Blessed Isles 19: A Quickie Series

Blessed Isles 19

by Saint Limey

Read Time: 23 mins

Hannah’s hand was tired from waving at crowds.

Ever since she ‘found’ the holy scriptures and announced her acceptance of the role of High Priestess of Kkara, her life hadn’t slowed down.

Pageants and processions filled the streets with bodies. At least one new holiday was declared. Everyone rejoiced over Hannah's decision. As if there weren't already enough of them, there were feasts as well, grand ones with colorful fruits and steaming slabs of meat. It begged the question of where they stockpiled so much fresh produce and for what purpose? Did they always keep a supply of food set apart just in case something huge took place? What poor animal was placed on the sacrificial altar again and again?

A tasty one. . . But Hannah’s questions still bugged her.

It was the same nagging of logic that she associated with Verne, who would do whatever she pleased in the name of fun, flirtation, or sex. That much, at least, she had in common with the Kkarians. That and their obsession with lactation and milk; Kkarians as a burden but Verne as a welcome treat. Hannah guessed that for her friend, every day on the Blessed Isles was a feast day anyway—a feast of a creamier sort.

The brunette boatswain let a bulky breath push her chest out, flaying her sailing jacket to both sides, revealing her lack of a proper covering to exactly no one. She was alone in the palace-slash-temple in a wing she paid little attention to before. Within, there was an immense room whose floors were made modest by a variety of frilly, swirling carpets.

Yet another new thing for her to dislike. She placed it on her internal shelf. It looked small there beside the bully gewgaw she'd placed there most recently; annoyances like waking up naked with no recollection of where her clothes had gone, losing track of Verne because she couldn't stay awake for long after eating so much at their meal with the Spirit Queen, and most recent and sucking of all, the discovery of Passha straddling her form with intentions as start as a breach in a ship's hull.

Then there was that tiny pink shimmer beside it; the acquiescence, the loss of inhibition. One thing, then another. One more big, eye-crossing, toe-curling thing that arrived barely sixty seconds before the feeling of disgust grew back like a crooked, knotted tree limb inside of Hannah.

Why did everything have to be like this? Adventurous, enigmatic, novel, unexpected, fast, fast.

Faster.

How soon before they crash? Before it's too late to change course? Before they run aground?

We need to leave, Verne. Where the hell’d you get off to?

“You're thinking about her again, aren't you?”

Hannah flinched before turning toward the voice, her bare feet trailing the edge of one of the rugs. Verne could have identified the soft material underfoot, even pointing out cultural significance and design philosophy.

Without her, forced to work alone, Hannah only noticed that she was one rug away from the woman who held her fate—and one who had held her thighs above her head and spilled her molten contents all over a foreign room a few hours ago. . .

She had just cooled off too, enjoying the approach of dusk against her bare chest. So much for soothing the buzz of arousal.

“I was,” Hannah replied. Indeed, she had lingered near the window both for the fresh air and the regular reminders of Verne. The protective line of woods kept her from seeing exactly what was happening, but she was able to make out the occasional scent of cooked food or a group cheer being carried on an ocean breeze. Her senses were limited, though. Guards patrolled the small crater where the palace sat and the dense jungle that encircled the palace served a formidable deterrent.

Keeps people out. . . keeps the rest of us in, Hannah though, nostril pinching in its corner as stress eked out of her.

Passha was quiet, wisely siding with neither side of the issue.

“I thought you were sacrificing,” Hannah spoke at last.

“I was going to. But I considered bringing you along. It would be nice if you were seen by the other priestesses. You are their face, after all.”

Not by choice.

But she drowned the sentiment as she let her eyes linger on Passha for a while; at a spot just south of the Queen’s pointed chin.

They were gargantuan; the Spirit Queen's boobs. Two oppressively mammoth mammaries took up every inch of space in front of her. In actuality, it was only something like two feet of flesh but with Passha's reputation preceding her, they seemed all the greater. They’d doubled in size again since the morning. There was a distinct sense of filling every few seconds, a production suited to frequent and voluminous sacrifices doing work to stretch her perfect, soft skin.

Even if it made sense, seeing such ample production in the flesh, was impressive. She seemed to be making extra, something new eliciting an attractive surge in size, several inches of width larger than Hannah had ever seen her.

Hannah knew Verne would have done anything to latch onto such a great pair of tits. If they were already tempting Hannah then someone like Verne stood no chance.

Verne. . .

“There she is again,” Passha sighed—her whole body sighed when she did, including her tits. From root to nipple, everything in her relaxed and breathed together, and when she inhaled the rest of her followed suit. “I guess there's no real winning you over.”

