The spark of mana Damask had swallowed from Petunia's tiny cock wasn't a gentle warmth; it was a lit fuse. It hit the void in her core and detonated, a violent, alchemical reaction that sent a surge of raw, untamed power straight to her groin. Her cock, a pathetic, useless nub for weeks, was suddenly, painfully alive. It wasn't the monolith she remembered, but a thick, hard sprout, throbbing with a desperate, agonizing need that was more torment than pleasure. It was a weapon reforged in an instant, and it demanded to be buried in flesh. This wasn't about cultivation or reclaiming power. This was about a fire in her cunt so hot it threatened to burn her from the inside out, and the only way to quench it was to fuck. Her gaze, now burning with a hellish, red light that mirrored the dying embers of the fire, swept over her exhausted pridemates. They were no longer her political assets or her strategic tools. They were holes. They were mouths. They were bodies to be used until this agonizing, unbearable pressure in her cock finally, blessedly, abated.
"On your knees. Open your ass... little pet," Damask's voice was a low, guttural growl, a raw sound of pure, carnal command that cut through the exhausted quiet, directed at Petunia. But before the Fem could even fully obey, her burning gaze snapped to her First Blade. "Kestrel. My cock is killing me. Get your mouth on it before I rip you in half."
Kestrel, recognizing the raw, animalistic need in her Dom's eyes, moved without hesitation. This wasn't a ritual; it was a desperate, biological imperative. She knelt before Damask, her amber eyes dark with a fierce, unwavering loyalty. For weeks, the void where their bond used to be had been a constant, silent scream in her soul. This command was a prayer answered.
"Suck," Damask commanded, her voice thick with need. Kestrel obeyed, her lips parting as she took the hard, nascent cock. It was small, a pathetic imitation of the weapon that had once claimed her, but it was rigid with a power that was all Damask. She began to suckle, her tongue tracing the thick veins. The first taste of the gritty pre-cum hit her tongue, and a jolt shot through her system. It wasn't the smooth, potent nectar she remembered; it was raw, unrefined, and tasted of ozone and sheer will. After an eternity of drinking bland water, this was the first, shocking kick of a potent liquor, a promise that her Dom was truly coming back.
"Harder," Damask grunted, her hips giving a slight, demanding buck. Her gaze swept over the others. "Don't just fucking stand there. Get over here and make yourselves useful."
Marigold and Milky, the two Sows, crawled forward, their own bodies slick with a mixture of fear and arousal. "Your cunts," Damask snarled at them. "I want to feel them. Rub them on my legs. I want to feel how wet I make you." They obeyed, pressing their slick, weeping folds against her thighs, their moans a low, desperate chorus. Lyra, her eyes now clear and sharp with a terrifying lucidity, felt the raw, untamed lust in the room. Damask saw the shift, the predatory hunger in the Bitch's eyes, and a cruel, lust-crazed smile touched her lips. "Lyra," she commanded, her voice a low growl that vibrated with power. "The pet's ass is too tight. I need him broken in, and I need it now. Fuck him. Make him scream for me."
The command hit Lyra like a physical blow, but one of profound relief. Anya had discarded her as a broken tool. Damask had claimed her, had given her a place when she had none. Now, that same Dom was not just regaining her power, but trusting her with a vital task. This wasn't a violation; it was a promotion. It was her duty. Lyra's smile was a feral, beautiful thing, full of gratitude and lethal intent. She turned, her gaze locking onto Petunia. With a guttural groan, her internal phallus extruded from her cunt, a thick, slick, veined weapon of its own. She stalked toward the trembling Fem, grabbing him by the hips and forcing him onto his stomach. "You heard the Dom," she snarled, ramming her new cock into his tight, unprepared hole.
The heat built, a furnace of shared lust and submission. The air grew thick with the mingling scents of their arousal—Kestrel's sharp ozone, the Sows' sweet cream, Lyra's kinetic musk, and Petunia's sugary terror. Damask's cock, stoked by Kestrel's expert mouth, grew harder, thicker, the nascent power within it straining against the flesh. Lyra's hips pistoned into Petunia's ass, the wet, meaty slaps a brutal percussion in the charged silence, each thrust drawing a high, choked whimper from the Fem.
