The morning after was a quiet, heavy thing. Sunlight streamed into the shared bedchamber, illuminating motes of dust that danced like forgotten spirits. Dior lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. Zaria slept deeply beside him, her powerful body relaxed for the first time in weeks, her breath a soft, even rhythm. The memory of the previous night—the courtyard, the taste of her, the raw, claimed power—thrummed in his veins like a second heartbeat. The curse mark on his abdomen was quiet, a dormant serpent sated on a feast of dark emotions.
But it was not asleep.
He slipped from the bed, moving with a newfound ease. The deep, marrow-level weakness was gone. His body felt light, responsive. The Heartblood Coral had done its work, purging the physical poison. But the other poison, the one etched in dark ink just above his groin, remained. It had been fed. And feeding a curse, he was learning, only made it hungrier.
He dressed in simple trousers and a tunic, the fabric soft against his skin. The house was stirring. He could hear the distant, cheerful shrieks of his daughters from the courtyard, mixed with a new sound—a high-pitched, excited yapping.
Snowbell.
The deoggy. Kaelen's trap, wrapped in white fluff and innocent dark eyes. A month's supply of Glacial Frost-Kibble bought Zaria's dance, her humiliation, and his own dark awakening. The puppy was a chain, a sweet, furry chain that bound them to the Vor heir's whims.
He walked out into the main hall. Chaos reigned, but it was a domestic, warm chaos. Lyra, at eighteen with her mother's fierce eyes, was trying to corral the blur of white fur that was Snowbell. Anya, ever the playful one, was on her hands and knees, laughing as the puppy attacked the laces of her boot. Elara, the most serene of the three, sat near the hearth, already sketching the scene on a piece of parchment with a look of deep concentration.
"She doesn't listen at all!" Lyra exclaimed, though she was smiling.
"She's just a baby!" Anya countered, scooping the wriggling puppy into her arms. Snowbell immediately bathed her chin in quick, pink-tongued licks. Anya giggled, the sound bright and clear. She was eighteen, on the cusp of womanhood, her frame still carrying the softness of youth but promising the curves to come. She wore a simple day dress of light green cotton, her chestnut hair falling in a loose braid over one shoulder.
Feng Yueqing glided into the room, a tray with a steaming pot of tea in her hands. Her phoenix gaze swept the scene, a gentle smile on her lips. "The creature has enough energy for ten," she observed. "It is… refreshing."
Nyxara stood by the window, a crimson statue. She did not turn, but Dior felt her awareness like a physical pressure. She was calculating the threat, the angles, the ways a gift could become a weapon.
Dior's eyes were drawn to Anya and the puppy. There was an innocence to the scene that felt fragile, a pane of glass separating it from the dark currents swirling in his own heart. Snowbell squirmed in Anya's grip, twisting to lick her neck, her cheek. Anya laughed again, tipping her head back.
And then the puppy's bright, dark eyes met Dior's across the room.
It went still.
The playful yapping ceased. It wriggled once, and Anya, surprised by the sudden calm, set it down on the floor. Snowbell didn't run to chase a dust mote or attack a bootlace. It sat, its fluffy tail giving a single, slow wag. Then it trotted, with a purpose that seemed far too deliberate for a puppy, directly toward Dior.
He watched it come, a strange sense of foreboding tightening his gut. The curse mark gave a faint, curious pulse, a sleeping dragon stirring at a distant scent.
Snowbell stopped at his feet. It looked up, its head tilted. Then it did something inexplicable. It rose on its hind legs, its small front paws resting against his shin for balance. It stretched its neck, its little black nose twitching, sniffing at the air around him. It was sniffing him. Not his clothes. Him. The energy that clung to him.
Before Dior could react, could step back, the deoggy's pink tongue darted out.
It licked not his hand, but the fabric of his trousers, right over the spot where the curse mark lay hidden.
A jolt, like a spark jumping a gap, shot through Dior.
It was not pain. It was a connection.
The world did not melt away this time. It transformed.
The main hall—the laughter, the sunlight, the smell of tea—was suddenly overlaid with another reality. It was as if a veil of shimmering, perfumed silk had been thrown over his senses. The curse mark on his abdomen ignited, not with heat, but with a cold, scintillating light that only he could see. It pulsed in time with a new, rhythmic sound—a soft, wet, lapping sound that was both alien and intimately familiar.
