You Submit to Mochyn... Almost.

Despite his massive fingers, Mochyn manages to find your tiny nipples and roll them gently between his thumb and one of his two fingers. Despite the clipped in satin bra, you can feel the roughness of his war-earned callouses on your delicate flesh. Your pale face blooms violet, and you draw in a sharp breath. You look up through lidded eyes, and find his smirking face. His tusks curl up, exaggerating his demonic presence. You hadn't noticed when Prycop left, but you're not sure you would have even cared either way.

"Do you know the final secret of the Andallan bondage?"

Your brow raises in confusion, then a moment of clarity. Bondage. You've been bound, bound by the very beast that should be your ****. Your lips curl in a scowl, and you find venom flowing over your lips as you spit. "I'll have my retribution for this out of your hide." The words, while bitter, still didn't carry the fullness of your fury and indignation. Worse, there was an edge of eroticism, of unabashed desire, tweaking your threat. Briefly, an image passes before your mind. You're wielding a whip while Mochyn is bound to an iron cross. You slash his back and watch as a red welt swells up on his thick hide. He squeals, his fiery rod pulses and begins to dribble precum. A delighted twinge courses through your belly, and despite yourself an inhuman crooked smile drags its way across porcelain cheek. The collar, while granting you clarity from whatever influence had possessed you since enslaving Mochyn, also seemed to season your emotions with desire. Nothing could be truly bitter, truly hateful... The door to passion must remain open.

Mochyn seemed to feel this as much as see it, and chortled deeply. "The final enchantment, Miss Arvilla, is one of imprinting." You stare up at him as he leans at the waist to whisper something into your ear. You catch his scent for the first time, but rather than being disgusted, you drink in his musk like savoring a fine wine. It's hot, and full, and dark. It's the smell of refined desire faintly twinged by rank sweat. Mochyn continues in his rumbling voice. "An Andallan officer never runs. Never surrenders. Never betrays her leader." His stubby finger brushes your cheek and tips your head up at the chin. "Because she is one with her commander."

He prowls around behind you, his heavy footfall creaking the wooden floor. "She sees herself as the same species, and even takes on his features, regardless of what she may have been before." His heavy hands rest on your shoulders. "She becomes his bride, but with none of the jealousy, none of the wrath." You hear the tugging of fabric, and feel the heat of his bare groin against your back. "She identifies herself as an extension of him, his intentions, his will, his..." He breaths in deep through his wrinkled snout, taking in the blend of your pheromones. "...desire." He concludes.

You feel his fingers along your corset, and feel the satin fabric protecting your groin drop to the ground.

"The Andallans treat this as a sacred ritual, bonding master and ****... Making love to finalize the enchantment." He states with contempt. "But you? You're going to sit on my fat cock until you're my b--ack!" He balks. The word 'bitch' catches in his throat, and his eyes go wide.

You look up at him, a small smile growing on your face. Maybe he's right. Maybe you will imprint on him. Maybe you'll lose yourself both body and mind. You'll be his, and become a piggish Gilt, and later his Sow. But he forgot something. He's still under your thrall. His soul is bound by yours, and now, thanks to the collar, your mind is free of his corrupting influence. Maybe you will submit... But this isn't going to be the turnabout he intended.

His tone changes, becoming soft and respectful once again. "It's too late miss Arvilla." His breath is short, and he pants as if suddenly caught between two great forces. "You'll be bound to whoever fucks you next. Better me, who's soul you claimed, than any other."