Your so filled with purpose, you were always ment to be this devine breeder. You will spread your mesage.

The next months are a hectic blur once more, after the night of the ritual the minotaurs are possessed by a sort of frantic energy you had not seen before the lackadaisical pace of raids and hunts was replaced by a scramble for materials and supplies. Raids for slaves were almost halted weapons and practice took prescient over all else.

During these months you and your new priestesses served your womanly duty pushing out more and more sons for your masters from your magically augmented wombs. Your transformation into the pure avatar of female servitude continued somewhat, your full embrace of the transformation meant that there was little else to do your body was that of the perfect brood-mother. Beyond your new bovine features and voluptuous curves, you found that your lips began to swell and any trace of muscle mass fades replaced only by feminine softness, its almost supernatural that your able to move your mass at all especially as heavily pregnant as you almost always are.

Most days go by in a sort of hallucinatory haze blissful in your subservience. The males are rough and cruel but that seems so natural, you might be the avatar of a divine being but you know your place is as the obedient mate for these bulls. Eventually the women you have blessed begin to fall into this state as well each taking on some exaggerated personality trait connected to a stereotype of femininity. Several girls become cartoonishly meek, hardly capable of communication eyes lowered snapping to obey any order of your monstrous masters. Many become salacious sluts any level of resistance replaced with a craving for cock and desire for constant stimulation. You are most often surrounded by females that have taken on traits like yours ditzy empty headed and dumb a cluster of them attend you at all times often a pile of you are at the feet of what ever war chief has the prestige to claim your breeding rights.

Its on one of these days as your surrounded by a cluster of your fellow cows, stroking you as your mounted by a brutal chieftain, that something disrupts your routine.

A young bull drags in a woman mostly clothed in white robes, her chest and arms fitted with a blue tinted steel armor marked with religious symbols that you don't recognize but your connection to the divinity does. She thrashes in the bindings that she has been put in yelling curses and howling for divine aid. Your mate begins conversion with the young bull but you tune it out your doughy brain long since accepting that the plans of your masters are beyond you. The conversation grows heated and angry, you know this not just by the volume of the growls but the increasing **** put into the trusts, the large monstrous hands growing tighter around your waist and neck. You bounce more and more rapidly from the hard fucking going limp and simply receiving until will one final slam pressing up against your cervix he empties himself, it takes nearly two minutes for your current master to empty his cargo into you, after which he unceremoniously pulls out and drops you to the ground. Panting face down in the dirt you feel the spark of life start six no seven times as your divine womb submits happily to the rough hate fuck. You know the sons born will be cruel and brutal conquerors that will leave the women of distant lands as fat with children as you will soon be.

You're helped up by your empty headed entourage, many of them stroking above their own wombs as their pure connection to you unburdened by any identity beyond being a breeding hole lets them sense your fertilization. Now sitting yo look over to the young semi armored woman, angry noises only increasing from the two minotaurs, but oddly the sounds of a new bitch being bread is not part of the tumult. Looking over any attempts to remove her clothes seem to have failed, shes been hurt by the struggle before clearly and the robes and armorer are badly damaged but try as they might the two beasts cant unclothe her.

The chief positions his mighty shaft, now again hard at the thought of a fresh breeder, near the bitches undergarments but he cant seem to find the right place to push constantly sliding past. Normally the brutal ridges of the beasts manhood would have caught and torn though the flimsy fabric but he continuously comically fails. All this time the young woman, you suppose from her prayers must be a priestess, makes calls to her goddess for deliverance. For a second it doesn't strike you as odd that she's praying specifically to you as a goddess of nature, your monumental stupidity now being a quality that you admire in yourself, until you realize that she's referring to you as a virgin goddess. You begin giggling dopeily unable to imagine any version of you a fertility goddess as anything other then a cock crazed wore.