Hannah gulped, thanking god that it didn’t make a sound. “Guess not.”

“Good. I thought you might be under the impression that I wanted to change your mind. That is not what I want to do.” Passha had been at the thick curtain near the entrance but now paced further into the room, filling it almost immediately. With a heavier gait even she, with her many queenly airs, had to be obedient to her swaying, tawny milk sacks to stay upright. “I intend on keeping the promise I made to you and Verne. Since you’ve accepted the position as High Priestess, you can be as involved or uninvolved in this as you wish. ”

Hannah said nothing distrusting of the Queen's kindness. Instead, she allowed Passha to continue her approach while standing stalwart, only breaking her strength long enough to straighten her naval jacket over her breasts—pressure washing the pucker of pleasure from her lips as the worn, tattered fabric wrapped around her nubs.

A hand, soft and familiar, started at Hannah’s wrist and marched upward managing to be both commanding and delicate. It was probably the fact that those tire-beating funbags had to press firmly against Hannah's abdomen just to allow Passha to be so close. At such a size, anything within several feet was considered ‘intimate’.

But also intimidating.

“I just want my people to be happy,” said Passha. “I want them to be free of their burdens—to have hope. I owe them everything and as their Queen, my entire life is in service to them. I would do whatever it takes to make them happy.”

Even though Hannah had never trusted Passha or her sister as far as she could throw them, she wasn't so dense as not to hear these sentiments and feel the impact of the words. Passha meant what she was saying right now. It rang with organic emotion beyond what a politician could doctor.

So, despite Hannah’s gut instinct—the thing she trusted with everything in her old life but which fell humiliatingly short on this damned island—she couldn’t find fault with Passha’s words; which, of course, made Hannah all the more uneasy.

It had been so simple: just dislike the Queens. Since Verne liked them, it was easy. Disagreeing with Verne was easy—and largely the smart thing to do.

That blonde, lactose-loving banshee wracked her mind again. Any amount of action on Hannah’s part couldn’t stop it. The boatswain would get no peace of mind if she didn’t try to get answers to the most pressing of her questions. Her heart wouldn’t stay far enough away from her duty and, truthfully, her friendship to not try harder, even if Passha made her skin crawl.

In terrible, tingly ways.

Still, that didn’t mean she had to be explicit in her worry.

"Is your sister giving Verne this same talk?" Hannah’s words tumbled casually into the conversation.

Passha didn't skip a beat. A broad and beaming grin showed on her stupid, well-sculpted face. “Trust me, it’s much easier to convince Verne that it is to convince you. I am sure Erro's got the easier task, between the two of us.”

“You would be surprised,” Hannah commented. She pulled away from Passha's touch; a tiny victory, if not for the delightful wiggle of her blimps as their support fell away. Still, it showed solidarity with what was yet to be said. “Verne is stubborn—headstrong about how things should be. You shouldn't dismiss her so easily. She's got more than boobs for brains.”

Passha blinked exactly twice, sending surprise in flashes from her golden sun eyes. "I-I did not mean to offend you. I was not implying Verne’s insufficiency in any way. I only mean that she comes to her position as High Priestess quite naturally. To others its. . . less natural."

It was chewing at Hannah's insides to not ask where Verne was. They had been apart for nearly twenty-four hours, the longest break they'd had from one another since they washed up on the Blessed Isles. It gave Hannah a twitch; a stiffness as she stuffed her growing impatience and anxiety into a tiny box in the corner of her being. Still, the toxic stench of it made her nose crinkle as she stared Passha down.

Passha sighed. Her bare chest settled yet again against her abdomen.

At some point, Verne had given Hannah a lecture on fertility gods; how they appeared in several cultures from various time periods. When they weren't promiscuous men or phallically-shaped objects almost every depiction of them was female, crafted in stone or metal, and exaggerated absurdly enough to turn the sleaziest, silicone-crafted actress into an advocate for realistic portrayals of women.

With the Queen's bronze skin, a river of golden hair, burnt wheat eyes, and spare tire breasts, she was a spitting image. Hannah couldn't be in the same room as Passha and not feel that her shape spoke to some basic and latent instinct to be coddled, protected, and fed.

That force glowed even stronger each time Passha let down one of her walls. It was as if the two were exchanging defenses; Passha slowly dawning a spirit of vulnerable yielding while Hannah’s lined her expression with barbed wire.

