Content Warning: This chapter contains explicit scenes of non-consensual sexual acts driven by magical compulsion, brutal violence, psychological torment, and soul-crushing humiliation. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
The air in the makeshift camp was a filthy, suffocating perfume brewed from three distinct poisons: the sweet, cloying rot of the Grove's dying flora; the acrid, green-wood bite of the sputtering fire; and the raw, animal musk of Thorn's predatory heat—a scent like hot metal and ozone that coated the back of the throat. It was the smell of a cage, and Marigold was the one holding the whip.
She was buried to the hilt in Milky's ass, her magically-expanded clit-cock a savage, punishing instrument. The second violation had been a final, absolute desecration, a performance of betrayal so perfect it had shattered the last vestiges of Milky's hope. The Ashcroft Sow was a broken thing beneath her, her body a trembling wreck, her mind a hollowed-out ruin of whimpers and choked sobs. Marigold pounded into her with a relentless, vicious rhythm, each wet, meaty slap of their bodies a brutal percussion meant to drown out the ghost of a gentler time.
A memory, sharp and unwelcome as a shard of ice, tried to surface. A quiet evening in the Ivy Court gardens, the scent of moonpetal in the air. Damask, still powerful, laughing as Marigold and Milky worked in tandem, their skilled hands massaging the knots from his shoulders. A moment of shared, simple intimacy.
Crush it, Marigold commanded herself, the thought a vicious internal snarl. She slammed deeper, the friction a searing heat. She hated this. She reveled in it. The potent seed Thorn had forced down her throat was a hot, coiling chain in her gut, a parasitic loyalty that pulsed with a phantom heat, tightening with every thrust she delivered, reminding her that even as she held the whip, she was still on the leash.
Thorn watched from a throne of mangy, still-greasy direwolf pelts that stank of old blood. Her expression was a mask of pure, carnal satisfaction. The sight of the two Sows locked in this brutal tableau was a potent aphrodisiac. She looked at Marigold—at the manic, feral light in her eyes—and saw not a victim, but a weapon. A beautiful, vicious tool she was just beginning to sharpen. But a weapon was useless without a wielder, and the wielder was getting bored.
"Jasmine," Thorn's voice was a low, gravelly purr that cut through the wet, slapping sounds of Marigold's fucking. "Call over the Fem. My cunt is getting lonely."
Her Sow, Jasmine, who had been watching with a mixture of fear and a strange, almost clinical fascination, flinched. She looked at the small, androgynous Fem huddled by the fire, and a flicker of something—pity, a shared, sisterly sorrow—crossed her face before she smoothed it into a mask of perfect obedience. "Tulip," she called, her voice soft. "The Mistress requires you."
The name, spoken for the first time, was a small, fragile thing in the brutal air. Tulip. He scrambled to his feet, his movements a testament to a training that had beaten all hesitation from his limbs.
Thorn's grin was all teeth. She saw him not as a person, but as a set of perfectly conditioned holes. "On your knees, little flower," she commanded, gesturing to the ground before her.
As Tulip obeyed, Thorn's gaze returned to the main event. Marigold was still pounding into Milky, but the Ashcroft Sow was a hollow vessel now, her body moving with a limp, mechanical rhythm, her mind having retreated to some deep, unreachable place. A broken toy.
"Marigold," Thorn's voice was a sharp crack of impatience. "She's gone limp. A hollow fuck is a boring fuck. Harder. Break her ass. I want to see an Ashcroft princess cry. Make her fight. Or I'll get bored and dust you both."
Marigold's mind raced. The performance had to continue. She pulled out of Milky's ass with a wet, obscene pop and brutally flipped the Sow onto her back. The cool night air hit Milky's sweat-slick skin, making her shiver. Marigold straddled her, her clit-cock, still slick and hard, pressing against Milky's soft belly. She leaned down, her voice a venomous, coiling whisper meant only for her.
"Look at you," she hissed, her words a torrent of perfectly crafted, soul-crushing lies. "So pathetic. The great Lady Ashcroft, a broken, weeping mess. You know, you were right to be jealous. You always were, weren't you? Even when you were 'educating' me back at the academy. You could smell it on me. The ambition. You knew, deep in that pure-bred Ashcroft cunt of yours, that I was always going to be his Prime Sow."
Milky's vacant eyes flickered. A spark.
"Seducing a crippled Heir like Damask was child's play," Marigold continued, her voice a filthy caress as she ran a hand over Milky's trembling breast, the texture of the rough-spun cloth a torment against her sensitive skin. "He was so desperate for a taste of real power, he would have eaten from my hand. Once I had him, you would have all been my breeding stock. I would have used my Nightshade arts to turn those two Bitches of his into mindless, milk-heavy Sows, and I would have fucked you all until your wombs were full of my own superior seed. As for Damask… my clan has always coveted the Ivy Court's secrets. We would have dusted him, drained him dry, and taken everything."
