Content Warning: This story includes scenes depicting attempted sexual assault and may be disturbing to some readers.
Petunia's blood ran cold. The scream that should have torn from his throat was a choked, terrified squeak, swallowed by the oppressive air of the clearing. Before him, the Dom stood like a monolith of crude, brutal power, a cruel smile twisting a scarred face as a thick, unlovely cudgel of a cock pulsed with raw, greedy energy.
"Two little lambs," the Dom growled, a voice like grinding stones. "Straying from the flock and playing such... intimate games."
The Dom didn't move forward. Instead, a hand was raised, revealing a dull, grey stone clched in its palm. With a grunt, the Dom's fingers clenched, crushing the object. A puff of acrid dust escaped the fist, instantly expanding into a wave of invisible force. It wasn't a physical blow, but a crushing weight, a crude but potent Gas Mana spell released from a one-use artifact, thickening the very air and pressing down on Petunia and Lyra with the force of a physical law.
Petunia collapsed, his limbs refusing to obey, his lungs fighting for every breath. He was pinned, a helpless insect under a giant's thumb, his own meager mana reserves sputtering under the immense pressure.
He looked over at Lyra, expecting to see her crumpled and vacant. But something was wrong. The crushing pressure, the imminent threat of violation and death, had acted like a lightning strike to her curse-addled mind. The fog in her eyes was burning away, replaced by a cold, sharp, and utterly furious clarity. The sluggish, chaotic mana around her body snapped into focus, the sickly green aura hardening into the focused, kinetic blue of a Bitch ready for war.
"Get... off... me," Lyra snarled, the words guttural and sharp. Her body, trembling with effort, began to rise, pushing back against the invisible weight. Her muscles, honed for combat, strained as she forced herself to one knee, her teeth bared in a defiant snarl.
The enemy Dom's eyes widened in genuine surprise. This was not the reaction of a dazed, cursed creature. This was the defiance of a warrior. The cruel smile vanished, replaced by a grimace of annoyance.
"Stubborn," the Dom grunted, a cruel, hungry light entering its eyes. "I like that. Pride! Break them for me. Bitch, fuck that defiance right out of her. Fem, present the pretty one. I want to hear them both screaming my name when I'm ready for them."
From the shadows of the twisted trees, three more figures emerged. A lean, muscular Bitch, her own internal phallus already sliding from her cunt with a wet, slick sound of readiness. A curvy Sow, her hands already glowing with malevolent energy. And another Fem, his face a mask of cold obedience. It wasn't a random bandit. It was an ambush. A full pride.
The enemy Bitch was on Lyra in a flash, a predator pouncing on wounded prey. She slammed Lyra back to the ground with a grunt, her body a heavy, muscular weight that drove the air from Lyra's lungs. With a vicious sneer, the Bitch grabbed a fistful of Lyra's tunic and tore it open with a sound of ripping fabric, exposing the pale, soft skin of her stomach and the curve of her breasts to the humid air. "Gonna make you my personal cocksleeve," the Bitch snarled, her breath hot and reeking of raw meat and arousal. She drove a knee between Lyra's thighs, forcing her legs apart with a brutal, grinding pressure that made Lyra gasp in pain. The thick, veined cock that had erupted from the Bitch's cunt was a grotesque marvel of flesh, slick with an aggressive, almost greasy mana and radiating a palpable heat. The Bitch ground the rough, heated flesh of the shaft against Lyra's mound, a violating, circular motion that sought to dominate the very source of Lyra's own power. "Let's see that cockwomb of yours," the Bitch hissed, pressing the swollen head of her dick against Lyra's cunt lips, "I'm going to fuck you with my cock until yours learns to call me mommy."
