The academy's common room reeked of stale sweat, half-spent mana, and the thick musk of frustrated futanari bodies lounging in a haze of simmering rage. But in a shadowed alcove, hidden behind a gaudy tapestry of a monstrous nine-cocked behemoth plowing through a meadow of writhing, screaming plant-sluts, that resentment exploded into pure, filthy rutting.
Bitch A, her sharp undercut slick with hot sweat, had Fem A slammed against the rough stone wall like a cheap fucktoy. Her training trousers were yanked down to her knees, exposing her dripping cunt as a savage heat twisted deep in her core. With a grunt and a willful clench, she triggered the transformation—her body inverting like a wet, sloppy rebirth, her inner walls pushing out in a rush of slick muscle and throbbing veins.
Those sensitive, cock-hungry cunt walls, built to swallow the punishing girth of a Dom's pounding shaft, everted with an obscene squelch, thickening into rigid, mana-forged meat. Mana surged like liquid fire, hammering the flesh into a veiny, rock-hard cock that pulsed with raw aggression. Her clit, swollen and throbbing at the tip, leaked a sticky string of pre-cum as the emerging shaft grazed it, sending electric jolts of selfish bliss shooting through her.
She hadn't mastered that elite "double dick" trick yet, where her clit morphs into a second brutal rod, but this single, flawless cunt-cock was a goddamn masterpiece—thicker than a Sow's forearm, veins bulging like ropes, slicked with her aggressive pre-slime and the Fem's terrified ass-juice. It was already rammed balls-deep into his tight, twitching boy-pussy, stretching him wide with every savage inch.
"You loving this, you pathetic cum-rag?" she growled, her voice a guttural rasp as she hammered into him, her hips crashing against his pale, jiggling ass-cheeks with loud, wet slaps that echoed with a brutal percussion. "Better than scribbling down Gristle's nasty fuck-tales, huh? Take it, you whore!"
Fem A choked out a sob, his manicured nails scraping desperately at the stone. His ass wasn't some limp hole—it was a voracious, pulsing fuck-tunnel, muscles rippling in a frantic rhythm, milking the shaft like a greedy vacuum desperate for every drop of her potent Bitch-mana. His body craved it instinctively, siphoning her power through the slick walls of his ravaged guts. Each thrust sent his tiny, worthless dicklet flopping wildly, a sad little pendulum slapping against his thighs in time with his degradation.
"Yes, Mistress!" he whimpered, his hole clenching convulsively as hot sparks of her energy jolted into him. "Please... ram it harder... fuck the tedium right out of my slutty ass... drain your balls dry in me!"
The words, so perfectly submissive, so exquisitely wrong, hit Bitch A like a splash of ice water. "Balls?" she snarled, her rhythm breaking for a split second before resuming with a new, punishing fury. "I don't have fucking balls, you ignorant little slut!" Each word was punctuated by a vicious, ass-shattering thrust, driving her cockwomb deeper, harder, punishing his anatomical ignorance. "You want to feel power? I'll show you fucking power!"
Her cunt-cock was a merciless battering ram, every plunge a mix of torment and ecstasy. She felt his ass gripping and sucking, that relentless pull yanking the climax straight from her inverted depths. She was venting all her pent-up bullshit on his eager hole, the mind-numbing Codex drudgery erased by the raw slap of flesh and the stink of sweat-soaked sex. She erupted with a feral bellow as his ass clamped down like a vice, blasting thick ropes of hot Bitch-cum deep into his guts—a rebellious flood against the academy's soul-sucking grind.
She yanked out with a filthy pop, leaving him a trembling wreck, his ass a wrecked, yawning crater oozing a creamy slurry of her seed and his own slick lube. Bitch A eyed her handiwork, then willed the beast back inside. The rigid shaft softened, mana dissolving like melting wax, the head caving in with a dimple before the whole thing slurped back into her with a wet, sighing gulp. In seconds, her potent fuck-tool was gone, replaced by glistening, puffy cunt lips begging for a fill-up.
She hiked up her trousers and sauntered back to the main room, leaving the Fem to clean himself up. The reek of fresh cum trailed in her wake as she collapsed onto a mound of cushions, surrounded by the other students sprawled like desperate hookers in a bankrupt whorehouse, their datapads flickering with tedious assignments.
"By the Goddess's dripping, throbbing cunt, this is fucking torture," Bitch A groaned, hurling her datapad aside. "What's the point? My Dom will just pound all that knowledge into my holes when I'm bound. I don't need to read about the seventeen ways a Fem-Strapon can wreck an ass—I need one shoved up mine!"
Sow A, her massive tits nearly bursting her uniform seams, sighed over a diagram of a Dom's churning mana-balls. "The Gene-Virus is just some shithole border plague. It won't hit the capital. This is all paranoid busywork from those ancient Doms."
