Blessed Isles 21: A Quickie Series

Ch 21

This came as a shock to everyone involved. Not just her jaw—Opple’s entire body slacked, her tits flopping down to smack her thighs. Priestesses seated in the audience behind us gasped; evidence that their eavesdropping had not been deterred even at a distance. Luula drew her fingers through her tight curls, her well-shaped chest heaving as genuine relief soaked her.

Forget ‘unexpected’. Nobody could have presumed that a passing mark would be this simple to come by.

When ‘Trials’ were first mentioned, I had in mind several potential challenges: obstacle courses, relay races, puzzles, being forced to hold my breath in freezing water—wherever it may be found on a tropical island paradise. Manual labor, too, had been part of my expectations. I couldn’t have estimated that a confession of love for Chunali and a pair of tits with a blonde nymphomaniac orbiting them would have earned anything close to a passing grade.

There were certainly women who were immediately vocal about their disapproval of such grace. From the same crowd came both grateful, relieved melodies and the ringing of harsh hissing; Old Ones who scorned me for earning Reffi’s acceptance—favor? Mercy?

Even in my estimation, I’d accomplished little. I was under the impression that my rating depended on how well I mirrored Opple’s diligence. And yet somehow I’d skated by forgoing much of the morning labor in favor of sucking Mardha’s thick, creamy teats and being eaten out by Chunali for hours. . .

But Reffi’s explanation came just when confusion threatened to turn simple disagreement into actionable turbulence.

"I first wanted to gauge how involved and receptive you were to life as a priestess. Morning chores were a good place to start. As you shadowed Opple, I expected you to gain a deeper appreciation for the daily struggle that priestesses experience. It's not all physical pleasure all the time; it's hard work."

Honestly, this was the first time that I’d heard a priestess so openly acknowledge that physical pleasure was an extant part of life as a priestess. I’d enjoyed it because of the milk, the expansion I got to do, and the crazy sapphic binges. Legitimate, life-altering lessons served as occasional garnish as well, of course, but I’d felt like the odd one out because limpid mentions of other priestesses enjoying themselves were rare.

"But, rather than prove your understanding of the struggle by enduring it yourself, you saw one of your sisters in need and went to help her, according to Opple and Chunali’s report. You not only saw the struggle but had an instinct to mend it. That is what is most important to a training, young priestess."

"You're kidding," Opple’s brow knitted together.

Luula shushed Opple, cutting her words down with a militant glare.

"Of course, two trials remain, and the second is a little less ambiguous than the first." Reffi rolled her shoulders, readjusting the pull of her breasts from standing so long. "Among the villagers, there are others who struggle, and a priestess’s calling is not simply to her sisters. Use the strengths you’ve displayed thus far in the village and find a way to lend a hand. Your new proportions will give you a better idea of what it's like to do real island work with real island burdens. And of course, there’s the objective: I have been speaking with several of the needy nearby. If you can find which women I spoke to, then they will reward your efforts with a pair of jeweled rings."

At the mention of the rings, a gasp not unlike the earlier unrest danced over the crowd. The rings had to be important.

"Bring them back to me before midnight and you will have completed your second trial."

Before midnight. . . Before. . .

It was, like, two in the afternoon!

"Wait, then I need to go—. . ." I began.

Reffi shrugged. 'Probably' said the gesture.

I wasn't in trouble. I wasn’t in trouble!

Opple and I hadn't been reprimanded. I’d passed the first trial—should be happy that I passed the first trial!

But there was no time for celebration. I needed to get moving; needed to go.

Throwing Mardha to the side, I spun, already trying to recall some of the tasks I observed the women doing as we came in last night, thinking of who I could lend a hand to—. . .

And remembered at once that I was the top-heaviest I’d ever been.

I came tumbling down, a beautiful disaster of breasts and clumsiness, landing square on my new hills and launching several jets of milk in a cone shape that covered the platform, the first row of seats, and the walking space in between.

"Sorry, sorry," I groaned, still not used to my weight. “Excuse me. Hmph!"

I went to get back to my feet, well aware that there were plenty of women giggling at me and my futile efforts at moving such tremendous boulders. Mardha had to come back and help get me off the ground again, several dozen pounds of breast needing two pairs of hands. No matter how much I sliced it, I couldn't help but feel that I should have been able to lift such weights. I was massive, but not immobile, and it seemed silly to treat it as anything to the contrary.

