The first lesson in powerlessness was delivered not with a whisper, but with the wet, percussive slap of flesh on flesh. It was the only law in Domina Ivyvale's private cultivation chamber, a brutal rhythm hammered out on the slick, weeping cunt of a visiting Sow from the Sunstone clan—a new vassal, a political offering that, by all rights, should have been Damask's to break in and bind. Instead, Damask was forced to watch, to kneel on the cold obsidian floor and bear witness to the very act that had once defined her existence, now performed with a casual, soul-crushing mastery that was a universe away from her own shattered reality.
Her mother, the Queen of the Ivy Court, was a towering presence, her monumental cock a pillar of Plasma-tier power buried to the hilt in the Sow's body. The air was a suffocating, soupy cocktail of cunt-stink, raw mana, and the cloying sweetness of a nearby Fem's nectar. This was not a fuck of passion; it was a political statement, a lesson in what Damask had lost, a public usurpation of her authority as Heir.
"This is the power that holds prides together," Domina Ivyvale's voice was a cold, silken purr that cut through the wet sounds of her fucking. "This is the power that forges alliances, that breaks rivals. This was your duty to perform. Prove you are worthy of reclaiming it, or your pridemates will be redistributed to those who can still make them scream."
With a final, contemptuous thrust, the Domina pulled out, leaving the Sunstone Sow a gasping, broken mess on the silks. She dismissed the woman with a flick of her wrist, not even gracing her with a backward glance as attendants scurried to clean her up and lead her away. Then, her cold, appraising gaze fell upon Damask. She strode over, her own massive cock still slick and semi-hard, and crouched before her kneeling daughter, grabbing her chin with a grip like steel.
"Look at you," the Domina sneered, her voice dropping to a low, intimate, and utterly venomous whisper. "Pathetic. Without your cock and balls, you're no better than a Bitch, all ambition and no tool to enforce it. Worse," she purred, her thumb brushing over Damask's trembling lips, "you're just a hole. Like a pretty, useless Fem waiting to be filled. A Dom who cannot claim what is hers will find her assets used by others. Your Bitches will be torn from your side, your Sows taken and bred by stronger Doms, and you will never even earn the right to claim a Fem of your own."
The words were a violation, a filthy, incestuous threat that was more terrifying than any physical blow.
"And as for the broken Dom herself?" the Domina continued, her voice a filthy caress. "When her pride is scattered, she is shattered. She becomes a thing to be used, a vessel for another's power. A stronger Dom takes her, pins her to her own bed, and stretches that tight cunt with a real cock. She is fucked until her mind unravels, drained of what little mana she has left, and dusted like the worthless thing she has become. Reclaim your power, Damask. Forge your weapon anew. Or I will be that stronger Dom. I will take you myself. Do you understand me, Heir?"
Each word was a nail in the coffin of Damask's pride. Her own cock, once a monolith of burgeoning power, was now a limp, useless piece of flesh against her thigh. Her balls were cold, unresponsive stones. The sight of her mother's absolute, carnal authority was a physical torment, a phantom ache in a limb that was no longer there. The humiliation was a brand on her soul.
The next day, the true degradation began. Domina Ivyvale, under the guise of "assessing the stability of the Heir's assets," summoned Damask's pride to her private council chamber, a sanctum where only the most powerful were permitted. Damask was forced to kneel at the center of the room, her cock a limp, useless piece of flesh, as her pridemates—Kestrel, Marigold, Milky, and the still-dazed Lyra—were brought forward. The highest-ranking Doms of the inner circle—those privy to the deepest secrets of the throne—were summoned to "inspect" them. It was a brutal, carnal violation disguised as political necessity. Damask watched, her jaw clenched so tight a tooth cracked, as another Dom ran a possessive hand over Kestrel's lean, muscular flank. She saw a sneering courtier force a finger into Milky's mouth to "test her receptivity." But the true torment came when Lady Belladonna approached Marigold.
Belladonna's touch was a slow, deliberate poison. She cupped Marigold's breast, her thumb rubbing the nipple into a hard, aching point, her eyes locked on Damask's the entire time. "Such a fine specimen," Belladonna purred, her voice a venomous caress. "Untapped. It would be a shame for such fertile ground to lie fallow for long." The silent, filthy promise in her eyes—I will fuck her. I will fill her with my seed while you watch—was a fresh, twisting blade in Damask's gut.
Later that evening, the final insult was delivered. A courtier arrived at Damask's chambers bearing a velvet-wrapped package. Inside, nestled on a bed of black silk, was a dildo. It was a masterpiece of obscene artistry, carved from polished obsidian and pulsing with a faint, malevolent mana. It was also a perfect, to-the-last-vein replica of Lady Belladonna's own colossal cock. A small, elegant card was tucked beside it. The script was a cruel, feminine flourish: Since you no longer have a tool of your own, perhaps your pridemates can find some use for this. Get well soon, Heir.
In the days that followed, the pride closed ranks. Kestrel became Damask's shadow, her loyalty a silent, unshakeable fortress. Milky, ever the pragmatist, spun a web of half-truths to keep the court's vultures at bay. They all knew Damask had to start again, from the agonizing climb of the Filament stage.
It was Gristle who saw through the charade. The battle-scarred old Dom cornered Damask in a deserted training hall, slamming a copy of the Testament of the Rod onto a weapons rack. "The court will offer you sympathy and sharpened knives," she growled. "I offer you a solution. The old ways are the best ways. Stop whining and start fucking. Your pridemates are your forge. Use them." The gift was an act of profound, if brutal, loyalty—a weapon for the inevitable fight to come.
