Monstercocked Minotaurs Mercilessly Mash Malevolent Maven's Mound

When Drycha was in a reflective mood, as rare and filled with resentment as such moods were, she often mused on how unfavourably the Asrai compared with the cloven children of the Dark Gods. Such sentiments were hardly ones that her younger self would have held, of course - but not all that had been corrupted by Morghur's foul blood when he was slain at the Grove of Woe had remained in that blasted and ravaged place. The tiniest droplet, so small that a being of flesh would have shed it on a flake of dead skin, had found an eager reception on the Briarmaven's bark. The taint it had planted was a small thing, at first; even after so many years it was still as close to 'mild' in its effects as anything related to that walking sore on reality could be.

Any inspection but the most invasive inspection of her spirit would see no real evidence of anything wrong with her; if anything, the magic of the forests - Ghyran, Ghur and Ulgu especially - blew around and through her with an unmatched vigour. Her glamours were weaved with unparalleled finesse, her war aspect was as vicious and savage as expected of one bearing the sobriquet 'of Woe', but a darkness festered within her. And if not all of the Winds that entered her seemed to leave, if her battle-form seemed thicker of thigh and heavier of chest than others of her kind, if her thoughts drifted towards the idea that common cause ought to have been found with an altogether different set of trespassers, then none - least of all herself - dwelled on it.

Drycha was powerful in magic, and always eager to avenge any slights to the woods of the world, but even she had depths that she would not plumb unless truly ****. Desperation such as, say, being beset by a sextet of twisted things that might once have been Gorebulls. Clouds of splinters flew whenever she evaded a maiming blow from their blades and clubs, her claws scratched and tore at their skin but failed to breach any further and her attempts to rally the spirits to her aid were met with mocking, unholy laughter from her foes. So she reached out to the tempestuous winds and drew on them more than ever before.

Ulgu swirled, and once-grazing blows now connected only with empty air. Drycha mused that these beasts, thought to be dull-witted by so many, had breached glamours that had ensnared even the 'superior' Asrai. Within her, the seed of corruption flickered, blurring the line between flesh and flora.

Ghyran swirled, and Drycha's ragged form was whole once more. Drycha mused that these beasts, thought to be perverse abominations of nature by so many, had more in common with the natural spirits of the forest than the 'painstakingly-crafted' Asrai. Within her, the seed of corruption throbbed, swelling her body with malignant fecundidity.

Ghur swirled, and two of the Slaanbulls lost their heads to a pair of massive, taloned hands that pulled them from their shoulders as if plucking a flower. Drycha mused that these beasts, thought to be the least of the Dark Gods' servants, had already **** out more of her strength than any 'powerful' Asrai ever could. Within her, the seed of corruption roared, filling her body with wild energy.

Three of the surviving beasts drew back in time to evade her, but the fourth was skewered on her fingers. Lifting the bellowing creature in the air for its fellows to see, she wrenched it in two and tossed the corpse halves to opposite sides. The three Slaanbulls snorted and stamped their hooves, scraping huge ruts in the earth. Drycha knew that trying to strike first against such quick opponents was folly and braced herself, power howling and boiling within her in greater and greater quantities, to counter their charge. Their breaths came faster and heavier as they reached down and tore away their loincloths, each revealing a flaccid member as thick as a heavy branch and a pair of grotesquely overfull testes heavy enough to hang almost to their knees.

Drycha at once focused on this new development, disregarding the crude blades that had so recently shredded away at her body. These were clearly much more potent weapons if they had waited until now, when her form was so bloated with power that she could nearly look even these unnaturally tall and lithe minotaurs in the eye, to reveal them. They throbbed their way to full mast as she watched, bouncing up and down, back and forth with the rhythm of the Slaanbulls' stamping. Yes, these were definitely the true threat - these bouncing, swinging, throbbing shafts of meat - and she couldn't afford to take her gaze off them even for an instant. Her attention flicked from one to the other to the other as often as she could, just to make sure that they were still bouncing and swinging and throbbing. They almost seemed to be getting closer, but Drycha knew that they could only be bouncing and swinging so rhythmically if their owners were stamping on the spot.

