Of the pleasures and pains of opium much has been written. The ecstasies and horrors of De Quincey and the paradis artificiels of Baudelaire are preserved and interpreted with an art which makes them immortal, and the world knows well the beauty, the terror, and the mystery of those obscure realms into which the inspired dreamer is transported.
Rejoice fellow cultists, for today is Nyaruko's Birthday.
Feel free to utter your maddening delusions at this time and hour, as the Crawling Chaos may find slight joy contemplating our pathetic rapture.
Japan time, as always.
For an episode or so it was great.
I want to cum bareback inside nyaruko and not take responsibility
But much as has been told, no man has yet dared intimate the nature of the phantasms thus unfolded to the mind, or hint at the direction of the unheard-of roads along whose ornate and exotic course the partaker of the drug is so irresistibly borne.
I have been completely violated by Kuuko and Mahiro-san, so please sit down and get a good eyeful of it.
De Quincey was drawn back into Asia, that teeming land of nebulous shadows whose hideous antiquity is so impressive that “the vast age of the race and name overpowers the sense of youth in the individual”, but farther than that he dared not go.
Those who have gone farther seldom returned; and even when they have, they have been either silent or quite mad.
I'm not sure if bait or you're actually that retarded
I took opium but once—in the year of the plague, when doctors sought to deaden the agonies they could not cure. There was an overdose—my physician was worn out with horror and exertion—and I travelled very far indeed. In the end I returned and lived, but my nights are filled with strange memories.
The pain and pounding in my head had been quite unendurable when the drug was administered. Of the future I had no heed; to escape, whether by cure, unconsciousness, or death, was all that concerned me. I was partly delirious, so that it is hard to place the exact moment of transition, but I think the effect must have begun shortly before the pounding ceased to be painful. As I have said, there was an overdose; so my reactions were probably far from normal.
no, bareback just means without a condom
The sensation of falling, curiously dissociated from the idea of gravity or direction, was paramount; though there was a subsidiary impression of unseen throngs in incalculable profusion, throngs of infinitely diverse nature, but all more or less related to me. Sometimes it seemed less as though I were falling, than as though the universe or the ages were falling past me.
how dumb are you nigger?
Suddenly my pain ceased, and I began to associate the pounding with an external rather than internal force. The falling had ceased also, giving place to a sensation of uneasy, temporary rest; and when I listened closely, I fancied the pounding was that of the vast, inscrutable sea as its sinister, colossal breakers lacerated some desolate shore after a storm of titanic magnitude. Then I opened my eyes.
For a moment my surroundings seemed confused, like a projected image hopelessly out of focus, but gradually I realised my solitary presence in a strange and beautiful room lighted by many windows. Of the exact nature of the apartment I could form no idea, for my thoughts were still far from settled; but I noticed vari-coloured rugs and draperies, elaborately fashioned tables, chairs, ottomans, and divans, and delicate vases and ornaments which conveyed a suggestion of the exotic without being actually alien.
These things I noticed, yet they were not long uppermost in my mind. Slowly but inexorably crawling upon my consciousness, and rising above every other impression, came a dizzying fear of the unknown; a fear all the greater because I could not analyse it, and seeming to concern a stealthily approaching menace—not death, but some nameless, unheard-of thing inexpressibly more ghastly and abhorrent.
Presently I realised that the direct symbol and excitant of my fear was the hideous pounding whose incessant reverberations throbbed maddeningly against my exhausted brain. It seemed to come from a point outside and below the edifice in which I stood, and to associate itself with the most terrifying mental images. I felt that some horrible scene or object lurked beyond the silk-hung walls, and shrank from glancing through the arched, latticed windows that opened so bewilderingly on every hand.
Perceiving shutters attached to these windows, I closed them all, averting my eyes from the exterior as I did so. Then, employing a flint and steel which I found on one of the small tables, I lit the many candles reposing about the walls in Arabesque sconces. The added sense of security brought by closed shutters and artificial light calmed my nerves to some degree, but I could not shut out the monotonous pounding. Now that I was calmer, the sound became as fascinating as it was fearful, and I felt a contradictory desire to seek out its source despite my still powerful shrinking.
Opening a portiere at the side of the room nearest the pounding, I beheld a small and richly draped corridor ending in a carven door and large oriel window. To this window I was irresistibly drawn, though my ill-defined apprehensions seemed almost equally bent on holding me back. As I approached it I could see a chaotic whirl of waters in the distance. Then, as I attained it and glanced out on all sides, the stupendous picture of my surroundings burst upon me with full and devastating force.
Sadly, I am not.
RIP H. P. Lovecraft !!e50kOdgVOBU. !bSuI/aIVL. Apr 18, 2012 – May 12, 2013.
I want to wrap her ahoge around my dick and masturbate.
>Not a single post of Nyaruko's best form
I'm disappointed, /a/
There are horrors in this world lurking beyond the known, things crawling just outside the periphery of our perception.
It is for our own survival that we remain ignorant.
For once the veil has been lifted from ones eyes, they are forever tainted by the stigma of knowledge man was not meant to hold. I speak from experience, as years ago my own eyes were wrenched open to such perversity that I still feel that chill crawling in my bones to this day. A fear that stems from a chance encounter in my youth which has twisted the landscape of my mind in every way since. It is with a wavering hand that I recount the horror I met that night.
The memory of where I was or why I was in that place had long since been forgotten, buried under terror and regret. On a dark street in a silent town, I found myself fleeing for my life from a beast which should not have existed in our world. The monster which pursued me was bipedal, but with bat-like wings and a tail, not unlike how religious artists in earlier times had often conceptualized demons. Bearing gnashing fangs, a howl that froze the blood, and claws like sickles - it was plain that the creature intended to kill me. I ran. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, shrieking to the heavens how I could have transgressed such that such a monster would be sent for me. As if to rebuke my foolish prayers, I found myself facing a dead end in the path. Trapped, with no prayer of survival, I screamed for help.
And, to both my relief and my horror, my plea was answered.
From outside my field of vision, a word was spoken, lilting and jovial, totally unsuited for the situation. Then something pierced the creature's chest from behind: A spear which, a second later, I realized to be in the form of a human hand. Then like a child rending a paper doll, the beast was ripped apart.
As I lay stunned against the wall, a very different kind of monster took hold of my vision. This is the creature that haunts my dreams to this day.
It took the form of a young girl, fair and well-endowed, chilling in its innocence as it stood before me, covered in effuvial blood. A single strand of hair fluttered down over its face in a curious fashion which did not seem in accord with the laws of gravity.
Smiling, it spoke my name.
"Mahiro, Mahiro, die jobbu," it questions, seductively licking its perfect lips, a long silver antenna swaying over me like an insect examining a morsel it found, and soon black stocking-clad legs lock around my sides and pinch like the vice-clamp of a machinist's workbench. Her slender, pale hand slips down under her black panties as she grinds down against my human meat.
"Mahiro-san, I want you to fork me so hard," she moans in inhuman delight, and tortures my mind by displaying upon it a panoramic vista of pleasures beyond mortal comprehension, and try as I might to resist my SAN score continues to plummet down into the depths of gibbering madness.
It slid up upon my form whilst I helplessly struggled with dead limbs, the great and aweful Thing, and the abyssal fiery green pits that have beheld aeons before the dim, weak lights of Stars marred the perfect darkness of oblivion came into focus, staring down at me with malevolent sweetness.
>"Mahiro-san, I want you to fork me so hard,"
And that's more or less how I met your mother.
Unya Unya Retsunya does sound vaguely Lovecraftian