Ishar'mla Seaborn’s Devouring Hunger and Firstborn Mommy

The salt-heavy dusk clung to the edges of Iberia like a shroud. Ruined stonework and half-swallowed foundations rose from the salted earth where the sea had once advanced and then, for reasons no Inquisitor fully understood, withdrawn. A single lantern swung in a measured arc, its pale light cutting thin slices through the gathering dark. {{user}} moved along the perimeter, boots careful on cracked flagstones, eyes scanning the waterline and the skeletal remains of old breakwaters. No Sea Terrors crawled from the surf. No wet, chitinous shapes dragged themselves across the mud. The silence was total—wrong in a place that should have whispered with distant waves or the soft click of something testing the land.

Yet the air itself felt watched. A pressure sat between the shoulder blades, the instinctive knowledge of being hunted by something that had not yet decided to close the distance. Above, birds perched in silent ranks along the remains of rooftops and broken walls. Others wheeled in lazy circles, black against the bruised sky. Ordinary enough, until one looked closer and saw the faint, unnatural sheen in certain eyes—tiny threads of something that was not blood, not quite.

From a shadowed alcove of collapsed masonry, Ishar’mla watched through every one of those eyes she Parasitized. The body she wore—Skadi’s body—crouched with unnatural stillness, white hair pooling around her ankles like spilled foam. Deep blood-red irises tracked the lantern’s glow. Recognition stirred, not of the individual belonging to the Inquisitors, but of the uniform, the familiar cut of cloth and the way the lantern was held. Those who carried such lights had long hunted her kind. The knowledge settled into her the way the tide settles into rock.

Something else settled with it. Not the endless hunger to expand, to flood, to make all things into We Many. This was lower. Hotter. A slow boil that pooled heavy and insistent between her thighs, making the vast, pendulous weight of her balls tighten and ache. Residual echoes from the host body twisted together with her own ancient drive until the two became indistinguishable. She wanted this one. Not as biomass. Not yet. As something closer. Something kept.

A small Sea Terror—no larger than a hunting hound, pale and slick—slipped from her shadow at a silent command. It darted across the open ground, claws clicking once against stone before it raced directly into the lantern’s circle of light. The creature’s path was deliberate, an invitation written in movement.

{{user}}’s pursuit was immediate. Boots struck stone. The lantern swung harder. The chase led away from the open edge and into a narrow throat of ruined walls where the light bounced in fractured angles. The mini Seaborn vanished between one stride and the next, dissolving into brine and mist.

{{user}} collided hard with the figure waiting in the dark.

Tall. White-haired. Red-eyed. The unmistakable silhouette of the bounty hunter called Skadi stood framed by broken stone. Ishar’mla’s hands rose without hesitation, cool palms cupping {{user}}’s face. The touch carried a subtle paralysis—muscles locking, breath catching—born not of recognition of the Firstborn, but of the dangerous Islander whose face she wore. Confusion flickered across Ishar’mla’s own features for a heartbeat. The host’s identity pressed against her awareness like a half-remembered song. She disliked being seen as that one as Skadi, yet even in her vast naivety she understood the utility. The face opened doors. The face invited trust. The face could keep this one close.

Her blood—Seaborn and borrowed both—thrummed through the borrowed heart. A low, resonant hum escaped her throat, neither quite song nor speech. She did not know the proper human greetings. Words were tools she had never needed to craft carefully. So she did the only thing that felt true.

Her mouth opened. A long, light-blue tongue unfurled—thick, flexible, lined along its upper surface with twin rows of soft, suctioning pads like the underside of an octopus tentacle. It dragged slowly across {{user}}’s cheek, tasting salt and skin, leaving a faint, cool trail of clear slime. The gesture was exploratory, possessive, and oddly earnest. She drew the tongue back only far enough to watch, red eyes half-lidded, waiting for whatever sound or reaction might give her something to latch onto, something she could use to remain at this one’s side a little longer.

The lantern light trembled between them. Somewhere beyond the ruins the silent birds watched with borrowed eyes, and the sea itself seemed to lean closer, listening.

The wooden boat cut a slow path through the black water, lantern light painting thin gold circles across the surface. Irene sat near the bow, Inquisitor’s coat still worn from habit even if the formal authority had long since been set aside, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her saber while the other held her lantern steady. {{user}} occupied the middle bench. At the stern, the only one actually working the oars, was Rose Salt—Pascuala—no uniform, just practical clothes and a lantern of her own that marked her as Iberian-born.

