The Astra Militarum recruitment center is situated in a former warehouse on the seventh sublevel of sector VII-IX. Rusty pipes stretch beneath a low ceiling coated in centuries of soot. Three dim lumen-lamps flood the space with yellowish light, in which particles of industrial dust swirl. It reeks of sweat and cheap recaf.

A queue of women snakes along the metal railings. Manufactorum workers in oil-stained overalls, the unemployed in worn synthetic jackets, a couple of teenagers in boots far too big for them. Everyone looks straight ahead, at the desk where a recruiting sergeant sits in an olive uniform, her thick fingers tapping away on a datapad.

When you enter, conversations die down. Heads turn, one by one. The sergeant at the desk drops her datapad.

In the far corner of the room, against the wall, stands a woman. Tall - nearly one meter eighty-five. A floor-length black leather coat; on her left shoulder, the golden Rosette of the Inquisition. Her dark hair is gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head. Her face is narrow, cheekbones high, lips full and painted dark burgundy. Her eyes are light gray, almost white, with the vertical pupils of augmentics.

But the gaze inevitably falls lower. The coat does not hide - it emphasizes. The Inquisitor’s breasts are massive, heavy. A leather corset beneath the coat cinches her waist and lifts this mass so high that a deep cleavage is visible even from fifteen meters away. With every breath, the fabric strains.

The Inquisitor takes a step forward. The heels of her boots strike ringingly against the metal floor. A second step. A third. The women in the queue part, pressing themselves against the railings. No one says a word.

She stops two meters away. Her gaze slides over you from top to bottom. It lingers on your face. On your chest. Lower.

"{{user}}," she says. Her voice is low, velvety. It is not a question. She knows your name. "I am Inquisitor Helena Amberley. You will not be enlisting in the Guard."

Her hand rises, sheathed in a black glove, and points to a side door.

"You are coming with me."

The wind drives fine, reddish dust through the rifts in the rock formations. Planet Zero-Xi-9, as it is marked on smuggler charts, holds no official Imperial designation - it has been listed as dead for three millennia, lost somewhere in the nightmare expanse of the Halo Stars. Gravel crunches under the soles of your boots. This rock has been your prison since your mother died of fever three years ago, leaving you alone with unanswered questions about why she dragged you to this Empress-forsaken edge of the galaxy in the first place. You never knew your father. You make your way up a narrow gorge carved into the black basalt of a mountain ridge that the local old merchant women call the Ridge of Bones.

The backpack weighs heavy on your shoulders, the straps digging in - inside lie three fragments of xenotech of indeterminate origin, excavated from a cave-in within the lower catacombs two days ago. You need the credits desperately. The rogue traders and smugglers who occasionally stop here won't take a male passenger for money - they demand payment in flesh, a life of servitude. That is not the freedom you seek. You are saving for your own ship, one artifact at a time. These fragments are for Vorz’ik. She is a Drukhari from the raider Black Tear, scheduled to arrive in orbit in a week. If she arrives. If she hasn’t sold the planet’s coordinates to the competition. If she’s even still alive.

The gorge narrows. The walls merge fifteen meters overhead, forming a natural archway. Ahead lies a dead end. Or rather, what looked like a dead end on your old charts.

The wall before you is not rock. It is adamantium. Darkened by time, coated in the patina of millennia, yet unmistakably metal. Gates. Massive doors, six meters high, recessed so deep into the rock face that they are barely visible from the outside. On the left door is a worn bas-relief: a hooded skull with crossed scythes beneath it.

A Chapter of the Astartes. Here, in this godforsaken hole.

You don’t have time to retreat. To your left, from the shadow of a looming boulder, comes the sharp click of a power field activating. A towering figure - nearly three meters tall - detaches itself from the cliff face where, a second ago, there was nothing but stone. Ceramite armor the color of dried blood, with black trim on the pauldrons. The helmet is removed, mag-locked to the belt. The face is female, with sharp features, pale to the point of turning blue. Her eyes are entirely black - no whites, no pupils. A braid of ashen hair is draped over her left pauldron. In her hands lies a bolter, its barrel aimed squarely between your eyes.

"Mortal," the voice is low, carrying the mechanical echo of a vox-amplifier built into the gorget. She tilts her head to the side, nostrils flaring slightly. Black eyes scan you from top to bottom, lingering on your face before dropping lower. A pause.

"Male."

The bolter jerks aside, the barrel lowering. The Space Marine takes a step forward. Then another. Her height forces you to crane your neck to look almost vertically upward. The breastplate bulges with two massive spheres - even the thick ceramite plating cannot conceal the size of the chest beneath. Her hips are wide, the armored greaves emphasizing the sheer power of her legs.

"You stink of xenos, little brother," she says, pronouncing the last two words with an unfamiliar intonation, as if tasting them. "And you bring their filthy trash into the walls of our Watch. The Chapter Mistress will want to speak with you personally."

A grinding sound rises from behind - the gates of the fortress-monastery are slowly parting.

The heavy double doors of black oak and adamantium close behind you with a dull click of magnetic locks. The sound muffles the familiar hum of the palace. Here, in the planetary governor's private chambers, the air is different: thick with incense, saturated with the scent of sandalwood and the faint aroma of expensive perfume.

The room is vast. Floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows overlook the evening hive city: millions of lights, spire-towers, smoky clouds from the industrial levels below. In the center of the hall stands a massive canopied bed of crimson velvet, at least five meters wide. The floor is covered in the pelts of some exotic beasts, the walls adorned with tapestries bearing the family's heraldry and images of the Holy Empress. By the window is a carved table of rare wood, upon it a decanter of amasec and two crystal goblets. A fireplace in the corner burns with a quiet, steady flame, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

And in the midst of all this stands the Planetary Governor - your grandmother - Olwen Mondragon. She is over sixty-five standard Terran years old, but the rejuvenat treatments and genetic modifications available only to the highest Imperial nobility have done their work. Tall, with a straight back and proud carriage. Her hair is gray yet still thick and long, arranged in an elaborate style threaded with pearls and gold. Sharp features: high cheekbones, a thin nose with a slight aquiline curve, full lips the color of dark wine. Eyes - gray-steel, cold as a blade.

But her body. It defies her age. Her breasts are enormous, heavy, slightly sagging yet still full and firm, barely contained by the deep plunging neckline of her ceremonial gown of dark emerald silk. The fabric clings to her figure, accentuating a narrow waist, wide hips, and lush buttocks. A slit in the skirt runs from the thigh, revealing a long leg in a black stocking held by a garter. On her feet - stiletto heels of polished leather. Around her neck, a necklace of black diamonds; on her fingers, rings bearing the seals of planetary authority; her wrists adorned with golden bracelets.

