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The dream began the same way every time: in twilight. She stood at the parapet upon the roof of the Schola Progenium’s cathedral. Before her, she could see the entire campus grounds. When she was a younger woman, raised from an orphan by the Ministorum, she had often fled here. Far from the Drill Abbots and Abbesses, the cruel jibes of her schoolmates, and the unending pressures that would one day forge her into a weapon in the Emperor’s service. This place was hers alone. In a way, this secluded spot on the roof was more sacred to her than the interior below, with all its gilt splendor.
The ancient red sun was breathing the last wheezing embers of daylight in the east, the air chilling enough to make her breath fog and force her to pull her robe’s cowl over her close-clipped hair. Though her haircut matched the Sororitas she would become, it was still the warm auburn colour of her birth parents. Strands of it dangled in her vision, and she smoothed them out behind her ear. One of the only things she had of her past that her younger self held on to. The rest of it had already been discarded, tossed as fuel to light the crucible by which she would be forged.
“Ysolt,” the voice said, using the name she chose when she officially joined the Order. The tone was feminine and sickly sweet, like syrup of arsenic. In that moment, the scene below froze, colour and detail draining from it into a monochrome blur. The first few times she saw the indistinct figure cloaked in bright, rainbow fire arise in the air before her, she had recoiled. Now it was old hat. Like a conjurer playing familiar favourites to a jaded audience, Ysolt watched the burning humanoid shape with weary detachment.
“I reject you, shade,” she stated, though it lacked the conviction of her previous encounters. At that realization, she steeled herself. Fingernails bit into her palms. Despite knowing how this all played out, that might be a part of this Neverborn’s game. To drain her resistance by repetition, to sap her resolve. “I am His sword, His shield in the night. In the name of the Emperor…I shall punish you!”
At once, her Schola robe vanished, replaced with the ceramite assurance of her power armour. Her hand flamer came to her hand in a flash, but her zeal flagged at the absurdity of lighting something already alight. Shouldn’t she use one of the other two sides of the Holy Trinity? The Melta. The Bolter.
“It matters not what you use,” the creature declared, as if reading her thoughts. “Your weapons are but a pale imitation. I burn with True Fire. With passion. With desire. You cannot harm me.” The weapon in Ysolt’s hand exploded, engulfing her in a cloud of promethium. But she remained unharmed. Only her protective vestments had burned, leaving her naked before it. And as it floated closer, she could feel a smothering heat. But not from the Beast, and not from her weapon’s destructive conflagration, but within her.
“My faith is true, beast. Inviolate. And you-”
“And you,” the Daemon hissed, pointing to the Thing between Ysolt’s legs, “Are already damned.”
She looked down. It was still there. The Taint of the Great Enemy. The horrible truth stitched into her flesh. Where her once chaste and feminine nethers had been perched an unholy thing. A profane mockery of a phallus, as red as the dying light of this world’s sun.
“I…I will find a way to remove it! You won’t win!”
The creature’s mocking laughter echoed off a thousand invisible walls. Its form gained detail as it sauntered forward, its hips swaying with every *click* of its heels as they stabbed into the roof of the cathedral, prodding on this most Holy Ground like it was a walk in a garden. Her scarred, pale arms coming not to hands but crustacean-like claws that looked sharp enough to slice through bone. Eyes like pits of black tar deep enough to drown in, gleaming with fell intent. She too sported a daemonic penis. An identical match, in fact. And as she stroked it with the side of one of her enormous claws, Ysolt felt the sensation transfer into her. Pouring into her body. Both cocks began to dribble fluid.
“You cannot deny my gift forever. Soon…soon, my tainted morsel, you will Be Mine.”
***
Ysolt shot out of bed, eyes leaping from one end of her cabin to the other in search of a threat. It took her several ragged breaths to remember that it had been a dream.
The same dream.
Another appearance by her daemonic tormentor. Another reminder of the profanity that her life had become. With a tremor in her hand, she pulled back the thin bedding to see if that shard of nightmare still stuck to her in the waking world. The infernal penis of her dream was real. It had been, ever since that night two weeks and three lifetimes ago. Every night since, the same dream. Every day, she woke to another fraction of an inch added to its already excessive size. The sickening organ twitched as she thought of it, and she could feel the sticky, damp spot in the fabric where its nocturnal release had stained and tainted her sheets.