The secret inspection had planted the seeds of rumor, whispers that slithered through the inner circles of the court like a poison. The sharp-eyed nobles who had been present had seen the Heir kneel, had witnessed her pridemates handled by others. But whispers were not confirmation. It was Lady Belladonna who turned those whispers into a public execution. The first shot was fired not with a blade, but with a public "apology." Her face a perfect mask of concerned sympathy, she made her move in the open court, a stage where every word would be carried by a thousand tongues to every corner of the Ivy Kingdom. With a grand, theatrical gesture, she announced a "boon" to aid the Heir, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Sometimes," Belladonna purred, her gaze locking with Damask's, "when an Heir is... over-burdened... it falls to her loyal subjects to help tend to her... properties." The insinuation was a venomous caress, a public confession that she had already been enjoying fruits from Damask's orchard. Her words masterfully transformed the elite's rumor into public fact, exposing Damask's condition to the entire court. The whispers died, replaced by shocked, hungry stares. The wolves had the scent of blood.
The exposure forced Domina Ivyvale's hand. An emergency court session was summoned. "To aid our beloved Heir in her time of need," Domina Ivyvale announced, her voice echoing with false warmth, "and to soothe the dishonor of the recent inspections, the throne bestows a gift of apology."
From the wings, a figure was led forward. A Fem. Petunia. A masterpiece of his caste, a C-Apt 5 from a prized lineage. The insult was a physical blow. To gift a Fem to a Dom who had lost her cock was a deep and vicious cruelty. It was a test of the highest, most sadistic order.
But it was worse than that. As Petunia knelt, a scent reached Damask, faint but unmistakable beneath his own terrified nectar. The dark, earthy, and impossibly refined musk of Lady Belladonna. The truth slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. Sampled. He had been used. This wasn't an apology; it was the final twist of the knife. Her mother had permitted Damask's chief rival to take the first taste of a prize that should have been hers alone. It was a public branding of her new, lowered status. She was a cripple who would be fed another's leftovers.
"The claiming will take place now," Domina Ivyvale commanded. "In the presence of the inner pride."
They were led to a smaller chamber. Kestrel, Milky, Lyra, and Marigold formed a tense, silent circle. Petunia was pushed to his knees before Damask. This was it. The ultimate humiliation, or the ultimate declaration of her unyielding will. She would scour Belladonna's scent from his soul. This wasn't just a claiming; it was an exorcism.
Damask knelt before the terrified Fem. There was no monstrous cock to claim him with, no overwhelming surge of mana to bend his will. There was only her. Her hands, her mouth, and the raw, unadulterated force of a will that refused to be broken.
Her fingers, surprisingly gentle, traced the line of his jaw. "Look at me," she commanded, her voice a low, hypnotic whisper. She leaned in, her lips brushing his, a soft, almost tender kiss that tasted of his fear, her fury, and the faint, foul ghost of Belladonna.
Then, her hands moved. They were instruments of pure, psychological domination. One hand tangled in his hair, a possessive, claiming grip. The other found his small, useless cocklet, teasing, stroking, commanding a response. She took his mouth again, this time with a bruising, all-consuming force, her tongue not just invading, but cleansing, scrubbing his mouth of another's taste. At the same time, her fingers found his tight, virgin asshole. She didn't penetrate. She just pressed, a single, insistent finger against his pucker, a promise of a violation she could no longer deliver, but a torment that was just as potent.
The sensory overload shattered him. He was being claimed by a storm of pure will. He began to sob, his hips bucking, his small cock leaking a thin, sweet nectar.
"You are mine," she growled against his skin, the words a physical vibration that resonated in his very bones. "Not hers. Not anyone else's. You will serve me. You will obey me. You will find your only pleasure in my touch."
The terrified Fem screamed as his orgasm hit, a violent, full-body convulsion that left him a sobbing, shuddering mess at her feet, his will utterly, irrevocably broken and remade in her image.
Damask rose, her face a mask of cold, triumphant satisfaction. She had won.
The act, however, had consequences. A Dom who could command such loyalty without a cock was a terrifying, unpredictable force. The court was a powder keg, and she was the spark.
Days later, the summons came. "You will lead the expedition to the Ashen Grove," Domina Ivyvale announced. "The Gene-Virus that plagues the borderlands must be cleansed at its source. It is a task worthy of the Heir."
It was a death sentence disguised as a promotion. A suicide mission to a blighted, cursed land.
Damask accepted. It was not a choice. It was an exile. But as she gathered her fractured, loyal pride—Kestrel, Milky, Marigold, the recovering Lyra, and her new, utterly devoted, and deeply shamed Fem, Petunia—she felt not despair, but a cold, hard resolve. The stink of Belladonna's insult still clung to him, a source of quiet friction within the group. Milky's gaze often lingered on him with contempt, while Kestrel's was fiercely, almost painfully, protective. He was their shame and their burden, a living symbol of their Dom's fall from grace.
They had tried to break her, Damask thought, her jaw tightening with a cold fury. They had stripped her of her power, humiliated her, and sent her into the jaws of death. But they had failed. The architecture of her ruin would become the foundation of her new empire. The Ashen Grove would not be her tomb. It would be her forge.