Archived Version

When the cold, elegant Demon Queen falls into the tentacle-skin trap laid by the Hero just for her, can she escape?
And after being reshaped by tentacles and prosthetics alike, locked in a state of false restraint, can the Demon Queen hold fast to who she once was?
This installment contains: tentacle-skin, tentacle suits, prosthetics, pseudo-bondage, kigurumi, and more!
A long-overdue update — happy Children's Day, everyone!

Year 387 of the Western Calendar

On the continent of Sworp, the demon horde led by the Demon Queen launched a sweeping assault against all the races of the world. The faeries, elves, dwarves, and humans formed a grand coalition — and only barely held the line against the relentless onslaught.

Year 395

The demons' advance showed no sign of slowing. The coalition's defences grew more desperate by the year. Then, as though answering the coalition's prayers, the Hero was born into the world.

Year 403

The Hero refined and augmented alchemical magic, broadening its application across the realities of war. From this came a generation of objects far ahead of their time — among them, skin-suits crafted through deep study of the human body.

Year 415

The Hero, now grown into their full power, led the coalition in a final counteroffensive against the Demon Queen. Countless terrible creatures were cut down. The Hero pushed through to the very heart of the demon army and came face to face with the Demon Queen herself.

Inside the Demon Palace.

“Surrender, Demon Queen Soreia!”

The Hero had stormed the palace. Holy sword levelled at the figure on the throne, one hand gripping the blade, the other reaching behind to retrieve a magic stone. Pale blue light pulsed steadily as he channelled his power into it — his gaze fixed, his posture that of a man facing the gravest threat of his life.

On the throne, Demon Queen Soreia had her eyes closed. They opened now — just barely, languid and heavy-lidded, carrying that particular allure of someone who simply could not be bothered. Her nose was elegant, high-bridged, nostrils gently flared like the petals of a lily in bloom. Those jewel-red lips parted.

“So you are the Hero of this age…”

Her voice carried the soft fog of someone half-roused from sleep, yet it moved through the air like an early autumn breeze, brushing warmly against the skin.

Those flawless features. That skin — white as snow packed against a mountainside, impossibly smooth. She commanded awe and dread in equal measure. A deep black dress enveloped her from chin to heel, every inch of her body wrapped in that immaculate darkness, the fabric alive with cutwork and embroidery that framed her nobility rather than concealed it.

The Demon Queen rose from her throne, revealing the slender black stilettos beneath, and descended the dais one measured step at a time. Click. Click. Click. Her hair fell like a black waterfall down her back, and the hem of her skirt swayed with each unhurried movement.

Even the Hero found himself staring — caught off guard, watching her approach with something approaching blankness.

Soreia came to a stop before him. “Are you staring at me? ❤ Haha~” In the light, something shifted in her expression — a different kind of beauty, warm and knowing and dangerous all at once. She smiled lazily, as though the entire world was an extension of her will.

The Hero shook his head sharply, forcing himself back. “Damn her!” Suspecting her seduction ability was already at work, he threw himself backward to open the distance and slammed up a mental defence ward.

“Pffahaha… Is the great Hero so frightened of little me? I haven't even done anything yet, hehe…”

Something in his reaction had delighted her. Soreia pressed a hand to her mouth, shoulders trembling, silver laughter ringing through the hall. To anyone who didn't know better, it would have looked like a beautiful, high-born woman trying — and failing — to contain her amusement. Nothing about that image suggested the dreaded Demon Queen at all.

To the Hero, that laughter was pure mockery. “Damn it all!” He crushed the magic stone in his fist — it had been fully charged. An enormous magic circle erupted beneath his feet, covered in arcane runes, spreading across the floor in an instant and swallowing the entire palace within its reach.

“Hm?” Soreia felt the change ripple around her. Her expression shifted, just slightly. “Quite the grand gesture. You laid a large-scale magic suppression field in advance. Trying to cut me off from my magic?” Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps this one was not quite as reckless as he appeared.

The moment the circle locked into place, the Hero felt victory begin to lean his way. With this array active, the Demon Queen could cast nothing. He, however, still had the reserves stored in the stone.

He layered enhancement magic on himself and a battle enchantment on the holy sword. “Die, Demon Queen!” And charged.