She knew she should cut it out. If she was stronger, she would have. But the pain she felt when she tried was beyond anything she’d ever experienced, and the wound had healed in moments after she’d withdrawn the blade. What’s more…she had almost enjoyed the pain. No. That’s what that fallen creature wanted, her to indulge in its sickening excesses. Pain and pleasure were all the same to the Dark Prince. She would not fall under its sway!
She closed her eyes and focused. Focused on the aspects that gave her strength. Her faith. Her Sisters. Her cause. She was not of the rabble, or one of the hordes of the Imperial Guard who fled at the sight of the Great Enemy. She was Sororitas. A Sister of Battle. And so she prayed.
Her hand fell to the tattoo on her sternum. A blood red heart enveloped in golden eagle wings sat between her breasts. It was her Order’s icon, and a reminder of their vows. The doubts and worries fled her like shadows from a bonfire. The fear, the uncertainty — it was nothing. Flickers from the searing flame of her faith. Only through purity of devotion could absolution be earned. Only through faith did salvation rest. And with a final exhale, she let the nightmare go, banishing it into the night of space. Only she remained. Resolute. Indefatigable. Iron.
Ysolt lifted herself out of bed. The tainted flesh remained too, of course, yearning to be touched. But she would not heed its calls. Self-pleasure was an aspect of indolence, as she’d often been told and retold in the Schola, and was against His wishes. And despite her condition, she was still a faithful servant of the Emperor. Her morning must begin.
The glowglobes on the wall lit a spartan room. Far from the golden splendor of the Indigent Hammer’s chapels and shrines, her room held only what she needed it to. A trunk that held her worldly belongings, a rack for her weapons, and a stand on which her armour rested. She allowed herself the indulgence of a bed, but she requested the rest of the furniture to be stored elsewhere. She would not be needing it.
Donning her robes, freshly laundered by the squad’s Novitiates, she was forced to confront the realities of her body’s betrayal. Her cock, the word sounded profane even to think, was growing too large to be effectively hidden by her regular garments. In a manner of purest practicality, her mark of shame could no longer be easily concealed. She used a spare robe’s braided rope to tie it to her thigh, and wore her own garment as loosely as she could. In between deployments, she had several options with which to spend her time. Exercise was out, at least around others. The thought of it flopping out in front of everyone was abhorrent.
All those eyes…all those disapproving, judgmental eyes…all upon her exposed flesh. Men’s eyes, women’s eyes…the eyes of her Sisters…
She stopped. Her hand had begun to rub her shaft through her robe. As horrified as she was ashamed, she forced her fingers off of herself and straightened the fabric. Though not one that held to strict vows of chastity, the Order of the Valorous Heart was one of unblinking vigilance against the Enemies of Mankind. One could not become distracted by the kinds of amorous pursuits that others in the Imperium were allowed. Especially not with those within their own Order!
After all, Ysolt liked men…didn’t she?
It would have to be another day of study. The voidship she was deployed to, the Belligerent Truth, had an extensive library for those authorized to use it. The Rogue Trader they contracted to be their ferryman for this expedition had turned out to be quite the collector of esoteric knowledge. A cocksure aristocrat of a long line of Lord-Commanders, he had to have been confident of his unassailability, as she found several tomes that were worthy of the Inquisition’s attention within its claustrophobic shelves. But it looked like it had been decades since someone besides herself and the librarian servitors had ventured inside; mayhap he had simply forgotten what secrets the books offered? That was a matter for another day, however. Within those ancient books might lay a way to break the curse afflicting her before it was too late.
On Imperial maps, Perdition’s Shoals marks the boundary to the Vercingetorix Sub-Sector, but it rarely stays there. The Shoals are more of a cluster of anomalies that bend together the Immaterium and normal space in a chaotic maelstrom that isn’t logical, let alone chartable. Dozens of Imperial expeditions, led by parties as varied as they were foolish, have been dashed upon the rocks there, forming large chains of voidcraft melted by intent or accident. Many were dead craft, others teemed with life that had been bent and twisted by the ancient enemy of man. The taint of the Immaterium. Chaos.
She and this detachment of Order of the Valorous Heart had been assigned to purge the wicked from the various floating hulks that twisted in space. Hard, unglamorous work. Slowly, painfully, with bolter and chainsword, axe and fist, they cleared deck after deck. Creatures large and small, humanoid and eldritch, all fell to their indomitable faith.
