In the twilight years of Aetheria's golden age, when the kingdom still shimmered under veils of subtle magic—starlight that lingered too long on palace spires, winds that carried half-heard prophecies, forests where trees sometimes whispered names of the worthy—Queen Lirael Voss held absolute sway. Thirty years old, tall and statuesque, with raven hair that fell in heavy waves to her waist and eyes the color of storm clouds over the Silver Sea, she had never taken a consort. Her body remained untouched, her virginity a deliberate emblem of sovereignty: no man would claim what the crown itself protected. She ruled with iron grace, her pride as unyielding as the obsidian throne she sat upon each dawn to hear petitions. Her court was a tapestry of silk and steel, where mages wove illusions for entertainment and knights swore oaths on blades forged from fallen stars. Aetheria prospered under her, its borders secure, its people loyal, its magic a gentle hum in the air like the distant song of harps.
That pride shattered in a single night.
Duke Harlan of Blackmoor, once her most trusted general—a man with a scar across his cheek from a battle they had won together—struck with surgical precision. In the small hours, his loyalists moved through the palace like shadows given blades. Guards loyal to Lirael were cut down before they could raise alarms, their throats slit in silent efficiency; her inner circle—counselors who had advised her since childhood, mages whose spells had shielded the realm, handmaidens who had braided her hair—slaughtered in their beds amid muffled cries. Flames roared through the great hall as banners bearing the silver hawk of Voss were torn and trampled under boot heels. Lirael awoke to the acrid smell of smoke choking the air, the clang of steel on marble echoing like thunder in her chambers. Heart pounding, she seized only her jeweled dagger—a gift from her late father, engraved with the family crest—and a heavy winter cloak from her wardrobe before fleeing through a hidden passage beneath the throne room, a secret known only to the royal line.
She ran barefoot across frost-rimed courtyards, the cold biting into her soles like needles, through servant tunnels slick with condensation and lit by flickering mage-lights that dimmed as the palace magic failed. Out into the wild dark beyond the capital walls she burst, the night air whipping her cloak like a flag of defeat. Behind her, the sky turned orange with the burning of her home, the flames casting long shadows that seemed to chase her into the wilderness.
For weeks she wandered the hinterlands—half-starved, her once-regal form reduced to a gaunt shadow, boots stolen from a dead traveler whose body she found by a roadside, cloak torn by thorns and briars that clawed at her like Harlan's betrayal. She slept in ditches lined with mud and leaves, drank from muddy streams that tasted of earth and despair, avoided roads where Harlan's patrols rode with torches high, searching for the fallen queen. Rage kept her alive; it burned hotter than hunger, sharper than cold, a fire in her veins that whispered promises of retribution. She imagined Harlan's head on a pike, his followers scattered, the throne reclaimed in blood. Every step was a vow: every traitor would pay, the throne would be hers again, Aetheria would remember why the name Voss once made men kneel and women bow in reverence.
Exhaustion finally drove her into the Whispering Mountains. The range loomed like the spine of some slumbering giant, its peaks perpetually shrouded in mist that swirled with faint magical eddies, as if the very air remembered older powers. Legends spoke of older things dwelling here—creatures from before the kingdoms, before even the first mages raised their towers from living stone, beings whose existence predated the stars' alignment. Lirael cared little for legends now; her mind was fixed on survival. She needed shelter from the biting winds, water not tainted by lowland poisons, perhaps a forgotten shrine where she could pray to the old gods for strength, or scavenge herbs to stave off the fever creeping into her bones.
Instead she found a fissure barely wide enough for her shoulders, hidden behind a curtain of hanging vines that parted at her touch like reluctant guardians.
She squeezed through, the rock scraping her arms through the cloak. Warm air washed over her face—humid, thick with the scent of wet stone, moss, and something deeper, muskier, almost animal, like the breath of a predator long asleep. The passage sloped downward, twisting in narrow turns that forced her to sidle sideways. Faint light bloomed ahead—not torchlight, but a soft, shifting bioluminescence pulsing along the walls like slow heartbeats, casting eerie blue-green shadows that danced across her path. She followed it deeper, boots scraping on damp rock, the air growing warmer, heavier, until the tunnel opened into a cavern so vast the ceiling vanished into darkness, stalactites hanging like frozen rain far above.
At its heart waited the Monster.