At the same time, the enemy Fem moved with a chilling, detached efficiency. He grabbed a fistful of Petunia's hair, yanking his head back before slamming him face-down into the damp earth. Petunia struggled, his hands scrabbling for purchase in the mud, trying to push himself up, but the Fem was a rock. A sharp, stinging slap cracked across his ass cheek, the sound echoing in the tense silence. "Stay down," the Fem commanded, his voice a dead, emotionless monotone. He hooked a gloved hand into the waistband of Petunia's trousers and tore them down with a single, violent rip, exposing his pale, trembling ass to the oppressive air. The sudden cold was a shock against his heated skin. "The Dom likes her toys presented." He used his body weight to pry Petunia's knees wider, forcing his legs apart until his hips ached. With one hand still tangled in Petunia's hair, forcing his face into the dirt, the other spread his cheeks, arching his spine to push his vulnerable hole upwards. Petunia cried out, a high, thin sound of pure terror and exquisite humiliation.
The enemy Sow, her hands still crackling with malevolent energy, sauntered over, a predatory grin spreading across her face. "Oh, he's a pretty one," she purred, her gaze fixed on Petunia's exposed, trembling flesh. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in the details of his form, the perfect receptivity of his frame. "And what a find... a natural C-apt 5, just waiting to be claimed. No wonder they keep him so close." From a pouch at her hip, she produced a circlet of obsidian-dark metal, etched with pulsating violet runes. It wasn't a crude cage, but an elegant, cruel piece of jewelry, with a delicate ring designed to encircle the base of a cock and a form-fitting cup for the balls. Her own arousal was a palpable force, her large breasts swelling as her clit began to magically expand, pushing out from her folds as a thick, glistening, and unmistakably phallic shape.
She knelt behind the pinned Fem, her voice a dirty promise right in his ear. "This is a Bonding Collar, little pet." Petunia's breath hitched, a wave of cold, chemical dread washing through him that was worse than the physical pressure pinning him down. As a courtesan, he knew exactly what that was. It was the boogeyman from the training chambers, a story whispered among Fems to ensure obedience. It was a tool of absolute psychic violation. The collar didn't just bind the body; it hijacked the soul. It worked by creating a permanent, magical addiction, a chemical craving forged in the fires of a forced orgasm. The victim's very mana signature would be rewritten, their will shattered and replaced with an insatiable, agonizing need for the one who forged the bond. It was a craving that felt like the sweetest poison, an itch deep in the soul that could never be satisfied by anyone else. He never, ever thought he'd see one, let alone feel its cold weight on his flesh.
The Sow roughly grabbed Petunia's small, soft cock and balls, her touch possessive and cruel as she forced the cold, unyielding metal of the device around him. It clicked shut with a sound of chilling finality. "Once it's locked on, I just have to fuck that sweet little ass of yours and make you cum. Your orgasm will seal the pact. After that, you'll be mine." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a filthy whisper that was both a threat and a promise. "Our Dom will fuck you until you can't remember your own name, and when she's done, I'll be there to lick you clean. You'll be our shared toy, and you'll learn to crave it more than air." Her clit-dick, now fully engorged and dripping with slick mana, pressed against his tightly puckered hole. "But first," she purred, "we need to loosen you up." Two of her fingers, glowing with the same purple energy as her weapon, plunged into his tight, resisting hole. Petunia screamed, a sharp, piercing sound of violation. "That's it, little slut," the Sow cooed, beginning to work her fingers in and out in a brutal, violating rhythm. "Just a worthless little fuckhole for me to use. I'm going to stretch you so wide you'll never be tight again." Petunia's struggling ceased, replaced by a full-body shudder of despair. The fight drained out of him, his breath catching in a sob as the first hot tears began to trace paths through the dirt on his cheeks.
But that was the final spark on a mountain of dry tinder. The sound of Petunia's heartbroken sob, the sight of the Sow's monstrously engorged clit-dick poised to violate him, the feel of the Bitch's grinding cock against her own flesh—it all coalesced into a single, blinding point of white-hot rage. A guttural roar of pure fury tore from Lyra's throat. This was no longer about survival; it was about protecting her pride. Her own mana, though a guttering flame, flared with desperate, impossible kinetic force. She slammed an elbow back into the Bitch's ribs with a sickening crack, followed by a powerful, bucking surge of her hips that threw the attacker off balance.