"Let me tell you something,” said the Queen, somehow managing to make her eyes and breasts look bigger as she stooped just a little lower than Hannah's hourglass frame. "And I think it might come as a surprise if you are willing to hear me out."

"You're the Queen here," Hannah informed bitterly, verbally crossing her arms. "Don't I have to listen when you speak regardless?"

“I am trying to be sincere. I thought that would make you happy.”

Hannah snarled. “I’m never happy.”

“True,” Passha groaned. “I cannot wait to see how much grumpier my attempts at forming common ground will make you. I have a guess, but you will more than certainly best it.”

The reply was so dry and flat that Hannah had to choke back the stuttering laughter skittering four-legged up her throat.

Damn, I’m supposed to be hating her. She better not have a sense of humor or so help me. . .

“I’m good at imagining the worst-case scenario. It’s my gift,” Hannah replied, groping for the upper hand.

“Your other gift must be having talents that frustrate anyone who tries getting close to you?” Passha smirked.

Hannah seized the chance, not skipping a beat. “You could ask Verne. She’s been trying to get close to me for months. Where is she, anyway? I’m starting to think your keeping us separate is some evil strategy of dividing and conquering.”

Passha volleyed light and graceful as always. “I wouldn’t know where to start looking for her. She and Erro are probably off somewhere discussing the ideal temperature for milk consumption. You might believe I think Verne to be obsessed, but you haven’t had to listen to my sister whine about how much she misses the taste of cream straight from the source. I know it has been years. I think Erro keeps track of each moment she has gone without it.” Passha shook her head in only the way an older sibling could when discussing the younger. “And since you sniffed out my little plan of keeping you two apart, I presume that means that it has not been effective?”

“I’ve only thought about her more since we’ve been apart. If that was your plan, then kudos. You still haven’t told me where she is.”

“With Erro. Where they are, there is no way to know. Guards are close by wherever they roam, though. There is no place in the great temple where they can get away from their escorts. I am sure you have noticed the guard stationed outside of your door too?”

“Shah’s replacement? Yea, I noticed. Keeping her separate from us as well.”

Passha’s brow dipped lower. The topic of Shah was of obvious grievance to her, but the magnitude of the busty priestess escort wasn’t easily measured on her face. “It seems that you would like to be left alone.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Hannah took a step forward. There was satisfaction in it—in seeing Passha eye her from head to toe with a flicker of unease rather than her knowing confidence. “I just don’t want to be here with you—not alone. Not after what’s happened. Not since this morning. I want to be with Verne and I don’t appreciate the posted guard at my door keeping me in. You can understand why I would be a little peeved with you and your Spirit Queen title and this whole situation, couldn’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Hannah’s tone sank at the end instead of rising. Her only intention was to create a vacuum of silence; to bring down the same amount of pressure as she felt when she knew that somewhere, out there, Verne was being purposefully kept away from her.

"My title. . .” Passha muttered to Hannah’s body, not quite ready to rise to her meet the righteous indignation in Hannah’s eyes. “I am not beseeching you as the queen, Hannah. Right now, I want to talk woman to woman. Nothing more. None of this,” she gestured to the room, but also far beyond it. “Is a power play. Could you just hear me out?”

Hannah cocked a singular eyebrow high enough to kiss her unkempt hairline. ‘Go on, then’, said the gesture.

“You see, Hannah, I really do think that you would be an awful High Priestess."

"We agree on something," Hannah croaked and looked toward the curtain that hanged at the entrance of the room. She couldn't exactly make demands of a queen but she could come as close as insinuating by linking the exit and Passha’s doe eyes.

To Hannah’s surprise—since she had won in her mind—the defeated queen of the Kkarians didn't cede the floor. Neither did she summon a guard to humble Hannah’s recent prideful stance.

Instead, she bore a mark of impairment like Hannah’s venom had wounded her.

Worse yet, the glazed expression wasn’t as simple as a sting of rejection. The corners of Passha’s lips drew in and her hands went protectively to her immense, gurgling bosoms as cold recognition swallowed her. Had she been on the end of similar sentiments? How could a Queen be so fragile to an outsider’s words?

"I meant,” Passha answered meekly, once it was clear that Hannah’s tirade had stalled. “That I did not think you would serve as a great High Priestess alone. I know this not because I know you but because I know myself and I understand that I would be less than half the Queen I am if not for my sister." Passha continued, notably not projecting her voice, addressing no one in particular. Every part of her stooped shoulders and embarrassing retreat behind her bust showed a humbled and lonely woman; perhaps the one who lived within the shell of the powerful, vocal Queen.