Strangely — Soreia did not move. She stood exactly where she was, no attempt to dodge, her expression undisturbed, watching him come with the flat disinterest of someone watching a candle burn. Whether she was genuinely baffled or simply felt no threat at all, it was impossible to say.

The Hero felt the strangeness of it, but he was already there — already swinging. The holy blade came up —

And at that precise moment, the corner of Soreia's mouth curved.

Something shifted in her face. That faint, unhurried smile — and in the instant he caught it, something primitive and cold crept up the back of his neck. I am prey. There is something much larger than me looking at me right now. He tried to pull back. Far too late.

Soreia raised her hand and deflected the holy sword. Burns seared across her palm — and healed. The hand continued its movement, fingers closing around his throat.

“Hero, you are so very weak. Weaker than any Hero I have faced before.”

She held him at arm's length, dangling him in the air before her, her tone carrying the faint disappointment of someone who had expected better entertainment.

“How… how is this possible…” He stared at that beautiful, terrible face, unable to process it. She couldn't use magic. And yet.

“Did you think cutting off my magic would be enough to defeat me? How naive.” For a being who had lived across countless ages, the absence of spell casting was a minor inconvenience at best. She had long since learned to channel her vast reserves of demonic energy without formal casting — weaving it into a layer across her skin, an invisible armour that repelled almost any strike.

The Hero gagged, clawing at her grip, his legs flailing uselessly.

He reached for the satchel at his hip — his last hope — but Soreia simply reached across with her free hand and stripped the entire belt away, letting it fall. The satchel burst open on impact, magic stones and supplies scattering across the floor. He watched his last option roll away from him and felt despair close in.

“Ahh~” Soreia yawned. Unhurried. Bored. She released him and turned back toward her throne.

“Cough — cough…” The Hero lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, unable to summon the will to move.

“What is this… ∑(O_O;)?” Soreia paused mid-turn. Something had caught her eye on the fallen belt — a pale, flesh-coloured mass. The impact must have burst the satchel's compartment. It lay there on the floor, formless and soft.

She had no particular interest in him — but she had lived a very long time, and old things rarely surprised her any more. New things still did.

“A skin-suit?” She bent closer, examining it. As the object unfolded, it resolved into something unmistakably human-shaped — a pelt, sized for a person. She had seen skin-suits before, knew something of their nature. She cast a long, thoughtful look back at the man still wheezing on the floor. Well. She hadn't expected that.

Still — she had heard of them but never worn one herself. Now, standing over this particular one, she could feel something in it, faint and insistent as a whisper. Put me on. Everything you want is inside.

She had heard the stories. People who put on skin-suits were said to lose themselves — to fall into spiralling pleasure until they could no longer function, becoming slaves to the skin and to sensation.

“Pathetic little alchemical trinket…” She found the whole notion faintly contemptible. She was the Demon Queen. She refused to believe a garment could compromise her. And besides — she had a precaution ready. Before she put it on, she would simply generate a layer of demonic energy beneath her skin. If anything went wrong, she could shed the suit instantly.

Perfect. The Demon Queen allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.

She picked the skin-suit up and turned it over carefully. It looked like a deflated doll — soft, collapsed, waiting. Oddly, it had no face. Or rather — no defined face. Only blurred suggestion: a hint of a nose, the faint ghost of a mouth, and two hollow depressions where eyes should have been. Like a face wearing a mask. The overall effect was strangely, unsettlingly beautiful — mysterious in a way she couldn't quite name.

Along its back ran a long seam, open to reveal the pale pink fleece lining within. The exterior showed no stitching, no seam, no join — it would, when worn, encase the entire body.

She glanced back at the Hero. Still down. She set the suit aside and reached for her clasps.

The black dress fell.

The body beneath it was white as poured cream, every curve precise and unhurried, as though nature had taken its time. There was a quality to her figure that suggested sculpture — not cold, but deliberate. The arc from shoulder to waist to hip, the smooth line of each limb.

She lifted the skin-suit and began to work her feet inside —

“Mn? Ah~”

The interior was cool. And damp. She hadn't expected that — hadn't expected the texture, which was immediately, disarmingly pleasant against her skin. Her posture relaxed without her deciding to. She pushed forward, sliding her other leg in.