But something had touched her during her last expedition. Not an injury to her body, like a round from a bolter might have left. But she’d felt a presence. It was as if an oily black hand had reached into her and plucked at her soul. At first, she’d dismissed it as another one of the Great Enemy’s deceits. She’d seen a litany of impossible blasphemies paraded before her, dismissing each without a second thought. But this…this taint, had not left her. It had coalesced over time, festering, manifesting into the bump of flesh upon her pubic bone. And that single, relentless nightmare, growing the lump until its shape, and origin, could not be denied.
Ysolt wished that she’d been called to a less demanding profession. One less likely to expose her to such embarrassing depravities as this. A quartermaster perhaps. A lifetime in the Administratum, pushing boxes around a warehouse and creating her own little tyrannical fief over the allocation of widgets and wire, bullets and bandages…it didn’t sound so bad, given her current situation.
But as she strode the halls toward the library, she watched the menials and soldiers alike scuttle and swerve around her. Tiny people. Motes. Her wish for an alternative life melted away. She could not be a woman of mediocrity. To live a dull, grey existence would have driven her to madness faster than any curse from the Ruinous Powers. She was always destined for great things. That is why, perhaps, she was tasked to bear this burden.
“It’s why I chose you,” a voice whispered in wet, breathy syllables into her ear. She nodded along before freezing in place, nearly causing someone walking behind her to crash into her back. She muttered apologies as she pretended to fumble with the laces on her boots. The voice. It was the beast from her dreams! It could speak to her in the waking world now?!
“Sister!”
Another voice, louder and deeper. This one was real, she was sure of it. She looked up to see the enormous form of Sister Pieta running towards her. An unpleasantly boisterous woman, she was nevertheless the most skilled Heavy Bolter wielder that Ysolt had ever fought besides. Outside her heavy armour she cut an imposing figure, her robes doing little to conceal her powerful upper arms and broad shoulders. Even without a weapon normally reserved for gun emplacements in her hands, she had an intimidating presence.
Ysolt thought again about the consequences if someone found out her secret, and kept her eyes lowered.
“Sister Pieta,” she said. “Can I help you?”
The other woman waved it off with an enormous hand. “Don’t be so formal, Izzy. We just missed you at choir, is all.”
Ysolt winced. That damnable nickname. “My studies have preoccupied me, my apologies.”
“Well, if you get a chance to lift your head from the books, come join us down next week! We’re singing The Exaltation of Saint Ollanius, I believe. Never fails to make me weep.” Something wafted to Ysolt’s nose. She recognized the scent immediately. Sex. Pieta reeked of it. Had she been masturbating? Did she need to?
Ysolt nodded acknowledgement, absently looking down the corridor as if she was late and was being held up. “I apologise, Sister Pieta, but I must be going.”
The large woman stepped out of the way, allowing her to pass. As Ysolt strode by, however, she felt a hand grip her shoulder.
“If you need help with anything, let me know, alright?” she asked. The words were innocent, but the unsolicited touch sent off a chain reaction. First anger, then confusion, then profound, unmitigated lust the likes of which Ysolt had never felt before. The strength in those fingers, the grip. A whole ocean of licentious images swept her away. In one moment she was face down, having her ass impaled by a golden phallus attached to Pieta’s hips made of a melted holy icon. In another, her hand was wrapped around a leash made out of prayer beads, which she yanked to force Pieta to refocus her tongue’s efforts.
The touch ended in a moment, but by then the damage was done. Fluid poured forth from her cock, leaking down her leg where it pooled against the robe. Ysolt nervously stammered something and rushed off, the damp stain growing with every step.
She found an alcove with which to take temporary shelter, far from any leering eyes or intrusive questions. She pressed her back to a cold, steel wall. Focusing on faith, redoubling her barriers.
“She’s so strong,” the voice in her head whispered again, “Don’t you just want to make her kneel?”
“Shut up, shut up!” Ysolt hissed, clamping her hands over her ears. The wet spot on her robe was obvious, even in dim light. She could smell it too. The cloying, intoxicating musk of sexual pleasure. Her ears first, now her nose. The Neverborn was capturing her senses one after the other like a void pirate, forcibly seizing control.
It didn’t make any sense. She’d never expressed sapphic desires before this! Her tastes had always been of the masculine variety. The strong jawline, the casual confident stride. But the more she tried to picture her old flames, visualize her old male crushes, their bodies melted like sugar in the rain. In their place: the soft. The yielding. The feminine.