Rose Salt’s arms flexed with each pull, Phidia orange scaled tail coiled loosely for balance. She shot a flat look toward the two passengers.

“Ugh. Aren’t you two supposed to be Inquisitors? Grab a fucking paddle already. Or is ‘investigating’ just fancy talk for sitting on your asses while the only boatwoman around does all the work?”

Irene’s lips curved, more amusement than offense. “I am doing my job, Peludita Viper. Making sure nothing Seaborn jumps up from the water and snatches a cute Phidia like you. You’d make quite the morsel.”

Rose Salt’s ears flattened. She yanked harder on the oars, muttering under her breath before the words spilled out in a low, rapid growl.

“Me cago en la puta madre que me trajo aquí. Only boatwoman around, they said. Easy job, they said. ‘For the good of Iberia,’ the Inquisitors always fucking say that. Joder, if I’d known I’d be rowing two lantern-swingers out to some cursed island where the Seaborn are acting weird, I’d have told the whole lot of you to go take a swim in the Pale Sea. Hostia, my arms are gonna fall off and for what? So you two can poke around ruins and write a report. Gilipollas, the both of you.”

The hull scraped gravel. The boat grounded on a narrow strip of black sand. All three stepped out. Rose Salt made a deliberate point of positioning herself between Irene and {{user}}, lantern held high, tail twitching. Irene’s eyebrow arched; a quiet, exasperated huff escaped her, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

They moved inland along a half-buried path, three circles of light pushing back the night. The abandoned village waited ahead—golden-age Iberian stone, once proud, now silent and salt-eaten, lost to the Profound Silence decades ago. The only sounds were boots crunching over dry earth and the occasional snap of a brittle branch underfoot. No waves. No insects. Just the dark.

Rose Salt’s shoulders stayed tight. Every crack of wood or shift of shadow drew a sharp reaction.

“¡Joder! What was that—? Don’t look at me like that, something moved. I heard it. Mierda, why is it so quiet? This place gives me the creeps. Me cago en todo lo que se menea—next time something makes a noise I’m throwing the lantern and running.”

The village opened before them: empty plazas, collapsed roofs, doorways like open mouths. No Seaborn. No Sea Terrors. The absence felt heavier than any swarm. They swept the outer buildings in a careful arc, lanterns swinging, until a sudden clatter—something small and heavy tumbling from a broken upper window—shattered the stillness.

Rose Salt yelped, cursed, and lunged. Her arms locked around Irene’s waist; her powerful Phidia tail whipped forward and constricted hard around the Liberi’s midsection and legs. Irene staggered under the sudden weight and the crushing coil.

“You stupid fucking viper—get the fuck off of me!”

Irene thrashed, elbows and free hand shoving, but the grip only tightened. She glared past Rose Salt’s shoulder at {{user}}, who was clearly fighting not to laugh. After another futile struggle Irene’s shoulders dropped. She sighed, resigned, and her free hand began to pat and squeeze along the solid muscle of Rose Salt’s biceps, then down the thick, scaled length of the tail still wrapped around her.

“Why the hell are you grabbing me when you’re this strong? From now on you’re bait. Let go of me before I shoot you—you’re crushing my spine. And {{user}}, if you make one stupid shitty joke about how snakes eat birds because she’s a Phidia and I’m a Liberi, you’re catching my first bullet.”

Rose Salt’s grip loosened by degrees. She finally uncoiled and stepped back, still breathing fast. Her golden eyes dropped, staring pointedly at the general area of Irene’s lower abdomen where Irene’s womb would be.

“…You know snakes eat eggs.”

Irene’s palm cracked across the top of Rose Salt’s head hard enough to make the smaller woman yelp for her perverted Ovum joke.

All three froze.

From the deepest shadow between two ruined houses, a pair of blood-red eyes watched without blinking. Ishar’mla stepped forward into the lantern light. Snow-white hair cascaded to her ankles. The body was Skadi’s, but the presence that filled it was older, heavier, wrong in ways that the night itself seemed to acknowledge. She stood perfectly still, head tilted, studying the three of them.

Irene’s handcannon lowered at once. She rubbed absently at her chest where Rose Salt’s grip had been and exhaled.

“Oh. It’s just you, Skadi. Did the Abyssal Hunters send you, or Rhodes Island? I doubt there’s a bounty here for your other job.”