It was enormous—easily four times her height when reared upright, though it rested now in a coiled, watchful posture. Black chitin gleamed like polished obsidian, scarred in places by ancient battles or eons of weathering, lines etched deep as if time itself had clawed at it. Six powerful, multi-jointed legs anchored a barrel-thick thorax that rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths, each exhalation stirring the humid air with a faint chittering hum. Antennae longer than spears twitched lazily, tasting the air with subtle vibrations that Lirael felt in her bones. From the underside of its swollen abdomen protruded the primary ovipositor: grotesque in scale, ridged along its entire length with chitinous barbs that looked sharp enough to rend flesh, thick as her thigh at the base and tapering gradually to a flared, fleshy tip that constantly wept thick, translucent fluid in slow, viscous strands that pooled on the moss below. Smaller secondary tendrils—each as thick as her wrist—writhed around the base like eager serpents, glistening with the same lubricant, coiling and uncoiling in restless motion. Multifaceted compound eyes, deep crimson and unblinking, fixed on her the moment she stepped fully into the chamber. They clicked softly, focusing with an alien intelligence that sent chills down her spine.
Lirael's knees buckled under the weight of its gaze. She dropped to the mossy floor, head bowed, voice hoarse from disuse and the dust of her exile.
"Great… Monster? What is your name, ancient one? I am Lirael Voss, Queen of Aetheria by right of blood. My throne has been stolen. My armies slaughtered. My people enslaved or dead. I have nothing left—no soldiers, no gold, no allies. Only this body. I offer it to you. Take it. Use it. Ravish it in whatever manner pleases your ancient instincts. Grant me the power to reclaim my crown, to drown my enemies in vengeance, and I will pay any price you demand."
Silence stretched, broken only by the drip of moisture from stalactites and the soft chitter of the Monster's antennae. Then its voice rolled into her mind—not spoken aloud, but felt, a wet, chittering vibration that seemed to stroke the inside of her skull, alien and incomprehensible at first, like the grinding of stones mixed with insectile buzz, carrying meaning more through instinct than words.
*Name… forgotten. Mortals forget. Better… that way. Kingdoms rise. Kingdoms fall. Mayflies to me, warm-blood. Fleeting. Irrelevant.*
It shifted; legs unfolded with deliberate slowness, abdomen lowering until the ovipositor hung mere feet from her face, dripping steadily onto the moss between her knees, the fluid warm and sticky where it splashed her skin.
*But flesh… ripe, unclaimed. Use it. Flood with seed—thick, clumpy. Plant spawn inside. Belly bursts with them. Grow fast. Hatch strong. Ten thousand warriors. Black, silver. Bound to you—blood, hive. Retake throne. Slaughter betrayers. Exchange… body vessel. Cycle after cycle. Ravage hard. Remake magic—tighten holes after birth. Pain fresh, always. Keep coming.*
The words were blunt, beastly, without the nuance of human speech—more primal urges translated into crude commands than any true negotiation. No mockery, no amusement, just ancient instinct, its logic inscrutable to mortal minds, as if breeding was as natural as breathing for this thing from forgotten eras. Lirael swallowed, her throat dry. Her heart thundered against her ribs. Pride screamed that she should rise, should flee, should die rather than submit to this beastly entity. But vengeance burned hotter, and the promise of an army—her army, born from her own flesh—ignited a dark resolve.
She lifted her chin, met those crimson facets, her voice steady despite the fear.
"Do it."
The Monster moved with startling speed for something so massive—no more vibrations, only raw action, its beastly nature unleashing without preamble.
Forelegs clamped around her waist—hard enough to bruise ribs, the chitin cold and unyielding against her skin—hoisting her into the air like a doll caught in a predator's grasp. Claws sliced through cloak and remaining rags in one economical motion; tatters drifted to the floor like fallen leaves. Naked now, skin prickling in the humid air, she dangled before it. Her breasts—full, pale, nipples already tightening from cold and fear—rose and fell rapidly. Between her thighs, untouched folds glistened faintly with the first unwilling stirrings of arousal born from terror and dark curiosity, the air thick with its musk invading her senses.
The ovipositor rose, ridges catching the bioluminescent light. The flared tip nudged her entrance—impossibly large, hot, slick with its own fluids. She felt the barbs catch lightly on her outer lips, a warning of the pain to come.
The Monster thrust.
There was no gentleness, no slow preparation—only raw, beastly force that overwhelmed her mortal frame. The head forced past her virgin barrier in one brutal shove. Lirael screamed—raw, animal—as her hymen tore. Sharp, lancing pain exploded through her core; blood welled immediately, trickling warm down her inner thighs to mix with the Monster's thick lubricant. Ridges scraped along virgin walls, each barb dragging fire over nerves never before touched. Her body fought instinctively, clenching, but only heightened the agony. Inch after merciless inch sank deeper until the flared tip battered her cervix and her lower abdomen bulged visibly outward, outlining the intrusion in a grotesque swell.