They smelled of the forest, she realised. They smelled like a vast carpet of pollen grains, soaked in the emissions of a thousand rutting alpha males and then saturated with spells of fertility and virility. They smelled like, like... she couldn't quite place it. They were closer now, surrounding her, their fat crowns mere inches from her face whenever she looked at them. But they were still bouncing and swinging and throbbing just the same as always, so how could they be so...? Drycha dismissed the thought. The scent, that was the key - if she could figure out what that scent was then she would know how they got so close. It was fortunate that they are so close, she thought as the lower half of her face shifted into a pair of plush lips, locked in a permanent pouty 'O' by their sheer thickness, I can examine them... more thoroughly... Sliding a soft, spongy tongue out to cup the member of her, she leaned forward and wrapped her lips around the-

-base? She had been trying to fasten her lips around the head, so why were they pressed up against the musk-matted fur of the creature's crotch? She needed to pull back, needed to pull back and-

-slam herself along the entire length! Yes, that was what she was doing; the cloudy fluid that even now leaked down her 'throat' and was smeared all over her tongue wasn't intense enough - she was so close to determining what was so familiar about this scent, this taste! She just needed to keep the other two from interfering as she collected a purer sample. She shifted her hands into-

-delicate fingers, as soft as pussy willow catkins, perfect for stroking both throbbing shafts so that they wouldn't feel the need to interrupt. Wait, had she really meant to do that? Her gliding, emission-slick hands were pacifying them admirably, but she was supposed to be-

-making sure that she sucked on each one equally. If she timed things right then they would drain themselves into her, one after the other. But should she be doing this? She'd killed the others; did she really need to-

-stop? The taste of the beasts' ejaculate was heavy on her tongue and in her mouth as the third one expelled its last spurt of the jelly-thick substance. The taste, the taste... it was almost like... Morghur. Drycha's eyes flared in panic as she processed the discovery. These creatures' seed was a soup of corruptive power! She could see it now; the Slaanbulls stamping their way through the forest in a haze of rutting urges, their massive rods dripping their warp-infused jism in a trail behind them. And wherever it fell, the forest would be twisted; carpets of sweet-scented moss would cover the ground, trees would grow into warped forms that resembled tangles of phallic tendrils and vulva-shaped flowers would leak sweet nectar. A perpetual heat would overtake the animals that dwelled within, each generation born more and more twisted until the only residents would be a new race of lusty, over-endowed beastmen.

She had to stop this, she had to stop these three incredible creatures no matter the cost. Swallowing down the last of the seed in her mouth, Drycha channeled all of her power and experience, every scrap of magic that she could grab, into herself. The winds pooled in the rapidly-growing knot of corruption within her.

Ghyran curdled into a sickly sweet energy that distorted her proportions; her legs thickened into shapely limbs as supple as willow and as sturdy as any oak, her hips broadened and backside plumped like ripe peaches, her dripping slit and quivering rear hole - so rarely used for anything more than enticing an unwary male into clawing distance - blossomed into full, inviting existence and her breasts swelled with vitality as her nipples began to leak nourishing sap. Ghur devolved into a savage, primal **** that filled her frame with the strength and stamina of a thousand raging beasts. Ulgu congealed into a perverse mien that draped over her like a shroud, showing any onlooker the form that they would most want to throw down and rut until the end of all things.

Drycha shrieked with delight as six rough hands seized her and pulled her every which way. It was working; by taking every last drop of corrupted seed into herself, she would spare her beloved forests from its foul touch. The Slaanbulls worked quickly, one positioning itself beneath her and thrusting upwards to meet her descending derriere. She cooed in delight at the sensation of so much flesh burrowing through her pulpy innards, rising to a reedy cry as a second bull slammed itself home in her twitching flower and turning into a throaty gurhk as the final beastman wrenched her head back and hilted itself between her lips. Then they started to rut her.

It was like nothing she had ever experienced - the short, rapid pumps of the one below her as it palmed and spanked her jiggling buttocks, the long strokes of the one in her quim as it grabbed her ankles and pulled her legs apart into wide splits, the slamming thrusts off the one in her mouth as it sank its fingers deep into her breasts for leverage and smashed its heavy, sweaty sack against the top half of her face like a flail. Sweet, syrupy drool was dragged from her gullet with every stroke, spilling onto his balls and down her face as his nuts hammered her with a deafening PLAP-PLAP-PLAP. Her back passage was blasted wide open by a battering ram of flesh, spasming wildly around the invader even as it tried to squeeze the life from it. Her flower didn't even try to resist, eager welcoming every inch of its partner and rippling up and down its length.

With three holes literally made to drain them dry as their opponents, the Slaanbulls didn't even last thirty seconds before their first release was torn from them. Drycha rejoiced when she felt the dark energies begin to soak into her frame instead of the soil, writhed as she settled into the new rhythm of their fucking and then panicked when she realised that the balls currently slamming wetly against her face were growing. A second climax followed not ten seconds behind the end of the first, and this time Drycha thrashed and choked in an attempt to escape from the tainted juices. Then another came. And another. And another. And then there was no discerning between orgasms as a constant stream of gooey, heavy minotaur spunk poured into each of her holes and saturated her body and soul. Despair was swallowed by lust, was swallowed, by wrath, was swallowed by despair...