"Is it still tight, sir? You can tell me. She doesn't talk much, but I can tell you if you're not satisfied."
The man above my mother grunted, his hips slamming forward in a relentless, wet rhythm. The sound was obscene in the small, stone-walled room—splotch-slap-squelch—a symphony of flesh and fluid that never failed to make my own stomach clench with a hollow, needy ache. He was a merchant, broad and sweaty, his fingers digging into the pale flesh of her hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks.
My mother, Albedo, said nothing. Her face was turned to the side, pressed against the rough straw of the pallet we used as a bed. Her eyes, those once-piercing golden irises, were open but vacant, staring at the wall. A thin line of drool connected her slack lower lip to the bedding. Her body moved with his thrusts, a limp, beautiful puppet. Her massive breasts, usually so full and proud, were crushed beneath her, spilling out to the sides, the nipples dark and pebbled against the cold stone floor.
"Tighter than a virgin's purse, this one," the merchant panted, a nasty grin spreading across his face. He looked at me, where I knelt in the corner, my own simple shift hiked up around my waist, my fingers working between my own legs. It was part of the service—the watching, the showing. It made them finish faster. "Ain't that right, girl? Your crazy mom's still got a grip like a vice."
"Yes, sir," I whispered, my voice trembling not from fear, but from the frustrating, slow build between my own thighs. My fingers were small, my body immature. It took so much more work to feel anything close to what these men obviously experienced. "She's… she's very accommodating."
"Accommodating?" He barked a laugh, the motion making him drive into her harder. Albedo's body jolted. A faint, guttural sound—unnnh—escaped her throat. It wasn't a moan of pleasure. It was the sound of air being forced from lungs. "She's a fucking corpse with a warm hole. But aye, it's a good hole. Best in the city, they say. The great Succubus Whore of Nazarick."
He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. "You hear that, you crazy bitch? You're just a hole now. A useful hole. That skeleton god of yours ever fuck you this good? Did he even have a dick?"
Her eyes flickered. Just for a second. A tremor went through her, a full-body shiver that made her shoulders tense. Her lips moved.
"Ainz… sama…" she breathed, the words a ghost of sound.
The merchant heard it. His grin turned savage. "That's right. Think of your dead master while I fill his wife with my seed. Think of him watching."
His pace became brutal, punishing. The slapping sounds merged into a continuous, meaty drone. I watched, my fingers moving faster, my breath coming in short hitches. I hated her in that moment. Hated her stupid muttering, her vacant stares, the way she forced me to do all the work of talking, of pleasing, of pretending. But I also envied that brutal, full feeling she must be getting. That stretching, claiming sensation that my little body couldn't yet provide.
The merchant's back arched. A roar tore from his throat, raw and victorious. "Take it! Take all of it, you demon cunt!"
I saw him shudder, burying himself to the hilt, his body locking. The room filled with the scent of salt and sex and his sweat. For a long moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing.
Then, he pulled out with a wet, sucking plop.
I saw it. A thick, pearlescent gush of semen, followed by a slow, relentless river of it, poured out of my mother's well-used pussy. It painted her inner thighs, creamy white against her alabaster skin, dripping onto the soiled straw beneath her. It was a massive load. It always was with her. Something about her succubus biology drew it out, made men spend like fountains. She didn't even twitch. The warmth, the viscosity, the proof of her usefulness—it meant nothing.
The merchant stood, tucking himself away, not even bothering to wipe himself clean. He tossed a few copper coins onto the floor near my knees. "See she gets cleaned up for the next. And girl?"
I looked up, my hand stilling between my legs. "Yes, sir?"
"Try eating more. Put some meat on those bones. Then maybe you'll be worth more than just a show." He chuckled and left, the heavy door swinging shut with a thud that echoed in the sudden silence.
The silence was broken by a soft, bubbling sigh. Albedo shifted, rolling onto her back with a languid, boneless motion. The spent seed pooled in the shallow bowl of her pelvis, a sticky, glistening lake. Her hand drifted down, fingers sliding through the mess, gathering a glob of it. She brought her fingers to her lips, her tongue emerging to slowly, methodically lick them clean. Her eyes were still on the ceiling, seeing nothing.
"Ainz-sama's… blessing…" she murmured.
I scrambled over, my own need forgotten, replaced by a burning frustration. "It's not a blessing, Mom! It's just cum! From a human! He paid to use you!"
Her head lolled toward me. A faint, eerie smile touched her lips. "His heir… grows. In me. His power… fills me." Her other hand drifted to the slight, firm swell of her lower belly.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I grabbed the rough rag and the bucket of tepid water by the door. This was my life. This was our penance. And it had started long before I was born.
