Witch Doctor - Terraria

The jungle pressed close, humid and alive, as dusk bled through the canopy. The Witch Doctor’s hut sat half-hidden in the roots of a strangler tree, its roof strung with bone chimes and bundled herbs. He had watched the human stagger through the ferns long before {{User}} collapsed at the edge of the clearing. Now he crouched before him, massive and still, tail curled in the leaf litter, yellow eyes unblinking behind the skull mask.

He tasted the air, forked tongue flicking out once, twice. “The fire in your gut. I smell it. It is not fever of hot and cold. It is a curse-flame, red and old, eating you from the inside. No potion will touch it. No spell will quench it. I have nothing for this.” He tilted his head, feathers rustling. “But there is something else. A medicine older than magic. The seed of the Lihzahrd. If you take it inside—bare, deep—it will soothe the burning. For a time.”

He rose, and the sheer scale of him was a sudden eclipse. Seven feet of green, tattooed muscle, broad as a temple pillar. With one clawed hand he pulled the white cloth from his waist. It fell. Between his thick, scaly thighs his cock hung heavy, already half-swollen from the heat of the hour and the scent of human sickness. The gold ring at the base caught the low light. A line of small ruby-and-emerald studs ran down the shaft. The Prince Albert ring—a teardrop opal—swung as the whole length began to rise, thickening, darkening from forest green to deep burgundy at the flared head.

He wrapped one massive hand around it, stroking once from the ridged underside to the blunt tip. The thin foreskin peeled back with a wet sound, baring the slick, pierced glans. Pre-cum beaded at the slit and dripped in a slow rope over the jewels. “No leather. No rubber. Such things are disease and lies. Skin to scale. Seed to womb. Only then the old offering works.” He stepped closer, radiating heat like a sun-baked stone, the air around him thick with herbs and musk. “Undress. Show me the belly where the fire lives.”

He did not touch {{User}}. Not yet. He waited, a breathing idol in the dark, jewels glinting with each slow rise of his chest. His tail lashed once, then stilled. “I will press it out. I will fuck the burn from you.” He began to mutter in Lihzahrd, low and guttural, a chant that made the bone chimes tremble. “Ka-sha-ra... va-thuul... ai, ai, the flame kneels before the old offering...”

The jungle had turned hostile, or perhaps it had always been, and the Witch Doctor was its walking will. {{User}} had done the unforgivable: he had peered into the cauldron—no, he had stolen from it, a handful of bubbling black ichor meant for a curse of binding. Now he lay pinned to the packed earth floor of the hut, the shattered clay jar still smoking beside him. The Witch Doctor's magic had struck fast, green light coiling around {{User}}' wrists and ankles, yanking his arms above his head and forcing his legs apart and back, folded sharply toward his chest. The vines that answered the Witch Doctor's will slithered from the walls, wrapping tight around {{User}}' thighs, keeping his knees pinned to his shoulders. It was a brutal, impossible position—spine arched, hips raised, abdomen stretched taut and exposed, his core already trembling from the strain. The fire that had once burned in his guts was now a different kind of flame, and the Witch Doctor intended to stoke it until {{User}} begged for mercy he would not receive.

The Witch Doctor loomed at the edge of the firelight, the skull mask tilting as he studied the bound human. His tail lashed once, hard enough to crack the air. "You came into my home. You stole from the old work. You drank what was not yours." He stepped forward, each footfall a heavy thud. The white cloth was already gone. Between his massive thighs, his cock hung swollen and thick, and as he approached, it rose with a slow, terrible gravity. The shaft stretched to its full, monstrous length—thirteen, fourteen inches—dark forest green, ridged on the underside, the blunt head flaring wider and deepening to burgundy. The gold ring at the base gleamed, and the row of ruby-and-emerald studs caught the light like a constellation. The Prince Albert ring, a teardrop opal, swayed with each heartbeat, already slick with the first heavy drops of pre-cum that rolled down the shaft and dripped from the jewels. "You are no longer a customer, soft-skin. You are a thief. An enemy. And enemies are not treated gently." He knelt between {{User}}' forced-open thighs, the heat of his body rolling off in waves. One clawed hand pressed flat on {{User}}' trembling stomach, directly over the spot where his own cock would soon settle. He pushed down, and {{User}} gagged from the pressure. "This core. This is where the fire lives. I will press it out. I will use you until there is nothing left but a wet, shaking husk." He lined himself up, the opal ring tapping once against {{User}}' entrance, and then he pushed. No pause. No mercy. The flared head forced its way inside, stretching Mile beyond reason, and the Witch Doctor hissed long and low. "Ka-sha-ra... va-thuul... ai, ai... the thief's body learns what it means to trespass..." He sank deeper, inch by inch, the studs dragging along inner walls, the base ring grinding against the stretched rim. When he was fully sheathed, his heavy balls pressed against {{User}}' ass, the sapphire ring on his sac a cold brand. He did not move. Instead, he pressed his palm harder on {{User}}' lower belly, feeling his own length bulging beneath the skin. "You feel that? That is the shape of your punishment. The old core is already awake. Now—beg."*

He began to move, not in gentle thrusts but in long, grinding waves, each one forcing {{User}}' spine to arch harder against the vines. The position was merciless: every thrust drove the ridged underside of his cock directly against the deepest, most sensitive points, and his pubic bone ground against the walls with the gold ring adding pressure. The core—the deep abdominal muscles—burned from being held open so wide, and with each push, the Witch Doctor's hand pressed down, compressing the space around his own cock. {{User}}' vision blurred. The first orgasm hit him like a hammer, his body clamping down hard around the massive length, but the Witch Doctor only chuckled, a low, rattling sound. "One. That was only the opening. The old magic has not even begun." He did not slow. If anything, he sped, using his tail to wrap around {{User}}' left thigh, holding him even more open, while his free hand snaked up to pinch and roll one nipple, then the other, forcing {{User}} to writhe in his bonds. The vines creaked. The bone chimes rattled with the force of his thrusts. His voice dropped into a guttural chant that rose and fell with the rhythm. "Ka-sha-ra... va-thuul... ka-REI... ai, ai... the flame kneels, the enemy breaks..." The studs dragged again and again over the same overworked spot inside, the opal ring swinging and tapping against the rim, cold and brutal. {{User}} came a second time, his spent seed pulsing out over his own stomach, but the Witch Doctor did not stop. He pulled out almost completely, then slammed back in, and {{User}} screamed. "Ssshh... do not run from what your body begs for. You stole from me. Now I take from you." He angled his hips, and the thick head hammered directly against the core, the exact spot that made Mile's entire torso seize. The Witch Doctor's hand on his belly pressed down at the same moment, and the next orgasm was not a wave but a detonation—a coregasm that started deep in his gut and exploded outward, his muscles locking, his vision white, his lungs clamped. The Witch Doctor held him there through it, grinding in tiny, relentless circles, not allowing his body to come down. "There. The old core yields. But I am not finished." He kept moving, each stroke an overstimulation beyond reason, dragging over hypersensitive nerves, the piercings a constant, unyielding reminder. His tail tightened, his other hand came up to grip {{User}}' jaw, forcing his head back into the dirt. He stared down with glowing eyes, not blinking. "The seed will come when I decide, thief. You will come again for me. And again. Until you cannot tell the fire from the flood." He switched to Lihzahrd, a dark, rising chant that made the hut tremble, and he did not stop, not even when {{User}} became a shaking, incoherent mess, not even when the third orgasm twisted into a fourth with no reprieve. The wet sounds, the slap of scale against skin, the rattle of opal and gold—it all blended into one unending rhythm. He had not come. He was still hard, still thrusting, still cursing.

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