"Verne and Erro are a lot alike. They both have strong feelings and communicate better with their actions than with their words. People gravitate to them and they always find their way to the heart of a matter. My sister has said more for her intentions to our people in the few words she has uttered than I have in all my decrees combined."

"But we both know that hands must meet hearts. I would not have accepted a cure-all solution to an entire nation's burdens at first listen either. I would have been skeptical. I would have turned my back on it and looked for another way. And most importantly, I would never accept such a plan, not for fear of my well-being, but because everything I am hinges on protecting those important to me. You and Verne are the same way aren't you?"

Hannah remained petrified, glaring at Passha like a gargoyle. The step she took was undone as she found her seat on the window perch, a pinch at her hips reminding her of the effects of the island on her body.

Passha continued, not moving from her spot on the rug or changing the volume of her voice. "I know you would do anything if it meant keeping Verne safe. And you feel a lot of stress because you consider yourself her protector. It must pain you doubly—I know because if Erro and I were in a strange land and I did not know whose hands she was in, I would be livid as well."

Hannah sensed a change in the air; a discomfort coming from more than her ripped ship slacks being stuffed into an insufficient hole in the wall. “But you still aren’t going to tell me where she is. . .”

"Believe me when I say that I would never, ever do anything to hurt anyone I love or care about; that as a Queen I am called to protect my people. That starts with my sister—Erro shares a soul with me. Similarly, the blood in my veins is Kkarian. My people are also under my protection, and I would just as soon give up my life for one of them as I would for Erro."

"Glad you're so devoted. I'd started questioning that lately," Hannah spat. Except, the lethality in her sarcasm was gone. She couldn't bring herself to verbally beat Passha down because the Queen looked plenty beaten down already.

Passha concluded. "When you and Verne are united with Erro and me, you become part of our people. As soon as I would die for my sister I would die for you. More importantly, I would bring every weapon I had against anyone who hurt one of you. I only want to keep my people safe. You and Verne are my people."

Passha's eyes roared with ingenuity. Her voice trembled with the power being summoned in her words. Somehow, she looked like she needed to be comforted but also that the entire world sat squarely on her capable, willing shoulders. No wonder she made such a great and inspiring leader.

And Hannah actually shook against her mental shackles because nothing pissed her off more than feeling the resonance of Passha’s whole speech inside of her.

She’s right. She’s right. . .

It was Hannah’s shoulders that rose and fell as her breathing hitched, whose lips pulled back just enough to show gritting teeth. “. . . too good to be true," she muttered, needing something to fill the quiet between the two of them.

"Indeed it is—if we believe Erro and Verne. The way they act, you would believe they thought enough snuggling could heal the most grievous ailments," Passha's words came through a chuckle.

Hannah sobered at Verne’s name. The growing voice inside her said that Verne was safe, but her nails despite being chewed to nubs still sliced at her palms proved that the rest of her wouldn’t go along willingly.

"But that is what the people need to see. Those two are hope. They are love. It works. But it leaves the real work of this to us. We are their hands,” Passha, mild in tone now that her mighty, whispering speech had subsided, bore the expression of a beggar before Hannah before shrugging and saying, “But something tells me that between the two of you, you are more used to hard work."

"I won't confirm or deny that."

“Still angry with me?” Passha asked.

Hannah answered through a clenched jaw. “Angrier than ever.”

“You were quite aloof before. Anger must be a step in the right direction. As you said, you are never happy. I would rather you be as you are now.”

“Pissed?” Hannah barked.

"Unwilling to confirm or deny. . ." Passha borrowed, brows softening. The hands that had rested on her chest began to move coaxingly in circles atop her breast shelf. “Others burn up in fire, Hannah. You and I prefer it—heat, pressure, a crunch. It is comfortable for us. I can not wait to work with you. For now, do not feel compelled to ‘confirm or deny’ anything. Meet me at the offering or stay in this room. Either is fine. Afterward, we can meet again and begin discussing relief efforts."

"Relief plans?"

Passha nodded. "I plan on organizing some hands-on relief to accompany the new spiritual leadership. Safe places downstream from local water sources where women can milk themselves until you or Verne can get to each ailing bosom. Also, means of expanding our territory to other parts of the jungle where medicinal herbs might be harvested. Some of the menders are close to developing salves that reduce pain from enlarged glands. They even believe there may be a way to control or even slow a woman’s production. With a population of smaller women,” Passha have her boobs a cheerful pat, shining as she delivered her plans. “We could even resume diving practices, making use of the oceans again, too."