As the Bitch stumbled, Lyra twisted, her own internal phallus pulsing with a desperate, defensive energy as she scrambled to get a leg under her. She came up in a low crouch, a cornered animal ready to tear out throats. The enemy Bitch, Sow, and Fem paused, their expressions shifting from predatory confidence to genuine surprise.
"She broke the pressure spell," the Sow murmured, her clit-dick retracting slightly in shock.
Lyra didn't give them time to regroup. She exploded forward, a blur of motion. Her first target was the Fem, who she met with a brutal shoulder check that sent him staggering back. She then spun, a leg sweeping out to catch the Sow behind the knees, sending the larger woman toppling with a surprised yelp.
But the enemy Bitch was a seasoned warrior. She met Lyra's charge with a perfectly timed block, her forearm deflecting the wild punch. "Got some fight in you after all," she grunted, a flicker of respect in her eyes. The two Bitches engaged in a flurry of strikes and blocks, a desperate dance of survival versus overwhelming force. Lyra, running on pure adrenaline and rage, fought with a ferocity that belied her cursed state, but her movements were raw, unrefined. The enemy Bitch was disciplined, her counters economical and brutal.
The Sow, recovering, unleashed a wave of binding mana, a sticky, invisible force that wrapped around Lyra's ankles, making her stumble. It was the opening the Bitch needed. A solid, mana-infused punch slammed into Lyra's gut, doubling her over with a choked gasp. A second blow, a vicious kick to the side, sent her sprawling to the ground, her vision swimming with black spots.
The three bandits stood over her, breathing heavily. "Damn," the Bitch panted, rubbing her bruised ribs. "For a cursed stray, she's got the fire of a pride's First Blade. A shame we have to break her." She raised a foot, preparing to stomp down and end the fight for good.
Just as her boot began to descend, a blur of motion from the trees answered the call. Kestrel, moving with the silent, deadly grace of a predator, exploded into the clearing, intercepting the attack with a brutal clothesline that sent the other Bitch sprawling.
"Get away from them," Kestrel snarled, her voice a whipcrack of command as she landed in a defensive crouch before Lyra and Petunia.
The fight erupted into chaos. Kestrel engaged the enemy Bitch in a furious ballet of skill versus skill. In the background, Milky, her face a mask of pale concentration, began to glow with a soft, nurturing light. A visible stream of refined liquid mana, shimmering and potent, flowed from her outstretched hands, not towards the wounded, but directly into Kestrel. The Sow's power surged into the Bitch, a clear sign of a pride in sync, of a Sow who knew her place was to fuel her protector. Kestrel's movements became a blur, her strikes hitting with an added, bone-jarring force, a testament to a Bitch who knew exactly how to use her Sow.
Lyra, now fully lucid, met the enemy Sow's spellcasting with her own desperate, instinctual defenses, her body a shield against the waves of hostile mana. The enemy Fem, abandoning the now-protected Petunia, moved to support his pride, his face a mask of cold obedience.
The odds were still impossible. Damask's fractured pride was outnumbered and outmatched.
Just as the enemy Dom began to advance on the fray, a wave of dark energy pulsed through the clearing. The ground at the Dom's feet turned into a sucking quagmire as thorny, black-blossomed vines erupted from the earth, lashing out like whips to wrap around straining legs. Damask and Marigold had arrived.
"Kestrel, their Bitch is overextended! Marigold, the Sow!" Damask's voice was not the mana-infused command of a Domina, but the raw, desperate bark of a cornered animal. It was pure will, sharp and cold. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, powerless drumbeat against the symphony of violence she could only watch.
