The lesson continued not with a lecture, but with a sound—an obscene, wet, sloppy schlorrrp that echoed in the silent chamber, like a boot being pulled from thick, sucking mud. It was the sound of Gristle's massive, semi-hard cock withdrawing from Link's thoroughly used ass. He let out a choked sob, his body clenching desperately around the agonizing emptiness. The withdrawal was a violation all its own, the thick, ridged head of her cock scraping against his raw, stretched insides, a final, agonizing caress that promised more even as it ended.
Then she was free, and his hole, stretched into a gaping, glistening rosebud, began to weep. Thick, pearlescent ropes of fluid, a filthy cocktail of her potent, mana-infused pre-cum and his own sweet, terrified nectar, oozed from his ravaged asshole. It wasn't just cum; it was liquid power, shimmering with a faint, predatory light. The gunk dripped down his pale thighs in thick, slow-moving rivulets, each drop a testament to his utter, complete violation.
But it was the feeling that truly broke him, a filthy echo of a pleasure he knew all too well. It was the ghost of nights spent sandwiched between two goddesses of power, serving both his own Domina and Gristle, his mouth gagging on one monstrous cock while his ass was being split and flooded by the other. The taste of their combined mana—a brutal, intoxicating cocktail of his Domina's refined, cosmic power and Gristle's raw, savage earthiness—had branded his very soul. As her physical presence left him now, the mana she had injected remained, a warm, golden fire that spread through his veins like the most potent, addictive drug. It was that wild, savage half of the flavor he craved, a taste that made his every nerve ending sing with a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. His own small cock twitched pathetically, spurting a thin, weak stream of his own fluid onto the table, a pathetic tribute to the overwhelming power that now saturated his being. He could smell the gunk dripping down his own thigh, and a desperate, humiliating urge rose in him to bend down, to lick it, just to get a hint of that taste again, but he couldn't, not in front of them.
He was horrified. He was a used, dripping fuck-toy in front of two students. But beneath the shame, a deeper, more terrifying truth was taking root. A silent war raged within him. The archivist, the professional, screamed in abject horror at his own degradation. But another, deeper part—the Fem, the vessel—was already weeping for the loss of the Dom's touch, for the agonizing emptiness where her power had been. He fought the urge to turn, to press his ruined, dripping hole against her thigh and beg for more. The satisfaction was a deep, thrumming hum in his bones, but the craving was a roaring inferno. He was addicted, branded by a mana so potent, so utterly dominant, that he knew, with a certainty that shattered him, that this craving would not be denied. Not right now, not in front of the students. But later. Later, in the privacy of his own chambers, he would make the call. He would summon his own Domina, and he would beg her to invite Gristle. He would need them both to quench this fire, to recreate that beautiful, agonizing sandwich of power that had branded his soul. He would offer his mouth to one and his ass to the other, and he would scream until this inferno of need was finally, blessedly, satisfied.
He took a breath, a shuddering, ragged thing that did little to calm the frantic pulse in his veins. The private study chamber still felt violated, the air a thick, unholy soup of old leather, ozone, and the lingering ghost of his arousal—a sharp, spicy musk that clung to the back of the throat like a filthy promise. With a monumental effort of will, he straightened his robes, tugging the fabric down in a futile attempt to hide the evidence of his arousal and the slick dampness between his thighs. His fingers, trembling, found a piece of chalk. The cool, dry dust was a small, grounding sensation in a world that had dissolved into wet heat and aching need. He turned to face the blackboard, his back to the students, using the moment to compose his features into a mask of academic authority. It was a useless, pathetic effort. His body was a filthy traitor, his asshole still twitching with a phantom ache that was more pleasure than pain, a secret heat that pulsed in time with his frantic heartbeat. He had a lesson to teach. He had to.
His Dom had lent him to Gristle, a casual transaction of flesh between two old friends, and his purpose was to serve. But this… this public degradation was a new sacrament of shame, and a treacherous, weeping part of his soul was reveling in it.