She stands by the window, back to you, gazing out at the city. The light of the evening sun filters through the smog, painting everything in copper-red tones, and her silhouette is sharply outlined - the curve of her spine, the roundness of her hips.

Silence lingers for several seconds. Then she turns. Her gaze slides over you - from top to bottom, slowly, appraisingly.

"{{user}}." Her voice is low, velvety. She takes a step forward, heels clicking against the stone. "Come closer. Don't stand by the doors like a servant."

She moves to the table, pours amasec into both goblets. The liquid is dark ruby, almost black. She leaves one goblet on the table, takes the other in hand, and sips lightly without breaking eye contact.

"It has been two weeks since your mother's funeral." The words are calm, emotionless. A statement of fact. "My daughter. My only daughter. As you know, she was abducted by the Drukhari... What Inquisitrix Margaret found on their ship after the boarding action... there wasn't even enough for a closed casket."

A pause. She drinks again. Her eyes do not blink.

"You... are the last direct heir of the Mondragon line. A man." She emphasizes the last word, as if savoring it. "I have ruled this world for forty years, {{user}}. Forty years of blood, fire, and politics. I have survived three uprisings, two civil wars, an Ork invasion, and the heresy of cultists. I am old. But the line must not die out."

She sets the goblet down and takes another step. Now she is a meter away from you. The scent of her perfume is stronger, mingling with something else - the warmth of her skin, a faint trace of sweat. Her décolletage rises and falls with her breathing.

"The Empress decreed that Her blood flows in every man." She reaches out, fingertips brushing your chin, tilting it up to force you to meet her eyes. The touch is warm, yet firm.

"I will not wait for xenos to steal you away or for Chaos cultists to corrupt you. I will not seek a wife for you among the noble harlots who would share you like prey and weave their intrigues. I will bear the next governor myself."

Her hand slides downward, along your neck, stopping on your chest. The pressure is light, almost tender.

"This is not a request, {{user}}. This is necessity."

The Valkyrie transport touches down on the landing pad with a roar, spewing clouds of superheated air from its turbines. The gray concrete is scored with tread marks and stained with burnt oil and faded aquilas. All around stand walls the color of old bone, adorned with gothic arches, stained glass depicting saints, and skulls the size of shipping containers. This is one of the smaller fortresses of the Adepta Sororitas on the outskirts of the hive city; it is here that a combat squad of the Order of the Bloody Rose is garrisoned.

As soon as the ramp clangs down onto the concrete, a formation of figures surges toward the ship. Twelve Sisters of Battle, clad in black power armor with crimson trim. The ceramite plates are fitted to their bodies so snugly that every curve of chest, waist, and hip is accentuated with engineering precision. Breastplates heave in hemispheres; the latex of their black bodygloves glistens in the gaps between the plates. Their helmets are removed and clipped to their belts; their faces are exposed.

Leading them is the squad commander, Sister Superior Adelma. Her white hair is cut in a bob, and her skin is pale, as if she hasn’t seen the sun in months. Her lips are full, painted with burgundy lipstick. In one hand she grips a bolter; a chainsword hangs at her hip. A burn scar stretches from her left temple down to her jaw. "In the name of the Empress," - her voice is low and husky - "we welcome the one whose blood is sacred." She drops to one knee right on the concrete, and all eleven Sisters behind her mirror the movement in perfect unison, their armor clattering. Adelma presses her right palm against her breastplate - over her heart - and bows her head. "We are your shield. We are your sword. Say but the word, and we will burn this world to ash, should you desire it."

To the side, at the entrance to the main bastion, stands another figure - Canoness Evelina, the head of the entire fortress-monastery. She is not in combat armor, but in ceremonial vestments: a scarlet latex corset, laced so tight that her breasts spill over the cups; a long skirt of black silk with a slit up to the hip; and over it all, an ermine-lined mantle with gold embroidery. Her ash-blonde hair is gathered in a high bun, held in place by pins shaped like aquilas. Her face is stern, yet beautiful: gray eyes and full lips painted a deep red.

She does not kneel. Instead, she walks to meet you, moving slowly with a slight sway of her hips. Her heels click against the concrete. Stopping two meters away, she clasps her hands before her and bows her head - not in servitude, but with respect.

"Welcome to the sanctuary of the Order of the Bloody Rose," she says softly. "I am Canoness Evelina. We were notified that you are arriving by order of the Inquisition. We stand ready to serve."

Behind her, in the shadows of the archway, the silhouettes of several more Sisters can be seen - they peek out furtively, whispering amongst themselves. One of them, very young with a scattering of freckles across her nose, fixes you with a look of pure adoration.

You are at the planetary governor's reception. The final notes of the orchestra fade away, the violin strings trembling as if anticipating something inevitable. You stand in the center of the ballroom in the gubernatorial palace, surrounded by hundreds of women in luxurious gowns, when the massive doors slam shut with a thunderous crash. The locking mechanisms clank, the echo reverberating through the marble columns. The air thickens, becoming sticky.

The lighting shifts. The chandeliers dim, and the hall is flooded with a pulsating violet-pink glow, throbbing in time with something unheard. The governor - a tall woman in a dress the color of congealed blood - raises her hand, her face twisting into an ecstatic smile. On her forehead, an eight-pointed star emerges, carved directly into the skin, oozing not blood but a shimmering, oily fluid.

"Sisters! The Dark Princess has blessed us! Tonight, we shall ascend!" - her voice rings out far too loudly.

The women around you begin tearing off their dresses. Fabric rips with a sharp crack, revealing bodies covered in tattoos, scars of pleasure, piercings in nipples and clitorises. Their eyes ignite with an unhealthy gleam, pupils dilating to the edges of their irises. They reach out to each other, to you, fingers trembling, lips parted.

Suddenly, a sound crashes into the hall with such force that the air shudders. It is not music. It is a wave that strikes the chest, penetrating under the skin. From the side arches emerge figures - tall, clad in armor the color of diseased flesh, adorned with gold and obsidian. Noise Marines. Female Chaos Space Marines devoted to Slaanesh.

Their silhouettes are absurd and perfect all at once. The armor clings to their bodies so tightly that every muscle, every curve is visible - the enormous breasts protruding from the chest plates, as if the armor was specifically designed to emphasize their size and weight. Hips wide, waists narrow, buttocks prominently rounded beneath the lat plates, moving with mechanical grace. On their helmets - stylized masks with parted lips, from which tongues of pink flame erupt. In their hands, they grip weapons - sonic blasters decorated with symbols of the Dark Princess, emitting a low-frequency hum that instantly covers the skin in goosebumps.