The Dom roared in fury, trapped in the mud, thorns tearing at thick thighs. With a surge of raw Solid Mana, the Dom shattered the earth, breaking free from the vines. "Enough of these games!" the Dom bellowed, focusing a terrifying amount of power into one fist, preparing to end Kestrel.
"Now!" Damask screamed.
It happened in a heartbeat. Kestrel, her body still humming with the raw, aggressive mana she had forcibly processed from Milky, didn't try to attack. Instead, she slammed her palms to the ground, a wave of pure, disciplined Bitch-energy surging outwards—a kinetic cage of force.
At the exact same moment, Marigold, her face a mask of pained concentration, reached for the alien power Damask had forced her to confront. She didn't just command the vines; she unleashed the raw, corrupted mana itself. A torrent of dark, thorny energy, wild and predatory, erupted from her, not as a physical thing, but as a wave of pure, binding will. It manifested as a wave of beautiful, impossible flowers—vibrant marigolds of orange and gold that bloomed in the air, their petals edged with razor-sharp thorns. The air filled with a sickly-sweet, poisonous scent, a beautiful and deadly miasma that spoke of the Nightshade's insidious legacy.
The two forces, one born of disciplined rage and the other of tainted, beautiful agony, slammed into the enemy Dom from opposite sides. The Dom's eyes widened in shock. The sheer volume of mana was staggering. A pride this weak, this fractured, should have been running on fumes.
But it was the nature of the power that was truly shocking, and its effect was immediate and brutally carnal. Kestrel's mana slammed into the Dom like bands of invisible steel, a crushing force that sought to squeeze the very power out of him. Marigold's, by contrast, was an insidious poison, a cancerous bloom of arousal that seeped into his veins. The two energies collided at the very source of the Dom's power: his thick, pulsing cock. Kestrel's force tried to crush it, to force it limp and useless. At the same time, Marigold's poison did the opposite, forcing a grotesque, painful erection. The Dom's cock was caught in a violent paradox, spasming and twitching erratically as the two incompatible forces tore it apart from within. Veins bulged with black, corrupted mana, the shaft twisting into an unnatural shape as it was simultaneously crushed and engorged. The Dom was frozen, not just by a cage of force, but by the agonizing, contradictory signals that were turning his primary weapon into a monument of twitching, useless agony.
The enemy pride froze, their faces a mixture of shock and horror. Their leader, a being of overwhelming physical power, was completely immobilized by a wounded Bitch and a soft-looking Sow.
The Dom's eyes, wide with disbelief and a flicker of genuine fear, darted between Kestrel and Marigold, then settled on Damask. The calculation was swift and brutal. The intel was bad. This was supposed to be a simple snatch-and-grab. Subdue the C-apt 5 Fem, and be gone. But the cursed Bitch had fought like a demon, taking on three of them. The other Bitch and Sow were working together with a terrifying efficiency that suggested their pride was anything but fractured. And this... this beautiful, poisonous magic was something he had never seen before. This wasn't the easy prey they had been promised. The cost of this fight had just become unacceptably high.
"Pride! Retreat!" The command was a choked grunt, forced through paralyzed vocal cords.
The enemy Bitch, Sow, and Fem didn't hesitate. They broke off their attacks, dragging their frozen leader from the magical cage and disappearing back into the twisted woods as quickly as they had appeared.
Silence descended on the clearing, broken only by the ragged, desperate gasps of Damask's pride. They had won. Or, more accurately, they had survived.
Damask collapsed to her knees, the adrenaline leaving her body in a rush, leaving only the cold, empty void behind. Kestrel helped Lyra to her feet, while Milky, her face pale, rushed to Marigold's side as the Sow swayed, the backlash of wielding such a dark power leaving her drained and trembling. Petunia, still shaking, was helped up by Kestrel, his eyes fixed on the cruel metal collar still locked around his genitals.
