TITLE    : Legend of Green Lightning Swamp
STORYID  : legend-of-green-lightning-swamp
SUMMARY  : The mystery of the green lightning is revealed.
AUTHOR   : feverman@lit
DATE     : 2012-07-07
CATEGORY : science-fiction-fantasy
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |forced pregnancy|transformation|mind control|succubus|fantasy sex|sci fi|oral|


<em>Note: This story contains some non-violent but initially non-consensual sex as an integral and necessary part of the storyline. If reading about those kinds of things in a fantasy Sci-Fi story will bother you, it might be best for you to skip ahead to another story here on the site. There are thousands of other good ones. In any case, thank you for your kind interest. Chad</em>



*****



I've been struggling with where to begin sharing this story with you. I suppose as good a place as any is with my first in-person exposure to one of the victims. 



During the night before I spoke with her the next morning, Marge Anderson had shaken her husband awake during the night and told him, "There is something outside our tent. Wake up!"



Tim had stirred just in time to hear the tent fly being unzipped. "Who is that? What are you doing?" he asked with a fearful voice as he reached for the Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver he always carried for personal protection when camping. There was a flash of green lightning and that was the last thing Tim could remember clearly before I came to the campsite early that morning to take the rape report from Marge.



"I have been raped," she had told the 911 operator who answered her cell phone call to report the incident. The operator went on with the standard questions and requested an officer be dispatched. 



I'm the Deputy Sheriff who was sent to take the report.



Being the junior deputy in the Sheriff's office I was assigned to the call because the reports had become so repetitive and similar over the years, the more experienced deputies were bored with them. The files are full of stories almost identical to the one Marge told me that morning. Even though I had read a number of the other Deputy's reports about the Green Lightning Swamp rapes, hearing one in person from a real, live victim that first time made a lasting impression on me.



Marge would become pregnant from the assault and would keep the child, much to Tim's dismay, but that's the way things usually went. Tragic things always seemed to happen to the women who aborted their pregnancy. Word got around.



Marge told me how horrified she was at first by the sight of him, her rapist. There were more of the infamous strobe-like green flashes and then for reasons she couldn't understand, her mind switched. Rather than fear the man, she wanted him to take her, to fill her pussy with the huge, swollen, disfigured organ standing at attention between his legs. Not only did she want him to fuck her, she wanted him to impregnate her. Telling me her story, Marge was an emotional wreck, torn with mixed feeling, disheveled, angry and confused.



"It was the best sexual feeling of my life. Officer, you can't even imagine," she told me at the end of her tale of misfortune, crying with her face between her hands. She bent over with her face pressed to her knees trying to hide her shame, and confessed, "It felt so good... so, so good. I actually wanted it to go on and on. I know it was against my will at first, but then it wasn't. Oh god... I am so ashamed... I just can't understand."



Tim was awake but in a daze. He couldn't get a grip on the reality of what had happened to him and his beautiful, young wife. Marge refused the rape examination and DNA collection.



I had just finished talking with the Andersons when my radio crackled again. "Fourteen, proceed to Turkey Creek Campground for a two six one report when you're done there. Looks like our GLSR had a busy night. Victim's name is June Smiley; no joke, hon," Debbie, the on-duty dispatcher told me.



"Copy that," I answered and proceeded to the scene to take my second report of the morning.



June's story was almost exactly the same as Marge's, except for the amount of detail she wanted to share and her level of agitated arousal. As her boyfriend, Curt, sat in a stupor, June revealed the utter horror she felt when he forced himself on her, and then after she was almost blinded by flashes of green light, the passion and blissful excitement she felt at having, "that foot long monstrous cock impregnate me."



June went on, saying, "I have never felt anything like it. Oh my god, Deputy, it was alive inside me and I couldn't help but come and come and come for him. Something just came over me and I fucked him with more lusty passion than I even knew I had inside me. I could feel his cum swimming in me and it made me joyously happy. Happy, do you understand? I begged him to stay and fuck me more when he finally pulled out. I fought him at first, but then begged him to stay; do you understand? I have no idea why, but I wanted and needed him inside me more than life. I know I am pregnant with his child now and I don't care. Am I sick or what?" 



