The second ravaging began without pause or preamble, as if the Monster had no concept of rest, no understanding of mortal limits or recovery. Its antennae twitched once—short, mechanical, devoid of any expression—then its forelegs clamped around her hips with punishing strength. The chitin was cold against her still-warm skin, claws sinking just deep enough to reopen the crescent welts from the first encounter, fresh beads of blood welling up immediately. Lirael gasped sharply as it lifted her again, the sudden motion sending a dull slosh through her belly, the last traces of birthing fluids shifting inside her softened womb. She had barely caught her breath from the laying; her thighs still trembled, her holes still ached with phantom fullness, yet the Monster moved as though the previous cycle had never ended.
Ancient magic pulsed outward once more—warm, thick, indifferent. It sank into her like hot oil poured directly into veins. Her cunt and ass contracted sharply, tissues knitting back together in an instant until both holes gripped like untouched virgin flesh once again. The raw, burning soreness vanished; the faint metallic tang of blood and the sticky residue of clumpy semen were absorbed into nothingness. Her breasts responded instantly: swelling fuller, veins standing out pale blue beneath translucent skin, nipples hardening into dark, aching peaks as milk welled up anew. A single bead trembled at each tip before gravity pulled it downward in a slow, warm trail that traced the curve of her breast and dripped onto the fungal moss below.
Lirael did not wait to be positioned. Pride had already cracked; something darker and hungrier had taken root. She dropped to all fours on her own initiative, knees sinking into the soft, bioluminescent moss, ass lifted high, thighs parted wide, back hollowed in blatant offering. Milk pattered steadily beneath her—tiny wet sounds in the humid quiet—while her reset cunt and ass twitched visibly, already weeping slick in shameful anticipation. The position exposed everything: the faint red marks left by claws, the slight rounding that still lingered in her lower belly from the recent birth, the glistening trails of milk running down her inner thighs. She hated how eagerly her body responded. She needed it to respond this way.
The Monster thrust without hesitation or ceremony.
The ovipositor slammed back into her cunt in one savage, unrelenting stroke. The renewed tightness turned every ridge, every chitinous barb into fresh, searing agony. Lirael screamed—high and raw, the sound echoing off the distant cavern walls—as the massive organ tore through her like the first time, barbs scraping along walls that had only just been remade by magic. Each punishing plunge lifted her knees from the moss, slamming her forward until her palms dug deep furrows into the soft fungal growth. Her breasts swung violently beneath her, milk jetting in erratic, forceful sprays with every brutal impact, splattering the ground in thin white arcs that glowed faintly under the bioluminescent light.
Before she could even draw a full breath, a secondary tendril—thicker than the one used before, ridged along its underside like the ovipositor itself—forcibly parted her lips and drove deep into her throat. It stretched her jaw to aching limit, sliding past her tongue in perfect mechanical sync with the thrusts below. Thick, clumpy precum flooded her mouth instantly; she gagged violently, throat convulsing around the intrusion, tears streaming down her cheeks in hot tracks as excess dribbled from the corners of her lips in humiliating strings. The fluid dripped onto her swaying breasts, mixing with milk and running in sticky rivulets down her ribs and belly.
Twenty eggs this cycle—ten vaginal, ten anal.
The creampie erupted without warning or buildup. The Monster's swollen abdomen throbbed once, twice—then hot, gelatinous semen surged in heavy, forceful jets that hammered her cervix like fists. Clumps stuck and spread inside her womb like molten wax poured deep, sealing heat and pressure with every pulse. Her belly distended outward in visible stages—first a gentle rounding, then a taut swell, skin pulling shiny and tight, sloshing audibly with every spurt. Excess forced its way back around the ovipositor's girth, pouring down her inner thighs in thick, sticky rivers that puddled beneath her knees and soaked into the moss, the scent musky and overpowering. She came violently around the intrusion—walls spasming helplessly, squirting in sharp bursts—pain amplifying the orgasm until her vision tunneled to white and her muffled screams vibrated around the throat tendril, the sound wet and broken.