“Oh, this is nice~”

It was like being touched by something that already knew exactly how.

Behind her, on the floor, the Hero's eyes opened a fraction.

The suit came up along her lower body — and where the material pressed inward against her most private places, she bit back a sound. Her head turned instinctively toward where the Hero lay. He wasn't looking. She breathed out.

Good.

The warmth in her face said otherwise.

Emboldened, she quickened her pace, drawing the suit higher. The material tightened.

“Mn~ hnm~”

The pull of it drove the suit's plush lining deeper, pressing in where she was most sensitive. She exhaled sharply through her nose, steadied herself, and pushed it the rest of the way up to her chest.

“Aah — aahh — ah! Oh, oh, good — good — that tickles — haaah~”

Perhaps it was the sensitivity of her chest, or the intensity of the stimulation — for a moment she nearly pulled the whole thing off. But underneath the discomfort there was something else building, something she hadn't felt in a very long time, and her hands moved on their own — gripping, kneading, pressing through the skin at her own chest.

“Aah — mnh — ahhh — aaah~”

The image of a cold, imperious queen was dissolving quickly.

Eventually, the overwhelming sensation crested and ebbed. She steadied herself. But the awareness of something wrong about this suit was beginning to surface — some instinct that said stop, take it off.

She hesitated.

That sensation — that infuriating, addictive edge of pleasure-and-almost-too-much — she had genuinely not felt that in ages.

Maybe just a little longer before I take it off. She was the Demon Queen, after all. A garment couldn't hold her.

She made her decision and continued.

The suit claimed her hands. She brought the headpiece up over her face — and the cool, slightly damp film sealed across her skin like a second membrane, close and precise. She blinked. She could see perfectly, despite the fact that no eyeholes were visible from the outside. She opened her mouth. “Extraordinary.” Her voice worked fine.

Then the skin-suit finished settling into place —

And her body began to burn.

“I need —” She couldn't finish the thought. Her hands went to her chest again, kneading and pinching at herself, but it didn't reach whatever was now demanding to be reached. Her fingers moved lower, tracing the surface of the suit at her inner thighs, pressing at the folds, forcing little currents of air —

“Aahn~”

The movement drew air into her — tiny, invisible, nothing. And somehow that nothing touched the inner walls of her in a way that was not nothing at all.

She discovered something.

Her fingers pressed carefully inward. Pushed.

“Mn~ hmm~ mhm~ mnngh~”

The fleece lining and the walls inside her worked against each other, generating a light, wet friction. The sound of it — quiet, slightly slick — seemed very loud in the empty hall. It travelled from somewhere deep and landed directly in her mind.

Ah. So that's how this works.

She moved faster.

Two hands. Both entrances. The sounds were slick and rhythmic, and she was past caring about being quiet. Her voice climbed steadily, catching and releasing, until she crested —

And came undone, shaking.

She stood in front of the great hall mirror afterward, admiring her new form. No eyes. No defined features. A smooth, pale, flesh-toned figure staring back at her. She pinched her cheek; excellent elasticity. She pushed harder; it didn't tear.

She was rather enjoying this.

Then she noticed the seam on her back was gone.

She turned, craning her neck, running her fingers along her back. Smooth. Not even a ghost of a seam remaining.

Oh.

She thought about the burning need she had just felt. Her instincts spoke up, clearly this time.

Something is wrong with this suit.

She checked her inner layer of demonic energy. No disruption. Everything intact.

Even so. Even so — her rational mind said: take it off now.

She was still turning the problem over when a fireball hit the wall beside her head.

She sidestepped cleanly. Another volley came — several energy spheres in sequence. Then the Hero was on his feet, blade up, closing fast.

“Surrender! Don't even think about running!” He feinted with an energy sphere, circled, and came at her from behind.

“Irritating little insect.” She shelved the problem of the suit. She would deal with the Hero first, and then take it off.

“I didn't know the great Demon Queen had such a... private side,” the Hero called, darting back to widen the gap again.

The words hit like a slap.

He had watched. The entire time.

“You will DIE for this!”

