The air in the upper archives of the Ivy Combat Academy was stale, thick with the scent of ancient, petrified bone-shelves and the dry, papery whisper of forgotten lore. It was a place of silence and study, a sanctuary Milkwood "Milky" Ashcroft usually cherished. Today, however, the silence was a breeding ground for a particularly venomous strain of resentment. Her pen, usually a blur of meticulous note-taking, hovered over a fresh page, its gilded nib unmoving. Her mind wasn't on the alchemical properties of Gristle Seed, but on the whispers that had slithered through the court like a poison.
Marigold.
The name was a bitter taste on her tongue. An outsider. A Sow from some backwater clan, brought in as a political token, and now… now she was the subject of court gossip. Whispers that Damask, her Damask, favored the girl. That he found her "softness" an "alluring contrast." Some even dared to suggest the unthinkable: that this foreign cunt might be named his Prime Sow.
Milky's jaw tightened, the delicate muscles beneath her pale skin bunching into hard knots. An Ashcroft, second to a Nightshade? The idea was a physical insult. She was nobility. Her bloodline was a tapestry of power, woven through generations of strategic breeding and ruthless cultivation. Marigold was a loose thread, a cheap, foreign dye that threatened to bleed all over the masterpiece.
It wasn't official, of course. Her binding to Damask was a matter of time, a political and biological certainty. Domina Ivyvale was still cultivating her heir, tempering his power before he began his own journey to the Raw Liquid state. Once he did, their union would be formalized. Milky would finally feel his Gristle Seeds planted deep within her, the official, irrevocable cockbinding that would seal their destinies. But this delay, this limbo, had created a vacuum. And this… Marigold… was filling it.
A cold, sharp thing coiled in her gut. Jealousy. She would never admit it, not even to herself. It was beneath her. This was a matter of propriety, of maintaining the natural order. She simply needed to assess the asset. To see what Damask found so valuable in this unseasoned piece of flesh. To test her.
Her decision made, Milky put down her pen. A slow, cruel smile touched her lips, a perfect, vicious curve that held none of the warmth her Sow-caste was known for. She would be generous. She would offer the little Nightshade a private lesson in the ways of the Ivy Court. An education she would not soon forget.
Marigold found the summons slipped beneath her chamber door, an elegant piece of parchment sealed with the Ashcroft sigil. It was a polite, almost formal request for her presence in one of the academy's private study lounges. A chance to "discuss the finer points of court etiquette," it read. Marigold, still struggling to navigate the treacherous currents of Ivy politics, saw it as an olive branch from the very Sow she was rumored to be displacing. She went, her heart a nervous flutter in her chest.
The lounge was opulent and deserted, draped in deep emerald silks that absorbed the sound and the light, creating an atmosphere of suffocating intimacy. Milky was waiting, perched on the edge of a velvet divan, a book open in her lap. She looked every bit the serene, studious noble, her pristine uniform immaculate, her impossibly large breasts pressing against the fabric, their sheer size a testament to her potent, unbound mana.
"Marigold," Milky said, her voice a silken purr that did nothing to hide the chill beneath. "Thank you for coming. I thought it was time we had a proper chat."
"Of course, Lady Ashcroft," Marigold replied, offering a respectful bow. "I appreciate the invitation."
"Oh, please," Milky waved a dismissive hand, her smile never reaching her cold, green eyes. "Think of it less as an invitation and more as a… required tutorial. You see, there are rumors. Unflattering ones. That our Lord Damask has taken a special interest in you. And while his appetites are his own, his choice of Prime Sow is a matter of state. A role that requires a certain… caliber."
Marigold's blood ran cold. This was no friendly chat. This was an interrogation. "I only wish to serve the pride as best I can," she murmured, her own nascent power feeling thin and weak in the face of Milky's aristocratic confidence.
"As a vessel, you mean," Milky corrected, her voice turning sharp. She rose from the divan, her movements a study in predatory grace. "And a vessel must be tested. To see if it can hold what is poured into it. To see if it cracks under pressure." She stopped directly in front of Marigold, her taller frame casting a shadow over the smaller Sow. "On your knees."
The command was absolute, laced with the unquestionable authority of her bloodline. Marigold's body, conditioned for obedience to a higher rank, betrayed her. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the plush rug, her face now level with Milky's perfectly flat stomach.
"Let's see the assets, then," Milky sneered, her eyes dropping to Marigold's chest. Before Marigold could react, Milky's hands shot out, grabbing her breasts with a rough, possessive grip that made her gasp. The fabric of her uniform was no protection against the strength in those fingers. Milky squeezed, hard, her thumbs grinding into Marigold's nipples. "Pathetic. Barely a handful. Do you really think these little milk-sacs can store the kind of mana Damask will produce? He needs a true reservoir, not a puddle."
A sharp, searing pain shot through Marigold as Milky twisted, her knuckles digging into the soft flesh, wringing her tits like wet rags. A choked sob tore from Marigold's throat, a sound that was half pain, half a horrifying, burgeoning pleasure. The violation was so direct, so intimate, it bypassed her mind and went straight to her core, making her cunt clench with a hot, wet pulse.
