax. Then, with a sudden, savage yank, it pulls you back, its central limbs dragging your hips flush against its pelvis. The force is jarring—your cuffs slam against the metal bar, the sound a sharp clang that rings in your ears. You grip the bars instinctively, fingers curling around the cold iron, knuckles whitening as you brace against the onslaught.
The displacer beast climaxes, and the sensation is a deluge. Its cum is hot, thick, a viscous flood that pumps into you with relentless pulses. Each spurt stretches you further, a heavy warmth that fills you to the brim, spilling past the beast’s cock to drip down your thighs. The texture is slick, almost oily, coating your insides and pooling on the stone beneath you in a lewd, glistening puddle. You sag forward, your strength crumbling, your hands sliding down the bars you’d gripped so fiercely. The beast’s grip holds you upright, unyielding, as it continues to rut, milking every last drop into your abused body. Your tail twitches, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, but it’s futile—the cum seeps out, warm and sticky, a humiliating reminder of your surrender.
A distant sound—a guttural snarl, the shuffle of heavy feet—cuts through the haze. The displacer beast’s head snaps to the side, its glowing eyes narrowing. You follow its gaze, your neck aching as you turn, and see the flicker of torchlight in the corridor. The beast tenses, its cock still buried inside you, then darts away with a fluid grace that belies its size. The sudden withdrawal is a shock—its cock slips free with a wet squelch, and a gush of cum squirts out, splattering the stone and coating your thighs. You collapse, curling inward, your tail instinctively covering your abused hole as if it could undo the violation. The chains hold you in place, a cruel anchor in this sea of shame.
Torchlight spills into the cell, casting jagged shadows across your trembling form. The gnolls approach, their hyena-like laughter grating against your raw nerves. Their eyes gleam with a mix of surprise and hunger as they take in your sorry state—bound, defiled, dripping with the beast’s seed. You lift your head, exhaustion weighing down every muscle, and meet their gazes. Your vision blurs, your body aches, and your mind reels with the weight of what you’ve endured. The Dark Urge, once a harbinger of death, now a broken thing in a forgotten dungeon, staring into the flickering light as the gnolls draw near.
- Rating
- E
- Score
- 6500
- Favorites
- 14519
- Comments
- 42
- Uploader
- SpicyGayDog
- File
- jpg 455x256
- Duration
- 70.008s
- Children
- Yes