And not just any woman. Ysolt knew the faces, the names of the people in her twisted imagination. She’d fought with them, even taken shrapnel for some. They were her fellow Sororitas, devoted with all their hearts to purity of faith and vigilance against the taint of the heretic. Which is why it would feel so good to corrupt them, one by one, and make them scream their faith away~
“NO!” Ysolt shouted, beating her hand against the bulkhead. It wasn’t her voice that was saying those things. It wasn’t! It was that damnable daemon, forcing her to think disgusting things. These are the same beings who damned The Great Betrayer Horus, who lead half the Emperor’s sons astray. How could she fight against such evil?
Prayer, for the moment at least, had failed her. The thought cut like a chainsword across her gut, and she chastised herself for thinking something so self-serving. The Emperor did not work at her beck and call; she was His servant! And if he had allowed her to be attacked like this, it must serve some greater purpose. It was up to her to find it, then. Perhaps, by defeating this evil, she would prove all those who doubted her wrong. She smiled at that. Oh, how she would love to hear her old Headmistress cry out for forgiveness. Beg for absolution. Moan for-
She screamed as her mind betrayed her again, halting another wave of lustful thoughts. She fell to her knees, whimpering as her strength flagged. It was too much! She could not proceed as if a miracle was inevitable. This curse had to be ended, one way or another, before the end of the day. There, shivering in silence, she wracked her mind for an answer.
Displaying her condition to just about anyone on the crew would lead to immediate immolation. The only exception, perhaps, was Sister Nikea, their resident Hospitaller. As she was trained in the arts of chirurgery as in matters of faith, her mind was more flexible than the others would be. And a joint application of psalm and salve was just about the only way she was likely to survive with body and mind intact.
With a plan in place, if one of desperation, she leapt off the floor and into motion. Ysolt was a woman of action above all, and even if this day she would meet her end, it would be by her own actions. First thing was first: she found a baptismal font that the local Tech-Priests used to wash sanctified parts of their engines. Not respecting their twisted cog-god one iota, she splashed the water on her robe to make it look like a sprung pipe had doused her robe. Not an impossible thing to encounter on a voidship, and sufficient to hide the extent of her accidental release. She could still smell it, but she told herself that that was just the daemon’s lies.
She kept to the menial corridors, away from any chance she might happen upon another one of her Sisters. She couldn’t bear the shame of it, nor could she take another accidental burst of pleasure like she’d experienced from Pieta’s touch. It meant that she did occasionally run into servitors, workers, and other crew who’d normally be hidden from sight. They looked upon her with a quiet, reverent awe. Like she was an incarnated saint. She did her best to ignore the feeling, but that kind of worship felt good to her. Felt…right.
Stumbling into the part of the medicae bay assigned for the Sororitas’ personal use, Ysolt breathed a sigh of relief. There was nobody else: no servants, no other patients. The only living being was the one in the cogitator bay, examining a wall of screens displaying magnified diagnostic images and humming a tune. A short woman and a few years older than many of the other Sisters on the ship, Nikea did not appear to be a fierce combatant. But her mind was as sharp as any scalpel, and she was as prepared to defend her charges as any good Sororitas. She wore her white hair pulled into a ponytail, but always managed to get a few loose strands to trail across her brow when she was flustered. Currently out of her carapace armour as she was not deployed in combat, she wore the black, white, and red habit of her Order, leaving much to the imagination. Something that Ysolt had in overabundance.
Here it was, the moment of truth. She cleared her throat and tried to look presentable.
“Hospitaller Nikea?”
The chirurgeon looked over from her work, clearly not even hearing the other woman enter. “Oh! Ysolt! My apologies, I was lost in my work again. Please, sit down and disrobe. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Ysolt stiffened in place, unable to move. So soon, without preamble or excuse? No, this had been a mistake. She had to leave, she had to find a way to pray-
*Sit Down, Izzy.*
Ysolt sat down on one of the examination benches. It was like a moment in time had vanished. Between the ticks of a chronometre she’d gone from the doorway to the middle of the bay, sitting herself down. Her hands, clasping the two halves of her robe, stopped just before it slid past her breasts. How much power did this creature truly have over her now?
“There’s no need to be shy,” the older woman said, her tone equal parts matronly and dismissive. “There’s nothing you’ve got that I haven’t seen before.”