Silly until I creamed all over the stage by attempting to move with a shred of urgency.

Once I was standing again, I took full stock of my body and glanced over my shoulder. Reffi was watching me with a smoldering sort of expression; that not-quite-mother-or-sister look. It was certainly amusement, as it had been with Chunali, but coupled along with it came a perusal of my body that was far too intentional to be written off.

Did she. . . If she liked me enough to let me off on that first trial, was the Head Priestess hinting at. . .

My milk escaped again without the need for a fall. A leaky drip turned into a full-on sprinkler system by the time horny Verne had wrought her havoc.

"May I be dismissed to go with her?" Chunali asked. It was so odd to see the princess of the Kkarians needing to ask permission.

It showed the respect the young Kkarian princess had for the High Priestess.

"Do you think you should? I suppose this is a task that would require more than one person. If she needs help just getting off of the ground, what chance does she stand as far as assisting other members of the village?" Somehow, Reffi managed to say so without it sounding like an insult.

It evoked more giggling in the audience from plenty of curvaceous and attractive women, many of whom enjoyed me trying to convince my nipples to stop being so damned honest by squeezing their fronts and hoping the milk oozing between my fingers wasn’t too obvious.

The hell was I kidding. . .

"My thoughts exactly," Chunali nodded emphatically. “She's pretty useless on her own.”

"Love you too, babe," I muttered. Mardha, close enough to hear, snorted.

"However, you have duties to attend to. Let's not forget that you've been away from your prayers and offerings lately. Though I trust that you did them on the go," Reffi squinted, and both her eyebrows raised at this statement. "I also believe that it's important that you honor the holy lands by offering your sacrifice on holy ground. You understand the importance of this."

"I do, but. . ."

‘But’ nothing. Just, she knew.

It had indeed been quite a while since Chunali had been back to these lands, back to a place that was called holy. I could attest to this as the last two days or so were spent with me and Chu together with little mention of holy or sacred lands.

I didn't test my ability to spin again. I simply craned my neck as far as I could without straining it and spoke.

"It's okay, Chu! Just stay and do what you need to do for your people. I'll be doing the same anyway; just, differently."

"But Verne, you can't…" Chunali struggled to find the words.

"Trust me. I'll manage. I'll just have to take someone else with me, you know, for language stuff."

It was out of the corner of my eye, but I could see that Chunali understood, concession hidden carefully on her expression. "Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Positive,” I replied.

“Take Luula with you."

Luula, who had been on the sidelines for this whole engagement, took a step and tilted her head affirmatively toward Chunali. She offered a shy smile to me before bowing, thus placing me in her responsibility.

I noticed Opple shrinking at these words. Either she was relieved to no longer be under the stress of turning me into a proper priestess or she was depressed that she was not elected once again to train up the new priestess.

The second was much cuter and, ironically, probably most accurate. Opple’s desire to please Reffi ran deep, as was evident by her babbling earlier.

Still, Reffi didn’t question the change of leadership. Instead, the Head Priestess said, “Let it be so,” and, in so doing, settled the matter.

I was excited to go. Excitement—of an aroused sort but also of enthusiasm—burst within me like a supernova. My flesh was weak, but my spirit was more than willing to head into the village and seek out those appointed by Reffi.

I needed to find those rings. Then, once found and the second trial completed, I would tackle the third trial, securing my priestesshood in the process—if the rule of threes could be depended on.

It wasn't like hot-milf-quest-giver Reffi had explicitly mentioned three trials. . .

And once I was a priestess, I could use the leverage to somehow save Hannah (I'd imagined an army of balloon-breasted badass Kkarian valkyries but priestesses weren't warriors. Additionally, spoke no Kkarian and couldn’t even ask them), defeat a demonically possessed queen thus overthrowing a corrupt monarchy, and liberating a people who don't know they need liberation.

If the plan sounded this impossible in the rough draft, what chance did we have of pulling it off?

So far, we’d been playing on defense; would continue to do so as long as my status as an outsider was pending. But when the issue of my devotion or knowledge or willingness was resolved, I had every intention of employing whatever was at my disposal to break back into the Spirit Queen’s palace and save my boatswain.