He could feel the students' eyes on him, hot and sharp, and the shame was a liquid fire in his gut that made his own small, useless cock begin to swell and leak beneath his robes. He hated how much he was enjoying this, loathed the desperate, slutty part of him that knew, if it weren't for Milky and Kest's wide, observant eyes, he would already be on his knees, ass presented, begging Gristle to finish what she'd started, to fuck him until his mind unraveled and the night itself shattered into the pale, bruised light of dawn.
Milky was already writing, her pen a frantic blur across a fresh page, her massive Sow-tits pressing against the edge of the table like offerings on an altar. The brutal demonstration had shocked her, but it had also forged a horrifying, beautiful connection between Link's sterile theories and Gristle's raw, carnal truth. Beside her, Kest was no longer cleaning her knife. She sat forward, a coiled predator, her amber eyes burning with a dangerous new light. Gristle's lesson had not been a lecture; it had been a combat manual written in sweat, cum, and the exquisite agony of submission, and Kest was hungry to memorize every bloody word.
Instructor Gristle lounged in a heavy oak chair she'd dragged into the corner, a gourd of cheap, potent liquor dangling from her fingers. She watched Link with a look of cruel, possessive amusement, the massive, semi-hard bulge of her cock a constant, oppressive god in the room. She hadn't bothered to zip her trousers properly, and the thick, veined ridge of her phallus was clearly visible, a living mountain range of flesh pressing against the strained fabric. "You know," she purred, her voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in Link's bones, "if it weren't for the immense respect I have for your Domina, I'd have fucked you into my own pride by now. Kept you as a personal pet."
Link's heart gave a traitorous little flutter at the thought, a filthy, secret thrill that he immediately tried to crush. He ignored her, turning back to the class with a desperate grasp for composure. "Today," he began, his voice tight with the effort of maintaining his professionalism, "we will address the ultimate consequence of mana-deprivation combat. The process colloquially known as…'Dusting.'"
He turned to the board, sketching a diagram with practiced, trembling hands. "From a purely biological and informational perspective, Dusting represents a catastrophic loss of genetic data." He spoke with the detached air of a mortician, his words a thin veil over the raw, screaming truth—how every Futanari body was a fragile vessel glued together by Solid-1 mana, and how a complete mana-fuck could unmake them entirely.
"The most complex application," Link continued, his voice dropping, the words catching in his throat as they brushed against his own filthy desires, "is the 'Fem-Strapon' technique…" He spoke of it in sterile terms: risk-mitigated data transfer, biological intermediaries, volatile influx processing. It was all horseshit, a desperate attempt to sanitize the beautiful, grotesque reality.
Gristle let out a short, barking laugh, a sound like grinding bones. "Data transfer?" she sneered, her voice a gravelly caress. "You make it sound like a fucking accounting ledger, you sweet little cock-sleeve. You're describing the most profound act of carnal conquest in our history, and you give it all the passion of a tax collector."
She rose, her heavy boots thudding on the stone, each step a hammer blow against Link's fragile composure. The scent of her rolled off her in waves—liquor, dominant sweat, and the raw, cunt-heavy readiness of a predator about to feed. "You want a codex with blood in its veins and cum on its pages? Then you need to understand that Dusting isn't a loss. It's a fucking inheritance. It is the most intimate, most honest, and most brutal sacrament of succession this universe has ever conceived."
Her predatory gaze swept over the students before landing on Link, who flinched as if she'd physically slapped him. "Forget your charts, Linette. Let me tell them what it really feels like."
Her voice dropped, becoming a low, filthy purr that vibrated in the very air, a sound that promised both agony and ecstasy. "It feels like fucking a god to death. You've already broken them, shattered their will, fucked them empty of their power. They're lying there, a spent, quivering mess, and you mount them. There's no resistance. Just the wet, slick heat of a hole that knows it's about to be unmade, a cunt that's weeping for its own dissolution."
The room grew thick with a palpable, sexual heat. Milky's pen had stopped, her knuckles white. Kest's internal cock twitched, a restless, violent throb deep within her.
"Your cock slides in," Gristle continued, her hand moving to cup the heavy, pulsing weight in her trousers, "and it's more than penetration. It's consumption. With every thrust, you're a plunderer. You can feel their very soul, their history, their power, being sucked out of them, siphoned up your shaft and into your own hungry, churning balls. Their orgasm isn't pleasure; it's the final, shuddering surrender of their essence as you fuck them into nothingness, their screams turning to dust in their throats."