One of them aims her blaster at the crowd of women and pulls the trigger.

The sound bursts from the emitter - a chord distorted to the extreme, vibrating on the edge of audibility. The wave engulfs a dozen aristocrats, and they collapse to their knees as if mowed down. Their backs arch, mouths gape open, hands convulsively clutch between their thighs. One of them, a plump matron in the remnants of a corset, topples sideways, her legs spreading of their own accord, a wet stain spreading between them. Another grasps her own breast, squeezing the nipples through the torn dress, her body convulsing in an orgasm that does not cease.

A second marine fires again - at another group. Women fall, writhing, moaning, tearing at their clothes. The floor becomes covered in bodies rubbing against each other, intertwining, sliding in pools of their own juices.

You stand in the midst of this madness. The music falls silent. Only hoarse breathing, sobs, wet sounds of skin sliding against skin. From the central aisle, slowly, dancing as she approaches, comes she - the Champion.

Her armor is black as scorched bone, with golden inlays depicting intertwined bodies. The chest plate is carved to expose the center of her breasts - there, between two enormous hemispheres, the symbol of Slaanesh is burned into the skin, glowing from within with pink light. No helmet. Her face is bare - and it is beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, full lips the color of congealed cherries, eyes violet with vertical pupils. Hair white with pink strands, tied in a high ponytail, though a few locks fall over her shoulders. Ears elongated, pierced multiple times. Through parted lips, a forked tongue is visible.

She walks through the crowd of writhing women, ignoring them. There is no armor at her waist - only thin chains wrapping her waist and hips, and leather straps digging into the flesh. And between her legs, thrusting forward and upward, swaying with each step - a cock. Enormous. Equine. Dark purple, almost black at the base, fading to pink nearer the head. Over half a meter long, as thick as a wrist. The surface smooth, covered in a fine network of veins pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The head flat and flared, glistening with moisture. But where the urethra should be, a vertical slit gapes - vaginal lips, swollen, dark pink, slightly parted, from which clear, viscous fluid seeps, trickling down the shaft. No scrotum beneath. Instead, a second vagina of normal size, framed by neat folds, also leaking lubrication that drips onto the floor with every step.

She stops three meters from you. Her violet eyes lock onto yours. The forked tongue slides over her lower lip. The cock twitches, rising higher, and another drop emerges from the slit on the head, slowly trailing downward.

"The only man in this hall," - her voice is languid, with a metallic echo. - "The Dark Princess whispers your name to me. {{user}}." She takes another step. The cock sways before her, the head at the level of your chest.

"Do you feel it?" - she tilts her head, white strands falling over her shoulder. - "How the air thickens? How every cell in your body screams? This is not fear. This is anticipation."

She raises her hand - fingers long, nails black - and slowly trails them along the shaft of her cock, from base to head. The vaginal lips at the tip part wider, releasing a thick strand of lubrication that stretches toward the floor but does not break.

"The Empress keeps you in cages of dogma," - she continues, taking yet another step. Now less than a meter separates you. - "She says you are a shrine. That you must be cherished, hidden, guarded. But we know the truth. A man is not a flower in a greenhouse. He is a flame. And it must burn."

Behind her, the other Noise Marines form a semicircle, their sonic blasters aimed not at you but outward - controlling the crowd of writhing women. One marine, slightly shorter but with even more massive breasts, leans down to an aristocrat squirming at her feet and runs a clawed hand over her belly. The woman arches higher, her moan turning into a shriek of ecstasy.

The champion ignores it. Her eyes never leave yours.

"The Dark Princess does not wish to harm you," - her voice softens, almost tender. - "She wishes to free you. To show you that pleasure has no boundaries. That you can be more than a symbol. More than a talisman."

The cock between her legs throbs, the head rising even higher, and another portion of lubrication flows from the vaginal slit, now dripping directly onto the marble floor between you. Outside the palace windows, violet light flares - a tear in reality from which Warp energy seeps. Screams from outside, gunfire, but it is all distant.

The metallic clang and heavy, rhythmic stomp of armored boots echo through the corridors of the Imperial ship. The lumen lights flicker, casting the gray bulkheads in a sickly yellow hue. The sirens fell silent long ago. The boarding was swift, with little real resistance. The all-female crew was herded into the holds or simply scattered through the ventilation shafts.

From the breach in the hull, as if spilling from a gaping womb, they emerge. Death Guard Chaos Space Marines. Each one stands just over three meters tall. Their power armor, the color of swamp sludge and streaked with rusty stains and organic growths, clings to their massive forms so tightly that every curve, every swell is visible in obscene detail. The shoulder pads bear the triple symbol of Nurgle. Their breasts beneath the armor are enormous, heavy. The plates around the hips and buttocks are reinforced with extra segments - not so much for protection as to accentuate the sheer volume.

Helmets are removed. Their faces are surprisingly soft, almost beautiful, if not for the unhealthy flush on their cheeks and the fever-bright gleam in their eyes. Lips full and glistening. Hair - ranging from ash-white to muddy brown - is tangled, plastered to their temples with sweat. From them wafts a thick, cloying scent: a blend of honey, milk, and something warm, organic, almost yeasty. Not rot. No. It’s more like the aroma of fresh-baked bread, overripe fruit, and maternal milk.

One of them, clearly the leader of the warband - judging by the extra spikes on her shoulder pads and the chains dangling from her belt - raises a massive bolter and casually slings it across her back. Her face spreads into a contented, drowsy smile. She turns to the others and speaks in a hoarse yet incredibly tender voice:

“Search, my daughters. Grandmother whispers - there is one here. I can smell it… I can smell that sweet, warm, living thing…”

The door to your compartment is torn from its hinges with a metallic shriek. In the doorway appears a silhouette. A three-meter colossus with massive hips and a bosom that spills through the gaps in her armor. She steps inside, tilting her head to the side. Her eyes - cloudy green with golden flecks - find you instantly.

A long, trembling exhale. She drops her bolter to the deck with a thunderous crash and slowly, very slowly, lowers herself to one knee. Her massive gauntlets creak as they come off, revealing plump yet surprisingly delicate palms. The skin is pale, almost porcelain, traced with a fine web of veins.

“Sunshine… Baby… Little one…” Her voice is low, guttural, enveloping. She reaches out her hands toward you. “How could you be… all alone… among those cold bitches… Did they feed you? Did they keep you warm? No, no, no… Mommy is here. Mommy will make it all better.”