I did what I could to assure her she wasn't sick or demented, that it was typical for the Green Lightning Swamp Rapist to make his victims give in and eventually want him more, to crave what he was doing to them. I assured her that other women had felt the same way about becoming pregnant. Of course, she asked, "How? How does did he get in my mind, change my feelings so and get control my will?" That was a very common type of question from the reports I had read.



I had to share that how he got control of his victim's minds was still a mystery and nobody knew the answer. I knew it wasn't procedure, but I couldn't help but ask, "Why did you want to share your feeling with me about him and your desire to be raped more?"



June revealed, "I had to tell someone. I just had to get it out, and look at my worthless boyfriend. He is so out of it he can't seem to comprehend a thing I say. I almost didn't report this at all, but I just had to tell someone. I desperately needed to have someone understand what I have been through, even a stranger." 



In addition to being a nightmare for fertile women, the flashes of green light in and around Green Lightning Swamp had been an unsolved mystery to the scientific community ever since they first came to study the strange phenomenon. None of the excursions over the last one hundred years which sought an explanation for the green flashes of light that intermittently occurred there had gotten science a bit closer to an understanding of the phenomenon; not one whit more than science understood the nature of the universe the weekend before the big bang. The flashes of green light were visible to the human eye, but apparently were not detectable by light measuring equipment. Year after year and group after group from this university or that, the government, and a plethora of private citizens tried to decipher the mystery to no avail, but I did. You might say the explanation just fell into my lap.



It's time now for me to share that story with someone. It's time to reveal the mystery of Green Lightning Swamp.



Before one very unusual day, almost all I had learned about the strange happenings in and around the swamp I got from interviewing many of the women who had been raped over the years and from reading the rape reports. I took it on myself to find and talk to a number of them. It amazed me to learn that some of the women went back for more, camped near the swamp during their fertile periods to be visited again by him and become pregnant a second time, and a few a third. Of course, those incidents were never reported; they were not rape. The rest, the really revealing parts were told to me by an old man I met fishing there in the swamp that one special day a couple of years ago. His name was Alfred Clayton Timberville and he was the Green Lightning Swamp rapist. 



Clay as he liked to be called was a local legend. There had been rumors of him living in the swamp, reported sightings of him, and tales of things he did to women that made the local women's blood almost curdle in their bodies. Clay had had them living in fear of a visit from him for many, many years, and for good reason. I learned he had been living back in that swamp since before I was born. Officially, Clay was thought to have died long ago and had been declared legally dead eighteen years earlier.



When I first saw him that morning, my boat was tied up to the bank by a fallen tree and I was catching big bluegill and shell-cracker right and left not too far from where his boat was found over twenty-three years earlier. I was having a time of it, trying to keep two rods baited because no sooner than I got one fish in, another one would be on my other rod. In the midst of my furious fishing activities, I glanced up and he was standing less than five feet away looking every bit a part of the land. I didn't see him walk up and never heard a sound. He scared the living crap out of me. 



Having a wild man standing only a few feet away took away my breath and I was sure I was going to be dead a minute later, at least until he sat down on a log and began to tell me this story. I don't expect you to believe hardly a word of it. Hell, I have trouble believing it and I know most of it to be true.



Clayton was camping and fishing with a buddy those many years earlier when some really weird shit began happening. His story went like this...



Clayton told his fishing buddy, "I know you think I am hallucinating, Fred, but I just saw her again, over there just to the right of that big, broken-off cypress tree. Watch by the dead, broken-off part. She has to be behind it. We can see all around it, so you will have to be able to see her when she comes out. You will that is if I haven't lost my mind completely. I see the green lightning every time too." 



"Okay, Clay, I am watching. Crank up the motor and pull over there this time. I won't take my eyes off the spot until we get there. I've seen some little green flashes every now and then, but I ain't seen no woman. So, either she will be there for us to plainly see, or we need to get you back to camp and get you a stiff bourbon on ice to help you relax," Fred told him.