The cool calculation she'd maintained through the whole encounter evaporated. She could feel the humiliation like fire up her spine — the sight of herself in that moment, reflected in his eyes, and the shame of it drove her forward without strategy. She chased him in blind fury as he continued to retreat, drawing her in circles across the hall.

“Is running all you're capable of?!”

He moved like a fish in water, always finding the precise moment to trigger his teleportation stone and reappear on the opposite side of the hall. She felt like a dog on a leash, circling endlessly.

He didn't answer. Kept moving. And then —

I'm getting slower.

She stopped.

She looked at her hands.

She could feel it — the strength draining steadily out of her. The suit. It had to be the suit.

As though confirming her answer, the skin-suit began to change.

The real transformation was only beginning.

“Mn — ?! Uhh — mmmf~ mlph~ — so big, so thick — stop — mmmh~”

Something was forcing its way through the skin at her mouth, prying it open from inside, pushing into her oral cavity. It was thick. It was long. Wet and glutinous, turning her stomach. Her throat convulsed around it. The urge to vomit came in waves — but the thing didn't stop, it kept extending deeper, down into her throat.

She clawed at the suit covering her face, trying to tear it free. It didn't give. Not even slightly. It was fused to her like a second skin. The mass continued moving inside her throat, visibly — from the outside, one could see the outline of it pressing and shifting at her neck.

Then — through the nostrils — two thin tubes extended and threaded upward into her airway, wrapping themselves around the mass already filling her throat, caging her breath into something narrow and controlled.

“Mhm — mn — hh — hhh —”

Her heart was hammering. Her chest compressed on every inhale. Her head began to ache — dull and heavy, like a fist pressing from behind her eyes. The room blurred slightly at the edges.

Then her chest.

Something adhered to her nipples. Suction. Persistent, rhythmic, kneading — the sensitive tissue worked over from all sides at once, and that front of her defences collapsed immediately.

With everything she had left, she ran.

She could feel herself failing. Her body was running down like a drained lantern. The door was there. This is the last chance. Go.

The Hero saw her move. He was already teleporting, landing between her and the exit.

He raised the holy sword — and then didn't use it. Something shifted in his expression. He put the sword down, and hit her with his fist.

She saw it coming. Couldn't dodge. Couldn't.

“Mnnf~ mnn…”

She hit the floor and looked at the door from the ground.

She tried to push herself up. Started dragging herself toward it.

“Mnngh~ no — not there — mhhh~”

Three tentacles drove into her at once. All three entrances. The sensation detonated through her, and she nearly lost consciousness on the spot — hips pitching upward, body writhing, trying to buck the things loose.

It didn't work. It never worked. They only pushed deeper.

The friction was continuous and overwhelming, and she couldn't stop her voice from escaping —

Ahhh~ aahh~ ahh~

Then — everything stopped.

Or almost stopped.

The active movement ceased. But the presence remained. Three openings, all filled to capacity. Her urethra packed full — a constant, low-grade urgency of pressure she couldn't relieve. Her vagina and bowel utterly occupied. And the thing in her throat had found her stomach.

The suit had shrunk a size. Everywhere. It pressed against her from all directions like a second skeleton, tight enough to shorten each breath. She could feel it work — the tentacle in her stomach shifting with each inhale, sliding against the stomach wall, triggering a continuous low-grade nausea that ebbed and surged. Everything inside her felt rearranged. She felt like something that had been thoroughly used and left on the floor.

She lay there.

The Hero waited until he was certain she wasn't getting up. Then he crushed the second magic suppression stone. The ward across the palace dissolved. Demonic energy flooded back into the atmosphere.

Soreia moved instantly — with the last burst of her real strength, she launched herself off the floor, pure speed, through the air toward the exit —

And hit something invisible and was thrown back hard.

“Give it up, Soreia.”

The Hero's voice. From behind her.

“That suit has drained the vast majority of your physical strength and magical power. Right now, you are, for all practical purposes, an ordinary human woman. And I laid protective wards on this room before I ever set foot inside. There is no way out. Not today.”

What he didn't say: the tentacle skin would keep drawing from her indefinitely — and everything it harvested would be fed back into itself. The tentacles were inscribed with multiple layered magics: suppression fields, cleansing fields, and more. Her own power, redirected against her.