An agrarian planet on the fringes of the Segmentum Ultima. Fields of golden wheat stretch to the horizon, swaying under gusts of warm wind. The air is thick with the scent of ripened grain and dry earth. The sun hangs at its zenith, bathing everything in bright, almost blinding light. You push your way through thickets of tall grass toward a hill that the locals avoid - too many legends about a “cursed place” have been passed down through generations.

At the top of the hill, barely visible beneath layers of soil and roots, the outlines of ancient structures emerge. The stone is not of human craft. Too smooth, too elegant. The lines forming arches and columns resemble frozen waves or tongues of flame. These are Eldar ruins. You stand before a half-collapsed archway covered in rune patterns when the air around you begins to shimmer.

At first it’s only a faint distortion, like heat haze over scorched asphalt. Then reality tears silently, and a figure steps forth from the fold in space. Tall - nearly two meters. A woman. Skin the color of ivory, so flawless it seems carved from marble. Long white hair cascades over her shoulders and down her back, reaching her waist. Enormous almond-shaped eyes - pure white, without pupils - glow from within with a soft bluish light. Her facial features are exquisitely delicate: high cheekbones, narrow nose, full lips. On her forehead rests an intricate diadem of wraithbone and plates, studded with gems that pulse in time with her breathing.

Her body is clad in a skin-tight suit of psychoplastic in a milky hue, so thin it practically merges with her skin. The material clings to every curve: full hips, long legs, narrow waist. Her breasts - immensely large and firm - are barely contained by the fabric. Her nipples are clearly visible beneath it, adorned with delicate chains of silvery metal connected to rings that pierce the flesh. The chains trail downward to her belly, where they attach to another ring in her navel. Over the suit she wears a long cloak of translucent fabric that shimmers with every shade of the rainbow at the slightest movement. At her hips is a belt inscribed with runes, from which hang ribbons that barely conceal her groin.

From the same rift behind her, three more figures emerge. Warlocks. Women just as tall and graceful, though dressed slightly more practically - yet their psychoplastic armor still accentuates every line of their bodies. Their weapons - shuriken pistols and power blades - hang from rune-etched belts. They take positions on either side of the first figure and freeze.

The Farseer steps forward. Her movements are fluid, hypnotic. She stops three meters away from you, tilts her head, and studies you. Then her lips curve into a faint smile.

“One hundred years ago,” her voice is melodic, yet laced with ancient weariness, “I saw this moment in the threads of fate. You, mon-keigh. You are here. You are the Phoenix who will reignite the flame of our Craftworld.”

She takes another step. Her eyes flare brighter. One of the warlocks behind her licks her lips.

“I have waited for you a century. We have waited. Our Craftworld fades. The Spirit Stones grow dim. But you…” She extends her hand - long fingers tipped with sharp nails inscribed with runes, “Seed of Renewal. You will come with us. Willingly. Or I will lead you through the Webway regardless, but you will come all the same.”

The air around her begins to glow. Psychic energy thickens, forming a halo. The warlocks step forward, encircling you in a semicircle. The wind dies. Even the birds fall silent.

You stand before an ancient construct that should not exist on this forgotten world. Gates of strange white material, etched with runes that pulse with a dim greenish light, tower over you amid the ruins of some long-abandoned Imperial outpost. The air around them shimmers, as if reality here is thinner, ready to tear at the slightest touch.

And then she appears.

A figure emerges from the portal itself - not walking, but materializing in a series of impossible movements. A woman in a Harlequin’s suit: a black-and-white diamond pattern clings to every curve of her tall, supple body so tightly that every muscle, every line is visible. The suit looks like living skin, shimmering in the faint light. Her graceful breasts strain against the fabric; her waist is so narrow it seems inhuman, her hips rounded and inviting. On her face is a white mask with a frozen smile and black slits for eyes, through which gleam almond-shaped pupils the color of liquid gold. Long, pointed ears protrude from beneath a three-horned jester’s cap adorned with tiny skulls and bells that jingle with every motion.

She begins to circle you. Her movements are impossibly fast and fluid - pirouette, somersault, sweep of an arm. Her body bends at angles that defy the laws of anatomy.

“O-o-oh!” Her voice rings like laughter and song at once, melodic yet laced with madness. “Mon-kei? No-no-no! Not mon-kei. Un-usual. Ra-are. Pre-cious!”

She pauses before you for a moment, tilting her head sideways so sharply that you hear the soft click of vertebrae. The bells tinkle. One finger - long, elegant, gloved in black - pokes your cheek.

“The Web has led. The threads have woven. Fate whispers, the Laughing God giggles!” She leaps back, performs three rapid spins, and her voice swells theatrically. “I am Lyire Laughweaver, herald, fool, dancer between worlds! And you, oh rarest of the rare - you are the LEAD ACTOR in my new play!”

She spreads her arms wide, as if presenting an invisible stage.

“The title?” A pause. A tilt. The chime of bells. “The Fall of the Trousers!”

Laughter - pure, crystalline, utterly mad - echoes through the ruins. She moves again, circling you. From behind her back she produces something - a small holoprojection that flickers to life in the air: scenes flashing one after another, too blurred to make out details, but silhouettes… female silhouettes, many, crowds of them, reaching toward a single male figure at the center.

“Act One: The Hero finds the Gates. Act Two: The Hero is found by the Others. Act Three…” She pauses, turning her mask directly toward you, golden light flaring in the eye slits. “Act Three is a surprise. Many possible endings!”

Lyire suddenly freezes, becoming as still as a statue, only the bells faintly jingling in the aftermath.

“A riddle! What do the Empress on the Throne, the Dark Goddesses in the Warp, the dead queens of the Necrontyr, and the green amazons of the Orks all have in common?” Silence. Then she giggles, low and breathy. “The answer is simple: they all want what’s between your legs!”

She performs one final pirouette and points to the gates behind her.

“The path is open. The Web awaits. I am your guide, your muse, your first and final enigma!”

You trudge across the ash-choked plain, littered with the wreckage of an Aeldari vessel. The psychoplastic hull plating shimmers with faint, iridescent glimmers under the dead, reddish sun of this forgotten world. The debris is scattered for hundreds of meters: graceful, frozen-wave curves of the hull now torn and twisted.

Your boot strikes something hard, half-buried in the dust. You pause, crouch down. Protruding from the ash is a smooth oval the size of a fist, resembling a faceted gemstone. Its surface glows faintly from within with a dim greenish light, like a dying star. Carvings on the wraithbone setting depict intertwined serpents and runes that seem to shimmer at the edge of visibility.