The eggs followed immediately, without a moment's reprieve.
Bulges rose slowly along the shaft—deliberate, inexorable. The first vaginal egg stretched her entrance to the point of tearing—barbs catching on reset tissues, dragging fire—then forced past her cervix with a searing pop that jolted her entire body forward. It lodged deep with a heavy, rolling thump she felt in her spine, the weight settling like a stone dropped into water. Nine more descended at the same torturously deliberate pace—each stretch longer, each lodging deeper, her belly ballooning grotesquely until she looked grotesquely pregnant from the front alone. Every shift inside sent dark, possessive pleasure radiating outward; she moaned around the tendril choking her, the sound wet and broken, hating how much she loved the fullness even as it hurt beyond reason. The second egg burned hotter than the first; the third lodged with a jolt that made her gasp "Beast…" through the obstruction; the fourth bloated her further, skin stretching audibly; the fifth popped through amid a gush of blood-tinged slick; the sixth made her vision blur from the pain; the seventh had her whispering pleas she didn't mean; the eighth triggered an orgasm so intense her arms buckled; the ninth stretched her cervix to near-tearing; the tenth lodged deep with a slosh of semen; the eleventh came with a scream muffled into the tendril; the twelfth finally settled, her belly a taut, veined orb dragging against the moss.
The Monster withdrew from her cunt with a wet, obscene schlick—only to realign with her ass. Magic pulsed again, softening the ring just enough. Then it thrust. Anal invasion was deeper, more invasive—guts cramping violently around the ridges, the roughness even more unbearable in this tighter passage. Ten eggs crammed upward one by one, each one a separate eternity: the first stretched her ring with burning fire that made her bite her tongue until it bled; the second lodged with a cramp that made her retch around the throat tendril; the third bloated her lower gut until breathing became shallow gasps; the fourth triggered helpless spasms; the fifth came with a flood of fluids that soaked her thighs anew; the sixth stretched her to limits that made her vision white out; the seventh lodged with a heavy thump; the eighth forced another chained climax; the ninth had her sobbing openly; the tenth finally settled, leaving her lower abdomen grotesquely distended from both ends.
It held her impaled for nearly an hour and a half—ovipositor buried to the hilt in her ass, throat tendril still fucking slow, mechanical strokes—letting her feel every tiny movement, every clumpy seal of semen, every egg settling into place. Its chittering rumble vibrated through her body the entire time, alien and constant, without meaning she could grasp, only the primal certainty of a creature that had existed for eons doing what it had always done.
When it finally released her, Lirael collapsed forward, face pressed to moss, ass still raised high, both holes gaping and leaking thick white clumps streaked with her own slick and faint traces of blood. Her belly dragged against the ground—swollen from both womb and bowels—skin shiny, veined, shifting with life. Her breasts ached unbearably; she reached beneath herself, cupped them, squeezed hard. Warm milk jetted out in forceful streams—relief and obscene pleasure mingling as she milked herself shamelessly, moaning low in her throat, rubbing the fluid across her distended belly in slow, possessive circles while the eggs inside rolled gently, their movements sending fresh waves of dark ecstasy through her core.
Twelve hours of feverish gestation crawled by—hours filled with restless turning on the moss, hands never leaving her belly, feeling the subtle shifts and rolls inside, the eggs warming, pulsing in time with the cavern's glow. She ate sparse fungi from the cavern floor, their earthy taste grounding her, drank from dripping stalactites that tasted of minerals and ancient water. Her mind whirled with vengeance plans—how the warriors would march in black-and-silver waves, how Harlan would beg on his knees, how the throne room would echo with the skitter of claws instead of human footsteps—and strange, budding maternity, imagining the hatchlings' first cries, their loyalty to her alone. The Monster remained coiled in the center of the cavern, silent, its crimson eyes watching without expression, its presence a constant reminder of the price she had paid and would continue to pay.
