The grand hall of the Ivy Court, once a stage for languid, decadent leisure, had been brutally transformed into a chamber of judgment. On tiered platforms of plush pillows and blood-red rugs, the High Nobles of the court were arranged in a grand, silent circle, their gazes sharp and appraising, like vultures at a grim, carnal spectacle. The air was a thick, soupy cocktail of power and cunt—a shimmering, visible haze of liquid mana that tasted of sweat, sex, and the cloying sweetness of overripe ambition. From their elevated thrones, the lounging Doms let their massive, semi-hard cocks rest against their thighs like living scepters, each lazy throb a silent commentary on the unfolding crisis below.
At the very center of this opulent court, on a low, ornate pedestal slick with bodily fluids, the emergency session was in full, brutal swing. The verdict was being delivered not in words, but in the wet, rhythmic sounds of two Doms attempting to pound a curse from the body of Lyra, a Bitch lost to a profound, magical stupor. Her lean, muscular frame was limp, every fiber surrendered to the overwhelming mana that had claimed her consciousness, her body a silent, receptive vessel before the assembled power of the Ivy Court. Her eyes were open, but they were vacant, staring into some unseen vista of shattered sensation, her mind utterly detached from the carnal reality being inflicted upon her flesh.
Gristle's frustration mounted with every fruitless, punishing thrust. Her colossal cock, slick with Lyra's internal fluids, was buried balls-deep in the Bitch's ass, a piston of raw, furious mana slamming into the unresponsive hole with a series of wet, meaty smacks that echoed in the tense hall.
"Come on, you worthless slut! Fight it! Take my mana! Let it burn that sickness out!" she roared, her voice rough as gravel. Her silver mane was a wild, sweat-plastered mess, and her enormous breasts, taut as war drums, bounced violently with each savage plunge. But Lyra's ass remained slack, a dead-flesh tunnel absorbing the punishing force without a single responsive clench, her mana signature a flatline.
With a growl of pure fury, Gristle yanked her massive cock out with a wet, sloppy pop. She grabbed Lyra's limp body by the hips, brutally flipping her over onto her back, spreading her legs wide with a rough jerk. Lyra flopped like a ragdoll, her head lolling to the side, her vacant eyes staring at the ceiling, her gaping cunt exposed to the room.
Gristle's gaze fell on Mistress Hemlock, "Out of the way," Gristle barked, shoving Hemlock's leg aside. "Your precision isn't doing shit. She needs force."
Hemlock withdrew with a quiet hiss of annoyance but offered no protest. Gristle immediately rammed the thick, weeping head of her cock into Lyra's already stretched cunt. It was a wet, gaping maw, and Gristle filled it completely, her hips slamming down with a brutal, squelching impact. She pounded into the unresponsive slit, each thrust a furious attempt to jolt the curse from Lyra's system. "Feel that, you broken toy? Feel my power? Absorb it, damn you!" But it was like fucking a void. The cunt was a hollow vessel, refusing to grip, refusing to drink in the potent mana Gristle was pumping into her.
Enraged, Gristle pulled out again, her cock dripping. Her eyes, burning with a new level of fury, landed on Lyra's slack mouth. She grabbed Lyra by the hair, yanking her head up. She forced her own monstrous, pre-cum-slicked cock into Lyra's mouth, ramming it past her lips, past her teeth, until the Bitch's throat was stretched to its absolute limit. She fucked Lyra's face with a savage, degrading rhythm, her hips pistoning with a violence that made the pedestal shake.
"Swallow my will, you useless cunt! Choke on my power until it burns that magic out of you!" she screamed, her voice cracking with desperation. But there was nothing. Just the limp, unresponsive weight of a body whose soul had already been stolen, her mind lost in a place where even the most brutal violation could not reach.
In a quiet corner of the hall, a wizened old Sow, known for her deep knowledge of mana arts, leaned toward her Bitch attendant. "All fury and no finesse," she murmured, her voice a dry rustle of silk. "She's trying to shatter a lock with a battering ram. This affliction requires weeks of careful, sustained mana-infusion to gently unspool the curse from the genetic pathways. Gristle's arrogance is legendary. Does she truly believe her cock alone can forcibly overwrite a hex that was so meticulously woven?" The Bitch nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the brutal, fruitless spectacle. "She is mad to think it can be done in a single, violent fucking."
Watching from her own nest of crimson silks, Lady Belladonna was a vision of languid, insolent power. She observed Gristle's desperate, sweaty efforts with detached, cruel amusement. Her own colossal cock, a masterpiece of solid-grade cultivation, rested against her thigh, pulsing with a slow, steady rhythm of absolute confidence. Her dark eyes gleamed with a predatory light as she ran a single, manicured finger along its length, a silent mockery of the frantic fucking happening on the pedestal.
"Such a shame," she purred, her voice dripping condescension, loud enough to carry to the struggling Dom. "All that furious pounding, and for what? It seems this one's constitution is as weak as your technique is... uninspired. Some flaws simply can't be fucked away."
From her own throne of cushions across the hall, Dame Wolfsbane's rage finally boiled over. Her monumental cock went rigid against her trousers, a pillar of pure fury, and she slammed a mailed fist down onto the arm of her ornate chair with a crack that silenced the nearby whispers. "Stop your damn games, Belladonna!" she roared, her voice a raw, guttural thing that cut across the hall. "This isn't working! If you've cursed this Bitch, admit it and let's get on with it!" Her breasts, taut as war drums, swelled with the uncontrolled surge of mana, her nipples like angry pebbles, visibly engorging against the fabric of her uniform.