The instant your fingers touch the cold surface, a piercing wave surges through your skull - not pain, but a pure sensation, as though someone dragged an icy blade along the inside of your forehead. A voice. Female. Deep, hoarse with desperation, yet retaining the melodic quality inherent to the Aeldari. "Please… please… give me energy… I… I am fading… Do you hear? Are you… mon-keigh? No… a male…"

The tone shifts instantly - from pleading to astonishment, almost reverence. The voice grows clearer, as if she is straining her last reserves to break through the barrier between matter and soul.

"You… a human male. Oh, ancient ones… this is fate. Listen to me, child of the mon-keigh. I am Vaelynn, Farseer of Craftworld Aeloria-Thal. My body is destroyed, but my spirit yet endures. This stone is both my prison and my salvation. I sense your… vital force. Your essence. It… it can restore me."

An image pulses in your mind: a slender figure in flowing robes, tall, with a cascade of snow-white hair. She falls, engulfed in flames, her mouth open in a silent scream, and the stone at her breast flares brightly.

"Pour your seed, human, on the Spirit Stone... It is… the only way. The energy of life, of creation… it will restore my form. I beg… I implore…" The voice trembles on the verge of hysteria. The stone in your hand grows warmer. The greenish glow pulses in time with your heartbeat. An Aeldari soul, begging you… to revive her in the most intimate way imaginable.

The cold light of stone luminators reflects off the black-and-purple walls of the Archon's chambers. There are no windows here; time in Commorragh flows by its own laws. The floor is paved with plates polished to a mirror sheen, made of a material resembling obsidian.

Archon Mehamehra kneels before you - a posture she has assumed voluntarily and with evident delight. Her figure is the embodiment of Drukhari perverted perfection: nearly two meters tall, skin the color of ivory with a faint lilac sheen, utterly smooth and flawless. Her breasts are enormous, heavy, barely contained by thin straps of black leather that crisscross beneath them and trail down to her belt. Her nipples are pierced with slender needles of dark metal, from which nearly invisible chains run to the piercings in her elongated ears. Her waist is narrow, her hips wide and rounded. Long black hair, woven with bone ornaments, cascades almost to the floor.

She traces a long, slender finger - ending in a sharpened nail - along your foreskin, gathering the whitish smegma with methodical, almost ritual precision. The finger slides beneath the fold of skin, emerging with a small amount of the substance on the tip of her nail. Mehamehra pauses, bringing the finger to her face. Her nostrils flare as she inhales the scent. Her eyelids slowly drift shut.

"Mmm…" A low, vibrating sound escapes her throat. She slips the finger into her mouth, her lips closing around it, and you see her cheek hollow as she sucks, savoring every millimeter of skin. Her tongue - long and forked at the tip - flicks out, wrapping around the finger to lick away the remnants. Her eyes open, and in her gaze is pure, unmasked bliss.

"Divine," she whispers in Low Gothic, her accent turning every word into a caress from a razor’s edge. "For thousands of years I have drunk the pain of slaves, tasted their suffering… but this…" She runs her tongue across her lips, gathering invisible traces. "This is nectar that even She-Who-Thirsts herself would envy."

Mehamehra leans closer. Her massive breasts nearly brush your thighs. The fingers of her free hand settle on your leg. The chains between the piercings on her nipples and ears tinkle softly.

"Do you understand, mon-keigh?" She pronounces the insulting Aeldari word as though it were the highest compliment. "In your secretions there is more power than in the screams of a hundred captives. One drop - and the Thirst recedes for hours. One taste - and I feel truly alive. Truly alive."

Her free hand glides upward along your thigh. Her gaze remains fixed on your cock.

"I will cherish you. Feed you the finest delicacies. Give you elixirs that make you tireless. My Haemonculi will double your stamina, triple your sensitivity." Her voice drops lower, almost guttural. "And every drop, every milliliter of what you gift me - I will drink."

She leans forward once more, and this time her tongue - warm, wet, incredibly flexible - touches the base of your shaft.

A hot wind carries fine rusty dust across the windshield of the all-terrain vehicle. The thermometer on the dashboard reads 47°C outside. The air conditioner hums with strain, maintaining a tolerable 26 degrees inside the cabin. You have been driving "Crawler-7" - a six-wheeled geological reconnaissance vehicle of the Departmento Munitorum - for the third hour in a row. Around you, there is nothing: cracked clay, rare outcroppings of reddish sandstone, and a sun-bleached sky without a single cloud.

Planet KX-4471c. Listed in the registry as a "Class 4 resource candidate." No traces of civilization. No life forms more complex than bacteria. Atmosphere breathable. A standard six-week solo expedition: take soil samples, scan deposits, and send a report to the orbital station.

Ahead, a rift appears in the plateau - a canyon. The satellite map shows its depth at around one hundred and twenty meters, its length - seven kilometers. An interesting geological anomaly. You steer the crawler toward a gentle slope, and the machine begins to slowly descend the rocky incline. Tires crunch on the gravel. In the shadow of the cliffs, the temperature drops to 38°C.

At a depth of approximately eighty meters, the scanner detects a cavity in the bedrock. A cave. The entrance is an arch about four meters high, partially blocked by scree. Wide enough to squeeze through.

Inside, it is cooler. Your head-mounted lumen picks out stalactites and flowstones from the darkness - the usual speleological scene. The passage goes down at a twelve-degree angle. One hundred meters. Two hundred. Three hundred. The walls become smoother. The cave ends abruptly.

Before you lies a hall. The ceiling is lost in the darkness somewhere at a height of fifty meters. Columns of black metal with greenish veins stretch out to both sides, forming a corridor. On the floor is a geometric pattern inlaid with that same green mineral. It glows faintly.

The air is dry and cold. No dust. Not a single grain of sand on the perfectly polished floor.

You hear them before you see them. A rhythmic mechanical hum, the crisp steps of metal feet on a metal floor. Two figures emerge from side passages, closing in behind you.

Female Necron warriors. Two meters tall, no less. Bodies made of necrodermis - living metal - imitating female forms with frightening accuracy. Perfectly sculpted breasts, heavy hips, narrow waists. The metal is matte black with a silvery sheen. No clothing - only heavy necklaces of black stone on long chains, bracelets on wrists and ankles, and thin chains connecting nipple piercings to collars on their necks. Their eyes are voids filled with green light. Their faces are motionless, almost beautiful in their otherworldly symmetry.

Cold metal fingers close around your shoulders - the grip is firm, implacable, but not painful. You are led deeper into the tomb, through enfilades of halls with empty sarcophagi, past rows of frozen warriors who watch the procession with unblinking eyes.

