I float before her, the whispering currents of her lair like cold tongues on my skin. Ursula looms, her tentacles undulating in the dim, fetid water. My heart hammers in my ribcage, but my resolve is iron.

"Ready, little poppet?" her voice is a thrum of gravel and tar. "Your voice is a trinket. True power? That’s in the marrow. In your egg sacs. Your womb."

I can only nod, swallowing the acid fear in my throat.

Her chalk-white eyes fix on me. "Open wide."

Two wet, black, writhing tips approach my breasts. My areolae tighten into erect pebbles. The suction is not gentle—it’s a wet, rhythmic pull. My soft mounds are kneaded, squeezed between the cold pressure. Milk begins to flow, a thick, white stream that gushes into her slavering mouths. It feels like a relieving ache I never knew I had, a liquid pleasure-pain that makes me gasp.

"That's it. Nice tits," she purrs. "Now, for the good part."

Her huge body swirls around me. Something long, cool, and blessed slips between my legs. I feel its slick coil press into my wet slit. It’s not a cocks, it’s a tendril, root-like and unnerving. It enters me slowly, filling my cunt completely, traveling deeper until it bumps against my cervix. A ring of pressure, then a pop of resistance as it slips through.

I moan, a grotesque sound in the water.

"You hold my chosen seeds," she