“Coward!” She got herself upright, barely. “Do you think this is enough to kill me?!”

She already knew the answer. She was, by nature, undying. She had always known that. Death had never been something she feared. But the word the Hero had used —

“I know perfectly well I can't kill you. You can't be killed. That's why killing you was never the plan.” He walked toward her slowly. “The plan, from the beginning, was to seal you. Everything I did today — all of it — was to make you put on that suit.”

Her body went cold.

Sealed.

Not death. Something that could stretch across eternity. Something that did not end.

He stopped in front of her and reached up to pinch her cheek, lightly.

“Mmnh —” She turned her face away and tried to push him off. The attempt was so weak it looked like reaching.

“Still trying to get closer to me?” He smiled at that. “I'm flattered.”

“You—!” She couldn't form the rest of it. Her body sagged. She sank to her knees on the floor, furious and exhausted, glaring up at him.

Not compliance — she simply had nothing left to use.

He released her. Then, from the satchel, he produced a single binder — a leather sleeve shaped to contain both arms together. He pulled her hands behind her back.

“Mnh — wh — what are you doing?!”

He didn't answer. He forced her hands in.

“Let go — let — go of me —” She shook her bound arms. Her hands were completely immobilized inside the single sleeve — two arms, one prison, as helpless as someone without limbs at all.

He stood back and looked at her.

“Hah. The legendary Demon Queen.”

He watched the small armless struggling behind her back and couldn't help himself. He laughed.

“I won't… forgive this… hh…” She was biting down around the mass in her mouth as hard as she could — she wanted to bite through him — and the laboured breathing made every word a production. Technically speaking, Soreia didn't need to breathe. She wouldn't die from asphyxiation. But the sensation of half-suffocation, that place between adequate air and none, was genuinely distressing enough that her body responded to it anyway — forcing itself to breathe against the restriction, over and over, accomplishing nothing, trapped in the loop.

“Save your strength. The sealing's only just started.”

He turned back to the satchel.

This time he produced another skin-suit — skin-toned, collapsed, waiting — and two prosthetic arms. White. Articulated in visible segments, each joint pronounced and deliberate, like limbs pulled off a large doll.

Under his direction, the arms drifted upward and settled against Soreia's shoulders, aligning themselves and adhering. From the front, the effect was — uncanny. Doll arms on a living body. Something that harmonized exactly wrong.

The second skin-suit rose from the floor and unfolded itself.

This one had a face.

Not a beautiful face. Not exactly. The features were asymmetrical, slightly distorted — eyes rolled back, mouth twisted into an open, vacant grin. Every inch of it read deranged. The face of a woman utterly lost to pleasure, wearing idiocy like a crown.

If the first suit's purpose was extraction — drawing out her power and cutting her off from magic — the second served as armour. This idiot-face skin was extraordinarily resilient. Conventional weapons left no mark. Magical instruments left no mark. Even most direct spell work couldn't scratch its surface. To further reduce the chance of escape, its interior was inscribed with an absorption enchantment — capable of drawing in incoming attacks, excess internal power, any energy directed at it, and redirecting all of it into structural reinforcement. If the surface was damaged, the inner tentacles would absorb available energy and redirect it into repair. Should the absorption reach capacity, the overflow would simply be vented — simultaneously triggering a random-destination teleportation that would deposit Soreia somewhere else entirely. If her own power ran too low to sustain the system, ambient magical particles in the surrounding air would be converted and stored until her reserves recovered enough to harvest again.

Under his control the second suit floated forward — face-first, deliberately. His idea of a joke. Soreia could see that grotesque, grinning face drifting toward her.

It stopped just short of her.

Turned itself around.

And then expanded — a taut, drum-tight inflation — and with a soft pop of released pressure, split itself open along the back, the skin peeling wider and wider until it was laid flat.

It came down over her.

The pink tentacles on the interior surface moved immediately, wrapping her tightly inward.

“No — don't —”

Her protest was barely a sound. The idiot-face skin wound itself around the prosthetic arms, around the layers already covering her, contracting steadily. She felt herself compressed. Her bound arms, already pulled behind her back, were now pinned there by the constriction — sealed, immovable.