*
Three years earlier. The victory parade.
The sun was a pale, triumphant eye in a sky stained red by sunset or perhaps the lingering magic of shattered spells. The air in the Slane Theocracy's capital thrummed with a deafening, joyous roar. Cheers, laughter, the pealing of temple bells. From the tiny, barred window of the holding cart, I saw it all.
My mother was naked.
Not just naked—displayed. Stripped of the ominous black plate armor that had once been her skin, her legendary weapon confiscated. Her alabaster body, a sculptor's dream of cruel curves and impossible perfection, was a shocking white against the grime of the cart floor. She was on her knees, chains of shimmering blue mithril wound tight around her wrists, her throat, her ankles. They weren't just physical restraints; they glowed with a soft, hungry light, leeching the magical power from her with every passing second.
But she wasn't broken. Not yet.
Her head was high, her golden eyes blazing with a hatred so pure it was hotter than the forges that had made her chains. Her wings, usually folded with aristocratic grace, were mangled—one bent at a cruel angle, pinioned by a silver spike. Her horns, those elegant black curves, were chipped. Yet her gaze swept over the jeering, spitting, laughing crowds as if they were insects crawling on offal.
A priest in white and gold robes stood in the cart with us, one hand fisted in her long, silken white hair. He yanked her head back, forcing her to look at the sea of humanity.
"Behold!" he shouted, his voice amplified by magic to boom over the cacophony. "The arrogance of demons made flesh! The right hand of the abomination Ainz Ooal Gown! The Succubus Albedo, who thought to make our wives widows and our children slaves! See her now! See the truth of her weakness!"
A rotten tomato hit her chest with a wet splat. The pulpy red juice dripped between her breasts. She didn't flinch. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a silent snarl.
"Nazarick… will rise…," she hissed, the words meant only for the priest. "Ainz-sama… will return for me. You will all die. Your souls will fuel his glory for eternity."
The priest backhanded her across the face. The crack was sharp, shocking. Her head snapped to the side. A trickle of black blood—demon's blood—welled from her split lip. She slowly turned her head back, licking the blood away, her eyes never leaving his.
"Your dungeon is dust," the priest spat, his composure slipping for a moment, revealing the fervent, fearful rage beneath. "Your master is a pile of shattered bones scattered to the winds. Your 'guardians' are slain, enslaved, or fled. You have nothing, demon. You are nothing."
The cart lurched forward, joining the parade proper. The crowds pressed closer. Hands reached through the bars—not to caress, but to pinch, to claw, to hurt. They grabbed at her breasts, her thighs, the thick, perfect curve of her ass. They twisted her nipples. They spat on her.
And through it all, she took it. She absorbed the hatred, the violence, the humiliation, and her eyes promised a genocide in return. She was a goddess of vengeance, temporarily chained. That was the woman I saw that day. Proud. Defiant. Unbroken.
That woman died in the Chapel of the Six Great Gods over the next seven days and nights.
*
The draining.
They hung her from the central dome of the great chapel, suspended in a net of those same glowing mithril chains. Below her, inscribed in gold and platinum on the marble floor, was a ritual circle of such complexity it hurt to look at. Dozens of high-ranking priests and priestesses chanted, their voices a low, ceaseless drone that vibrated in the bones.
The chains weren't just draining her magic. They were draining her—her essence, her vitality, the very core of what made her a Level 100 NPC Guardian Overseer. It was a spiritual evisceration.
For the first day, she screamed. Not screams of pain, but of rage. Curses in languages no human should know, promises of eternal torment. Her body strained against the chains, her wings flapping uselessly, her tail lashing.
By the third day, the screams had changed. They became ragged, desperate. The defiance was cracking. "Stop… please… it's too much… I can't… Ainz-sama, help me…"
I was just a child, hidden in the shadows of a confessional booth, brought there by a "kind" priest who said I should see my mother's redemption. I watched, trembling.
Her body was slick with a cold, unnatural sweat. The proud muscles of her abdomen quivered uncontrollably. And between her legs…
A priestess, her face serene, pointed it out to a colleague. "Look. The demon's body betrays its true nature."
A steady drip of clear fluid fell from my mother's exposed pussy, spattering on the sacred geometry below. Not urine. It was the scentless, slick evidence of female arousal. Her nipples, hard as obsidian beads, strained against the air. As the chanting reached a fever pitch, her back arched violently, her head thrown back.
A broken, wailing cry tore from her throat. It didn't sound like pain. It sounded like a climax.