"I. . ." Hannah started, unable to rectify how cute Passha was when discussing relief plan logistics while playing her oil tanker boobies like bongos. This was the woman keeping her against her will. This was Queen of Kkara, the one between her and Verne. Wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

Rage continued to sizzle through her. Its marks scorched where she had burned brightest; a dull headache and sore palms from fist clenching. The mention of the ocean, however, on top of everything else had given Hannah the courage to say what needed saying. "Passha, I think I would like to come along—t-to the offering, I mean. Not to, uh, make an offering myself but just to, y-you know, watch?”

Was it high cortisol levels that made her jittery? The sudden defeat after celebrating too early in defeating Passha? Or the knowledge that her commitment to go to the offering promised the peaceful, quiet time with Passha as she squeezed those fat, creamy teats for an hour?

Pasha held admiration in her eyes as she turned with a bubbling, girlish grin just before her queenly majesty slid back into place. She had to watch where she was going, but half turned over that small, strong shoulder of hers to hold Hannah in her eyes, both breasts trouncing along with new vitality, fully visible even from behind. Even the wider entrances of the temple were too small. She was only able to scuttle sideways through the opening one breast at a time.

How did I miss all of this earlier? Hannah thought because she certainly heard the slow pull of flesh on stone as the Queen of Kkara momentarily smothered the outer threshold of the door between her breasts, making both Hannah—and likely the rest of the temple walls—very, very jealous. And the low growl, totally animal, that escaped her as her naked, taut flesh kissed cool, white rock rattled Hannah’s spine. Had she heard that earlier, the Queen surely wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on her.

"It would be our honor to have you," Passha said, translating a runaway moan into formal correspondence. Low, silky purring came with a wink as she lingered longer than was necessary, even considering that she had to squeeze an inordinate amount of yummy, bulging flesh through a doorway. “Have the guard escort you. You can observe the offering, then we can talk about relieving Kkarian burdens. . . Thank you, Hannah."

The words slithered seductively from Passha just before her second breast POPPED! free on the other side of the door, curtain swinging back down to block Hannah’s view of round, bronze ass sashaying away triumphantly.

And why not sashay? She was indeed triumphant. . .

Left alone in her room once again, Hannah stood up from the windowsill. Her ass immediately returned to its absurdly plump shape and she hissed at how much pain she'd been suppressing from sitting the way she was. The windows were not made like the doors in the temple; not meant to accommodate amply curvy women. Someone in need of emergency escape through one would be shit out of luck, trapped inside with the fire or monster or. . .

Passha. Passha is both.

Anyway, exiting a temple by a window was hasty and dangerous; only an option in case of a pressing emergency. The more Hannah thought about it, the more she realized that perhaps she and Verne were not in as pressing a situation as she thought. If Passha had won—a silly, childish way of looking at it, but Hannah couldn’t deny the stress of having been bested in a sort of battle—and she told the truth as it seemed, then Hannah was freaking out over nothing and she wouldn’t be at her best when she finally did meet Verne again.

Her desperation had initially come from wanting to be done before the seventh-day celebrations. Well, based on the occasion throb of drums in the distance, the celebrations had started a day early and that which she sought to avoid was imminent. And she sort of sympathized with the women on the island anyway, so why not stay and help out where she could? Maybe help coordinate their diving ventures.

Hannah liked the idea of diving.

Diving meant the ocean and the ocean meant boats. Instead of hastily venturing away from their island prison on whatever timber could be thrown together in a hurry, she stood a better chance of getting her and Verne off the island with a decent sailing vessel. With her knowledge of the water, she could lend aid to such efforts and personally head up the operation that would liberate her and her blonde-headed charge from the island for good.

Passha had been right about one thing: Hannah cared about her own and Verne's safety. At the moment, the safest thing was to play nice and have the Kkarians build the boat they would use to escape.

And apparently, to get there she only had to marry an Island Queen; a soft, warm, fertility goddess.

Doing so would be easy so long as she listened to the low carnal hankering inside of her, the one that called to be comforted by a body, the one that had led to her trysts with Verne and the pleasure during her less-than-brief exchange with Passha this morning.

So, because it was strategic, Hannah took her time in mental preparations before leaving her room. She left her coat folded in the corner of the room knowing that despite the embarrassment it would be better to do what the Kkarians did while in Kkara.

She stifled the bulb of arousal that fluttered up to her bosom as her breasts found freedom again, her two melons dwarfing the size she’d been when she washed up on the isles in the first place.

Then, she addressed the posted guard by her door and was properly escorted to where her future bride awaited, milky udders at the ready.