Nobody was there. Fred didn't believe she ever had been. And Clay, he just couldn't understand.



'Have I lost my mind? Am I seeing things? Is this some illusion created by water and light in this eerie backwater swamp? Methane gas, maybe?' Clay wondered. 'No,' he realized. There was way too much physical detail in his memory for it to be some trick of nature. He decided it had to be either in his mind or some type of real living aberration, a creature taking on the form of a woman, a ghost, or a spirit, or something equally unholy.



There were a lot of fish to clean. It had been one of the most productive days ever and it took the two of them over an hour working together to clean and scale the smaller ones and filet the bigger ones. Dark crept over camp and the two old buddies had a delightful meal of fresh fish, hushpuppies and coleslaw, washed down with no small measure of bourbon and water on ice.



After the customary period of joke telling and the repeating old tales from past fishing trips, Clay got stone-faced serious and remarked, "That was the weirdest shit ever, Fred, seeing that image today. It just looked so fucking real. I can't get over it." 



"Don't know what to tell you, Clay," Fred said, "but, you might want to get a thorough physical and talk to a shrink about it. I love you, buddy, but I think the stress of your pending divorce from Sharon and that whirlwind life you lead might be taking its toll. We both saw there was nobody there. I mean people don't just vanish into thin air or disappear into the earth."



"You're right. I will get things checked out. It's just so spooky how real she looked," Clay shared.



During the night, the nearly empty glass of bourbon fell from his hand and woke Clay momentarily when it did. When his drink dropped, he didn't bother getting up from the fold-up patio lounger by the fire. He glanced around the campsite bathed in the light of the moon and saw Fred asleep on his cot in the tent. He instinctively evaluated the danger of the fire spreading, decided it was safe and drifted back to sleep.



She came to Clay in a dream, in a flower field so rich with blooms there was nowhere to step without crushing them, but with typical, dreamlike fantasy nothing around her was disturbed. She picked flowers and tossed them in the air playfully and her naked body delighted his every highly-aroused sense. A sensuous, youthful face on a voluptuous woman's body tortured his highly-stimulated mind and violated his conscience. Her body was warm next to his and then they were coupled together, her lithe body flowing into his, her pussy gripping and massaging his dick in ways he had never know. A mixture of blissful lust and guilt tore at Clay and his sense of right and wrong. Her body was so ripe and luscious. The image of her youthful nakedness flooded his libido with a hungry, desperate desire for her. He wanted her presence to never end. Yet, his conscience screamed, "No, you can't do this. Look at her face! She is far too young and innocent!"



Clay woke in a sweat with his underwear soaked with fresh hot cum, the itchy feeling of climax not entirely passed. He rubbed his dick, milked it and coaxed the last few squirts out. Even then, the feeling was better than any climax he could remember. The guilt and despair followed. Guilt and regret tore at his conscience and haunted him. He fretted restlessly with his arousal and shame for a long while before finally drifting back into sleep.



Once again, she danced through his dreams, but fleetingly, with no more permanent presence there than she had shown during the day in the swamp, just her mesmerizing face smiling hauntingly at him and glimpses of her coming and going. The last thing he saw was a vision of her skipping joyfully naked through the woods, stopping to look back at him several times, and then she was gone.



"You look like hammered hell," Fred told him as he put on the morning coffee.



"Can't say as I feel much better," Clay told him. "In my dreams, she fucked me to climax. It felt like she literally sucked the cum from me with just her body, Fred, like a vacuum of some kind," he confessed, and then shared, "After that, she flitted around in more of my dreams like a fucking butterfly or something."



"What do you think is going on?" his friend asked.



"I wish I could tell you, Fred," Clay said in resignation. "I wish even more that I had some clue."



Fishing was unusually good again that Sunday morning and at midday they cleaned fish, broke camp and packed the boat for the trip out of the swamp and the two hour ride up the long winding black-water river back to the boat landing. From there it was an additional hour's ride back to civilization.