No words came from the Monster—only a low, chittering rumble from its thorax, a vibration that echoed through her impaled body like a beast's satisfied growl, alien and primal, without human emotion.
It began to fuck her—long, punishing strokes that lifted her entire body with each withdrawal and slammed her down again on the out-thrust, the rhythm mechanical and relentless, too rough for her fragile form, bruising her insides with every plunge. Her breasts bounced painfully; bruises bloomed instantly on her hips where its grip tightened, claws pricking deeper. Smaller tendrils snaked up—one coiled around her throat, squeezing just enough to make breathing shallow and humiliating, restricting air in beastly dominance. Another latched onto her left nipple, pinching and tugging rhythmically with instinctive force. Milk—impossibly summoned by the ancient magic flooding her system—beaded at the tip, then sprayed in thin arcs with every brutal plunge, the Monster's power remaking her body for its purpose without care for her comfort.
Pain consumed her, the roughness far beyond what a mortal could endure without breaking, yet her pain kink—long buried, never acknowledged—ignited amidst the torment. Every tear of tissue, every fresh bruise, every silent vibration of the Monster's beastly satisfaction made her cunt clench harder, slicker, betraying her. She hated it. She craved it, whispering "Beast... ancient beast..." through gritted teeth as the fucking continued.
The Monster's thrusts grew faster, more erratic, its abdomen pulsing with instinctive drive. Then the creampie began.
Thick, semi-solid semen—clumpy like warm, gelatinous curds—erupted in heavy, forceful spurts. Each pulse slammed against her battered cervix, forcing clumps deep into her womb with beastly pressure. The heat was scalding; the pressure built instantly. Her belly distended further, sloshing audibly with the viscous load. Excess leaked around the ovipositor in sticky ropes, dripping to the moss below. She came violently—shuddering, squirting helplessly around the massive intrusion—pain and pleasure twisting into one blinding knot, her cries of "More, beast!" lost in the chittering rumble.
But it was far from finished.
The ovipositor throbbed again. Bulges began traveling upward along the shaft. Lirael watched in horrified fascination as the first egg—warm, leathery, the size of a large fist—stretched the already gaping entrance even wider. Barbs caught on torn tissues; she screamed anew as it forced past her ruined lips, then battered her cervix. A burning, stretching pop; it lodged deep inside her womb with a heavy thump she felt in her spine.
Eleven more followed.
Each egg was slower, more deliberate, the Monster's rhythm unchanging, its roughness making each insertion a trial of endurance. The second egg stretched her with fresh fire, barbs scraping; the third lodged with a jolt that made her gasp "Ancient horror..."; the fourth rolled heavy, bloating her further; 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 for mercy she didn't mean; the eighth triggered an orgasm so intense her body shook; the ninth stretched her cervix to near-tearing; the tenth lodged deep with a slosh of semen; the eleventh came with a scream of "Beast!"; the twelfth finally settled, her belly a taut orb.
The Monster held her impaled for long minutes afterward—letting her feel every pulse, every roll, every clumpy remnant of semen sealing the eggs in place, its chittering vibration the only sound, inscrutable and beastly.
Then, with a wet, obscene schlick, it withdrew.
Lirael collapsed onto the fungal moss, legs splayed wide. Her cunt gaped—raw, red, leaking thick clumps of semen streaked with blood. Her belly looked six months pregnant already, shifting faintly with the clutch inside. Her hands flew to it instinctively, stroking the hard lumps beneath the skin, tracing the bulges with trembling fingers, feeling the life stir.
"They're… mine…" she whispered, voice shaking. A strange, fierce warmth bloomed in her chest—maternal, possessive, overwhelming, a bond that transcended the pain.
But the Monster was not done.
The ovipositor—still glistening with her fluids and its seed—realigned, pressing firmly against her virgin anus.
Ancient magic pulsed through her; the tight ring softened, loosened just enough to allow entry without immediate rupture. Then it thrust.
Anal invasion was worse—deeper pressure, raw friction, her guts protesting violently against the intrusion, the roughness even more unbearable in this tighter passage. Six eggs forced their way upward, each one a beastly push: the first stretched her ring with burning fire; the second lodged with a cramp that made her retch; the third bloated her lower gut; the fourth triggered helpless spasms; the fifth came with a flood of fluids; the sixth finally settled, her abdomen grotesquely swollen from both ends. Each one made her scream until her voice cracked. A second orgasm ripped through her—humiliating, helpless—milk spraying in wild arcs as her body betrayed her again, the Monster's ancient power forcing pleasure from pain.