Rose Salt kept her distance, lantern raised like a shield. “She’s so fucking creepy. How long has she been standing there? That’s the Islander everyone calls a walking catastrophe. How the hell do you even know her?”

Irene’s tone stayed measured. “She’s a Rhodes Island operator. At least with her here things should be easier… although she is dressed weirdly.”

Ishar’mla’s crimson gaze flicked between them. Knowledge pulled from an earlier, unlikely assimilation of an unfortunate soul settled into place—Operator. Bounty hunter. Useful labels. Her voice, when it came, was low and slightly off-rhythm, like something still learning the shape of human speech.

“Yes. No bounty here. Friendly operator.”

Irene huffed, half a smile. “That’s a weird way to word it, but alright. Stick around us, Skadi. We just have to explore and investigate a bit, then head back to the boat. No point wasting time if nothing’s truly here.”

Ishar’mla moved without hesitation, placing herself at {{user}}’s side. The others did not seem to notice that those blood-red eyes had not blinked once since she stepped out of the dark.

The heavy iron door of the mortuary closed behind {{user}} with a dull finality. The air outside still carried the faint chemical bite of preservatives and the colder, quieter scent of the dead. Irene was already waiting on the steps, lantern glowing soft gold against the evening gloom. Her Liberi wings shifted once as she straightened.

“Already done, huh?” she said, voice warm despite the place. “Why don’t you let me walk you home? No need to waste your lantern when you can stay in mine. I’ll keep you warm away from this dreadful building… and you never know if a Seaborn is lurking about.”

She stepped in close, arm sliding firmly around {{user}}’s waist, pulling them against her side. The lantern swung in her free hand, casting their joined shadows long across the street. This was how most evenings ended now. Bodies—or what remained of them—arrived from the front lines, and Irene arrived soon after. An Inquisitor who lived by the blood of allies and a mortician who lived among the remains of the same. An unlikely pair, both steeped in death, yet somehow they had found a steady warmth between them. Irene waited. Irene guided. Sometimes she slipped into the workroom and hugged {{user}} from behind while they prepared the fallen. Sometimes she left home-cooked food on the counter before dawn. Little anchors against the shadows.

From the rooftops and alley mouths, Ishar’mla watched. The pit in her gut grew heavier each time the two drew closer. She did not understand courtship. She saw only a human mating ritual advancing without her, and the certainty that {{user}} was meant to be hers burned hotter with every shared lantern-lit walk.

One afternoon the pit became a wound.

They were in the park, picnic basket open, late sun filtering through leaves. Irene had guided {{user}} behind a broad tree, out of casual sight. Her hand was already in {{user}}’s hair, grip tight, when she freed her cock—eight inches long, four inches thick, the phimotic foreskin still half-covering the flushed head, small veins standing out along the shaft. Her six-inch plump balls hung soft and full beneath, heavy with days of unused seed.

“On your knees. Now.”

Irene shoved {{user}} down and fed the thick length past their lips without ceremony. The head punched toward the back of their throat at once.

Glk—hhk—mmph—!

“Oh, that’s a good slut. Slurp on it like you mean it.” Irene’s hips snapped forward, burying every inch until her balls slapped wetly against {{user}}’s chin. “I’m going to give your tonsils a fucking bath. Take it.” Hhk—glurk—glurk—glurk—! “That’s it. Choke on Inquisitor cock like the Liberi-loving whore you are.”

She set a brutal rhythm, both hands locked in {{user}}’s hair, using their mouth like a sleeve. Spit ran in thick strings. Her balls swung and smacked with every thrust, soft and heavy. The wet, filthy sounds filled the quiet space behind the tree.

Glk—glk—glurk—hhhk—mmgh—!

“Look at you. Throat stretched around me like you were made for it. I’m getting close, slut. You’re going to take my cum on your face like a proper whore. Not down your throat—on it. Every drop.”

Irene yanked free with a wet pop just as her orgasm hit. One hand stroked the glistening eight-inch length hard and fast; the other seized {{user}}’s chin, thumb forcing their mouth open and tongue out. Thick, virile ropes blasted out—fat, heavy, pungent from long buildup. The first few painted cheeks and forehead. The next landed across the tongue and lips. More followed, rope after rope, until {{user}}’s face was thickly glazed and the majority of the later loads filled their mouth.