“Can’t imagine that’s true,” Ysolt muttered to herself. She waited for Nikea to approach with a dataslate before she began her explanation, not wanting to drag out this awkwardness any longer. “While on deployment, I incurred an injury. I thought it was nothing, mere shrapnel piercing my armour. I dealt with it on my own. But the after effects…there has been some…mutation.” She tried to infer that this was a purely mundane gene-twisting of some kind. Not an impossible idea, though ludicrous when paired with the mental effects she was experiencing.
“Well I can’t very well treat the issue if I can’t see it,” Nikea said, motioning for the woman to completely disrobe. When Ysolt still hesitated, she put down the slate and looked the troubled Sister in the eye. “Any medical issue you have will be kept in the strictest confidence. I am here to heal, not to judge.”
Ysolt nodded. With a tremor to her fingers, she pulled back her robe to show her partially nude body. Or rather, her bra, her panties, and the rope that held her enormous, Warp-tainted cock in check. She waited for a scream, or a call for reinforcements, or even an accusation of blasphemy. But instead…the other woman just…laughed. At first a titter, then a chuckle, then a full on guffaw.
“I don’t see what’s so funny about this,” Ysolt snapped, quickly pulling her robe shut again. But the Hospitaller shook her head.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to be rude. But this is truly a potent case of irradiative alteration! I can think of some of the rowdier members of my Order who would be very interested in this particular case. I had no idea you were crossborn. Didn’t show up in my records.”
Ysolt opened her mouth to correct her…but stopped. Her self-image had always matched her birth sex, and before the incident, she had a perfectly normal set of feminine genitals. But there were plenty of Sisters in their ranks who had not begun life as women. In this case, their existence provided a plausible cover. What the chirurgeon saw was not a spontaneously grown penis, but an engorged and mutated one. A medical issue, nothing more.
“It’s not something I advertise. I assure you, I am in peak physical fitness besides this…setback.” She motioned to the general area of her cock, which Nikea wasted no time in untying. It sprung up of its own accord, almost painfully erect at the slightest touch. She felt visible relief at it being freed, something the other woman obviously noticed. Before she could apologise or explain, Nikea cut her off.
“There’s no shame in it. Again, I am not a backwater Twist-Catcher looking to condemn someone with a third arm to the kill-pits. I am a medicae first and foremost. The Hospitaller Oath specifically says ‘First, do no harm save to the Enemies of Mankind’, and I intend to follow it until my dying day.”
“Good thing you’re not one of those,” the voice in her head dripped into her ear, “Or else you might be in real danger~”
Ysolt did her best to stay perfectly still while the chirurgeon inspected her “mutation”. First with her eye, then with some manner of diagnostic implement that looked like an auspex with a little scope on top. Then, without further preamble or asking permission, she slid on a pair of translucent gloves and began to touch. It wasn’t the warmth of bare skin, and the way she was moving made it clear that these were the ministrations of a physician, not a lover. But the sheer placement of another’s fingers made her knees feel like jelly. She babbled some incoherent warning, but before she could turn the noises in her throat into words, the unthinkable happened.
She came.
White hot seed splashed directly into Sister Nikea’s face, catching her completely off guard. She opened her mouth, perhaps to laugh again or gasp in surprise, and a second jet splashed her tongue. She coughed at the sudden intrusion, pulling back as the remainder of the pathetic climax gushed onto the sterile silver flooring.
“Faith Preserve, I am so sorry!” she said as the heat left her body. Momentary clarity flooded back, and the sheer depravity of the last hour all washed in at once. How could she be so disgusting? So perverted? Worst of all, her tainted phallus seemed to have grown. It was difficult to tell, as it was deflating after its shameful release. But she thought that it extended slightly farther beyond the edge of the bed than it had before.
The gentle laughter returned, though with a touch of startled confusion. “I’ll take it as a compliment,” she said, wiping the excess off of her face with a towel before disposing of it promptly into a medical waste bin. A very quiet part of Ysolt was a little disappointed at that, but she couldn’t for the life of her say why.
“I apologize nevertheless. I am unaccustomed to physical contact….after such a long period of deployment.” Ysolt tried to focus on non-erotic matters, but the erection did not wane for long. This close to an attractive woman, her urges flared up. Her enhanced sense of smell alerted her to every hint of the chirurgeon’s body. Her mind filled with scandalous thoughts.
Nikea nodded absently, her focus seemingly not on Ysolt’s stammered explanations. “Well, we can discuss the medical benefits of occasional sexual activity at a later date. But for now, let’s assess a treatment plan.” Sister Nikea picked up the scanner once more and plucked away at the slate controls on the side. “It appears that it has gained 0.34 inches after that release. Very interesting.”