When the two suits finished fusing, the join was invisible. They had become one object. And the person they encased — the nameless, eyeless, mysterious figure from the first suit — was gone. In her place stood an open-mouthed, rolling-eyed, slack-grinning creature. Nothing of the Demon Queen remained. Nothing even of the previous skin. Just a stupid, lewd face stretched over whatever lay beneath, and nothing in the world to suggest the beautiful prisoner inside.

The Hero lifted her in a cradle of channelled energy and brought her before the mirror.

He tilted her chin up.

“Have a good look. This is what you'll look like from now on. A shameless, ugly freak. Ha. Haha.”

Her chest heaved — whether from anger or the breathlessness or both. Her head moved slightly from side to side. The only answer she was capable of.

“All right. You've seen enough. Time for the final stage.”

From the satchel he drew something that was not a skin this time, but a garment: a bodysuit in black and white. He spread it open — smooth black latex, the collar revealing a churning mass of pink inside. A tentacle suit. It moved like the skin-suits had moved, found her, enveloped her from the neck down, and settled into place with a slow, organic shudder.

Next came the shell.

A head-mask, sculpted with extraordinary care. Almond-shaped eyes with the outer corners lifted into a clean, subtle arc — seductive and unreadable. A small, precise nose. Lips the colour of a deep rose, glossed and slightly parted, luminous as though freshly touched up. Looking at it quickly, one might not immediately know it wasn't a real face.

The shell opened its mouth wide, descended over the idiot-face beneath it, and snapped shut with a soft, definitive click.

“Hh… hh…”

Underneath that exquisite face — the grotesque one. And beneath that — the tentacles, the prisoner, the queen. Breathing harshly through everything stacked between her and the air.

A pure white latex coif descended next, wrapping tight around the shell's head and neck, leaving parts of the forehead and cheekbones exposed. Over that, black latex veiling fell from the back of the shell, draping the rear of the neck and head.

A black-and-white mantle was settled onto her shoulders. The black portion fell back to cover the bound hands. White came forward across the chest in a V-shape, a decorative point fitting neatly into the center of the brassiere that now clasped the swaying mass of her chest. Harmony and intention. Everything exactly placed.

Then came the skirts — two panels of black latex, one front, one back, adhering to the bodysuit at her lower abdomen, undulating once as they fused and then falling into place, covering what remained of her exposed skin below.

The nun's habit was complete.

He nodded.

Accessories remained.

He was efficient about them.

The high heels were black latex, stiletto, with one notable distinction: the heel extended nearly to the same length as the foot itself. There was no way to walk in them except on tiptoe. Soreia had no means to refuse them.

The chastity belt was last. Two thick black shafts lined the inner surface. He lifted the front of her skirts and drove them home. The tentacle skin inside her registered the intrusion immediately and absorbed the objects, incorporating them — the tentacles that had previously filled her were displaced and replaced. The shafts were inscribed internally with a catalogue of functions: vibration, rotation, thrusting, electrical stimulation.

Whether by design or by some incomplete absorption, the bases of the two shafts remained visible — two small protrusions pressed between her buttocks and locked against the belt's frame. A low hum started up.

The shafts began to move.

Mnngh~ mnh~ mnngh~ mmmf~

Her sounds came faint and continuous. He let her skirts fall.

He put the eyemask in place over the shell's eyes. Then he arranged the prosthetic arms into a position of prayer — palms together, fingers aligned — and left them there.

Done.

What stood before him was a nun. Head slightly bowed. Hands folded in devotion. Her face mostly concealed — the eyemask, the fall of the coif, the veil — until almost nothing was visible except for a precise pair of lips: their shape, their colour, their slight gloss. The kind of lips that caught the eye and held it.

Everything else — the Demon Queen, the imprisoned face, the monster underneath — was nowhere to be found.

“Well then, Your Majesty — or rather, I should say Sister — “

He circled her slowly.

“Demon Queen Soreia: for crimes committed against humanity and all peoples across these thousands of years — I sentence you to eternal exile beyond the borders of this continent. Walk. Forever. I hope you enjoy your punishment.”