"Deeper," Damask commanded Lyra, her voice a low growl. "I want to hear him beg." To the Sows, she snarled, "Higher. Lick my balls. I want to feel your tongues."
Marigold and Milky obeyed instantly, their mouths hot and wet as they lapped at her heavy, aching testicles, their own cunts grinding against her inner thighs. The combined stimulation was a sensory overload, a symphony of submission that pushed Damask's arousal to an unbearable peak. Her sprout of a cock was now a rigid pillar of raw need, dripping a thick, gritty pre-cum onto Kestrel's tongue.
She let the torment build for another long moment, reveling in the absolute control, in the sight of her entire pride devoted to the singular purpose of servicing her desperate, aching flesh. Then, with a guttural roar, she decided it was time.
She pulled Kestrel's head back, her fingers tangled in her hair. "Good girl," she panted, shoving her away. She kicked lightly at the Sows, dismissing them. "Enough."
Her eyes, now burning like twin coals, landed on Petunia. He was a wreck, his face buried in the dirt, his ass raised high as Lyra pulled her slick cockwomb from his gaping, ruined hole. He was weeping, his body trembling, a perfect, obscene offering.
"You," she growled, her voice dropping to a possessive whisper that cut through the haze of lust. "You started this. You will finish it."
The Fem looked up, his eyes wide and luminous in the firelight. This was it. The culmination of his purpose. He was weak, pathetic, a creature existing in a perfect limbo of servitude. But here, in this pride, his weakness was his strength. He was safe. He was wanted. He was useful.
Still glistening, he crawled closer. "Yes, Domina," he whispered, his voice thick with a profound, loving devotion. "Please… use me. Let me be the one to quench your fire."
Damask looked down at the offering before her. Her own cock, which for weeks had been a limp, useless nub, now had a semblance of form. It was a pathetic thing, a mere sprout compared to the monolith it had once been, but it was hard with a desperate, agonizing need, and it was hungry.
She lined the tip up with his waiting, puckered hole. This wasn't about the Testament. This wasn't about breaking him. This was about finding the tightest, wettest hole available and fucking it until the fire in her own cunt was finally, blessedly, extinguished.
"I'm not going to just fuck you, little Pet," she whispered, her voice a low, dangerous purr as she pushed the tip of her sprouting cock into his tight, resisting heat. "I'm going to destroy you. I'm going to use your perfect little hole to get myself off, and you're going to thank me for it."
She thrust forward.
The motion was brutal, savage, a pure expression of her overwhelming lust. He cried out, a sharp sound of pain mixed with a desperate, willing gasp as the thick head of her cock tore at his virgin-tight ring of muscle, forcing its way through.
As Damask began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm, she leaned down, her lips capturing his. She kissed him with the same savage intent, her tongue plunging into his mouth, tasting the lingering sweetness of the Sows' milk and his own nectar. It was a kiss of pure consumption.
Petunia's pain began to dissolve, not into simple pleasure, but into a profound sense of rightness. This was the reason for his existence. He could be the perfect conduit for his Dom's violent release. Locked in her brutal kiss, a profound instinct took over. His hips, which had been still and resistant, began to move. It was a slow, deliberate motion, a sensual rocking that met her savage thrusts with a liquid grace. He began to ride her, his perfect, C-apt 5 body taking control of the rhythm, his tight hole milking her cock with an expertise that was both innate and terrifying. His body was singing, not in protest, but in a deep, resonant ecstasy. This was his purpose.
Damask felt the shift in him, the moment his resistance broke and became ravenous need. She deepened the kiss, one hand snaking down to cup his small, aching balls, squeezing just hard enough to make him whimper into her mouth. She could hear the wet, rhythmic slapping of Kestrel and Lyra fucking their Sows from behind, their grunts of effort a percussive backdrop to the scene.