“It grows on its own, too!” Ysolt added hastily. She didn’t want Nikea to think she was just sitting around, masturbating herself all day. That would be disgusting! Depraved!
“I see. Well, from my initial tests, I believe this to be a kind of nascent heterostatic vicissitude.”
Ysolt frowned. “In Low Gothic, if you please.”
The chirugeon took a moment to collect her thoughts. As she did, however, her gaze never left the thick shaft between her patient’s legs. “A rare diagnosis, often seen in deep mining worlds. Radiative elements are absorbed and cause a kind of slow growing mutantism, hijacking natural body processes to stimulate growth along a body plan, rather than typical tumour-like formations. Essentially, your body is tricked into growing itself beyond its normal size. This can last for several weeks, if not months.”
That sounded like it made sense. But then again, Ysolt knew it wasn’t the truth. And by the look in Nikea’s eyes, the other woman wasn’t operating with her full focus on the problem. Her hand fidgeted at her side, and she was visibly swallowing, as if overproducing saliva. A dark thought reached her…could her seed have some kind of corruptive effect on someone else?
“Of course it does,” the daemonic voice in her mind said. The contempt dripped off her words like an envenomed blade. “Unlike your Corpse God, my Prince is not a jealous tyrant. I want you to share my gift with everyone. All of your Sisters are so sad, so angry. They need to be shown how much fun their pitiful lives can be when they yield to their basest urges…like you will~”
“What treatment do you prescribe?” Ysolt said, a little louder than she intended. The added volume snapped Nikea’s attention back up, but only momentarily.
“Well, with initial cases, a full regime of harsh antirad medications like Salt of Triiodide or Mordian White is the solution, or at least the way to keep the mutation from progressing. But with this advanced case, I believe we should precipitate out its final form. Only then can we treat it.”
Ysolt’s eyes bulged. She wanted to make the changes happen faster? Had she lost control of her faculties?! But before she could object, Nikea’s hand found its way to her shaft once more. This time without glove between them. Her sensitivity had only increased in the moments since her last eruption. She could feel every bit of the chirurgeon’s graceful touch. Her objection melted into a moan that wouldn’t have been out of place coming from a bawdyhouse.
“Sister, I…” Ysolt’s heart raced as the medicae’s hand wrapped around her length, followed by a second. Nikea’s demeanour at least pretended at some level of dispassion, and she noted with detached interest as the precum began to flow freely onto the floor.
“I should get a sample,” she said, and stopped for as long as necessary to grab a phial. A darkness grasped Ysolt’s heart. No. Not in a cold, empty glass tube. Her seed belonged inside someone. Painting their face. Their chests. It was a sacrament. An anointing oil. She wanted to see Saint and Sinner alike bathed in her tainted fluids.
“I need more stimulation,” Ysolt said.
“I’m going as fast as I dare,” the medicae explained through a hasty laugh, though Nikea chuckles had turned more nervous than stress relieving.
Ysolt slowly shook her head. “No. I need inspiration. Show Me Your Body.” The last words had been in a voice not her own, but one she recognised all too well. The Demon. It had spoken through her. Used her mouth to say its words. As she realized this, the Sororitas hoped that this might break the spell between them. That the audible proof that this was no mere medical condition would snap them back to the purity of faith.
But it was not to be. Instead, Nikea obeyed. As the tainted Sister watched, her last chance at being free from this curse slid her coat and vestments to the floor. There was some hesitation as she worked the hooks on her brassiere, but the woman’s talented fingers succeeded. Her breasts were freed from their prison, allowing Ysolt to see an immaculately formed pair of breasts. More than what one could grab in one hand, they put her own to shame.
“Is…is this sufficient?” Nikea asked.
“Yes,” Ysolt nodded. The stroking returned, but both of them had forgotten the sample container. In another furious rush of passion, she came again. Pleasure redoubled, arcing through her body until it settled in her head, where it spiked and concentrated into two tiny pinpricks of sunlight. Ysolt cried out, her head lolling back as thick bolts of cream glazed the medicae’s ample chest. Nikea looked startled, but made no move to arrest the act. Instead, she milked Ysolt to completion, letting the last of the orgasm spill onto her flesh.