Even if it was just my new tits. . .

But Luula offered a perspective that tempered—and spoiled—my zeal. "You should probably stay for a few minutes and see what this whole sacrifice thing is about. If I recall, you have only experienced Passha and Erro’s sort of offerings. Nothing traditional."

And agreed. I hadn’t participated in an actual Kkarian offering before. I’d been to bigger offerings, public and gratuitous, largely women making a show of the milk they knew I liked. There was even the bonfire several days ago, one that I quickly got bored of and fled. The date on the water under the stars with Chunali was way more entertaining—and erotic.

All of that to say, other offerings were festive; pageantry in the same sense that ‘religious’ holidays were back home. I always expected that there might be more to them.

Though I had hoped to get started on the second trial. I only had till midnight, and it might take me that long just to get from one side of the village to the other, factoring in breaks because, well, I now had a lot of tit to consider. My legs were already screaming at me, and it wouldn’t be long before my shoulders, neck, and back did the same.

Luula led the way into the stands where several of the other Kkarian priestesses looked to be conscious of what was about to take place. We exchanged places, priestesses with their delicious, milky chests, pent up for release trouncing down the stairs with a deftness that came from many years navigating stairs with boobs of their size.

Their size all being in excess of K cups.

Although there was sobriety about what was about to take place, each of the priestesses was still clearly human. I was pleased to find that, while several displayed their objections by pointedly avoiding me, many still made a point of congratulating me on their way to the offering platform. Their hands grazed over my shoulders, fingered my hair, hugged me briefly. They only grew bolder and bolder as they descended. By the last three girls, I was at the place where I ought to turn to go find my seat among the stone bleachers, but I remained standing as each of them was eager—and bold—enough to run me down and kiss my cheeks and neck.

“Good job! Good job!” they chanted, all thoroughly overjoyed on my behalf.

I thanked them and went to settle with Luula, a firm swat on my right ass cheek serving as a parting gift.

I could have sworn I heard Luula say something. “Enjoy yourself?” Is that what she’d said? I didn’t catch it; didn’t expect something of the sort to sully what was quite the display of encouragement. Didn’t expect her to be so openly coarse when she could have muttered in Kkarian to hide it.

Yet, her expression. . . Eyes hard. Mouth tight. Obvious disgust.

I didn’t bring it up, even if it bothered me. If I was going to spend my time in the nosebleeds instead of the village, there wasn’t a reason why I couldn’t receive congratulations from the other priestesses. Chunali herself had admitted to being okay with me being with other women, barring her jealousy.

Their kindness wasn’t even all that sexual. American Football teams rubbed up against one another more than the priestesses had to me just now.

If she was indeed speaking sarcastically to me about what had just taken place.

Anyway, I took my seat, sighing at the relief of not having to support the weight of my glutted titties. I buckled in and observed the inception of the Kkarian milk sacrifice ceremony.

Below, the same parade of women that had been supportive of my accomplishments now operated on a near-psychic, Kkarian connection to move efficiently through a series of practices. Five would go and occupy their positions, turning to bow in each of the cardinal directions before dropping onto their knees. Each of their breasts would patter as they fell and slapped the ground, a series of fleshy echoes amplified by the improved offering site acoustics.

They kneeled before the bowl carvings I’d noticed before. Since each priestesses’ mammary was too impressively mammoth to rightly fit into the platter-sized bowl, each woman had to angle herself toward the receptacle one breast at a time.

Then, they began the arduous task of encouraging a let down so as to empty their burdens into their sacrificial altars.

They began slowly, each employing their own variations on stroking, squeezing, and playing with their enormous bosoms. They might have started milking right away had they not gone to the river earlier that morning, but it was clear that there was a point to their flesh squeezing and nipple tweaking: that the journey to let down was just as important as the potency of their flow. Lactating gallons wasn’t enough. No, a woman had to show complete control of her breasts and her production at a sacrifice for the Great Saint. Such command of one’s milk was impossible with the thick, needy, languid syrup of morning cream. The sensitivity alone could make a girl bust her whole load before it was appropriate, milk ducts squeezing ounces of nectar through the nozzles of their thumb-sized nubs.

"I get it," I said. "It's not about being the biggest or milkiest. Bodily mastery plays a role."