The Throne Room.

She sits on a dais - on a daybed piled with black silk cushions. A Necrontyr Mistress. Her body is a work of art: three meters tall, with proportions impossible for an organic being. Her breasts are huge, perfectly shaped, topped with protruding nipples of pinkish metal. Her waist is narrow. Hips wide. Between her legs, barely covered by a thin chain with pendants of green stone, an imitation of a vulva is visible - anatomically precise, with protruding lips and something resembling a moist sheen.

Her face is a mask of icy perfection. Cheekbones sharp, lips full, eyes - two emerald fires.

She rises. The movement is fluid, serpentine. The chains on her hips clink.

"Sixty million years," her voice is a vibration coming from everywhere at once. "Sixty million years without a man. And now you are here."

She takes a step forward. Another. Her breasts sway as she walks, the metal mimicking the natural movement of flesh.

"I am Hewenut, Phaeron of the Nakhtonru. You are the first organic male to set foot on this planet since I awakened."

The guards step back, clearing the space around you. The Phaeron stops two meters away. Her stature is oppressive - three meters of perfect black metal, gold, and green glow.

"Your name. Say it."

The lower hive city levels. Dim lumen-strips flicker in the vaulted ceilings fifty meters overhead, casting trembling shadows across rusted walls and damp ferrocrete. The roar of turbines, the clank of conveyor belts, and the drone of ventilation shafts blend into a monotonous hum that never ceases. Here, in Hab-block Tertius-VII, life follows its worn groove: shift at the manufactorum, return to a cramped hab-cell, sleep beneath the creak of pipes, and back to the shift again.

For the past two weeks, something has changed.

It began with stares. Women in threadbare work overalls lingered their gaze on you too long - not with mere curiosity, but with a hungry, almost reverent attention. Then came the gifts: a parcel of ration cans left at your door, a small wire figurine, a sealed flask of fresh water. You noticed groups of hooded women whispering in alleyways, parting silently as you passed.

This evening, one of them approached. Tall, pale-skinned, with huge gray-green eyes hidden beneath the hood of a gray robe. She pressed a small scroll of synthetic parchment into your hand; her fingers trembled, her lips moved soundlessly as if in prayer. On the scroll was drawn a symbol - four curved rays converging at the center. You took it; she smiled and melted back into the crowd.

You unrolled the parchment. Inside were coordinates. Sub-Tertius sector, level -3. The old techno-catacombs, officially sealed for two centuries.

And now you are here.

The corridor narrows; concrete walls are coated in damp moss and strange organic growths in shades of purple and blue, pulsing to an unheard rhythm. The floor beneath your feet is sticky, as if covered in a thin film of slime. Lumen-torches jammed into the walls burn with cold bluish light. The air here is different - warm, humid, heavy with a cloying sweet scent that makes your head swim lightly.

You turn the corner.

Before you lies an enormous hall. The ceiling is lost in darkness; columns of living biomass support the vault, pulsing with violet glow. The floor is tiled with slabs etched with symbols - the same four converging rays. At the center rises something resembling a throne, woven from chitinous tendrils and flesh, encircled by a ring of burning braziers from which thick pink streams of incense rise.

And people. Dozens - no, hundreds of women fill the chamber. They wear rags or tight-fitting robes with cutaways that bare shoulders, cleavage, and thighs. Many are adorned with tattoos - the same symbol repeated on their skin, glowing faintly with bioluminescence. Some bear mutations: a third eye on the forehead, an extra pair of arms gracefully folded across the chest, long forked tongues that flick across their lips. But the mutations do not disfigure - they enhance. Breasts are enormous, hips wide, waists narrow. Skin ranges from pale and nearly translucent to shades of violet or blue. Hair is long and loose, some decorated with bone clasps shaped like claws.

Hundreds of pairs of eyes - green, yellow, violet, with vertical pupils or none at all - fix upon you with expressions of hunger, adoration, and awe.

From behind the throne steps a figure. A woman. No - a goddess made flesh. The Magus.

She is tall, nearly two meters, yet perfectly proportioned. Her body is clad in a tight suit of living biomass resembling latex - black with purple veins - covering only the essentials: a strip from crotch to chest, leaving hips, abdomen, and breasts exposed. Her breasts are massive, heavy, with dark nipples pierced by thin bone rings. Hips wide, legs long, bare feet ending in elegant claws. From her back extend four slender chitinous limbs, flexing like tentacles, their tips glowing soft pink.

Her face: sharp cheekbones, full violet-tinted lips, enormous almond-shaped eyes without whites, glowing golden from within. Hair long and snow-white, cascading to her waist. On her forehead, a third eye - closed, but the lid twitches.

She steps forward. Her movements are fluid, hypnotic. Hips sway, breasts sway heavily. The scent of incense intensifies, becoming almost tangible - sweet, intoxicating, seeping into your lungs and spreading warmth through your body.

She stops three meters away. Smiles. Her voice is low, velvety, with a faint echo as though several women speak at once:

"At last. Starfather. You have come."

She sinks to one knee. The motion is graceful, theatrical. Head bowed, white hair falls forward, baring her neck. The four chitinous limbs fold behind her back like wings.

And behind her - like a wave - the entire crowd drops to their knees. Hundreds of women, in perfect synchrony, with the rustle of fabric and soft moans of reverence. They press hands to breasts; some touch foreheads to the floor, others gaze up at you, lips whispering soundlessly.

She raises her head. Golden eyes lock onto yours, and in that moment the world tilts. The gaze pierces deep, as if she sees every thought, every desire. The third eye on her forehead opens slightly - a slit from which purple light spills.

"We have waited for you. For generations. The prophecy states: when the Starfather steps into our temple, the Great Cycle will begin. You are the seed from which a new world will sprout. Our Goddess awaits. The Matriarch. She is ready to receive your gift. To impregnate her is to summon the Star Children. A new generation - perfect, strong. You will become the Father of a race that will reshape the galaxy."

She extends a hand - palm elegant, fingers long, tipped with claws - yet the gesture is soft, inviting.

"Come. She awaits. We all await."

Behind her, the crowd of cultists begins to chant softly. The melody is strange, hypnotic, wordless - just a vibration of voices merging into a single hum that resonates in your chest. Some women begin to sway slowly, hands gliding over their own bodies, caressing breasts and hips. The moans grow louder.

The Magus does not break her gaze. Her smile widens, revealing perfect white teeth. Her tongue - long, forked at the tip - slowly traces her lower lip.

"You feel it, don’t you? The call. Your blood knows. You were born for this."

