Lots of grisly matters in this chapter.

Remember that just because something’s sexually explicit, doesn’t mean you have to try and wank to it! Sometimes that ‘Horror’ tag is the one that matters.

The Last Labyrinth 

It isn’t Now. It isn’t Then. It isn’t Never.

It is outside of time, outside of matter, outside of the Lands of Lust and Pain.

It is carved from what looks like white marble. 

Its truest path is eight miles long. Its falsest is forever. 

It is the Last Labyrinth. Where Minotaurs go to die and fuck, the river they must swim to spawn, the final challenge they must face in their lives and the final duty they must fulfill. For no Minotaur is permitted to die inside the Material World, like no child is permitted to die inside your local Disneyland. When a Minotaur is about to perish, they are torn from reality and placed here. Placed in the White Walls Without. The last place they ever wanted to see and the last place they ever wanted to be.

Maybe the Last Labyrinth is the Hell of Minotaurs. If so it is a mercifully brief Hell. The dying Minotaur is only ever just passing through. They will not spent eternity there. They will search its corridors and tunnels, perform their last obligation, and then be done, their story ended.

Francis Crackerjack, Minotaur Hero, had died and now he was here. Following the mooing and the cooing that called him towards the centre of the maze.

The noises were his best clue. The smells - blood, pussy, cow shit - all confused and befuddled his nostrils, but the noises seemed to guide him true. Towards the heart of the maze. Where the ultimate monster lay waiting. The ultimate challenge of his long, heroic life. The biggest and nastiest cunt he would ever face.

The Tauriarch. The Mother of Minotaurs. 

Crackerjack could not die within the World. Like any Man-Bull he must triumph over the Labyrinth, seek the great Mooing Mama, and nut inside it. Only then would the Godfolk let his thoughts stop.

So he followed the sound. Followed its haunting, terrible echoes. The deep, bleak, sonorous lowing of the Cattle Queen. The Tauriarch. Calling its son back to its holes.

Crackerjack solved the riddles.

Crackerjack chose his paths.

He dodged the traps.

He fought the Guardians.

Francis Crackerjack did everything the dungeon asked of him. Listening all that time for monstrous lowing of his mother. Sometimes he would lose the sound. He would not know if that brought him fear or relief. Then, when his ears caught the moos once more he would only know the certain simplicity of dread.

He was the hunter, and he could not escape from what he hunted. Crackerjack found the centre.

Crackerjack found the Tauriarch.

He strode slowly into her chamber, dick swinging.

“So there you are, you dirty old slag,” said the hero.

The Tauriarch was the size of a barn. What its shape was is impossible to describe, for it shifted and warped at it pleased, but mass was conserved. Whatever non-Euclidean rollercoaster pretzel it had contorted itself into, it remained the size of a barn.

A barn made of meat. A barn made of raw, bleeding, rancid, stinking meat.

A barn-sized slab of rotten, Lovecraftian beef.

The Tauriarch.

It had more heads than you could count, but I tell you they were hundreds.

It had more cunts than you could count, but I tell you they were thousands.

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It had nothing else. No other features or aspects.

The Tauriarch was bloody meat as far as the eye could see, festooned with the lowing, mooing, wailing heads of hundreds of cows. They were in no pattern, no arrangement. There would be vast gaps with no cow head, there would be lone heads standing sentinel, and there would be clusters. All conjoined at horrible angles and trying to lick each other’s mouths and eyes.

The cunts were the cunts of human women, but grotesquely enlarged and grotesquely hairy. Giant, furry human cunts all over the Tauriarch’s carnal mass.

There were places where the two features overlapped. Places where a giant human cunt grew out of a cow’s forehead, or a giant human cunt merged into a cow’s mouth. 

“It’s been some time, mother,” said Francis Crackerjack, looking for the hole that was his.

Somewhere on this abominable, eldrich leviathan of meat and minge was the cunt that was meant for him. The vagina he was destined to smash. He had found the Tauriarch by sound, but the right pussy he would find by smell.

His fingers gripped into her raw, beefy flesh as he climbed her, coming away bloody from each handhold. 

Crackerjack, who had spent his life making love to the most beautiful and fragrant creatures of the forest, had never believed that he would be capable of performing his last duty and impregnating his sickeningly alien mother. The gentle and feminine dryads and nymphs with whom he’d filled his earthly harem could not have been more unlike this putrid amalgamation of noisy, drooling cow heads and dirty, unkempt genitals.

But Crackerjack found to his shock that his penis was hard. Harder and throbbing with more force than it ever had before, and leaking pre-cum - leaving a trail of it across the raw beef his long climb dragged it across. His organ, at least, was ready to do the deed it had been designed for.

And there was the organ designed to receive it.

Crackerjack looked at the giant, hairy, human cunt in front of him - pulsing, oozing, quivering - and his nostrils knew that it was the cunt the Tauriarch had grown especially to take his seed.

The Minotaur felt sick. But his penis was one hundred percent good to go.

“I love you mother,” he told the mindless creature, “Thank you for my years in the Lands of Lust and Pain. I used them well. I used them to life a live.”

And he plunged his shaft into her.

There was little friction. The vag was loose and slimy and baggy. But there was enough for Crackerjack to cum.

So he did.

He shot the biggest, thickest wad of cum he’d ever shot in his life, deep into the cunny the Tauriarch had grown for him.

Then she ate him and he died.

The First Labyrinth 

Months later, the Minotaur who would become known as Fabdinus Rutt awoke inside one of his mother’s wombs. 

The Tauriarch would not give birth to him.

He would have to find and fight his own way out. 

The Tauriarch would not guide him with squeezes from her uterus and into the light. That was not its way.

He would have to navigate the branching maze of impossible flesh-tunnels within her, clawing and forcing his way along every inch, until he found the exit.

One tube, somewhere deep within his mother, lead to a pussy unlike all her other. A pussy-portal that would spew him out into linear time, into the material world, into the Lands of Lust and Pain.

A Minotaur’s first adventure is to struggle free from inside of his mother’s body, drag himself searching and screaming through the twists and turns of her twisting meat, until they found themselves in the one birth canal that would lead to the pussy-portal. His one route to being born out into the real world.

Little baby Rutt, son of the Minotaur hero Crackerjack, began this first adventure.

The First Labyrinth.

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