The remaining grunts were a pair of imps—low-level filth with thick, human-like cocks and a strength that belied their small stature. Diana casually bound them with a flick of her wrist, infusing them with just enough magic to keep them healthy for future use. But her true prize was the newborn Mimic.
No larger than a footstool at first, the creature shrieked as Diana forcibly gorged it with divine magic. Its wooden frame groaned and fractured, shedding splinters that immediately regrew into a larger, more menacing form. Within minutes, the chest had bloated into a two-meter-tall behemoth, its lid snapping with a row of jagged, wooden teeth. Plunged into a berserk, magic-fueled hunger, its slick, muscular tentacles lashed out, snagging Diana and hauling her into its dark, cavernous interior.
"Wow, system, record—"
The lid slammed shut, cutting her off. Silence fell over the lab, the Mimic sitting like a heavy, silent tomb.
Inside, the space was suffocatingly narrow. Slender tentacles wound around Diana's limbs, forcing her into a helpless squatting position suspended in the dark. A thick, wet appendage forced its way into her mouth, sliding down her throat until it coiled in her stomach, silencing her cries. Simultaneous wet sounds echoed as tentacles shredded her lower garments and drove themselves into her heat.
Diana didn't resist. She let her body instinctively writhe as the Mimic drove three massive tentacles deep—one into her womb, one into her rectum, and a third probing her throat. The creature injected a burning, purple toxin into her system, a concentrated aphrodisiac that hit her like a physical blow. Her divine body buckled; she climaxed the very second she was breached, her juices spraying against the Mimic's internal walls.
Every fold of her vagina was being mapped by the sliding, muscular tentacles. Her urethra gushed uncontrollably, her whimpers muffled by the throat-tentacle as she was slammed into a second, even more violent orgasm. Two more feelers targeted her heavy breasts, their needle-thin tips prying open her nipple ducts. The sensation of the narrow channels being forced open and filled with burning aphrodisiac was almost too much to bear. Her vision blurred, her mind drowning in a sea of overstimulation and the drain of her magic being siphoned through her fluids.
Suddenly, the assault intensified. Several more tentacles bunched together, brutally plowing into her vagina and forcing her cervix open with a tearing stretch. Her bladder was being crushed by the internal mass, her urine only able to seep out in slow, agonizing drops as the tentacles blocked the way.
'It's... it's too much... I'm being filled like a vessel,' she thought, her mind fracturing.
The tentacles didn't stop at her womb. The split tips of the appendages found the openings to her fallopian tubes, burrowing in with a relentless, invasive pressure. The thin tissue was stretched to its limit, absorbing the raw aphrodisiac coating the tentacles. When they reached her ovaries, the tips tightened around the milky-white spheres like a vice.
A massive gush of thick, purple fluid erupted from the tentacles, flooding her tubes and coating her ovaries. Diana's body went into total convulsion.
"Gurgle! Ugh! Ugh!"
Her bladder was bulging now, a prominent mound in her lower abdomen that she was powerless to empty. Blood trickled from her nose as the toxins reached her brain, stripping away every sensation except for the raw, jagged edge of pleasure. Her enormous breasts were squeezed into gourd-like shapes by coiling tentacles, the aphrodisiac seeping into her mammary glands and causing them to swell and leak. A mixture of white milk and purple toxin slid down her stomach, pooling at her feet.
Then, the Mimic went perfectly still.
It was a predatory tactic—waiting for the "prey" to be pickled in its own juices. In the silence of the chest, Diana's body began to move on its own, her pussy and intestines clenching and rubbing against the stationary tentacles in a desperate, drug-fueled search for friction. She lost count of the orgasms, her consciousness flickering like a dying candle as she actively trained herself to be the Mimic's perfect, dripping contents.
When she finally ceased her frantic writhing, she was a broken, panting mess, her mouth still filled with the creature's unmoving limb, her body a saturated sponge for the Legion's filth.
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