With a low growl, Kestrel reached down and, with a single, contemptuous flex of her hand, crushed the magical artifact. The dark metal shattered into dust, the violet runes flickering out into nothingness. Freed, Petunia let out a choked sob of relief and, without thinking, scrambled to Damask's side, wrapping his arms around her in a desperate hug, burying his face in her side. He wasn't just afraid; he was terrified of being taken, of being enslaved and lost to his pride forever.
"They weren't just bandits," Kestrel said, her voice low and grim as she stared into the woods where their attackers had vanished. "The artifact, the formation, the tactical retreat... That was professional. And they knew exactly what they were after. A powerless Dom with a pride full of... assets."
"They knew we were coming," Marigold whispered, leaning heavily on Milky. "They knew we were weak."
Damask, holding the trembling Fem, looked at her pridemates—wounded, exhausted, but alive. The victory was hollow. Kestrel was right. This wasn't a random encounter. It was an assassination attempt, or worse, a kidnapping. A C-apt 5 Fem without a Dom's protection, a V-5 Sow from a noble house, two top-tier Bitches... they weren't just a fractured pride; they were a treasure chest with a broken lock. Every bandit and black market slaver between here and the Grove would be after them. And that wasn't even counting the court plotters who likely leaked their route in the first place. The road to the Ashen Grove was far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.
As the last of the adrenaline faded, the cold, hard calculus of a Dom took over. Damask pushed herself to her feet, her gaze sweeping over her shattered pride, conducting a swift, brutal audit of their remaining strength. The numbers were grim.
Her own power was a known quantity: zero. A gaping void where a universe of mana once resided. She was a commander with no weapon, her body a constant, aching reminder of her failure.
She looked at Kestrel. Her First Blade was on her feet, but the vibrant, kinetic hum of a combat-ready Bitch was gone. In its place was a faint, thready pulse. The fight with Milky, followed by this ambush, had bled her dry. Damask could feel it—Kestrel's internal reserves were little more than a guttering flame, perhaps a tenth of her full capacity. One more serious engagement and that flame would be extinguished.
Then Lyra. The clarity in her eyes was a miracle, but one bought at a terrible price. Shattering the Dom's pressure spell through sheer will had been a cataclysmic expense of mana. Her subsequent, furious 1-v-3 assault had burned through what little remained. She was swaying on her feet, her mana signature a barely perceptible flicker, even weaker than Kestrel's. Five percent, if that. She was a liability, a candle that had flared brightly only to be snuffed out.
Her eyes fell on Marigold, now being supported by Milky. The Sow was pale as death, her body trembling with the aftershocks of unleashing that alien power. The torrent of dark energy had been a cataclysmic expenditure. Damask didn't need to probe to know; Marigold was running on empty. The vast reserves of a Sow, both liquid and gas, had been utterly spent, leaving her with nothing but the dregs. She was also a liability now, a beautiful, fragile vessel with nothing left inside.
Milky, by contrast, was the strongest among them. Her healing spell had been a minor cost. She was still a font of power, her liquid and gas reserves still deep enough to be a significant asset. But the look in her eyes was no longer just ambitious; it was calculating. She knew she was the pride's primary power source now, and that knowledge was a dangerous weapon in its own right.
Finally, Petunia. The Fem was a wreck, his body wracked with violent, uncontrollable shudders that had little to do with his depleted mana. The phantom sensation of the Sow's violating fingers and the cold, dead weight of the Bonding Collar on his genitals lingered, a psychic brand that made his skin crawl. He was a living vessel, a courtesan, but his purpose was to store and refine, not generate. He had no reserves of his own, no cock nuggets to draw from. He was a delicate instrument that had been played too hard and was now on the verge of breaking, both physically and mentally.
Damask's final assessment was a cold knot of dread in her gut. They were wounded, running on fumes, and being hunted by professionals. This victory hadn't saved them. It had only bought them a few more precious, desperate hours.