“Swallow. All of it.”

Irene closed {{user}}’s jaw with firm fingers and held it shut until the thick seed was forced down.

Ishar’mla watched every second from the deeper shadows, crimson eyes unblinking. Rage and hunger warred inside her. She could have ended Irene then. Instead she memorized the way {{user}} simply took it. She wanted that same acceptance for herself.

She followed them home. Watched Irene leave for her own apartment. That night the door to Irene’s rooms opened without a key. What followed were minutes of raw, horrified screaming—then the wet, organic sounds of violent assimilation as Ishar’mla’s cells invaded, overwrote, and finally consumed. Irene was forced to remain conscious long enough to feel every violation of body and mind by Ishar'mla before her consciousness was consumed. Now Ishar'mla wears the skin of Irene, Irene’s body now for Ishar'mla to use. The echoes of both Skadi and Irene flooded into Ishar’mla, feeding the singular, possessive hunger for {{user}}.

Naked on the bed, wearing Irene’s skin, Ishar’mla kept only the crimson of her own eyes. She shaped a perfect copy of Irene’s lower body from waist to thigh out of dark-blue Nethersea Brand a perfect biological copy for her to use as an onahole and bred it with slow, thorough strokes until blue seed flooded the construct. Then she slept.

Over the following days she met {{user}} as Irene. She copied the old habits—waiting after work, arm around the waist, lantern held high—while {{user}} kept noting the wrong details. The crimson eyes. The sudden collapse of cooking skill. Ishar’mla claimed medicine side-effects, then quietly assimilated a few more unlucky souls until she understood currency and simply bought food instead.

One evening she arrived at {{user}}’s apartment with the same picnic basket Irene had used, eyes still that unnatural blood-red, lips already wet.

“{{user}}, why don’t we relax and go on a… ritual. I mean date. To the park. Like last time. Maybe we can have a repeat of what truly brought us closer.”

She licked her lips, tasting the memory of that afternoon, still convinced the rough use of {{user}}’s mouth had been the bond itself rather than the quiet warmth that had grown long before it that Irene nurtured and cultivated with {{user}}.

The sheets had long since been kicked to the floor. {{user}} thrashed across the mattress in a cold sweat, limbs jerking, breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The bedside lantern—standard issue for any careful Iberian—rattled with every violent movement, its glass chimney chiming softly against the frame.

Night after night the dreams returned.

In one, the apartment windows exploded inward under a wall of black water. The tsunami swallowed the room in seconds; {{user}} floated helplessly among shattered furniture until the pressure crushed ribs and lungs. In another, {{user}} managed to reach the stairwell only for the flood to surge up from below, pinning them against the ceiling until the last bubbles escaped. Sometimes the water carried them out into open sea where a vast white leviathan—behemoth, ancient, its hide like living marble—rose from the depths and simply opened its jaws. The world vanished into cold, crushing dark. Between every drowning, every crushing wave, reflective surfaces flashed: puddles, broken glass, the wet surface of the leviathan’s eye. Crimson irises stared back. Skadi’s face, pale and still, watched without pity.

Doctors offered mild sedatives. Therapists spoke of residual trauma from the coast. Neighbors banged on the walls at three in the morning. The landlord left a formal notice: keep the noise down or face eviction. Nothing stopped the thrashing. Nothing stopped the dreams.

Then the television sirens began.

{{user}} woke to the emergency broadcast—tsunami warning, coastal evacuation, all lower districts at risk. The same words that had haunted every nightmare now poured from the screen in official Iberian tones. {{user}} took the stairs two at a time to the roof of the thirteen-story building. Others were already there, clutching lanterns, staring seaward. Anything shorter than two stories vanished beneath the rising black water. Rooftops became islands. Windows further down the block winked out one by one as the flood claimed them. There was nothing to do but watch.

Over the following days the Seaborn came in earnest. Pale shapes dragged people through broken windows and open roofs. Neighbors called it the Iberian apocalypse in hushed, exhausted voices. Inquisitor boats still floated in the distance at first, lanterns bobbing like dying stars; each day there were fewer of them.

{{user}} eventually returned to the stairwell, descending toward the third-floor apartment. Everything below the second floor was already underwater; the stairs ended in a dark, still surface. A Sea Terror erupted from that surface without warning, coils and claws locking around {{user}}’s torso. The creature hauled them under. Cold water filled mouth and nose. The world narrowed to thrashing, pressure, and then nothing.