She stopped in front of Link, her massive frame a suffocating presence. Her gaze was a physical touch, hot and possessive. "And the Fem-Strapon… you call it a 'safety measure.' How fucking quaint."
Gristle's grin was all teeth, a flash of white in the dim light. "Let me paint you a picture, you book-smart little virgins. The battle is over. Your rival Dom lies broken, a beautiful, powerless ruin on the floor. You could fuck her yourself. It's direct. It's honest. But it's messy. Her dying throes, the uncontrolled backlash of her dissolving mana… it can taint the prize. So you choose the path of the true artist. The path of absolute, soul-shattering, humiliating control."
She turned her burning eyes to Milky and Kest, but her words were a slow, deliberate violation aimed directly at Link. "You take your Fem. Your most prized pet, your sweet little cock-sleeve—the one you have molded and broken and cherished. And you fuck him. You impale him on your own monstrous cock, filling his tight, perfect ass not with seed, but with your will. Your mana, hot and demanding, floods his system. It doesn't just fill him; it hijacks him. You force his pathetic little dick to swell and harden, your power surging through him, transforming his flesh into a living, throbbing weapon that mirrors your own glorious shaft. He becomes a part of you, an extension of your cock, his body a mere sheath for your power."
Link's face was a mask of scarlet humiliation, his small cock painfully hard, leaking a thin, sweet precum that stained the front of his robes. He was the living example, the beautiful, broken tool she described with such cruel, loving precision.
"Then comes the masterpiece of violation," Gristle's voice dropped to a rough, wet whisper. "You drag your living weapon, your Fem, over to your defeated rival. You position him, this trembling, cock-swollen puppet, over her waiting, defeated hole. And then you mount him. You drive your own cock deeper into his ass, and with that same thrust, you force his magically-engorged cock into your rival. You create a sandwich of flesh and power. A Dom-Fem-Dom sandwich, with your sweet little slut trapped in the middle, screaming his soul out."
The room was dead silent, save for the wet, ragged sound of breathing. The air was thick with the scent of aroused Futanari, a heady mix of musk, sweat, and spilled liquor.
"Imagine it," Gristle purred, her gaze locked on Link, her voice a filthy caress. "You're on top, the absolute sovereign. Your cock is buried to the hilt in your Fem's ass, feeling his tight walls clench and milk you with every agonized, ecstatic tremor. And with every one of your thrusts, you are forcing him to fuck your rival to death. He is the conduit. He feels everything. He feels your power surging through him, using his body as a weapon, and at the same time, he feels the life force of the defeated Dom being drawn out of her and through his own hijacked cock. It is an agony of sensation so profound it becomes a new kind of pleasure, a sensory overload that shatters his mind and turns him into nothing but a screaming, bucking, cum-leaking vessel for your conquest."
"The defeated Dom on the bottom?" Gristle chuckled, a low, dark, obscene sound. "She suffers the ultimate humiliation. She isn't just being Dusted. She's being Dusted by a pet. A worthless, non-cultivating Fem. Her last sensation is being fucked apart by a living symbol of her enemy's power, a creature whose only purpose is to serve the cock that is, at that very moment, buried balls-deep in its ass."
"That's not 'data-transfer,' you little shits," Gristle snarled, turning back to the students. "That is absolute fucking dominance. That's using the body you love the most to destroy your greatest enemy and consume their power as your own. The plundered mana, the genetic code from your rival's balls, it all flows through the Fem-Strapon, into your Fem's own tiny, quivering testicles. He becomes the filter, the crucible that purifies the spoils of your conquest before you ever take it into yourself. He suffers the initial shock, the volatile energy, so that you only receive the pure, refined essence of your victory."
Her gaze locked with Kest's. The Bitch's eyes were wide, her expression one of savage, almost religious revelation. This was the truth of her world, the bloody, carnal reality she understood in her bones. This was the knowledge that would make her an even deadlier weapon for her Dom.
"That," Gristle growled, her hand slowly stroking her massive, semi-hard cock, "is the difference between knowledge and wisdom. This codex isn't just a history book. It's a fucking kill manual. And your lessons have just begun."