When the blinding joy had faded, the part of Ysolt who still wanted a cure was relieved to see that her cock had not increased in size! Instead, a pressure at her forehead made her aware that something had grown from her in that spike of pain that she had thought was pleasure. She reached up to touch them…sliding her sensitive fingers along a pair of diminutive horns.
“I should…I should get another towel,” Nikea said, looking around in a daze as the seed slid down her curves.
“No. It Belongs There,” Ysolt stated, as if it was a fact as plain as day. The Medicae nodded again. Her hands hovered over her breasts, as if unsure what to do with them now. The Sister of Battle helped her. “Rub it into your flesh. Let it soak into you.” And she did. The words that Ysolt spoke made things happen. Made other people act in the way she wanted. It was incredible! With this power, she could do anything she wanted…
The Creature from her dreams appeared behind Nikea. She slid one of her deadly claws through the hair of the Hospitaller like it was the softest of brushes.
“Isn’t that all you wanted, really? Power? Freedom? Two things the Order and your misdirected faith have denied you.”
Ysolt shook her head. “No…that’s not…I am a faithful member of the Adepta Sororitas!” Her voice was her own again. She gripped the blazing heart tattoo on her chest once more, focusing all her faith in a last effort to break free. There was still power there. An ember left to kindle. She could feel the invisible fetters on her soul quake and rattle.
But the Daemonette displayed no fear. She grinned with a mouth too full of pointed teeth. The inky blackness of the void that veiled her eyes engulfed Nikea’s own, and the Chirurgeon moved like a puppet to her knees. With feral glee she wrapped her mouth around Ysolt’s throbbing head and tasted again of her corrupting nectar.
“Look at how easily this one has given herself to you. Your greatness cannot be denied, even by you.”
“I am but one of many!” Ysolt countered, but the words were hollow. That wasn’t true. That was never true. She was always better than others. Even the Schola had known that. Top of her classes. Resented by her peers for how easily subjects like tactics and arithmetic came to her without study. Gifted, they’d said. Blessed.
Her cock leaked into the eager mouth and throat of the medicae. Whatever attempted treatment this had been was forgotten. Cast aside as the flimsy pretense it always was. Something was turning inside her. Breaking. Or becoming free? Her hand slipped onto Nikea’s head, pulling her down, impaling her deeper upon her enormous shaft.
The next two orgasms flowed into one seamless river of pleasure. Like easing into a warm bath after a long night in the cold. Semen flowed into her partner unhindered by gag or even the need to breathe. Both of them were changing. Becoming. The keratin nubs that had erupted from her skull blossomed into long, curling horns not unlike those of a rutting ram. Her feet twisted into crude stubs that shifted into cloven hooves. All the hair from her body fell away, save for a shock of brilliant crimson upon her head. It felt good to have that colour back again. It felt like she’d never left it behind.
Nikea’s body was changing too. The impossible amount of cream she’d imbibed had been pumped directly into her stomach, swelling it. Making it look like she was several months pregnant already. Her breasts had grown half again their original size while maintaining their shape and heft. Drips formed upon her thickened, dark nipples that quickly turned to drooling, then gushing streams of perfect white milk that made Ysolt’s mouth water. Something told her, however, that it would suppress her lust for control. Make her submissive and pliant.
“And that’s not who you are, is it?” the Daemonette asked.
“No.”
“You’re a dominant woman. You’re in control.”
The Sororitas nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly. She Was the dominant one! She Was in control! She pulled her cock back, much to the whimpered cries of the chirurgeon. Ysolt, with more devious delight, pushed the woman’s leaky breast up like an inflated waterskin to her open mouth.
“Drink,” she commanded, and Nikea obeyed. She suckled upon her own breast, eyes crossing with perverse delight. The milk would not only make her docile, but it would also enhance her body. Fatten her. Make her curves blossom. She was already gorgeous, but she needed to be something more. A Goddess. A living Avatar of Fertility. Ysolt needed a vessel for her perfect seed.
At this point, Ysolt couldn’t tell which thoughts were her own and which were the Other’s. The orgasmic haze made it so hard to think, but no matter how much she came, she still wanted more. Feeling trapped in a self-perpetuating cycle, she grasped at the tattoo on her chest once more. But it was gone. No, it had moved. Her fingers traced a path of ink to where the heart had fallen: her lower belly. There, upon where her womb ought to be, it had come to rest. But it was not idle for long. As she watched with dull amazement, the icon of her faith sprouted a dozen purple tentacles. The wings shriveled and fell away, and the heart turned the same scarlet as her hair. Iridescent and impure. Not the colour of sacred blood, but the carmine of unnatural pleasures. The scarlet of a Red Light District’s clarion call.