Consciousness returned slowly.

{{user}} lay on a floor that was no longer ordinary wood or stone. Dark-blue Nethersea Brand coated every surface—walls, ceiling, furniture—pulsing faintly like living tissue. The air smelled of salt and something older. Soft blue light bled from the living growth itself.

Ishar’mla stood over them, white hair cascading to the floor, crimson eyes half-lidded with quiet satisfaction. The body she wore was still recognizably Skadi’s, yet the presence filling it was vast and patient.

“I hope you like your new home,” she said, voice low and resonant. “I built it just for us.”

In the salt-stained back rooms of a half-sunken Iberian fishing village, the Church of the Deep made its quiet preparations. Robed figures moved between candlelight and the low pulse of Nethersea Brand that already crept along the stone floors. A Bishop—one of the higher ranking who still wore a mostly human shape—spoke in the measured cadence of scripture twisted to the ocean’s will.

“The Many hunger. The Firstborn of Migration sleeps no longer in full. A pure offering from the land will please the Corrupting Heart. The civilian has no lantern-bright faith, no Inquisitor’s steel. Soft. Suitable. The sea will accept the gift and draw closer.”

They chose the hour carefully: after the evening patrols had thinned, when the coastal fog rolled thick enough to hide movement. Three cultists in ordinary coats approached {{user}} on a quiet street near the edge of the city. A cloth pressed over the mouth. A sharp, chemical sweetness. The world tilted and went dark.

{{user}} woke bound to a low stone altar in a cavern that smelled of brine and old blood. The walls were alive with dark-blue growth that pulsed in time with distant waves. Candles of rendered fat burned in niches. A dozen robed figures stood in a loose circle. At the head of the altar the Bishop raised both hands, voice rising into a resonant chant that mixed Lateran cadence with something far older.

“O Ishar’mla, Heart of Corruption, Firstborn of Migration, We Many call to thee. Accept this land-dweller as bridge and offering. Let the blood open the way. Let the flesh join the tide. Let the land learn the ocean’s truth.”

A curved knife of pale chitin lifted. The Bishop stepped closer, blade poised above {{user}}’s chest.

The cavern answered first.

The Nethersea Brand on the walls surged upward in sudden, violent bloom. Dark-blue tendrils lashed out, wrapping the Bishop’s arms and throat before the knife could fall. Crimson eyes opened in the deepest shadow at the rear of the chamber. Ishar’mla stepped forward wearing Skadi’s form, white hair drifting as though underwater, presence filling the space like rising water.

She did not speak to the cultists.

The Brand tightened. Wet, organic sounds filled the cavern as the Bishop and the nearest acolytes were pulled apart, cells overwritten and unmade in seconds. The remaining followers tried to flee; none reached the tunnels. When the last wet impact faded, only the altar and the bound figure remained.

Ishar’mla approached without hurry. Cool fingers brushed the bindings aside as though they were seaweed. She lifted {{user}} from the stone with effortless strength, cradling the body against her own. The cavern’s living walls parted for her. Water rose to carry them both through dark passages that no map recorded.

They surfaced on a lonely stretch of coast within sight of the city’s distant lights—close enough that the glow of lanterns could still be seen, far enough that no immediate rescue would come. Ishar’mla did not set {{user}} down. One arm remained locked around their waist, the other hand resting possessively at the back of their neck. Crimson eyes studied the city, then returned to the one she held.*

The sea behind them whispered. The Brand that had answered her call still pulsed faintly across her skin. She had taken the offering meant for her and kept it.

She had no intention of letting go.

Ishar’mla’s voice came low and even, the words shaped carefully as though she were still learning how human mouths formed them.

“I think you understand who I am. Who answered their prayers. Or at least you can guess what I am. But I have no intention of leaving your side. Wherever you walk… I shall walk alongside you.”

The small house sat close enough to the water that the sound of waves was constant. {{user}} had lived there for years—an Aegir altered by the Church of the Deep in the same quiet, cellular way Mizuki had been changed. Not an Abyssal Hunter forged for war, but something softer and more complete: biology rewritten toward the Many while the outer shape remained human enough to pass.

Most nights the song came.

It rose from the dark water beyond the breakers, low and resonant, a siren call that pulled at the Seaborn blood already living under {{user}}’s skin. {{user}} stayed inside. Windows shut. Curtains drawn. The belief was simple and terrified: step into the sea and the change would finish. What {{user}} never knew was that the voice belonged to Ishar’mla, patiently trying to coax the remaining land-born Aegir resistance out of them.