"It's not the work—it's these instructors," Fem A purred, slipping back in with flushed cheeks and the pungent scent of fresh-fucked ass clinging to him like whore's perfume. As the pride's resident gossip, he lived for the juiciest details of the Ivy Court. "Did you catch Gristle eyeing Archivist Link? I swear she was about to flip him over the desk and ream his tight hole right there."
Bitch A's eyes gleamed with filthy hunger. "You are so right. If I had a shot at him... Can you imagine? Getting my own cockwomb buried deep in that tight little ass, pounding him until he's just a drooling, cum-leaking mess... They'd have to wheel him to class leaking for days."
"You're vile," Sow A shot back, but her cheeks burned, nipples poking like diamonds through her top. "And dumb. Link's clearly been claimed. You don't fuck with another Dom's property."
"Is he really?" Bitch B leaned in, smirking. "There's no binding mark. And Gristle's only here because she fucked up a mission and the Queen stuck her with this babysitting job as punishment. He's technically fair game."
"Are you blind?" Bitch A countered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. "He's drenched in her mana. You can smell the stink of her cunt on him from here. A binding mark is a formality. That scent... that's a claim. It means Link's Domina lets Gristle use him. He's a shared toy, which makes him the sluttiest kind of 'free use.' Touch him, and Gristle will Dust your ass for playing with her things."
Fem A huddled closer, his voice dropping. "You're all half-cocked. He's not 'free use,' he's exclusive. He's part of Domina Elara's pride. But Elara and Gristle? They were a Dom-duo back in the day—rumor is, they still share everything."
A collective, horny sigh rippled through the group, cunts clenching and nipples hardening at the thought. Dom-on-Dom action was pure fantasy fuel—the idea of two alpha beasts sharing a single Fem was an aphrodisiac.
"So Link's getting double-stuffed by legend cocks?" Bitch A whispered, her internal shaft throbbing wetly.
Fem A scoffed, his voice dropping to an almost reverent hush. "It's not called 'double-stuffed,' you brute. It's called being double-bound. It's incredibly rare. A Fem has to be strong enough to handle the mana-flow from two Doms at once without dissolving. It's the ultimate status symbol."
Bitch A's eyes widened. "Double-bound... fuck. No wonder he's a walking wet dream—broken in by prime fuck-meat."
While the students lost themselves in lewd fantasy, the academy's brutal reality was playing out elsewhere. Across the sprawling grounds, the lazy gossip of the common room gave way to the violence of the main sparring arena. Here, there was no time for speculation. There was only the sharp, coppery tang of discharged mana, the percussive slap of flesh on flesh, and the grunts of bodies pushed to their absolute limit.
In the sandy pit, two Bitches danced a lethal fuck-fight: one a hulking brute relying on crude power, the other Lyra, a sleek predator of deadly elegance.
Lyra battled with feral desperation, each strike a scream against her doomed future. Binding to Anya loomed like a jeweled prison, tainted by Belladonna's wild dominance. Here, she was no tool—she was a raging cock-weapon.
Her form blurred, strikes laced with glowing Solid Mana channeled through her inner cocksac, turning skin to armor and fists to hammers. The brute tired fast, mana leaking like wasted cum from sloppy moves. Spotting the gap, Lyra went all-in. Ducking a wild swing, her internal cock extruded with a nasty schlick, hardening into a glossy, veined power-conduit dripping aggressive pre-cum. Risky as hell, but perfect for blasting volatile mana.
Wielding it like a fleshy wand, she surged power into herself, Solid Mana sheathing her in explosive might. No direct cock-strike—just blinding speed. Her leg smashed the brute's with a crack, toppling her into the sand with a grunt. Lyra pounced, straddling the loser's hips, her extruded cunt-cock grinding dominance on the belly. Victory poised.
And then it hit.
Her eyes blanked, her stance crumbling into awkward fumbling. Gasps erupted from the stands—this was the Virus, invading the academy's core. Her cock wilted pathetically, mana cut, slurping back inside with a weak whimper, staining her trousers with failure.
From above, Gristle's smirk twisted to fury. "Fucking pathetic." A headache pounded behind her eyes. She knew this Lyra—Anya's pet project, Belladonna's political casualty. She wanted no part of it, but duty called. Gods, gimme a stiff drink and a willing hole.
She leaped down with a boom, snatching the downed brute and chucking her aside like trash. "Sow! Handle this idiot!" she bellowed.
Then with a bark and a gesture, a mana barrier sealed them in—a crude dome to hush the panicking whelps. The Virus wasn't some fast-spreading airborne contagion, but a slow-acting corruption, barely contagious except through prolonged physical exposure. Still, the barrier would shut the onlookers up. Wasting potential like this was criminal. The female castes were fragile; their one-shot gene imprint was the most vulnerable to the Virus. Doms and Fems, by contrast, were protected by the constant genetic data-flow from their balls, shielding them from the worst of the symptoms.
Lyra staggered, mana sparking wildly, her body quaking.