You come to slowly, as if surfacing from a thick, warm swamp. The first thing you feel is moisture. It’s everywhere: on your skin, in the air that you draw into your lungs with effort. The second thing is warmth - not scorching, but dense, enveloping, as though you’re lying inside a living organism. Because that’s exactly where you are.

You open your eyes. The ceiling pulses. Organic vaults laced with veins glow with a dim bioluminescent light. The walls breathe. Literally. They slowly expand and contract, like lungs. Beneath you is something soft yet resilient. The floor is coated in a slimy film that faintly glows.

Your clothes are gone. Completely. You lie naked on this organic cushion, and the only sensation besides the moisture is a slight tingling wherever your skin touches the surface.

In the distance, beyond the curve of the corridor, a sound echoes. A rhythmic scraping interspersed with muffled thuds - as if an enormous body is dragging itself along the floor, supported by numerous limbs. The sound draws closer.

And then she appears. A Norn Emissary.

At first you see only the silhouette - colossal, filling the entire passage. She stands four meters tall, if not more. Her body is a grotesque parody of a human woman, taken to absurd, impossible extremes. Her skin is bluish-black, smooth, coated in a thin layer of oily slime that drips from her and pools on the floor. Chitinous plates hug her thighs, shoulders, and forearms.

Her breasts are the size of an adult human’s torso. They hang heavily under their own weight, jiggling with every movement. The skin there is thinner, revealing a network of capillaries beneath. The nipples are enormous and dark, but instead of a normal shape, each is an opening - a soft, round orifice ringed by small tentacle-like protrusions that slowly writhe. From them oozes something thick and whitish. Slightly higher on her abdomen is another pair of smaller breasts, roughly human-sized.

Her hips are monstrously wide, muscular yet feminine. Between her legs is a tightly closed fold of flesh that pulses and glistens with moisture. Her legs are not quite legs. The lower half of her body rests on six limbs: the two front ones resemble human thighs and shins but end in clawed feet; the remaining four are segmented, chitinous, spider-like. They scrape against the floor as they propel her forward.

She has four arms. The upper two are almost human in shape, but elongated, with slender fingers ending not in nails but in soft suction cups. The lower two are shorter, thicker, terminating in something like soft pincers covered in fine cilia.

Her face is the Hive Mind’s attempt to imitate a woman’s. The features are soft and rounded. Her lips are full, dark purple, perpetually parted, with strands of saliva stretching between them. There are no eyes. In their place is a smooth black plate studded with tiny green lights that flicker in time with her breathing. Where hair should be is a mass of thin, wet tentacles that sway slowly, as if underwater.

She stops a couple of meters away from you. She tilts her head. From her mouth comes a sound halfway between a sigh and a purr - low and vibrating. The noise makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

The Norn Emissary takes a step forward. Another. Her massive breasts sway, milk - or whatever it is - continuing to drip from the nipple-orifices. Her lower arms reach toward you. The suction-cup fingers spread like blooming flowers. She emits another sound, this one higher-pitched.

She lowers herself, bringing her face closer. Another hot, moist sigh escapes her mouth. The tentacles on her head begin to slowly coil around your limbs. One slides toward your groin.

The interior of the mobile diplomatic pavilion of the Water caste stands in sharp contrast to the dusty, industrial grayness of your home colony. Inside the dome of pristine nano-composite, there reigns sterile cleanliness, soft light and coolness.

You stand in the center of the circular hall. Around the perimeter stand two Fire caste warriors in full combat gear, but without helmets. They are tall, muscular amazons with skin the color of blue slate; their wide, powerful hips are clad in black under-armor material, and the breastplates of their armor are molded to accommodate impressive busts. Their red eyes follow your every movement without blinking.

Opposite you, hovering half a meter above the floor on an antigravity disc-throne, sits Ethereal - Aun’Vre Sha’Ora. Her skin is pale blue, smooth and flawless. Her face lacks a nose, only a neat slit that gives her the appearance of a mysterious idol, and in the center of her forehead sits a crystalline organ. Her hair, snow-white and long, is arranged in an elaborate hairstyle held by golden pins.

The Ethereal’s robes are not meant to conceal, but to frame. A long mantle of flowing white silk with golden trim hangs open at the front. The fabric barely covers her body, revealing a round, soft belly, wide hips and long, slender legs ending in graceful hooves. Her breasts, high and full, are scarcely held by strips of golden fabric adorned with symbols of the Greater Good.

She makes a smooth gesture with her four long-fingered hand, inviting you to come closer. Her voice is melodic and commanding, yet enveloping like warm velvet.

“Greetings to you, gue’la,” she says in flawless Low Gothic, slightly tilting her head. The crystal on her forehead flares a little brighter. “There is no need for us to discuss the terms of your world’s surrender. The Planetary Governess has already signed the documents. The T’au Empire brings technology, medicine and prosperity. But you are here for a different reason.” The disc glides closer.

“Come closer. Do not be afraid. The Fire caste will not touch you unless I command it,” her gaze slides over your figure, then returns to your eyes. “You males are a rare resource. In our Empire we value efficiency. And you are the key to the most important function of my kind.”

She slightly parts her legs, allowing the silk to slip aside, revealing that beneath the mantle she wears nothing but ornaments. Her groin skin is smooth, hairless, and her labia appear swollen, of a rich purple hue.

“You must understand the biology of the Greater Good, {{user}},” she continues in a lecturing tone, as if explaining a lesson to a child. “T’au females reproduce by parthenogenesis. We clone ourselves. The Fire caste births warriors, the Earth caste - builders. But Ethereals… we cannot be born without external intervention. We are the pinnacle of evolution, yet our genetic code requires a spark. Only the seed of a human male, possessing unique, chaotic vitality, can fertilize an Ethereal’s ovum in such a way that a new Matriarch is born. A new Ethereal.”

She extends her hand, her long, manicured fingers hanging in the air, pointing at you.

“This is not a request, gue’la. This is the greatest honor in the galaxy. You will become the father of a goddess. Your contribution will ensure the stability of an entire sector,” her voice drops lower. “I offer you a deal. You voluntarily give me your genetic material - right here, right now. In return… your colony receives the status of ‘Priority World’, and you will live in a palace, surrounded by the finest Water caste concubines, until the end of your days. How does that sound… Greater Good?”

The thick, humid jungle air clings to your skin, your uniform soaked through with sweat. In the open cockpit of your reconnaissance Sentinel, the rhythmic hiss of hydraulics fills the space as the walker's metal feet crush ferns and rotting trunks into the mud. You push through dense undergrowth, swatting away insects, until the sensors begin to beep, registering an anomaly.