Her body convulsed, not just once, but in a series of rolling, uncontrollable spasms. Her hips jerked against the empty air. The drip between her legs became a stream, then a gush, soaking her inner thighs and raining down below. The priests chanted louder. The chains blazed brighter. And she came, and came, and came, her body wringing itself dry in a paroxysm of forced, humiliating ecstasy even as her soul was flayed.
When they cut her down on the seventh day, she was empty. Not just of power. The fire in her eyes was gone. She lay on the cold marble, limbs splayed, twitching occasionally. Her pussy was swollen, glistening, and utterly spent. A pool of her own juices mingled with the holy water sprinkled on the floor.
The chief priest stood over her. "Now, demon. Now you are fit for purpose. Now you can begin to atone."
She didn't answer. She just stared at the distant dome, her breath coming in shallow, whistling gasps. The first cracks in the monolith had become a canyon.
*
The first time.
They didn't wait long. Her "community service" began that very night. They housed her in a small, clean cell in the temple barracks. A bell was rung. A line formed. It was for the heroes of the war, the priests decreed. A reward for the brave men who had risked their lives against the demonic horde.
The first was a grizzled soldier, missing an eye, his body a map of scars. He stank of ale and victory. Two temple guards dragged Albedo to her knees in front of the low cot. She was still naked, still dripping from the ritual.
"Go on, Captain," a guard said. "She's yours for the hour. A taste of the spoils."
The captain looked at her with a mixture of revulsion and raw lust. He unbuckled his trousers, freeing a thick, uncut cock already fully erect. He didn't touch her. Didn't kiss her. He just grabbed a handful of her white hair and guided her head forward.
"Open up, devil," he grunted.
She resisted. For a second, her jaws clenched shut. She turned her head away, a last spark of that old defiance.
The guard backhanded her across the ear. "Serve, demon. Or the whipping post is next."
Slowly, trembling, she turned back. Her lips parted. The captain shoved himself inside her mouth, his grip on her hair turning brutal. He fucked her face with short, aggressive thrusts, his hips pumping, his balls slapping against her chin.
I was peeking through the barred slot in the door, my heart hammering. I saw her golden eyes, wide open, watering. I saw her throat bulge with each intrusion. I heard the wet, gagging sounds—glrk… gahk… splurtch. She couldn't breathe. Her hands, still weak, came up to push at his thighs, but he was immovable.
"That's it… take it… suck on the cock of a real man, not some dead bones…" he groaned.
He suddenly pulled out, his cock slick with her saliva. He spun her around, shoving her face-down onto the cot. He mounted her from behind, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades, the other guiding his cock to her entrance.
He didn't prepare her. He didn't care. With a single, brutal lunge, he sheathed himself to the root in her tight, unused pussy.
Albedo screamed. A raw, torn sound of absolute violation. Her body went rigid, then thrashed. But he was heavy, strong, and pinned her easily. He set a ruthless, pounding rhythm, the cot slamming against the stone wall with each thrust.
"Tighter than a nun! Fuck!" he roared, his pleasure evident. He was hurting her. He knew it. He reveled in it.
I watched her face, pressed against the rough blanket. The tears came then. Silent, streaming tears of utter defeat. The proud Supervisor was gone. In her place was a vessel being violently filled. Her body, traitorously, began to respond. The wet, squelching sounds grew louder. Her inner muscles, designed to give and take pleasure, began to clench and release around the invading flesh, milking it instinctively. A low, choked moan escaped her, one that carried a note of shameful, unwanted pleasure.
The captain fucked her like he was killing her. And when he came, it was with a guttural shout, pumping what felt like a gallon of hot seed deep into her womb, claiming it, desecrating it. He collapsed on top of her for a moment before rolling off, leaving her on the cot, his semen already leaking out of her, painting her thighs.
He wiped himself on the blanket, buckled up, and left without a word.
The guards came in. One tossed a crust of bread and a cup of water on the floor. "Clean yourself up. Next client in twenty minutes."
Albedo didn't move for a long time. She just lay there, breathing in the stink of sex and human sweat, feeling the alien wetness inside her cool and grow sticky. When she finally pushed herself up, her movements were slow, pained. She saw the bread. A succubus's true sustenance was semen, but the priests were cruel. They would feed her only after she had "earned" it.
She looked at the bread. Then, slowly, she moved off the cot, onto her knees. She bent her head, and with a trembling hand, she began to scoop the pooling semen from between her legs. She brought her fingers to her mouth, and with a look of profound, soul-crushing humiliation, she ate. She swallowed the proof of her defeat, her first meal as a slave.
The defiance was broken. The conversion had begun.
*
Back in the present, in our hovel.