Finally, it released her.
She rolled onto her side, trembling, leaking from both holes in thick, clumpy streams. Her breasts ached; milk continued to bead and drip. She cupped them without thinking—squeezed. Warm streams jetted out. The sensation was obscene relief, obscene pleasure. She milked herself shamelessly, moaning low in her throat, rubbing the fluid over her swollen belly where her spawn shifted and settled, the warmth soothing the aches, her mind drifting to images of her army growing within.
Twelve hours of feverish gestation passed—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. The bioluminescent walls seemed to brighten slightly, as if responding to the life within her. 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, how Harlan would beg—and strange, budding maternity, imagining the hatchlings' first cries, their loyalty to her alone. The Monster remained coiled, silent, its crimson eyes watching without expression, its presence a constant reminder of the price.
Contractions began at dawn—or what passed for dawn in the lightless cavern, marked only by a subtle brightening of the glow, the air growing thicker with anticipation.
They started deep, ripping through her core like knives twisting in flesh. She rolled onto hands and knees, ass raised instinctively, forehead pressed to cool moss. Sweat slicked her skin; milk dripped steadily beneath her, pooling in small puddles that reflected the light.
The first vaginal egg crowned.
Her sore, abused cunt stretched obscenely around the glossy black shell, silver veins glinting in the bioluminescent glow. Pain lanced up her spine—fresh tearing, fresh burning. She bore down harder, craving the agony as much as she feared it, her body remembering the Monster's roughness. The egg slid free with a wet gush of clumpy semen and birthing fluids, landing heavily between her spread thighs. She caught it immediately—cradled it against her leaking breast. Warm milk coated the leathery shell; she pressed her nipple to it, letting more flow in symbolic offering. Maternal pride surged, fierce and protective, washing away the pain for a moment.
Eleven more vaginal eggs followed.
Each crowning was slower, more torturous. The second egg stretched her with a burn that made her gasp "Beast..."; the third emerged with a flood that soaked her; the fourth triggered an orgasm that left her shaking; the fifth lodged—wait, no, it's laying, so expulsion. Each expulsion dragged another orgasm from her exhausted body—pain twisting into ecstasy, milk spraying with every push. By the sixth she was sobbing with relief and need, hips rocking back as though begging the eggs to stretch her again, the seventh came amid whispers of "My children..."; the eighth with a scream that echoed; the ninth forcing her to grind for friction; the tenth blooming pleasure from pain; the eleventh nearly breaking her resolve; the twelfth finally free, her voice a rasp.
Then came the anal clutch.
Six eggs—each one requiring deeper, more humiliating bearing-down. Her ass clenched and released in violent spasms; each stretch reignited raw nerves. The first crowned with fire that made her bite her tongue; the second gushed out with shame; the third had her moaning "Ancient one..."; the fourth triggered blackout orgasms; the fifth stretched to limits; the sixth slipped free, leaving her collapsed.
Twelve perfect eggs lay arranged in a rough circle around her. She crawled among them, stroking shells, whispering soft nonsense—names already forming in her mind: Vex for the largest, after a star; others like Thorne, Shadow, Rage. Milk continued to leak; she anointed each one, marking them as hers, her fingers lingering on the warm leathery surfaces, feeling faint pulses beneath.
Three days later they hatched—days of waiting where Lirael recovered slowly, her body aching without full magic this first time, bruises fading, stretch marks beginning to silver. She watched the shells pulse faster, the hive-mind stirring as faint hums in her thoughts, alien yet comforting.
The shells cracked at a brighter glow, like twilight in the cavern.
Tiny insectoid warriors spilled out—already the size of large hounds, chitin black and silver like their sire, six legs scuttling, clicking mandibles, intelligent red eyes that fixed on Lirael immediately. She wept as they clustered around her, nuzzling her thighs and belly with surprising tenderness, antennae brushing her skin in curious exploration. The hive-mind bond snapped fully—loyalty flooding her like warm light, devotion absolute. She stroked their carapaces, milk dripping onto them in ritual, naming Vex the strongest, feeling a maternal fire that burned away doubts.
But that night—still aching, still leaking—she staggered back toward the Monster's massive form.
Legs shaking, cunt and ass throbbing, belly already softening from the recent birth, she dropped to her knees before it once more.
"Again," she rasped, voice thick with dark hunger. "Ravage your broken queen again, beast."
The Monster's antennae twitched—its only response, beastly and silent.
And so the first cycle ended.
The second was already beginning.