“My…my faith has abandoned me…” Ysolt said, her hand pressing the tattoo above her cock to make sure it was real and not just another illusion.
“But you’ve gained so much more. As you are a vessel for a fraction of my essence, so must you make the others. Every Sister, then everyone else on this ship. Fill Them. Corrupt Them. You will be their leader. Their saviour. Their downfall~”
Nikea stood and climbed onto the examination bed opposite Ysolt. There she let her voluptuous form spill out, her legs spread, leaking her obvious desire to be filled onto the fabric.
“Please Ysolt. Mistress…Take me!” she cried, one hand shoved between her thighs and the other pressing her other breast to her mouth.
Ysolt stood. Her legs were wobbly, unused to walking on hooves instead of feet. But that would come in time. She wouldn’t need to walk far for what she had in mind. With each step towards her destiny, her old life melted away. She thought to the sad, lonely creature she had been when the day had begun. The one who had pleaded like an orphan on the streets of a Hive for her God-Emperor to save her, when in reality, she didn’t need saving. This body was a gift! One she didn’t intend to squander.
Even with her cock’s prodigious size, she slid into Nikea’s pussy easily. The woman’s form had been molded to fit her. What was flesh but another canvas on which to write one’s greatness?
The Daemonette had disappeared, the colour returning to Nikea’s eyes. There was a moment, just a fraction of a second, where the chirurgeon returned to the forefront and the sheer magnitude of their mutual corruption became clear. But soon the gasps of shock and horror became mewls of pleasure. As they would be forever.
Flesh met flesh as they fucked with wild abandon, Ysolt leaning over to press her mouth to Nikea and taste her own cum on the other woman’s tongue. Pretensions of heterosexuality had failed as quickly as her faith, and she couldn’t think of any reason why she should deny exulting in the beauty of the feminine form.
Of course, there was one thing she would not experience directly, but she would joyfully bestow upon her fellow Sisters of Battle: the bliss of carrying child.
“Tell me, Sister Nikea of the Order Hospitaller: where do you want me to empty my seed?”
Nikea mewled pathetically, but managed to come up with a few syllables. “Ngh…in…inside me…”
Ysolt was not impressed. “I’ll need more than that from my first vessel, my sweet morsel.”
“Fuck…alright…please, I beg of you, cum inside me!”
Ysolt hovered a hand over the other woman’s stomach. Inside, she could feel her body’s transformation in progress. A tainted fertility beyond what should be possible. Her whole body yearned to be used. To be a receptacle. To be bred.
“Say it. Say what you Really want.”
Nikea panicked, her addled mind groping for the right combination of words. But it was so obvious, so simple. When she’d found the answer, she beamed with a rapturous pride.
“Breed me, Mistress. Breed me! Fill me and make me yours!”
That was enough. Ysolt’s breath caught as she felt like her old life was bursting out of her, turning at once to thick, corrupting seed before spurting forth into Nikea’s waiting body. A new tattoo, equal in size and shape but opposite in purpose, sprouted forth upon the medicae’s belly. While Ysolt was a firm declaration of her new, corrupted existence, Nikea’s was a brand. A mark of ownership permanently declaring that she was Owned.
In that ecstatic instant, watching the icon flare into existence as gush after gush of thick spunk filled her first disciple, she knew this had been the right decision. There was no fear. No anxiety. Only the pleasure remained. It felt like she was being touched by something greater than herself. Graced with the brush of a fingertip of an entity of pure, atavistic desire.
She became something else then. Something greater than Ysolt. Something more substantive. Both in reality and beyond, through the Veil and beneath. She was becoming…she wasn’t sure what. But it felt Glorious.
The orgasm lasted for eons, or so it felt. When she returned, there was no question that the Hospitaller had been successfully bred. No contraceptive shot could prevent this. This was fate.
“What happens now?” Nikea asked in the afterglow, absently rubbing her belly.
The creature that had once been Ysolt grinned, her mouth filled with too many razor sharp teeth. There were so many members of their Order she wanted to induct into her new way of thinking, of being. But she knew where to start.
“I believe Sister Pieta ought to receive a full physical in the near future, don’t you? She’s the strongest, but she has the voice of an angel. Oh, how I’ll love to hear the noises she’ll make for me~”