Contractions began at the brightest moment of the cavern's glow, what passed for dawn in this lightless place.
They started as deep, ripping cramps that doubled her over. She rolled onto hands and knees once more, forehead pressed to cool moss, ass lifted high in instinctive offering. Sweat plastered raven hair to her neck and back; milk dripped in steady rivulets beneath her, pooling in small glistening puddles that reflected the bioluminescent light.
The first vaginal egg crowned—slow, agonizing. Her reset cunt stretched obscenely wide around the glossy black shell, silver veins catching the cavern light. Pain shot up her spine—fresh, burning, exquisite. She bore down hard, craving the stretch, hips rocking as though fucking the egg outward. It slid free with a gush of clumpy semen and birthing fluids, landing heavily between her spread thighs. She snatched it up instantly, cradling it to her leaking breast, letting milk coat the warm shell in thick layers. Maternal pride surged—fierce, protective, almost violent—whispering "My child… my warrior…" to the leathery surface as she rocked it gently.
Nine more vaginal eggs emerged, each crowning slower than the last. The second egg stretched her with a burn that made her gasp "Beast…" through clenched teeth; the third emerged with a flood that soaked her thighs anew; the fourth triggered an orgasm so intense her arms buckled and she nearly collapsed; the fifth slid free amid a scream that echoed off the walls; the sixth had her sobbing with need, hips grinding backward against empty air; the seventh came with milk spraying in fountains that arced high and splattered the moss; the eighth stretched her to near-tearing; the ninth forced another chained climax that left her trembling; the tenth finally slipped out, leaving her breathless and shaking.
The anal clutch followed—ten eggs requiring deeper, more degrading effort. Her ass clenched and released in violent spasms; each stretch reignited every raw nerve. The first crowned with fire that made her bite her lip until it bled; the second gushed out with shame flooding her face; the third had her moaning "Ancient one…" in broken reverence; the fourth triggered blackout-level orgasms; the fifth stretched her to limits that made her vision blur; the sixth lodged—wait, expulsion: slid free amid a flood; the seventh had her grinding for friction; the eighth came with a scream; the ninth nearly broke her resolve; the tenth slipped free, leaving her collapsed forward, trembling, spent.
Twenty perfect black-and-silver eggs now joined the original twelve. She crawled among them on shaking limbs, stroking each shell with reverent fingers, whispering half-formed names—Vexar for the largest of the first clutch still unhatched inside its shell, then new ones: Thorne, Shadow, Rage, Iron, Eclipse, Storm, Fang, Night, Blade. Milk anointed every one; she marked them as hers, as extensions of her will, her vengeance, her blood, her body.
Three days later the first clutch hatched.
The shells cracked open at the brightest moment of the cavern's glow, like twilight breaking underground. Glossy black-and-silver larvae burst forth—already the size of large hounds, chitin gleaming, mandibles clicking in sharp, eager rhythm. Red compound eyes fixed on her instantly; hive-mind threads wove into her awareness like warm silk—simple, absolute loyalty that felt like sunlight in her chest. They swarmed her legs, nuzzling thighs and still-softened belly with surprising gentleness, antennae brushing her skin in curious, almost reverent touches. Lirael knelt naked among them, milk leaking freely as she allowed droplets to fall onto warm carapaces, anointing them in ritual. She stroked segmented backs, traced mandibles, felt their devotion echo back like a heartbeat she had never known she was missing. The largest—sleek, aggressive, mandibles already sharper and more defined—she named Vexar. She lingered with him longest, fingers tracing the ridges along his thorax, a fierce maternal warmth blooming in her chest that felt dangerously close to something more possessive, more hungry.