“Mhm… mmmhm…”

She was barely audible. A whisper through everything packed into her throat.

“No point in making noise during an exile.” He cast a final enchantment, sealing off the suit's ability to transmit sound outward. “Mmmhn…” — the low, continuous duet of breath and sound collapsed inward, audible only to her.

A white light swallowed the hall.

The Hero's teleportation magic deposited Soreia somewhere — random destination, unknown continent, the rolling surface of a world with more landmasses than any person could walk in a lifetime. For her to find her way back to Sworp would be nearly impossible. And if she somehow managed it, a banishment ward waited there, specifically keyed to her, which would fling her away the instant she crossed the threshold.

“Mnh…?” — Where is this…?

Darkness. Total. Her vision sealed behind the eyemask, her mind surfacing slowly from the disorientation of transit.

“Mmmf…” — My mouth still feels awful…

She could hear wind moving through leaves. A forest, or something like one. She had no sense of direction. No bearings. She could hear, at least — but hearing told her very little.

The shafts in her activated.

“Mhhh~ mmmf~ mhm~ mhmmm~” — Ahhh, my— it's so much—

Her bound hands were useless. No magic. She could do nothing but writhe against the ground, arching and rolling her hips, twisting her body like a latex-clad caterpillar, trying to displace the sensation from somewhere it wouldn't leave.

It didn't work.

She tried to stand. As she rose, she noticed — the intensity dropped slightly.

“Mhm?” — Less when I'm upright?

She pushed herself higher. The stimulation eased a fraction more.

“Mm?” — Only when I stand straight?

She pushed off the ground completely —

“Mmh!” — It works!

Standing, the devices were noticeably calmer. She held the position, breathing, trying to stabilize —

And the stiletto heel caught nothing, and she went down again.

The skin and the habit protected her from injury. They did not protect her from the shafts reacting to her horizontal position, resuming full intensity.

“Mhm~ mnngh~ stop stop stop~”

She bit down around the mass in her mouth, gathered herself, and tried to stand again.

She fell.

Fell again.

Lost count of how many times she fell.

After what felt like thousands of attempts, she finally stayed up.

“Hh… hh… mhm…” — …Finally…

The reduced stimulation made her feel faintly disoriented — the constant rise-and-fall of the previous hour had pushed her very close to something she wasn't ready to examine. She stood in the dark and breathed.

And then, even at this reduced level — slow, persistent, inexorable — the sensation began to build again. Soreia had the impression, possibly not wrong, that the devices were calibrated to her tolerance. Each time she seemed to be managing, a small increment would be added. Just enough to push past where she'd stabilized.

“Mhm… ≥﹏≤”

She exhaled. She was in a forest — or jungle — that likely had magical beasts in it. Her current body could not afford encounters. She was functionally a normal woman right now: undying, yes, but undying was not the same as uninjured.

She had to move.

She extended one foot. Felt for the ground with her toe. Found it. Shifted her weight carefully. Extended the other foot.

“Mhm…” — This is exhausting…

The heels were punishing at every step. She moved with the care of someone crossing ice.

She moved.

Time passed. She fell, many times. She learned.

Eventually, she discovered the rules.

When she moved at a consistent pace, the stimulation decreased — and, if sustained, eventually went quiet. The devices weren't limited to one mode: they cycled through vibration, rotation, thrusting, and combinations thereof, in sequences that seemed deliberately designed to catch her off-guard. If she stopped to rest, intensity spiked. The only way to maintain minimum stimulation was to keep walking.

She also discovered a sleep window. Between 10 PM and 6 AM, she could rest without triggering the punishment escalation. Outside those hours, any rest — even brief — triggered an hour-long penalty period during which even walking provided no relief.

She catalogued this information the way she would have once catalogued tactical intelligence. It was the only thing she had left to do.

“Mhm…” — I'm so tired…

She rose from the ground reluctantly, body still swaying, tipping side to side with the preserved momentum of sleep. She took a step, wobbled.

Stood still for two seconds too long.

“Mhm~ mmnh! Mm! MHM!” — Don't — I'm walking, I'm walking — stop—

The penalty spike was immediate. Apparently, she had fallen asleep while standing. She walked, brisk and lurching, until the punishment faded and took her sleep with it.