The direct accusation hung in the air, thick and venomous. A ripple of murmurs went through the assembled nobles. Many of them had suspected Belladonna's hand in this; Lyra's sudden affliction was too convenient, too perfectly timed to disrupt a rival's political and sexual alliances. Belladonna simply laughed, a low, throaty sound that was more insulting than any verbal retort.
"My dear Wolfsbane," she said, her hand still lazily stroking her own shaft, "your accusations are as crude as your manners. Why would I waste a perfectly good curse on such a minor piece? If I wanted her out of the way, I'd simply have fucked her into submission myself." Her blatant display of untouchable arrogance made the air crackle with fresh tension. The standoff was palpable, Wolfsbane's raw fury held in check only by the unspoken rules of the court, her entire body trembling with the effort of not lunging across the hall.
It was into this charged silence that Anya finally arrived, her hurried footsteps echoing in the vast hall. She'd clearly been summoned from other duties, her uniform slightly disheveled, her breath coming in short gasps. She froze at the entrance, her eyes widening as she took in the scene: Lyra, a broken doll being used as a fuck-toy by a powerful Dom, and the court locked in a silent, vicious power struggle.
Belladonna's carnivorous smile returned. "Ah, Anya. So glad you could join us. We were just discussing the… unfortunate state of your future pridemate. Such a shame to lose such a promising vessel before you even had a chance to properly bind her."
Anya's composure hardened into a mask of cold fury. Her gaze flickered from Lyra's limp form to Belladonna, a silent, venomous accusation passing between them. A bitter resignation settled in her gut. She had always sensed it—a wavering in Lyra's devotion, a subtle pull towards greater, more reckless power. The Bitch had never been truly hers. Now, seeing her laid out like a broken toy in this transparent political theater, Anya felt not just the sting of public humiliation, but the cold clarity of a poor investment revealed. Why waste the effort to salvage a flawed, disloyal asset? Her cunt clenched, not with sympathy, but with the frustrated hunger of a thwarted ambition. "A tragedy, indeed," Anya said, her voice now laced with ice, the sorrow replaced by a chilling pragmatism. "If her pathways are locked, she is useless. A broken tool. It is best to simply… dust her."
A deep voice cut through the sudden silence, thick with a possessive rumble. "Hold it."
All heads turned to Damask, the Heir to the Ivy Court, who had just entered the hall, his own formidable cock resting against his thigh. His sharp, assessing eyes swept over the scene, landing on Lyra, then on Anya, a flicker of raw, carnal hunger in their depths.
"If no one else will take her," Damask said, his voice a low growl that promised both challenge and a strange, possessive hunger, his cock twitching with a sudden, aggressive arousal, "I will. She is too valuable to simply discard."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall. It was a direct challenge to Anya, and a blatant claim on Lyra's broken, yet still potent, form. A cold dread washed over Anya, instantly chilling her fury into a shard of ice in her gut. The timing. It was too perfect. Belladonna's curse, a convenient and public spectacle. And now Damask, the Heir, swooping in at the precise moment of Anya's calculated withdrawal to claim the prize. It was a pincer movement, elegant in its brutality. And the Heir would never make such a blatant move, challenging a binding between two noble houses, without the silent, implicit approval of the Domina herself. This wasn't just Belladonna's game. This was a royal decree delivered through carnal politics. They were working together, all of them, to strip her of this alliance, to isolate her. The realization was a cage snapping shut around her. Her fury, however, would not be contained. She spun, her eyes blazing, no longer addressing Damask but the throne itself. "An explanation will be required, Domina!" Anya's voice rang out, sharp and accusatory. "Lyra is of the SteelClaw clan! Do you think they will stand for this public humiliation? For their Bitch to be cursed, broken, and then claimed as royal property like some stray? This is an insult not just to me, but to a powerful ally! You risk not only my support, but the loyalty of the entire SteelClaw clan with this transparent power play!"
Domina Ivyvale's voice cut through the rising tension like a physical force, a blade of pure Plasma-tier power. "Enough."
Her absolute authority blanketed the room, instantly quelling Wolfsbane's lingering rage and silencing Anya's furious accusations. Even Hemlock, a predator in her own right, showed a flicker of cautious respect. Gristle, still brutally impaling Lyra, paused her efforts, her body heaving, her cock still buried deep. Domina Ivyvale's gaze, cold and ancient, settled on Anya. "My heir's appetites are his own, Anya. This was his decision, not a decree from the throne." Her voice was a silken purr, but with an edge of steel that promised consequences for insubordination. "You and the SteelClaw clan will be compensated for this... inconvenience. Generously. But let us not pretend your concern is for Lyra. A moment ago, you were ready to see her dusted. A broken tool, I believe you called her. It should make no difference to you whether that tool is discarded or repurposed. Do not presume to see plots in the shadows where there are only the whims of the powerful. This court will have order."
Her final words were a clear dismissal. The session was over, but the unspoken promise of future fuckings and forced submissions simmered in the venomous air, a promise of carnage yet to come.