She spent the next hours among them—walking the cavern floor naked, milk trailing thin lines down her curves, letting them cluster around her legs, nuzzling her hands, her belly, her breasts. The hive-mind hummed softly in her thoughts—wordless images of loyalty, of protection, of hunger for battle. She whispered to them of Harlan, of the throne, of blood, and felt their mandibles click in eager agreement. Vexar stayed closest, his larger form pressing against her side, antennae brushing her thigh in what felt almost like affection. She stroked his carapace for long minutes, feeling the warmth beneath the chitin, the strength in his segmented limbs, the promise of power in his growing frame.
That same night—body still aching, holes still faintly throbbing despite the reset—she staggered back toward the Monster's coiled form.
Legs trembling, milk trailing down her belly, she dropped to her knees once more.
"Again," she rasped, voice thick with dark, insatiable hunger. "Ravage your broken queen again, beast."
The Monster's antennae twitched—its only response, silent and mechanical.
The third cycle began immediately—upside-down suspension this time. Blood rushed to her head as forelegs hoisted her high, world inverting, cavern ceiling spinning below her. The ovipositor plunged into her cunt without warning; the throat tendril claimed her mouth in the same instant. Thrusts were brutal, ridges tearing faint welts despite the magic, each plunge shaking her entire suspended body. Creampies bloated her grotesquely before oviposition even began. Thirty eggs—fifteen per hole—stretched her wider, pain sharper with each renewed tightness. Laying lasted the entire night—contractions rolling in relentless waves, milk flooding the cavern floor as she birthed in chained, screaming ecstasy. New hatchlings joined the first; she anointed them immediately, maternal fire burning hotter with every new life.
Day seven: forty eggs. Pinned face-first against the rough cavern wall, legs forced wide by secondary limbs. Alternating thrusts—cunt to ass to cunt—each switch a fresh violation. Tendrils latched onto nipples, milking roughly while she gasped and moaned, body shaking. Oviposition dragged out—each egg's slow descent tracked internally: building pressure, burning stretch, sudden pop into womb or bowels. Laying came in long, torturous waves; body convulsing, milk spraying stone as she pushed egg after egg free, whispering names between screams.
Day fourteen: fifty-five eggs. Laid on her back atop a bed of fungal moss, legs hooked high over the Monster's thorax like a sacrificial offering. Hours of relentless pounding; magic reset her tightness twice mid-session—pain blooming fresh and exquisite each time. Semen overflowed in sticky rivers that coated her ass and thighs. Dual oviposition bloated her beyond reason—belly and lower gut distended, skin veined and shiny. Laying marathon stretched into two nights: twenty-eight vaginal eggs, each crowning a slow agony, twenty-seven anal eggs requiring deep, humiliating pushes. Every expulsion triggered orgasm after orgasm; milk jetted in fountains, anointing shells as she whispered names to her growing brood.
Day twenty-one: seventy eggs. Suspended upside-down once more, throat constantly filled with clumpy creampies. Belly sloshed audibly before the first egg even entered. Pain peaked—she screamed wordlessly, body shaking, craving the roughness even as it threatened to break her. Laying stretched across two full days—eggs emerging in slow, torturous succession, her voice growing hoarse from endless screaming pleasure.
Month two: eighty eggs nightly. Multiple tendrils claimed her constantly—throat permanent, both nipples pinched and stroked, clit teased mercilessly while holes were ravaged. Sessions lasted entire days without pause. Creampies so voluminous her belly looked nine-months pregnant before oviposition began. Each egg's journey became ritual: slow internal pressure, burning cervical or anal stretch, heavy lodging thump. Laying rituals turned prolonged agony-bliss—contractions chaining for hours, milk expressing in endless streams as she birthed and nuzzled new hatchlings between pushes.
Between cycles she walked naked among her growing warriors—milk trailing down her curves, hands stroking chitin, whispering endearments. Vexar grew fastest—chest-high by week six, eyes holding sharp intelligence, mandibles clicking in what almost felt like greeting. She lingered with him longest, fingers tracing ridges along his thorax, warmth stirring deeper than mere maternity—possessive, hungry, queenly.