A wave of dizzying satisfaction washed over her, a pleasure so deep and fundamental it transcended the physical. She was not just forging power; she was taking her pleasure, and the entire world was her fuck-toy.
Her hips pistoned, faster now, harder, driving her small shaft to its absolute hilt with every punishing thrust. She felt his body begin to convulse, his orgasm building under her relentless assault.
"Take it," she roared against his lips, her voice a raw, animalistic thing. "Take my fucking cum."
Her own climax hit her like a physical blow. Her body went rigid, a deep, guttural sound tearing from her throat as she came. It wasn't a calculated injection of mana, but a raw, explosive release of pure, unadulterated lust. She felt the power surge from her core, a searing heat that traveled down her spine and into her balls. It wasn't the smooth, liquid fire she remembered, but something rougher, more primal. It was the feeling of her own internal forge reigniting, violently compressing the raw power she had just absorbed into solid form by the sheer, overwhelming force of her orgasm. It was agonizing. It was exquisite.
With a final, soul-shattering groan, she erupted. A thick, gritty, almost painful torrent of her newly forged Gristle Seeds flooded Petunia's guts. This was her own power, her own mana, reborn. It wasn't a fluid release; it was an injection of hot, abrasive sand, a searing brand of raw Solid-1 mana that scoured his insides and seared her ownership into his very soul. He screamed into her mouth, but the sound was one of sublime fulfillment. The physical pleasure of his own orgasm was a distant echo to the glorious, all-consuming mental ecstasy of being filled, of being branded, of being made utterly, completely useful. The gritty, solidifying mana was not a violation; it was his reward, a permanent, internal mark of his success.
She pulled out slowly, leaving his hole a gaping, ruined thing, glistening in the firelight. She collapsed onto him, her body spent, the fire in her cock finally abated to a low, smoldering ember. The frantic, screaming need was gone, replaced by a profound, bone-deep satisfaction. For a long moment, she lay there, her breath ragged, her softening cock still buried deep inside the trembling Fem, simply absorbing the aftershocks of the cataclysmic release. The world slowly swam back into focus, the red haze of her lust receding, leaving a strange, almost serene clarity in its wake.
Her mind, no longer a slave to the fire in her groin, began to process the scene. She took a slow, detached inventory of the carnage. Petunia, a sobbing, sated wreck beneath her, his small body twitching not with pain, but with the aftershocks of a purpose perfectly fulfilled. Kestrel, her face flushed, still absently stroking the hair of a dazed Milky. Lyra, a predatory satisfaction in her eyes as she watched Marigold slowly curl into a protective ball. The air was thick with the mingled scents of their cum, a filthy, triumphant perfume.
Gods, a calm, rational part of her brain observed, I went a little overboard. The thought was not one of regret, but of a cool, almost amused assessment. She had lost herself completely, a beast uncaged, driven by a need so primal it had eclipsed all strategy, all thought. It had been messy. It had been brutal. It had been… necessary.
Her gaze swept over her pridemates again, this time with the sharp, appraising eye of a Dom. They were exhausted, used, and utterly, completely sated. A deep, thrumming hum of contentment radiated from them, a shared afterglow that was as palpable as the heat from the fire. Kestrel's loyalty was a burning, unwavering flame. Lyra's newfound confidence was a sharp, beautiful thing. Even Milky's ambition had been hammered into a grudging, sated respect. They were a wreck, yes, but they were a beautiful wreck. And they were hers.
It's no matter, she concluded, a slow, possessive smile spreading across her lips. They like it when I'm rough with them. The thought was a simple, undeniable truth. They were her pride. They were built to take her, to absorb her power, to be the vessels for her rage and her lust. Her loss of control hadn't fractured them; it had forged them anew, binding them to her not just with loyalty, but with the raw, undeniable memory of her absolute, carnal dominance. The fire wasn't out. Not by a long shot. It was just banked. And as she looked at the beautiful, broken bodies of her pridemates, she knew, with a certainty that was as deep and fundamental as her own returning power, that they would be all too eager to help her stoke the flames again.