You are fed

Hours pass as you hang, utterly immobilized on the wall of the main hall, your knees up at your sides, leaving your stretched pussy in full view. From this position, you look as though you are squatting in midair.

Your massively pregnant belly juts out in front of you obscenely, concealing everything below your navel, including the Brand above your sex that, unbeknownst to you, had changed slightly the moment the first egg entered your womb. The brand now reflects not only your status as a Daemonic breeder, but your current status as an incubator for your insectoid dominator's nymphs.

You moan, the weight of the mass of eggs inside you creating a pleasant pressure against the walls of your deepest sanctum.

Again, as if in response to you, you hear the many skittering legs of your Owner from overhead, just as the mammoth bug slithers into view. The Centipede inspects you thoroughly for a moment, it's antennae roaming over your body, lingering on your puffy, sore, violated pussy lips, taking in your scent.

After a moment, it pulls away, and raises it's head to look you in your tired, weary face. You avert your eyes, looking downward in a display of submission to your insectoid master.

The Centipede hisses, and from between it's mandibles, another long tube extends, this one not as thick or hard as the ovipositor. As the centipede uses it to raise your chin, the mark on your mound tells you that your master is going to feed you. Without hesitation, you open your mouth and accept the long, flexible tube as it worms into your mouth, and down your throat.

Helpless, mouth agape around the bugs long feeding tube, you again feel like this is what you have always been meant to be. When the bug sends a torrent of predigested paste directly into your stomach, your inflamed cunt moistens again.

The torrent only ceases when your stomach is completely and utterly full, and seconds after, the bug slides the tube free of you, several ropes of your saliva hang from it, a testament to how deep it had been lodged in your throat.

The feeding had been intensely dominant, and you knew you'd have been filled up this way even if you had resisted. That thought makes your tender folds burn, and you wiggle in your bondage, aching to feel the Daemon slide its long egg laying pole into you again. However, you know it won't. Not yet, anyway. Not until you give birth to it's first clutch. After that, it would allow you to recover sufficiently through the regenerative powers of your Cambion altered genes, and when you had, it would immediately lay another clutch of eggs in your womb. You knew this cycle would repeat for eternity if nothing intervened.

You pray, though to whom you do not know, that nothing does.