She gives in

Mara lay sprawled on the medical bed, drenched in sweat and birth fluids, her body trembling from exertion. Every muscle screamed in protest. She tried to lift her head, to push herself away from the slick, glistening mass at her feet—

But the creatures were faster.

The first of them—a glistening, half-formed thing with translucent flesh and twitching tendrils—crawled up the bed with a wet slither. Its many black eyes locked onto her, fixated, hungry.

Another followed.

Then a third.

Mara whimpered weakly, trying to push them away, but her arms had no strength.

She was spent.

Broken open.

Exposed.

Tiny mouths—raw, fleshy apertures—latched greedily onto her body.

One found her breast, suckling with ****, rhythmic pulls that sent an electric jolt of sensation straight through her exhausted frame.

Another fastened onto her other breast.

Another lower—nestling against the tender, exposed curve of her belly.

Horror twisted in her gut.

No. No no no—

But then—

The sensations deepened.

The suckling, at first only physically uncomfortable, began to spark something else—something traitorous.

Pleasure.

Heat.

Her nipples stiffened against the creatures' eager mouths, a low, shuddering moan escaping her cracked lips before she could **** it back. Her back arched instinctively, pressing herself closer to the feeding mouths.

Shame burned her mind, but it was drowned under a tide of raw, consuming sensation.

And then, Mother spoke.

A voice, thick and intimate, blossomed inside her mind—soft as silk, sharp as knives.

"Good girl... Feel it. Don't fight. This is what you were made for."

Mara whimpered aloud, her body betraying her, hips grinding weakly against the bed as the creatures suckled harder, deeper.

Mother's voice purred on, a slow, sensuous rhythm that matched the creatures' nursing.

"You were always meant to nourish them. To feed them. To birth them."

"Every nerve in your body knows it. Every cell."

"Give yourself to it. Give yourself to me."

Mara sobbed, but the sob melted into a broken, breathy moan as the pleasure thickened, blooming under her skin like a fever.

The vines that snaked along the walls of the medbay shivered, responding to her surrender. One—thicker, darker, alive—slithered down from the ceiling, reaching her prone, shuddering form.

It coiled lovingly around her thigh, slick and pulsing.

It caressed the trembling inside of her knee.

It stroked the fevered flesh between her legs, already swollen and aching from the monstrous birth.

She was too weak to resist.

Too full of aching, traitorous need.

"You are my vessel," Mother whispered inside her mind, the words a deep, delicious pressure against the raw places of her thoughts.

"My beloved. My soil. My womb."

"You are ready again."

The vine's tip pressed insistently against her still-gaping, leaking entrance.

Slowly, savoring every broken, gasping sob she made, it slid inside—thick, patient, inevitable.

Mara cried out, head thrown back, her body arching against the bed as the vine filled her anew.

Not rough. Not cruel.

Possessive.

Claiming.

She could feel it—warm, potent, pumping into her, seeding her again while the newborn creatures clung to her, suckling her stolen milk with greedy, rhythmic pulls.

Every thrust of the vine sent fresh jolts of molten pleasure through her battered form.

Every suckle pulled her deeper under.

Mother’s voice wrapped around her mind like velvet and iron:

"More. Again. Forever."

"You will bloom for me, again and again."

"And you will love it."

And Mara—wracked with pleasure, drowning in sensation—knew it was true.

Deep inside, where her shame had once lived, something new unfurled: a dark, exultant need to be filled, bred, and remade over and over again.

For Mother.

For her children.

Forever.