As they started to leave, a sparkle caught Clay's eye reflecting from something shiny in a small bush growing in the edge of the water and he retrieved it. A mixture of arousal and horror filled his being when his hand clasped the small pendant, a perfect miniature likeness of her in glistening, silvery metal. As if time had stopped he stood there frozen, standing ankle deep in the water with her miniature image in his hand and the fullness of her in his mind until he heard Fred ask, "What was it?"



Clay's mind snapped back into the present and he slipped the small likeness in his shirt pocket. "Just some aluminum wrapping... from a cigarette pack," he lied. It was the first time he had ever been truly dishonest with his old friend.



Sunday night at home was no easier on Clay. She came to him again in the lonely house his estranged spouse had left him in when she ran off with her lover. The same tortured obsession filled his dream, only fresher, more alive, and more thrillingly vibrant. She straddling him and lowered her hot, soft skin onto his and used her lithe, undulating body to do more things to him than he believed a woman could do. Her face, her hauntingly youthful, beautiful face hovered over him as her body rocked him like a baby and soothed his every need. Her wet warmth caressed his dick, pulled on it, tugged it and pushed itself onto him. Her face filled his vision as fully as a movie screen, closer and closer until her lush lips kissed him. Cum exploded from his dick and the spurts hit his face and streaked down his naked body. He awoke to find his body soaked with sweat and cum, his mind still burning with lust.



Monday night was the same except for the place and the ways she made love to him. She took him to Indian Cave, his childhood hideout and the place he had hidden at times and watched lovers fuck. Tuesday night she took him to some unknown beautiful white-sand beach and sucked the cum from his body twice in the warm sunlight. Wednesday night again it was twice in a shanty back in the swamp. That was the most vivid and real of all and when it was over he could remember every detail, the path they took back through the swamp, the way she swam naked with almost otter-like ability and sucked his dick underwater and then finished the job on the shoreline. He remembered the tender, passionate love she shared with him in front of the fireplace in the little, grey-board, moss-covered shack.



Early Thursday morning, he called in to work sick and took his boat back into the swamp, leaving his truck and trailer at the boat ramp, never to see them again. He knew where to go from his dream and because as he got closer the pendant he gripped in his hand got warmer. He passed the annually-used camp he, Fred and some others had visited for years. He traveled down a small shallow cut and went on, deep into the flooded cypress swamp. Finally, there it was. He couldn't see it yet, the old shack he knew was there. The pendant was very warm and he knew she would be waiting. He could smell the essence of her like the faint scent of vanilla, sweet and sensuous. Clay abandoned his boat at the edge of the slowly-sloping, thickly-wooded hillside and hiked up through the dense vegetation until it opened.



When he crept closer and watched, he could see movement in the old, tattered, unpainted, board building, the reflection of a fire inside and her moving about. As if drawn by a magnetic force he calmly walked up the front steps, across the rickety pouch and stood in the doorway. She was at an ancient looking wood-burning stove wearing a simple, white dress made from rags, an old flour sack perhaps, or maybe two of them. The sun breaking through the window backlit her figure, and it revealed a hint of the naked flesh of her thighs under the simple thread-bare garment.



"Come in," she said, "your food is almost ready."



Before he could step forward he had to ask the thing that had dominated his mind for days. "Why me?" he begged to understand.



She walked over to him and Clay looked into her face fully for the first time. He saw what he had never seen so perfectly. Majestic emerald green eyes lay wrapped in her hauntingly-beautiful, young face, radiant, almost glowing with translucent beauty. Then came the strobe-like flash of green light he recognized from the swamp. "There will be time for that later," she told him, "Come eat and rest."



He ate, recognizing nothing on his plate. There was meat, vegetables, herbs and bread, none of which was remotely familiar to him, but it all tasted wonderful. It filled, nourished and strengthened him while a full array of new delightful flavors clung to his taste buds and pleasured them. He drank a hot tea she gave him. Again it was unlike anything he had ever tasted and she massaged him to sleep in front of the fire. He dreamed again. 