And he smelled it. A scent filled his nostrils, his mouth, his lungs. It was not the jasmine of the pavilion or the incense of his home. It was heady, primal, magical. The scent of rain on wildflowers, of warm honey, of musk and ozone and something indescribably sweet—the intoxicating, magical scent of the deoggy's essence. It clouded his mind, pulled him down into the vision.
He was no longer in the hall. He was in Anya's bedchamber.
The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of late afternoon. Anya was there. She was on her bed, lying on her back amidst a tumble of quilts and pillows. But she was not as he had just seen her. Her light green dress was rucked up around her waist, bunched in her clenched fists. The simple cotton undergarments were gone. Her legs were spread, bent at the knees, her feet planted on the mattress.
And between her thighs was Snowbell.
But not the puppy. This was a larger, more defined version, its form shimmering with that same magical light. Its fur was pristine white, glowing with an inner luminescence. It stood on the bed, its body positioned over Anya's hips, its head lowered between her legs.
The lapping sound. That's what it was.
Snowbell's tongue, long and pink and somehow more deft, more knowing than any animal's, was lapping at Anya's exposed pussy.
Dior's breath froze in his throat. A wave of pure, unadulterated horror crashed into him. This was his daughter. His child. This was an abomination. He tried to scream, to move, to shatter the vision. But he was a ghost here, just as he had been in the pavilion. Powerless. A spectator forced to watch.
The horror boiled, and the curse mark drank it greedily. But it did not just drink the horror. It transmuted it. It mixed the revulsion with the intoxicating magical scent, with the graphic, vivid detail of the scene, and it pumped the concoction back into his veins.
His horror twisted. Warped.
He was forced to see. Every detail was rendered in hyper-realistic clarity.
Anya's face was flushed a deep rose. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted. Her chestnut braid had come undone, strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead. She wasn't fighting. She wasn't scared.
She was aroused.
A soft, breathy moan escaped her lips. "Mmmh…"
The sound was a physical touch on Dior's skin. It echoed in the vault of his mind, sweet and forbidden.
"Oh… that's… oh…" Anya whimpered. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk off the mattress, pushing herself more firmly against the deoggy's busy tongue.
Snowbell's magical eyes glowed with an ancient, sapphire light. It knew what it was doing. This was no animal instinct. This was a ritual. Its tongue flattened, swiping a long, slow stroke from the very bottom of Anya's slit all the way up to the sensitive, swollen bud of her clit.
Anya gasped, her back arching. "Ah! Yes… right there…"
The curse mark pulsed, a dark star feeding on Dior's paralysis, on the illicit thrill that was now, sickeningly, intertwining with his paternal panic. He could smell her arousal now too, cutting through the magical scent. It was the musky, tangy scent of a young woman's excitement, virgin and potent. It mixed with the deoggy's ozone-honey smell, creating a perfume that was fundamentally wrong and yet, to his corrupted senses, unbearably arousing.
His body responded, a traitor to his mind. A thick, heavy heat pooled in his groin. He felt his cock stir, then harden rapidly against the confines of his trousers. The shame was immediate, scalding. He was getting hard watching this. Watching his daughter.
But the curse was relentless. It showed him more.
Snowbell's tongue delved deeper, spearing into Anya's tight, virgin entrance. The sight was obscene. The pink flesh, glistening with her wetness and the deoggy's saliva, yielding to that persistent, magical tongue.
"Ngh!… It's inside…" Anya moaned, her voice cracking. Her hands let go of her dress and fisted in the quilts. "So… so deep…"
Her hips began to move in a slow, grinding circle, riding the tongue fucking into her. Each movement produced a soft, wet, squelching sound that seemed to amplify in Dior's head. Her wetness was undeniable now. It coated the deoggy's muzzle, dripped onto the sheets beneath her. The curse forced Dior to focus on it—the way it shimmered, the way it proved her body's betrayal of her innocence.
"I've never… felt… oh, God…" she babbled, lost in the sensation. Her knees fell wider apart, offering herself completely. "It feels… so good… so weird and good…"
She's a virgin, Dior's mind screamed. This is her first… this is…
But another part, the part warmed by the curse's dark energy, watched with a horrifying, clinical fascination. This was corruption in its purest form. The innocent, seduced not by a man, but by a magical creature tied to his enemy, triggered by his curse. The layers of betrayal were exquisite. And his own body was celebrating it.
His erection was now full, aching, straining against his trousers. A damp spot of precum bloomed on the fabric. He was standing in his sunlit main hall, his family around him, vividly imagining his daughter being eaten out by a magical dog, and he was painfully hard.
The vision intensified.