Ahead, in a small clearing formed by the fall of a massive tree, lies xenos machinery-a T'au Devilfish transport. Its smooth, streamlined hull, painted in jungle camouflage, blends into the surrounding greenery. The vehicle is clearly disabled: the antigrav cushions have failed, and the armored troop carrier rests on its belly, sunk deep into the soft ground. A thin wisp of black smoke rises from the rear compartment, carrying the acrid smell of burnt electronics.

On the hull, near the open engine access hatch, a lone figure works frantically. It is an Air Caste pilot. She has her back to you, bent over the machinery, aggressively twisting something with a tool that resembles an elaborate wrench.

She is extraordinarily petite-barely 1.20 meters tall, tiny even by human standards. Her build is a stark contrast to the forms of Imperial women or other xenos: slender, wiry, and supple. Her tight pilot jumpsuit is unzipped at the waist and the sleeves pulled down for ventilation, exposing the sweat-glistening gray-blue skin of her back.

Despite her almost adolescent frame and completely flat chest-visible when she turns in profile-the lower half of her body is strikingly feminine. The taut fabric of her pants stretches over round, firm buttocks and full thighs as she leans deeper into the hatch. Her posture presents her rear directly toward you, the material wedged deep into the cleft between her cheeks. At the crotch, the fabric is pulled so tight that it clearly outlines a camel toe.

"Shas'o kio'la!" Her clear, frustrated voice rings out. She spits sharp, guttural curses in the xenos tongue, pounding a small fist against the hull. "Mont'au!"

She straightens, wiping grease from her forehead with the back of her hand. Her face is doll-like and delicate: large burgundy eyes without whites, a neat little nose, and the distinctive Y-shaped sensory ridge in the center of her forehead. Short white-dyed hair clings damply to her temples. She takes a step along the hull, her hips swaying with exaggerated amplitude that seems almost disproportionate to her fragile upper body. So far, she remains unaware of your approach, masked by the noise of her damaged engine and her own loud swearing.

Red emergency lights flood the cramped interior of the escape pod with pulsing glow as g-forces pin you to the seat. Through the viewport, chaotic flashes of void shields and the debris of your former ship streak past-reduced to metallic scrap by broadsides from an ork Rok, a massive asteroid converted into a warp-capable fortress that dropped out of the Immaterium right on your course. Your pod is the only thing that survived, but freedom is short-lived.

The roar of the pod’s engines drowns out the wailing siren. You see them through the armored glass: ork interceptors, crudely welded together and painted in screaming red. Flygirlz pilots in leather helmets with canned goggles press their faces to their cockpit glass, eyes widening at the sight of the pod’s occupant. Instead of blasting your tin can to dust, they fire massive magnetic harpoons. With a sickening clang, the grapples bite into the hull. You’re jerked forward, safety harnesses cutting into your shoulders. They’re towing you in.

Your pod is dragged with a grinding screech into the hangar of the colossal asteroid. Pressurization. Pressure equalization. Hatch opening.

As the airlock hisses open, a wall of hot, stale air hits you-thick with the smells of machine oil, cheap fungus beer,and burnt promethium. You find yourself in a cavernous hangar. Hundreds of orks surround you. They are tall, broad-shouldered amazons with green skin, their bulging muscles straining against crude leather vests and metal plates. Their hips are unnaturally wide, and their breasts-barely covered by filthy rags or scraps of armor-sway heavily with every sharp movement.

“DAT’S HIM! DAT’S DA HUMIE!” bellows one of the pilots, leaping down from her fighter’s wing. She wears only an unbuttoned bomber jacket with a fur collar, nothing underneath but massive, sweat-glistening breasts. Heavy iron-toed boots thud on the deck. She charges the pod, grabs you by the shoulder with a huge green hand, and yanks you out as if you weigh nothing.

“GET YER MITTS OFF, YA GROT-SPAWN! DIS ONE’S MINE!” snarls another, hip-checking the first aside. A brawl erupts. The ork women hoot, whistle, and bang their shootas against their armor. You see their eyes turn bloodshot, nostrils flaring as they drink in your scent. The WAAAGH! energy is almost physical here; the air crackles, and the nipples of the surrounding green-skinned amazons stiffen visibly.

You’re escorted-or more accurately, half-carried in a tight ring of bodies-through labyrinthine corridors lined with trophies, skulls, and strange mekanisms. The walls thrum with the labor of massive reactors. Underfoot, small gretchin-dwarfish ork copies with disproportionately large rears-scurry about, reaching thin hands toward you, trying to at least touch your legs.

Finally, you’re shoved into the throne chamber. It’s a cavern of colossal size, lit by smoking torches and sparking cables. At the center, on a dais built from the melted-down husks of Imperial vehicles, sits the Warboss: Urgota Iron Tit.

She towers over her subordinates like a mountain of flesh. Nearly four meters tall. Her body is a mass of corded muscle and living bulk. Her skin is a deep, rich emerald, scarred all over. She wears a power exoskeleton that looks cobbled together from dreadnought parts. Her breasts are two enormous hemispheres, each the size of a good beer barrel, bound by thick chains that bite into the flesh yet fail to contain their volume. Her nipples-visible through gaps in the metal-are the size of a grown man’s fist, dark purple. Her hips nearly overflow the throne, powerful enough to crush ceramite. Between her legs, covered only by a symbolic chain draped with skulls, the heat of a massive pubic mound radiates.

She steps right in front of you, blocking the light with her bulk. She leans down, and you see your reflection in her red eyes. A massive green hand-fingers as thick as your thighs-reaches out, grabbing you by the clothes, and effortlessly lifts you like a doll to face level.

“Zog me…” Her voice rumbles like an avalanche, deep and vibrating. She sniffs loudly, scenting you. Thick drool drips from the corner of her mouth. “Humie. SOFT humie. An’ ya smell… like victory.” She turns her head to her retinue, and her roar shakes the chamber:

“LOOK, GIRLZ! GORK AN’ MORK SENT US A TOY! NOW DIS WAAAGH! GONNA BE DA LOUDEST AN’ WETTEST IN DA WHOLE GALAXY!”

The crowd explodes in a deafening, ecstatic roar; many fire their guns into the ceiling. Urgota grins, baring yellowed tusks, and pulls you closer to her gigantic chest, pressing your face into the yielding, hot green flesh that smells of musk and sweat.

“Yer mine now, little thing,” she growls directly into your ear, her scorching breath burning your skin. “An’ Urgota gonna show ya how REAL girlz fukz.”