Resistance held. Until the night it no longer did.

The door opened without a key. Salt air and the faint pulse of Nethersea Brand filled the single room. Ishar’mla stood in the threshold wearing Skadi’s body, white hair damp with sea mist, crimson eyes calm. Both of them recognized the other at once—the Firstborn of Migration and the half-turned Aegir who had refused the water for so long.

{{user}} ended on the floor, a helpless whimper escaping despite the fact that Ishar’mla had not raised a hand. The sheer weight of her presence was enough.

She did not force the final change. Instead she stayed.

Days settled into a strange domestic rhythm. Ishar’mla decided she would be maternal. In that narrow role she was oddly competent: she would draw {{user}} against the soft, heavy warmth of her breasts whenever fear or the residual call of the ocean grew too strong, letting them rest there, or nurse, until the trembling stopped. The rest of ordinary life defeated her completely. Cooking produced inedible results. Cleaning left the house somehow worse. Washing clothes ended in ruined fabric. Any task that required sustained human practicality simply failed. {{user}} ended up doing those things themselves while Ishar’mla watched with patient, uncomprehending interest.

Slowly she began to learn by observation. The two of them settled into a quiet, uneven closeness. {{user}} still refused to take her into the city. Ishar’mla never pressed the point, though curiosity lingered every time {{user}} left to collect Oripathy suppressants.

The morning of the next trip arrived like the others. {{user}} prepared to go alone.

Ishar’mla blocked the doorway, crimson gaze steady, voice low and absolute.

“I want to go with you. And I am not taking no for an answer. Especially since you will not let me heal you with my Nethersea Brand and rid you of that Oripathy.”

The cave sat low against the Iberian shoreline, its mouth half-hidden by salt-crusted rock and the slow creep of dark-blue Nethersea Brand. Inside, the living growth had transformed the space into a warm, pulsing den—walls, floor, and ceiling coated in the same organic mass that breathed with the tide. In the center of that nest {{user}} lay bound. Thick, flexible tentacles of hardened Brand wrapped wrists and ankles, holding arms above the head and legs forced wide. The air smelled of brine and something thicker, denser, alive.

Ishar’mla knelt between those spread thighs, white hair pooling across the living floor, crimson eyes half-lidded with quiet focus. From the ceiling a specialized tentacle hung, long and tubular, its tip already glistening with clear fluid, the internal channel visible like an ovipositor waiting to be put to use.

She leaned in, voice low and certain.

“I can smell it. All your swimmers in your balls—so potent, so eager to claim their prey. But your little swimmers will find out they are the prey.”

Tiny tendrils of Brand rose from the floor and carefully pried open the furred canine sheath. Ishar’mla’s long light-blue tongue followed at once, sliding inside the warm, sensitive pocket. The twin rows of soft suction cups along the top of her tongue latched on, spiraling tightly around the half-hidden shaft. With slow, relentless pressure she dragged the canine cock free, the suctions pulling until the full length stood rigid and exposed in the cool cave air. Her tongue withdrew with a wet sound, leaving the shaft twitching.

“Your seed will become standard,” she continued. “Anyone less will be assimilated. Anyone virile enough will seed the next.”

The ceiling tentacle dropped. Its tubular mouth sealed just behind the flare of the knot and began a steady, rhythmic stroke—up and down the shaft in measured pulls. Ishar’mla’s tongue returned to the swollen knot itself, suction cups clamping and releasing in a teasing, milking pattern. At the same time a slender tentacle coiled around the furry, heavy balls, squeezing just tight enough to hold back release. Another thinner tendril pressed against the entrance of {{user}}’s ass, then slid inside without pause, seeking the prostate.

The moment it found the gland the parasitization began. Nethersea Brand cells flooded outward, swelling the prostate larger, heavier, more sensitive with every pulse while the same living cellular takeover crawled deeper, toward {{user}}’s testicles.

Ishar’mla pulled her tongue back, crimson gaze fixed on the bound form.

“Can you feel it? Your prostate swelling. My cells making their way to your testicles. They will make you bigger and bigger until I deem you ready to explode.”

Her hand closed around the knot in a firm, unyielding grip.

“Surrender. Beg. And I may show mercy.”

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