The grand hall of the Ivy Court pulsed with a musky heat, the air a visible, shimmering haze of liquid mana thick with the scent of sweat-slicked flesh and rampant, unbridled sex. This was not a throne room but a vast, living chamber of decadent leisure, where the court's Doms gathered in casual, semi-circle formations amidst lush nests of silk. Every casual caress, every act of submission, was a reinforcement of hierarchy—a celebration of flesh, mana, and the raw power that flowed through every Futa.
Into this raw, undeniable orgy, Marigold, a Type W Sow, stepped forward. Her power was nascent, her body soft and lush, designed for nurturing. Her V-Rating was clearly high, a prized, unbound vessel whose fertile mana smelled sickeningly rich, like an untouched field begging to be plowed. She was a Nightshade envoy—a token of uneasy peace and, undeniably, a political hostage to be assessed. As she rose from her bow, her gaze flickered to her escort, Elder Nightshade, who was now trapped in weary pleasantries with the Domina. In the Elder's eyes, Marigold saw a stark resignation—the final seal on the transfer. The asset was delivered. Marigold was on her own.
The feeling of being a sacrificial offering on a carnal altar solidified in her gut as the pleasantries ended. The Queen of the Ivy Court's smirk was that of a predator handed her favorite meal. She had gestured for her heir, Damask, to lead her new prize away, but as Marigold tensed to follow, Domina Ivyvale's voice, laced with a cold, clear amusement, stopped them.
"Not so fast, Damask," she said, her voice echoing. "Let our guest not think the Ivy Court's welcome is so… delegated."
The words hung in the air, a clear rebuke and a reassertion of ultimate authority. Damask's smirk vanished, replaced by a mask of perfect deference as he stepped back. The Elder Nightshade, forced to stand witness, looked away, her face a stony portrait of diplomatic impotence. The entire court seemed to lean in, sensing a proper claiming was about to take place. Marigold was no longer just an envoy; she was the centerpiece of a public spectacle, a lesson in power about to be made flesh.
Domina Ivyvale, a towering presence whose very aura warped the air with the oppressive weight of her Plasma-tier power, regarded Marigold, her eyes now locking onto the weary face of Elder Nightshade.
"Elder," Domina Ivyvale began, her voice dripping with a silken, predatory condescension, "Your clan boasts of its martial prowess, its mastery over raw, solid Crystal. A useful foundation. But you neglect the finer arts." Her massive, girthy cock, a pillar of flesh resting on her thigh, gave a potent twitch. "You deliver a Sow to my court, yet she stands there like a prim diplomat. She has not been taught her true purpose. Here, a Sow's first duty is to be a vessel. It is a lesson she will learn now."
Turning her imperious gaze to Marigold, she commanded, "On your knees, envoy. Show your Elder how a proper Sow greets her new Domina in the Ivy Court."
A collective gasp, sharp and hungry, rippled through the hall. This was no mere welcome; it was a public claiming. Marigold's blood ran cold, but her body, conditioned for obedience, betrayed her. Her knees buckled, sinking into the plush silks before the throne.
"Let there be no confusion, Marigold," Domina continued, her voice a predatory purr. "I expect nothing less than absolute obedience to our ways. Your sire, with his narrow view of true abundance, and I had our contests in earlier days. Fierce, bruising encounters, where we were, shall we say, evenly matched. He always kept his pleasures… hidden. Locked away within his own pride, as if ecstasy were some private shame. Here, in the Ivy, we embrace abundance, for we are built on endless giving and taking. Your very form, your mana, your essence, shall be wholly dedicated to the ceaseless, throbbing exchange within these walls, for the enrichment of the Pride, and by extension, yourself."
Her gargantuan cock twitched again. "Remember, little Nightshade, for all your clan's boasts of individual strength… for every one of them, there are five of us. Five to one, Marigold. Take heed. Strength means nothing if you are overwhelmed, surrounded, and fucked into submission. Your unbound status here is merely a starting point."
With a languid, deliberate motion, Domina Ivyvale leaned forward, grabbing a fistful of Marigold's hair and yanking her head back. The Domina's monumental phallus, slick with its own musky pre-cum, was pressed against Marigold's lips. "Open," she purred, the command a velvet-wrapped steel fist.
Trembling, Marigold obeyed. The colossal head of the Domina's cock forced her jaw wide, the sheer girth of it an agonizing, breathtaking violation. The taste was electric, a shocking potency that dwarfed the simple mana of her own clan. The Domina began to move, slow, deliberate thrusts that were less about pleasure and more about utter, crushing dominance. She fucked Marigold's mouth in front of the entire court, each deep, gagging stroke a political statement, a brutal lesson in power. Marigold's mind fractured, a torrent of shame, terror, and a horrifying, burgeoning flicker of arousal flooding her senses.
But Domina Ivyvale was not seeking a simple, crude release. As Marigold's throat convulsed around her, the Domina's own body became a living crucible. The mana within her, a potent, high-grade Essence, began to churn. She was using the friction, the raw humiliation of the act, to fuel a delicate, internal alchemy. Her massive balls tightened, and deep within her phallus, a complex lattice of heat and pressure cells activated. She was condensing her own powerful Essence, forcing it back down the chain of states, from gas to an impossibly pure, refined liquid.
With a final, deep thrust that pushed Marigold to her absolute limit, the Domina released her gift. It was not a gushing torrent of seed, but a single, perfect, viscous glob of shimmering, incandescent fluid—a nugget of pure, liquified mana, a taste of Pure Potent Nectar so concentrated it felt like swallowing a star. "Swallow it," the Domina commanded.
Marigold choked it down, a searing heat tracing a path to her very core, marking her, changing her. The Ivy Court's mana, potent and undeniable, was now inside her, a seed of loyalty and submission planted through the most profound degradation.
The Domina pulled her cock from Marigold's slick, trembling lips. She looked down at the dazed Sow, then glanced at the ashen-faced Elder. "There," Domina Ivyvale said, her voice laced with finality. "A proper greeting. A worthy gift deserves a worthy welcome. She is marked now. An asset of the Ivy. Damask," she called, finally acknowledging her heir, "take her. Begin her real cultivation."
The command hung in the air with the weight of a death sentence and a coronation all at once. The court, having witnessed the claiming, began to stir, its collective attention diffusing back into the hedonistic hum of the hall. The spectacle was over, the message sent. Damask, a master of the Solid State, stepped forward, the mask of deference replaced by a look of raw, possessive hunger. He saw not just a political asset, but a vessel now primed with his Domina's own peerless mana, a canvas ready for his specific artistry.
Marigold, still on her knees, felt the potent nugget of liquid mana burning like a hot coal in her gut, a searing, internal brand that was already beginning to recalibrate her senses. Her own nascent Elixir felt thin and weak against its fiery presence. A firm, commanding hand closed on her upper arm, hauling her to her feet. It was Damask. His touch was not gentle; it was ownership. "Come, little Nightshade," he purred, his voice a low, intimate growl meant only for her. "The Queen has given you your welcome. Now, I will give you your education."
He turned, pulling her away from the throne and into the deeper, shadowed corridors of the Ivy Court, where the real lessons would begin.