Gradually — across days she couldn't see and nights she navigated by sound — Soreia adapted to the rules. She began waking at 6 AM without prompting. Her steps grew steadier. The heels stopped destroying her quite as often.

She made her way out of the first forest. Walked onto whatever ground lay beyond it. She didn't know which direction she was going. She didn't know which continent she was on. But she understood one thing: she needed to find her way back to Sworp. To the residue of her own power. To some possibility of escape. Revenge would follow naturally from that.

She moved.

Years passed.

Soreia developed a rhythm. Up at six. Maximum pace, through whatever terrain was underfoot, until ten at night. Sleep where she stopped. Rise and continue. She left the continent she had been deposited on — she didn't know its name — and kept moving until she hit coastline, and then entered the water, swimming through the dark, moved by currents through the night, arriving somewhere new and continuing again.

The long walking dulled her. The permanent darkness. The isolation. At first, she made sounds — small ones, just to feel that she was still present, still herself. Later she stopped. She became quiet. An upright figure moving through unfamiliar places without sound or sight, driven by whatever was left of her will at the centre of the thing she had become. Weeks passed without her encountering anyone. Then months.

Then, somewhere she couldn't name, she fell into a pit.

She was stopped. Immobile. And the devices reacted immediately.

But it was different this time. The forced stillness, the stimulation building at the edges — something in it reached past the numbness of years and touched something alive in her. Desire. Specific, urgent, hungry. She'd been walking so long she'd stopped being hungry for anything. And now —

She tried to sustain it. Let it rise. When it peaked, the shaft inside her delivered a precise electrical shock and the peak dissolved instantly.

“Mhm!” — Almost — let me —

She tried again. Shock.

Again. Shock.

The device knew exactly where she was. It would let her climb and climb and pull her back every single time, one step from the edge.

“Mhhm!” — Let me finish — just once — let me—

She lay in the pit and tried, over and over, and never got there.

By the time the trap's owner came to find what he'd caught, Soreia had made her decision.

The shame of the memory was still there — the three men, the degradation, the helplessness. She turned that memory over. Put it down. Picked it up again.

The desire was stronger.

She found people. It took some doing, navigating blind on tiptoe, but she learned to listen for settlements — voices, the sounds of habitation. The disguise enchantment in the tentacle suit translated everything: her sounds, her movements, her unhinged reaching and grinding would register to onlookers as something composed and human. Something to approach.

“Mmh~ mhm~ mhm~ ah~ ahh~ MHM~” — Yes~ yes yes yes right there yes faster faster FASTER yes yes I'm going to—

She rolled her hips. She felt the man beneath her — felt him going dry, nearly spent — and she ground down harder, forcing another response out of him. Her brassiere had been wrenched sideways. Both breasts had spilled free, black and heavy, swaying with every movement. Her prosthetic arms were pressed together above her in endless, mindless prayer.

She reached the edge.

No shock.

She crested, and the wave broke over her, and she made sounds she hadn't made in years — shaking, pulled through, released — and then she needed more.

She found more.

The man was drained of everything. She kept going.

He was gone by the time she was done. The transmission spell took her elsewhere before she could look for another.

“Mhm!” — Why — I wasn't finished —

That was how it went. She was taken before she wanted to stop. And each time she came back, her threshold was higher. One person wasn't enough. Two wasn't enough. She couldn't remember when she had last gotten there cleanly without fighting for it, and each denial sharpened the need further, until the need was the only clear thing left.

She had forgotten what she had been looking for.

She walked. She sought. She was taken and deposited elsewhere, and she walked again and sought again.

Centuries on.

The story spread across enough continents to become a legend.

If you see a nun — modest dress, eyes blindfolded, hands folded as though in prayer — turn around. Walk away. Don't approach, don't speak, don't touch. Her hunger has no bottom. She will drain you of everything you have and look for the next one before you've fallen.

No one who told the story knew what she actually was.

No one knew that underneath the exquisite, artful face — underneath the idiot's grin — underneath the tentacles and the sealing and the latex and the years and the walking — there was a soul. Still in there.

Still desperate. Still furious. Still waiting.

Still lost.