Snowbell pulled its tongue back and focused on Anya's clit, flicking it with rapid, precise movements.
Anya's reactions became frantic. "Oh! Oh, oh, oh! Don't stop! Please, don't stop!" she begged, her voice rising to a desperate pitch. Her legs began to tremble. "I'm gonna… something's happening… it's too much…"
Her whole body tensed. A high, keening whine built in her throat. Her back arched violently off the bed. "SNOWBELL!"
The name was a scream of release.
Her body convulsed. A clear, copious gush of liquid erupted from her, soaking the deoggy's face and the sheets beneath her in a virgin's squirt. The force of it was shocking. It wasn't a trickle; it was a fountain, a release of pent-up, magical, corrupted energy. The scent in the vision—musk, honey, ozone, and now the sharp, clean scent of her ejaculate—became overpowering.
Dior's own breath came in ragged gasps. His hand, of its own volition, moved from his side. It hovered over the aching bulge in his trousers. The shame was a fire in his chest, but the curse-mark's power was a flood, drowning it. The vision wasn't over.
As Anya lay shuddering, spent, Snowbell moved. It didn't stop. Its glowing eyes fixed on Dior's spectral form for a split second—a knowing, ancient look—before it turned its body.
The deoggy's form shimmered again. Between its hind legs, something swelled, emerged. It was not anatomically correct for any natural beast. It was a smooth, tapered length of flesh that glowed with the same inner light, slick with its own magical essence. A knot began to form at its base, a bulb of pulsing, blue-veined tissue.
No. Dior's mind was a white static of denial. No, no, no.
But his body throbbed in time with the pulsing knot.
Snowbell positioned itself. The glowing, magical cock nudged against Anya's well-licked, dripping entrance. She was loose, wet, her body pliant from her explosive orgasm. Her eyes fluttered open, glazed with pleasure and confusion. She saw what was poised at her threshold.
"Wha…?" she slurred.
And then it pushed forward.
Anya's mouth formed a perfect 'O' of shock. A sharp, ragged gasp was torn from her. "Ah! AH! It's… it's going in!"
The magical cock slid into her, stretching her virgin tightness with an impossible, glowing intrusion. Dior could see the resistance, the way her body had to accommodate this foreign, supernatural member. It was huge, far larger than any human man's, stretching her wide.
"Oh, God… it's so big…" Anya cried, tears springing to her eyes. But they weren't tears of pain alone. Her hips lifted, seeking more. "It's… stretching me… it won't fit…"
But it did. With a slow, relentless push, Snowbell sheathed itself inside her to the hilt. The forming knot pressed against her swollen outer lips.
Anya screamed. A full-throated, broken scream of overwhelming sensation. Her body clamped down instinctively, muscles fluttering around the invading length. She was being knotted by a magical creature, her virginity taken in a way that was beyond any human deflowering.
"Fuck! FUCK! It's so deep! It's hitting… everything!" she sobbed, her hands scrambling to grip the deoggy's fluffy sides. Her innocence was gone, replaced by a raw, animalistic need. "Move! Please, move!"
Snowbell obeyed. It began to thrust. Short, powerful strokes that made Anya's entire body jolt on the bed. The wet, slapping sounds of flesh against flesh, mixed with the squelch of her abundant wetness, filled the room. The magical scent was now the scent of sex, of corruption, of forbidden magic.
Dior was lost. The horror was still there, a cold stone in his gut. But it was encased in a thick, hot syrup of arousal. His jealousy was not of the deoggy, but of the experience. Of the complete, utter loss of control. Of the violation that was also a transcendent pleasure. He was watching his daughter be utterly ruined, and his cock was so hard it hurt.
His hand finally gave in. It pressed against the thick ridge of his erection through his trousers, a rough, desperate stroke. A groan lodged in his throat. In the vision, Anya was being fucked senseless.
"Yes! Yes! Harder! Oh, fuck, right there!" she chanted, her voice hoarse. "I can feel the… the knot! It's swelling! It's gonna tie us!"
Her eyes rolled back. Her second orgasm was building fast, triggered by the relentless pounding and the obscene pressure of the growing knot at her entrance. "I'm gonna come again! I'm gonna come on its magic cock!"
The curse mark on Dior's body was a vortex now, drinking his shame, his arousal, his voyeuristic ecstasy. It offered him the sensation—the phantom feeling of that magical, knotted cock plunging into tight, wet heat. It wasn't Anya he imagined anymore. The vision blurred, the faces shifting. It was Zaria. It was Feng Yueqing. It was Nyxara. All of them, taken, knotted, filled by that magical, corrupting energy.