"I want to taste what Damask finds so appealing," Milky whispered, her voice a filthy caress of sound as she released Marigold's bruised breasts. Her hands moved to the waistband of her uniform skirt, unfastening it with a slow, deliberate motion. She let it fall, revealing a pair of sheer, lace-trimmed panties that did little to hide the soft, auburn curls of her mound. "I want to see if a Nightshade cunt tastes of anything more than desperation. Lick me."
Marigold stared, her mind reeling. This was a brutal assertion of dominance from another Sow. But the command hung in the air, thick with unspoken threats. Trembling, she leaned forward. Milky's fingers tangled in her hair, a surprisingly strong grip, and guided her mouth to the damp lace.
The taste was electric—musk, female heat, and the sharp, metallic tang of pure, unadulterated arousal. Milky let out a low, guttural moan as Marigold's tongue tentatively traced the outline of her clit through the thin fabric. "More," she commanded, her hips giving a slight, demanding buck. She pulled the panties aside, exposing her glistening, swollen folds. "Use your tongue, you worthless little sow. Show me what that mouth can do."
Marigold obeyed, her own body responding with a traitorous flicker of heat. She lapped at Milky's clit, tasting the sweet, potent nectar of a Sow whose power was far more cultivated than her own. Milky's hips began to move in a slow, grinding rhythm, her moans growing deeper, more animalistic. She was feeding off Marigold's humiliation, her own mana surging with every lick, every desperate suckle.
But this was just the appetizer. As Milky's arousal peaked, a strange, powerful thrum began to emanate from her core. Marigold felt it against her tongue, a deep, resonant vibration that was both terrifying and intoxicating.
"You think this is all a Sow is good for?" Milky hissed, her voice thick with lust and contempt. "Being a wet, willing hole? We are Ashcrofts. We are architects of the flesh. We take what we want."
With a visible ripple beneath her slick skin, her clitoris began to transform. The small, sensitive nub pulsed with a surge of raw mana, elongating, thickening, hardening with an audible, fleshy squelch. Veins erupted along its length as it grew, stretching into a formidable, dick-like shaft, easily six inches long and as thick as Marigold's wrist, its head a deep, angry purple, weeping a thin, clear fluid that tasted of pure, dominant power.
Marigold stared in horror and awe, her mouth still slick with Milky's juices. She had never seen another Sow do this with such speed, such raw, aggressive force.
"That's right," Milky purred, her new cock twitching with a life of its own. She grabbed a fistful of Marigold's hair, yanking her head back. "Now you get to taste real power. Open your mouth. And you will take every single, fucking inch."
She rammed the head of her clit-cock past Marigold's lips, forcing her jaw wide, the sheer girth of it an agonizing, breathtaking violation. Marigold gagged, tears springing to her eyes as the thick shaft pushed deep into her throat, stretching her to her absolute limit. Milky didn't give her a moment to adjust. Her hips began to pound, a brutal, punishing rhythm that was less about pleasure and more about utter, crushing dominance. She fucked Marigold's face with a savage, relentless force, her hips slamming forward, each deep, gagging stroke a political statement, a brutal lesson in power.
Marigold's mind fractured, a torrent of shame, terror, and a horrifying, burgeoning flicker of arousal flooding her senses. She was being violated, dominated, claimed by another Sow, a rival who was proving, with every brutal thrust, that she was the superior vessel, the more potent force.
Milky roared as her orgasm hit, her body going rigid. She didn't release seed, but a gushing torrent of thick, hot, mana-rich fluid—a Sow's potent nectar—flooded Marigold's throat, forcing her to swallow or choke. With a final, deep thrust, Milky pulled her now-softening cock from Marigold's trembling lips, a string of saliva and her own fluid connecting them for a moment before it snapped.
She looked down at the dazed, weeping Sow at her feet, her expression one of cold, triumphant satisfaction. Her clit was already retracting, shrinking back to its normal size, the monstrous display of power receding as quickly as it had appeared.
"There," Milky said, her voice laced with finality as she adjusted her uniform. "A proper education. Now you know your place. You are nothing. A temporary amusement. Remember that the next time you think of aspiring to a station so far above your own."
She turned and walked away, leaving Marigold a sobbing, used mess on the floor, the taste of Ashcroft dominance a searing, unforgettable brand on her soul. As the minutes stretched into a silent, humiliating eternity, Marigold slowly pushed herself up. Her throat was raw, her face slick with tears and Milky's essence. But as the initial shock subsided, a new, strange sensation began to prickle at her skin. It was in her breasts. A faint, alien tingle, like a phantom touch. She looked down, her hands instinctively coming up to cup the aching flesh. It wasn't just the memory of Milky's cruel grip; it was something deeper. A subtle, resonant hum that wasn't her own. Milky's mana. A trace of it had been left behind, a microscopic brand that was now subtly influencing the mana stored in her own tits, making it buzz with a foreign, dominant energy. She had been marked, not with a visible sigil, but with an intimate, internal violation that would linger long after the bruises faded.