Whether in dream or not he didn't know, but she kissed him with her full, sensuous lips, licked his lips and mouth and explored the inside his mouth with her tongue. Her mouth had a delightful sweetness. The feel of it slowed time to miniscule progress and each tiny, glorious sensation lingered and lasted. She lifted his hand to her face and Clay felt her soft, youthful-feeling skin. Their eyes met and a flash of green lightning immobilized him. He became the watcher, hovering overhead, seeing her undress him and them making love. Time became irrelevant, but days passed before she gave him a different tea and coaxed him back into the physical world he recognized.

<hr pg="2" />"What is you name, girl?" he asked, when his eyes could focus on a close object again. The object was her beautiful, smiling face and it warmed his soul.



"Shania," she said, "Shania Timberville, you wife, but I am hardly a girl in spite of my appearance." 



"But I have a wife already," Clay protested.



"No. She died in a car accident two days ago," Shania informed him. "Her car ran off the Cedar Creek Bridge and she drowned along with her lover. She wasn't right for you, Clay."



"How could you know that?" he asked. "Haven't we been together for more than two days?"



"Yes, we have been together for five days now, but I was not always here with you. Part of the time you were dreaming," she explained. "Now, you need to eat and drink something. Later on there are some things I need to show you," she told him.



Clay tried to move, but fire shot through his groin. He looked down and all of his sex, his dick and balls were grossly enlarged and disfigured. His balls were swollen each to the size of an apple and his still-hard dick was twice its size before and grossly ridged and curved. "What did you do to me?" he asked in horror.



Shania handed him his drink and said, "Drink this. It will make you feel better. I have something to put on your sex to soothe you there also."



"What are you doing to me," Clay repeated, and wondered, "and why?"



"It is a process. I will explain it to you later, but your body is changing. For now, just let me tell you, your testicles are swollen with sperm mixed with hundreds of eggs from my body. It will be up to you to carry my genes forward and to keep the thread of my life going," she told him.



"Are you human?" he asked.



"Yes, I am mostly human, but I have some very different genes than most other people. I will tell you more later on," she explained.



She may have told him more, but Clay never mentioned it to me.



For six weeks Shania made love to him, nurtured him, taught him the things he needed to know to live in the swamp and left Clay with an insatiable desire to reproduce. Like the infamous red lights on whore houses beckoned horny suitors, the green lightning from her eyes led Clay with beacon like precision to the next woman he was to impregnate; Shania led him to them. For over twenty-three years he had mated with two, three women a week, or more. He always found their husbands, boyfriends or other potential protectors immobilized or passed out and of no help to their women.



After telling me his story, Clay leaned over and fell asleep on the bank. I sat there in my boat considering his story and comparing it to the many rumors I heard. I wondered at the fact that the fish had suddenly quit biting entirely. He stirred again, sat up and simply stared my way.



"What now?" I asked him.



"I'm going to turn myself in. Can you take me back?" he asked.



I untied the boat and eased over to pick him up. Clay curled up in the bottom of the boat and slept until we got to the little backwater landing. I glanced in the rearview mirror at my appearance as we drove back to town and the undeniable spark of green light flashed back at me from my own eyes. I thought I had seen it before, but then I knew.



I couldn't turn him in. First, I didn't think he was responsible for the things he had done. He was as much a victim as the women he impregnated. Second, I was pretty sure he was my father. My mother was one of the first to be raped by him.



Clay lived with me for two years and I buried him Saturday a week ago. For a man only in his fifties, he looked much older, depleted, used up and perhaps in his nineties. It was totally unexpected and heart-warming for me to see the people that came to say goodbye, mostly hoards of women and children. There were dozens and dozens of raven-haired, beautiful, young women and girls at his funeral, all with a sparkle of green light visible in there eyes when they looked my way or winked at me.



You might think this is the end of this story, but it isn't. The rape reports have started coming in again. Another man has gone missing and sightings of him in and around Green Lightning Swamp are coming in to the Sheriff's office regularly. It seems my genetic mother, Shania, still needs to let other women carry and raise her offspring. I have never met her, but I know exactly what she looks like. Clay left me his only possession, the shiny, metal likeness of her. I wear the little pendant and know before I ever get the call that I have another report to take. The little likeness of Shania pulses and gets warm during the night and I have the wildest, most erotic dreams you can imagine.