He couldn't stand it. He needed release.
In the real world, his body acted. He took a stumbling step backward, his shoulder hitting the doorframe of the main hall. He was panting, his face flushed. He glanced, wild-eyed, at the real scene.
Anya was still on the floor, now playing tug-of-war with Lyra using a piece of cloth. She laughed, completely unaware. Snowbell the puppy was chasing its tail in a circle, a harmless ball of fluff.
But the vision held him. The scent was still in his nose. The sounds in his ears.
He turned and practically fled down the corridor toward his private study. He needed to be alone. He needed to deal with this fire in his blood.
He shut the study door behind him, leaning against it, his chest heaving. The room was dim, quiet. The phantom sensations from the curse-vision wouldn't leave. He could still feel the ghost of that magical knot swelling, the tight, wet clutch of a pussy around it.
With trembling fingers, he fumbled with the ties of his trousers. He got them open, pushed them down over his hips along with his undergarments. His cock sprang free, fully erect, the head flushed dark and leaking a steady bead of precum. It throbbed in the cool air of the study.
He wrapped his hand around himself. The skin was hot, silken. His first stroke was a shock of pure, guilty pleasure. He leaned back against the door, his head thumping against the wood. He closed his eyes.
And the vision returned, full force.
He wasn't in his study. He was back at the foot of Anya's bed. Snowbell was pounding into her, its fluffy hindquarters pumping furiously. The knot was fully formed now, a thick, bulbous anchor at the base of its glowing shaft. With one final, deep thrust, it shoved it home.
Anya shrieked as the knot popped past her resisting muscles and locked inside her. She was tied. Impaled. Full to bursting.
"TIED! I'M TIED!" she screamed, her body seizing. Her third orgasm ripped through her, this one a silent, shaking tempest that made her toes curl and her eyes screw shut. Her pussy clenched and fluttered around the trapped, pulsing knot.
Dior's hand moved on his own cock, matching the rhythm of the deoggy's final thrusts. Fast. Desperate. His thumb smeared the precum over his slick head.
In the vision, Snowbell's body stiffened. A low, resonant hum filled the air. It was coming. Inside his daughter.
"It's… cumming! I can feel it! It's filling me up!" Anya wailed, her voice a mixture of terror and euphoria.
Dior's own balls tightened, drawing up. The pressure was immense, unbearable. He was going to come. He was going to come while watching a magical dog breed his daughter in a cursed fantasy.
"Oh, God… so much… it's so hot…" Anya sobbed in the vision, her stomach slightly distending with the unreal volume of magical cum being pumped into her captive womb.
That was the final trigger.
Dior's climax exploded from him without warning. It was not a gentle release. It was a violent, convulsive eruption that tore a guttural groan from his throat, a sound he muffled by biting his own lip.
"Fuck!" he hissed into the empty room.
Thick, pearlescent ropes of cum shot from his cock, arcing through the air to splatter against the leg of his heavy oak desk. The first burst was the strongest, a massive glob that hit with an audible splat. More followed, pulse after pulse, each one wrenched from him by the corrupted, voyeuristic ecstasy of the vision. It was a massive release, far more than normal, fueled by the curse's dark energy. The cum was glue-like, white and opaque, pooling on the dark wood and dripping slowly to the floor.
As he jerked through the last few spurts, the vision finally began to fade. The image of Anya, tied and filled, blurred. The magical scent dissipated, leaving only the musky, salty smell of his own release in the small study.
He sagged against the door, spent, his knees weak. His cock, still semi-hard, dripped the last drops onto his trousers pooled around his ankles. Shame rushed in, cold and clammy, washing over the fading heat of his arousal. He had just masturbated to completion while fantasizing about his daughter being fucked by a dog. A magical dog, but still. The corruption was complete. The curse had found a new, vile channel into his soul.
He looked down at the mess he'd made. The glistening, white puddle on his floor. The evidence of his degradation.
A soft scratch sounded at the door behind his back.
He froze, his heart lurching.
Then a familiar, high-pitched yip.
Dior slowly, painfully, turned his head to look down at the crack under the door. Two small, dark paws were visible, and a tiny, black nose sniffing energetically at the gap.
Snowbell was on the other side. It whined softly, a questioning, eager sound.
And Dior could have sworn he felt, just for a second, the faintest, most insidious pulse of answering warmth from the curse mark on his skin. Not a hunger this time. A… satisfaction. A bond, newly formed.
The puppy scratched at the door again.