She leaned closer, her clit-cock brushing against Milky's lips, a final, humiliating taunt. "And Lyra… that curse wasn't an accident. It was a test run. A little gift from my true mistress to see how the Ivy Court's precious assets would react to a real weapon. You all failed so beautifully."
A cold, vicious satisfaction coiled in Marigold's gut. The lies were a masterpiece, each word a blade sharpened on Milky's own pride. And they worked.
A raw, guttural roar of pure, unadulterated fury ripped from Milky's throat. "YOU TREACHEROUS, LYING CUNT!" she screamed, her voice cracking with a pain that was more profound than any physical violation. Her body, which had been a limp, pliant thing, exploded with a surge of raw, violent power. She bucked, throwing Marigold off her, and scrambled to her feet, her eyes blazing with a hatred so pure it was a physical force. She lunged.
But before she could reach Marigold, Thorn was there, a blur of motion. She didn't grab Milky's throat; she grabbed the silver chain of the Bonding Collar.
"Not yet, little one," Thorn purred as she gave the chain a vicious yank. The collar blazed with a fresh surge of power, a crushing, invisible fist that slammed into Milky's will. The Sow screamed as her rage was instantly, chemically transmuted into a wave of pure, agonizing need, her legs buckling.
Thorn dragged the struggling Sow back. "Your fight is with me now." A cruel, appraising smile touched her lips as her gaze fell on Marigold. "See? This one still needs a leash. A crude tool for a simple animal." Her gaze sharpened, becoming possessive. "You, on the other hand, little spy… you have a much more intimate chain. The one I fed you. It's already taken root, hasn't it? I can feel it coiling in your gut. You don't need a collar to know who you belong to."
Marigold's face was a mask of cold, triumphant cruelty, but inside, her stomach churned. The seed in her belly was a hot, living thing, a constant, undeniable reminder.
"Now," Thorn said, her grin a feral, beautiful thing as she looked down at the weeping Milky. "Let's play." She released Milky, who collapsed, her body a warzone. She wanted to kill Marigold. She also wanted to fuck Thorn. The collar pulsed, and the need won. Her hips began to grind against the dirt, her cunt weeping. Marigold watched as Jasmine and Tulip moved with practiced efficiency, seizing the whimpering Sow and positioning her at Thorn's feet.
"That's a good girl," Thorn purred. She looked across at Marigold, her voice dropping, laced with a new, calculating intensity. "Your information about the SteelClaw Bitch… a 'secret power' you can help me claim?" Thorn's eyes narrowed, the bored sadism replaced by a flash of raw, predatory hunger. She played it cool. "We'll discuss that later. For now, you've earned a rest. Switch."
The command was sharp. Jasmine and Tulip seized Marigold, their grips firm, hauling her away as if she were furniture. As they spun her around, her face pressed into the dirt, Thorn's voice cut through the haze. "Marigold, you play with Jasmine for a while. I want to see if an Ashcroft understands the nature of her own position." The rough handling, the overlapping command, was a stark reminder of her new status: she was an object to be positioned at her master's whim.
Milky, still compelled, could only eke out a hoarse, "Just dust me," despite her body dripping, desperate for Thorn to fuck her.
Thorn delivered a sharp slap across Milky's ass. "Oh, that's what I want to hear," she purred, her voice a venomous promise as she descended upon her. "But I won't dust you. Not yet. I'm going to change it so you'll be begging me not to, just so you can keep enjoying my cock."
Marigold, her heart hammering, moved to Jasmine, who looked at her with a mixture of fear and a strange, hopeful curiosity. As Marigold approached, she let her own clit-cock retract with a soft, sighing sound. Her touch on Jasmine was firm, dominant, but it lacked the venomous cruelty she had just displayed. It was a Sow's dominance, not a Bitch's.
Jasmine felt it instantly. The hand that gripped her was hard, but the mana that flowed from it was… different. It was still commanding, but beneath the thorny exterior, there was a flicker of something else—a deep, nurturing warmth, a shared understanding. Jasmine could feel the truth of Marigold's sorrow, the resignation beneath the performance. A Sow's touch. She looked up, her eyes meeting Marigold's, and for a heartbeat, a silent, dangerous secret passed between them.
Marigold felt the recognition in Jasmine's gaze and her blood ran cold. She had let her mask slip. She immediately hardened her expression, her grip on Jasmine turning rougher. But the damage was done. The seed of rebellion had been planted, not by a word, but by a touch. Now, she had a new, terrifying problem: a witness. A variable she would have to control… or silence.
Thorn, her full, predatory attention now on the desperate, weeping Milky, had noticed nothing. The game was far from over. And in the shadows, a new, more dangerous one was just beginning to unfold.