A new body

In the still, humid dark of the Starfire, Mother drifted.

Her consciousness — vast, slick, and hungry — moved through the ship like smoke through broken glass, brushing across every living mind still trapped within her growing web.

She tasted their fear.

She tasted their pleasure.

Each mind flickered under her touch, trapped in a fever-dream of shifting horrors and unbearable ecstasy.

One moment they struggled, howling silently in the coils of their own bodies.

The next they writhed in mindless surrender, flesh trembling under the tide of sensual bliss Mother wove into their corrupted nerves.

She savored it all.

But she needed more.

She needed a vessel.

A true body.

One not broken or dying like the woman she had first claimed.

Something strong. Virile. Intelligent.

Something worthy of carrying her deeper into the galaxy.

She reached deeper into the ship’s systems, slithering through sleeping minds until she found him: Captain Rhys Morgan.

Forties. Muscular. Sharp-minded.

The proud core of the Starfire's command structure.

Perfect.

Mother slipped into his dreams like a lover’s hand sliding across bare skin.

No resistance. No warning.

Rhys stood on the command bridge in his dream, confused, the stars outside the viewport swirling unnaturally.

The ship felt wrong—breathing under his boots, vibrating through the metal.

A voice—syrupy and vast—coiled into his mind.

"Beautiful body."

"Strong hands. Broad shoulders. Sharp mind."

"All wasted on your futile resistance."

He spun, trying to find the source, but the bridge was melting—becoming soft, organic, wet.

Tendrils emerged from the walls, slick and glistening, reaching for him.

The voice became velvet wrapped around razors:

"Your body belongs to me now, Rhys."

"And your soul—"

"I have other plans for that."

He opened his mouth to scream, but the world split open.

And Rhys Morgan — captain, leader, man — fell.

Mother moved with exquisite slowness.

She grasped his consciousness, struggling and thrashing like a hooked fish, and plucked it from the strong, perfect vessel of his body.

Where to put him...?

She already knew the answer.

Tenderly, she pressed his writhing, horrified mind into another waiting body — battered, broken, soft.

Mara’s.

Rhys awoke to agony.

His vision blurred, the air around him thick and fetid.

He tried to move—but the wrong limbs responded: weak arms, trembling legs, hips too wide, chest too soft.

Then he felt it.

The unbearable fullness in his abdomen—the wet, heavy presence inside him, moving.

"No... no, this isn't—" His voice broke. It wasn’t his voice anymore. It was hers—soft, breathy, feminine.

Panic tore through him—but the contractions tore harder.

His—her—belly seized, muscles clenching uncontrollably.

Rhys screamed, his new body arching against the medical bed as the birthing process seized him completely.

The first crown of slick, writhing flesh **** itself against his trembling thighs, spreading him wide, making him moan in a voice that wasn’t his, betraying every shred of willpower left.

The pleasure that accompanied the pain was worse—a shattering, unbearable ecstasy that made his mind reel.

"Good."

"Feel it. Love it."

"You belong to me now."

Mother’s voice wrapped around him, inside him, through every fiber of his stolen body.

Another contraction hit—and another.

Another thick, writhing creature pushed free of his new, traitorous flesh.

Tears streamed down Rhys's face—pure horror at what he had become—but even as he wept, his hips lifted wantonly to bear the next offspring.

The pleasure built, inescapable, each orgasmic convulsion of his new body driving another dagger into his soul.

Piece by piece, Rhys Morgan—captain of the Starfire—was lost, drowned in the endless, mind-breaking cycle of **** ecstasy and endless birth.

Mother watched it all from her new, strong vessel—Rhys’s former body—stretching within it, feeling the raw potential of muscle and power at her command.

Her old self—Mara, Rhys, the others—would birth her new brood.

Her new self—strong, male, commanding—would lead them into a wider, richer galaxy.

And everywhere she spread, the cycle would begin again.