I finished wiping the merchant's seed from her thighs and her belly. The smell was overpowering—musk, salt, and the faint, floral scent that was uniquely her, even now. Her skin was cool. She was pliant under my hands, like a doll.
"You have to try harder, Mom," I whispered, working the rag between her legs, cleaning the swollen, puffy lips. They were a deep rose color, always slightly parted now, always ready. "If you just moaned a little. Or said thank you. They'd be nicer. They might even pay more."
Her hand shot out, startling me. Her fingers, cold and strong, wrapped around my wrist. Her eyes focused on mine, and for a fleeting second, there was a ghost of that old, terrifying intelligence.
"He… is coming back," she breathed, her voice a dry rustle. "The baby… is his key. His heir. You will see. You will all serve… again."
Then the light faded. Her grip went slack. She rolled onto her side, curling around her belly, her back to me. Her muttering resumed, a senseless litany. "Ainz-sama… wife… Nazarick… revenge…"
I sat back on my heels, the dirty rag in my hand. The frustration boiled over into a hot, tight knot in my chest. I was tired. Tired of her madness, tired of the work, tired of my own small, unsatisfying body.
I looked at her. At the perfect, submissive curve of her back. At the ripe, full ass that men drooled over. An idea, dark and thrilling, uncoiled in my mind. The priest who had "educated" me had hinted at it. There are other ways to please, child. More… intimate services for discerning patrons.
I crawled over to her. I put a hand on her hip. She didn't react.
"Mom," I said, my voice low. "You're not trying. You're not earning your keep. You're making me do everything."
I leaned down, my mouth near the shell of her pointed ear. "If you won't please them with your spirit… maybe we need to please them with your form in other ways."
My hand slid from her hip, around the generous swell of her buttock. My fingers traced the cleft of her ass, down to the tight, hidden pucker between her cheeks. It was virgin territory. No client had taken it yet. The priests had deemed it off-limits, a "reserve" for special punishment or premium sales.
I pressed a fingertip against it. It was tightly closed, a knot of muscle. Albedo tensed. A low, warning growl vibrated in her throat.
"Shhh," I whispered, my own breath quickening. This was power. A different kind. Not over humans, but over her. The great Albedo. "It's just me. Your daughter. I'm going to help you. I'm going to make you more useful."
I reached for the small pot of rendered fat we used to soothe chafing. I dipped two fingers in, coating them thickly. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was wrong. This was sinful. It was also the most alive I'd felt in months.
I brought my slick fingers back to her rear entrance. I pressed again, more insistently. The muscle resisted, then, with a soft, yielding pop, the tip of my finger slipped inside.
Albedo jerked. A sharp, shocked gasp escaped her. "N-no… not there… that is… for Ainz-sama alone…"
"Ainz-sama is gone!" I hissed, pushing my finger deeper. It was incredibly tight, hot, a silken vise. I felt her internal muscles fluttering in panic. "This is for the next man who pays enough. This is for our survival. You will learn to take it here, too. You will learn to love it."
I began to move my finger, a slow, corkscrew motion, stretching her. Her body shuddered. Her protests turned into ragged pants. I added a second finger, working them together. The stretch was immense. She cried out, a sound of pure, animal distress.
But then, something shifted. Her breathing changed. The pants became deeper. A fresh wave of her own arousal, that sweet, floral scent, filled the air. A low, trembling moan leaked from her lips. Her hips pushed back minutely against my hand.
"See?" I murmured, a triumphant smile on my lips. I scissored my fingers, stretching her wider. I could feel the internal ridges, the desperate clench and release. "Your body knows its purpose. It's just a hole, Mom. A beautiful, tight hole. And soon, it will be filled. You'll be filled everywhere. You'll be the perfect vessel. For them. For anyone."
I worked her open until my two fingers slid in and out easily, the tight ring of muscle yielding with a wet, obscene sound. She was panting openly now, her face still buried in the straw. A thin sheen of sweat coated her back. Her hand had crept between her own legs, and I could hear the slick, frantic sounds of her fingers rubbing her clit.
I withdrew my fingers slowly. She whimpered at the loss.
I leaned close again, my lips brushing her ear. "Tomorrow," I promised, my voice thick with a new, wicked authority. "Tomorrow, I'll find a client. A special one. Someone with the coin, and the… equipment… to truly break in this new hole. And you will thank him for it. You will beg him for his seed. Or I will make your life even more miserable."
I pulled away. She lay there, trembling, her ass exposed and glistening with fat, her own juices dripping from her pussy onto the straw. The vacant look was gone, replaced by a dazed, shame-filled, yet unmistakable arousal. The corruption was no longer just external. I was guiding it now. I was her keeper, her trainer, her pimp.
And I was just getting started.