"One must prove that they’ve made their vessel their own, yes," Luula agreed. "For most, lactation is the path to wholeness in the body. There is another domain as well: mastery of one’s physique.”

"Like the bodyguards," I completed the thought—and immediately wished I hadn’t.

Even though things appeared smooth on the surface, and I felt no ill will toward Luula, I still couldn't make myself feel okay about what had occurred in the cave. Even if Luula was operating under orders—self-imposed orders, it seemed—she didn't say or do much of anything as the guard wrestled Chunali to the point of injury, an injury the Kkarian princess still struggled with.

Lingering at the back of my mind were grim implications of such an injury—permanent bone damage, lifelong weakness, a need for physical therapy in whatever capacity such a thing existed among the Kkarians.

Chunali could just bounce back. . . or she could not. And even with a full recovery, it wouldn’t have made what Luula did in the cave right; it wouldn’t erase the memory of Luula not stepping up—speaking up—and defending Chunali.

Instead, her torch went out. Her sense of duty took over. She allowed a woman built for combat to grapple a smaller woman—to punch down.

A person just can’t do that.

“Correct,” Luula continued, sitting straighter, humoring my jab out of little more than politeness. “Some women are born greatly burdened. Others less so. Those with less do what best suits them, falling into place along the way.”

“What about those that aren’t burdened that don’t want to fall into place?”

Luula tilted toward me, addressing me more directly. “Well, most of them do wind up somewhere. Everyone winds up somewhere.”

“They just. . . go somewhere? Who makes sure they get to where they need to go?”

“Well, many of them decide for themselves to become guardians or warriors or athletes—we have many who become Pwim Bari players and—. . .”

“So if they don’t go the way Kkarians want them to go, you just stop caring where they go?” My face had gone even and blank as I said this. I couldn’t help but hear that tour guide voice in Luula; the same as Shah’s on the beach early on my journey. Why would she answer that way after all we’d gone through? What we meant to one another?

Vapid, distant, nothing-answers.

“Of course, we care,” Luula replied. She looked at me and found nothing to latch onto, just a smooth, widening distance. Instead, she gestured to the priestesses below. “We don’t wish anyone harm. This village takes in plenty who could not find their way in other main villages. There are scouting parties whose sole purpose is finding those that were exiled or lost.”

“And what do you do once you find someone off on their own?”

“We treat them as one of our own, of course,” Luula said, voice trembling as she adhered to her principles as a priestess.

I wanted something different—please, Luula, just think for yourself. Say something personal. Not another regurgitated platitude. Be human.

But I didn’t find it, her individuality. It was just more Kkarian logic. Groupthink. Duty. The same thing that had led her to find Chu and I in the cave, to allowing whatever it took to secure the princess. “One of your own,” I spat. “So part of your group—useful to your group. Ugh! Luula!”

“What, Verne?” she groaned, peeved by my sealed lips as she tried shoveling her soft, mushy ideas inside.

“What about people that aren’t useful to you? Where do they go? It’s like you have to be a part of some group—useful to somebody or you end up alone.”

Luula was vexed. Her expressions had always been more animated than her voice, spelling out every tiny word in the creases and hills of her young visage before words were ever necessary.

I could see, at that moment, a lightbulb of recognition followed by a flashing alarm of offense and a smattering of dark-gray frustration.

And a trickle of pain.

“Everyone belongs somewhere,” she said at last. “Everyone is useful for something. And I don’t get to tell them what that is more than anyone else does.”

“What a lovely idea,” I shrugged. “You’re useful to us? Good. And to show your usefulness, we’ll injure you.”

Luula groaned in her mother tongue. I knew the sound had some four-letter equivalent in English. “Well not everyone is content to roam the woods all their lives. Most Kkarians understand the idea of duty and obligation.”

“Probably too much.”

She talked over me. “They know that everything they are and have wasn’t just an accident—a community provided it for them. They know that, by contributing, they can benefit themselves and help others—that the Great Saint has something for all of us to contribute. Everyone doesn’t have the luxury to selfishly busy themselves with endless rounds of sex.”

I blinked slowly, head cocked to the side. “You think I’m selfish?”