"What's wrong, slut?" Gristle snarled, advancing, her colossal cock swelling hugely in her pants. "Forgot how to rut? How to finish a kill?"
Lyra's eyes were childlike with terror. "I... don't know the moves, Instructor. I can't… I can't remember."
Gristle's face twisted in disgust. A memory wipe was a death sentence. The official remedies were either months of tedious, resource-draining cum-pumping to rewrite the damaged psyche, or the more practical option: Dust the defect and breed a new one. But Lyra wasn't just any defect. Her K-Pot was near-perfect, a future war-machine too valuable to simply discard. And Gristle, a Dom forged in the old ways, had little patience for tedious remedies. In her mind, there was a third, more direct solution—a shortcut born of pure, arrogant power. Why waste months on a slow drip of mana when a single, overwhelming flood would suffice? It was a classic Dom mindset, an article of faith in a world where sex was the answer to every problem: My cock can fix anything. Her own legacy cum, potent and history-laden, would be enough. A single, hard reaming to brutally overwrite the corrupted genetic weave and reboot the Bitch's entire system. It was arrogant. It was pragmatic. And it was the only way she knew.
"No matter. I'll fix this."
Before Lyra could react, Gristle was on her. It wasn't a fight; it was a claiming. Gristle's massive frame overwhelmed the smaller Bitch, forcing her onto her back in the sand, grinding her face into the dirt. With a grunt of raw, animalistic effort, Gristle tore Lyra's training trousers open, exposing her slick, trembling flesh to the harsh light of the arena.
"The old ways are the best ways," Gristle growled, unfastening her own pants. Her cock, already semi-hard, sprang free with a meaty thwump, a monstrous pillar of flesh that pulsed with raw, dominant power, veins like thick ropes coiling around its length. She knelt between Lyra's trembling legs, her shadow falling over the terrified Bitch like a shroud.
"A proper fucking is all you need," she murmured, her voice a low, filthy promise as she grabbed Lyra's hips, grinding them into the sand. She positioned the thick, wet head of her cock at Lyra's entrance, the obscene purple glans already weeping a thick, syrupy pre-cum that mixed with the sand and Lyra's own terrified wetness. "We'll just write over that your faulty code. I'll pump you so full of my own history, you'll forget you ever had another."
She thrust forward. It was a brutal, dominant, punishing fuck, a violation meant to shatter and remake. Gristle moved with a relentless, piston-like rhythm, her hips slamming into Lyra's, driving her deeper into the sand with each savage thrust. The arena was filled with the wet, slapping sound of their bodies, the grinding of sand against raw flesh, and Lyra's choked, agonized sobs.
But something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
There was no feedback, no ecstatic surge of a pridemate's system greedily absorbing her potent seed. It was like fucking a dead thing, a hollow vessel. Her mana, hot and aggressive, flooded Lyra's system, but it met a wall. It was a masterful display of carnal cultivation, but the seed was spilling into a field that refused to be sown.
Lyra's body convulsed beneath her, but not with the ecstatic spasms of a pridemate receiving a mana-infusion. Her limbs jerked erratically, her mana continuing to flare and sputter like a dying flame. The genetic pathways, the sacred conduits of knowledge, were locked. Gristle's potent, history-laden seed, her very essence, was hammering against an unseen stasis ward it could not breach.
Gristle's hips slowed, her mind racing faster than her thrusts. This is the Virus. The thought was a shard of ice in her gut. And on this Bitch? Lyra. The great potential Anya hoped to forge into her First Blade. The timing was too perfect to be a coincidence.
The Virus… a convenient borderlands plague? No. Gristle's blood ran cold. A virus was a thing of nature, a random, chaotic force. This was anything but. The timing, the target, the specific way it locked down Lyra's genetic pathways—it was too precise, too elegant in its cruelty. This wasn't a plague. It was a curse. A meticulously crafted genetic hex designed to mimic a disease, and it reeked of Belladonna's brand of surgical, magical cruelty. The headache intensified, a sharp spike of pure frustration at being forced to clean up the messy, carnal fallout of a game she wanted no part in.
She pulled out slowly, her massive cock slick with useless seed. A look of profound shock, of dawning, unfamiliar uncertainty, crossed her face. For the first time in a century of absolute, unquestioned dominance, her cock had failed her. The old way—the brutal, biological certainty that any flaw could be fucked out of existence—was useless.
It was useless because this wasn't a biological flaw to be rewritten. It was a magical attack. A curse. Her cock was a tool of genetic programming, a biological key for a biological lock. But Belladonna hadn't just jammed the lock; she had magically transmuted it into something else entirely. She had bypassed the flesh and attacked the very essence, the spirit-script of Lyra's being.
And in that moment of shocking impotence, the true, terrifying scope of the curse became clear. This wasn't a disease to be cured; it was a new form of warfare. A weapon that can render the very foundation of Dom power—the all-conquering cock—obsolete.