“Prove me wrong. When haven’t you thought about yourself?” Luula’s face wrinkled. “Was it when you were having banquets and sacrifices held in your honor? Or when you were being waited on hand and foot by priestesses in a beautiful temple? Or having orgy after orgy and gorging yourself on milk?”

“I was helping. You know, being made to use my talent to help the Kkarians? I thought you might be familiar with such a concept.” I couldn’t argue that I hadn’t been quite self-centered in many ways, but at least I’d done a little good in a way only I seemed to be able: drinking Kkarian breast milk without inflating to immobility. “Did I enjoy some of it? Sure! Who wouldn’t—especially in the type of world that I came from. But the whole time there was the threat of force, the knowledge that disobedience of whoever it was in charge could mean physical punishment. Hell, I just recently got to see how awful your people could be when. . . W-When—. . .”

Shah flashed through my mind. That pious buzzkill of a woman didn’t deserve what she got. No one did.

“Verne?”

“It doesn’t matter. No matter how talented or useful someone is, it doesn’t make it okay to extort them to get what you want out of them.”

“Kkarian’s are sensible. It never gets that far. . .”

“How many times do you need to be reminded of Chu’s limp?”

Luula stood. “I said Kkarians are sensible. Chunali knows her obligations. They bother her at times, but she knows what she must do. All of us do. We know our place. It’s people like you, Verne. You just don’t get it. And if she hadn’t been with you last night—. . .”

I jumped to my feet to match Luula, squaring off as best our mountainous titties would allow. “You blame me for her injury? Really? That sounds silly since you’re the one who brought the guard.”

“I brought the guard because you two needed protecting. Passha was furious.”

“Because we wouldn’t meet her silly expectations—thank you for making my point—. . .”

“Because you stole her little sister. . .”

“You think I could steal Chunali? You know her as well as I do. Do you think I could get that woman to do anything she doesn’t want to do?” I didn’t like flinging names around, but things had escalated. “You’re acting like a total bitch, Luula. I get that I’m not perfect, but I’m a long way away from letting someone I love get crippled in the name of ‘protecting’ them.”

Luula spat something back, probably the Kkarian word for ‘bitch’, followed by, “No, you’re worse. You aren’t happy till an entire culture is divided over your non-compliance!”

“Are you ladies finished?”

Our attention snapped to the side. We weren’t far enough from the sacrificial sanctuary floor for Reffi’s sternness not to reach us. Her crossed arms and glint of annoyance in her eyes spoke volumes.

Luula bowed, boobs producing a THWACKT! as they slammed her thighs, the force of her repentance shown in the gesture.

My ass was not nearly as fleshy, producing a quieter, but just as repentant, clap! when I fell to the stony seat. “Sorry. We were just—. . .”

“It’s hard for the priestesses to focus on the importance of their sacrifice with the two of you talking so loudly,” Reffi said.

“It won’t happen again,” Luula said, voice muffled by the sound dampening pillows between her mouth and knees.

“I know it won’t. You two were just about to leave anyway, right?” Despite Reffi’s previous jovial attitude, she was cold and dead now, emotionlessly defending the sanctity of the sacrificial grounds. It was clear what her priorities were, and that our observance was tolerated only insofar as it didn’t distract from the lactic rites taking place.

Arguing baldly about what was likely the greatest contention on this side of the island among women who were, no doubt, polarized over the issue, did not simplify things.

“Right,” I muttered. “We were just leaving, Reffi. S-Sorry.”

Although I’d just sat down, I stood once again and scuttled off. I had no plans of where to go; I knew I couldn’t get far without some assistance, but didn’t let that stop me. At the very least, I could make it back to Chunali’s room, maybe spend an extra twenty or so minutes digesting the frustration, shame, and embarrassment.

“Luula?” Reffi’s voice came out behind me before I could get to the steps to leave.

The question was implicit, lined with subtext. Reffi, who spoke perfect English, made sure to pronounce Luula with the heaviest Kkharian accent, invoking their tradition, history, culture, and social standing.

Luula’s fraying temperament was audible as she hurried to push her way behind me, breasts slapping—against her ribs, her arms, one another, and, eventually, my back—as she moved.

The two of us were gone in a matter of moments, but not before I painfully swung my gaze over my shoulder to see Chunali’s wincing stare from the ledge of the sacrificial altar.