A slight movement of air, coupled with strange sounds and smells, jolted my drugged mind back to reality. I struggled to understand my surroundings, what had happened, and what was currently unfolding. Slowly opening my eyes, I detected nothing overtly dangerous; on the contrary, my senses registered nothing alarming.
I, Mimi Salvatore, an alpha female recovering from one of the worst experiences of my life. However, this was unacceptable. My mind, still foggy, struggled to process the scene: it appeared the men had lost control. Stark naked and strapped to a rack in an X shape—arms overhead, legs spread—I was far from alone. Many others were there, far more than I could count at first glance.
I saw Mariella, Mimosa, Shadow, Elena, Katherine, and several more—four of my girls, along with Mariella's daughters and others. A quick count revealed at least thirty women. Given the pervasive smell of sex and lust, it seemed these women were about to be forced to have sex. My mind, still muddled by drugs, couldn't process a coherent explanation. I tried to move my muscles, but the tight restraints and the lingering effects of various drugs hindered my efforts; I didn't even want to try to name them.
Although the men involved were our husbands, and this wasn't strictly sexual assault in the traditional sense, it felt more like a forced attempt to break down our trauma. Six of us—myself included—were still unable to tolerate any kind of physical contact, let alone sex. It wasn't rape, exactly, but a brutal method to try to restore some semblance of normalcy.
Mariella stirred with a groan, her voice hoarse. My own throat felt similarly sore—they'd paralyzed our vocal cords. It was clear they intended to enact some bizarre sex fantasy without our objections. Mariella struggled against her bonds as she awoke, and I realized I couldn't access the hive or contact her telepathically. Frustration didn't even register; I felt utterly hollow.
This, I knew, was my new reality. I recalled the general's explanation: the rage blocker altered my genes, eliminating my rage response—perhaps permanently. Gene therapy from my female companions, who also possessed modified rage genes (partially merged with Salvatore's), might offer a solution, but it wasn't guaranteed. I was meek and powerless, a far cry from my former self. The males clearly expected my rage to somehow resurface—a miracle that wouldn't happen. Instead, I felt only more hollow and incapacitated.
A door opened, and twenty-four men entered, Damon leading the way, flanked by two others. Number two and four.
"I hope this batch is suitable," he announced haughtily. "I need to unload, and I need it now. That business trip drained me."
His tone was sharp and irritable. He was accompanied by four obese women in vinyl dresses and shapewear, one of whom he called Jojo. They were bimbos, and shapewear was needed to get them in those dresses. The unexpected sight triggered old memories, leaving me wondering about their presence. Was this some way to get me pissed or what?
"We have thirty specimens," Number Two said. "Shall we examine them individually?"
Damon impatiently waved a hand. "No. Let's survey the whole group, then examine them one by one."
He began to walk as we were arranged in six rows of five, with me at the end.
I heard Number One comment, followed by a sharp slapping sound. He held a flogger, using it to swat the women—some of Mariella's girls, almost ripe and begging, while mine glared. I was not in the mood; I wanted to leave. Perhaps this would be a fun game someday, but not now.
Too many memories and unresolved trauma surfaced. He was cruel to those women, his slaps causing visible pain. He belittled them, treating them as stupid and slow. It felt like payback of some sort, though I didn't understand his motive or plan. I wasn't interested, not now, not ever. However, I had no choice but to wait for an opportunity to act or make these fools understand this was wrong.
My programming kicked in—I would sabotage any help offered. Hard titanium shackles dug into my wrists and ankles, drugs were silencing me. I could only listen as Number One spoke about the women; Mimosa and Shadow received praise for their perfect bodies, while Katherine and Elena were seen as almost virginal. Mariella was praised, but Damon swatted her behind with the flogger, making her gasp—from surprise or pain, I wasn't sure.
He then saw me. "Oh, this one's cute; tiny and perfectly proportioned, a few scars add character. A little Tinkerbell, aren't ya?"
I glared, trying unsuccessfully to speak.
His condescending voice assured me it was useless. "You see, tiny, I prefer my women silent and compliant. No need to hear your opinions. I'm in charge here, and worry not, Daddy's not going to forget you, sweet cheeks."
He was irritating, but I felt no real irritation; the drugs muddied my mind. I could only manage a roll of my eyes. He returned to the beginning and started going through us one by one.
Now he was getting creative. Each woman received a diagnosis and an involuntary hold order, just as that damn shithead had done. This made the situation feel even more disgusting; he had drugs, a clipboard, and those damn animal-grade drugs. A couple of memories tried to breach my mental defenses—not good.
He diagnosed one of my daughters with "severe alpha syndrome needing immediate corrective treatment," classifying her as GIS, a genetically important subject, a breeder. The mere thought of "breeder" nearly nauseated me, but I was too disoriented to react normally. He then rattled off drugs—tiletamine, detomidine chaser—keeping her Glasgow Coma Scale score below ten until she adapted to her new life as a breeder, no longer a snarling alleycat. Other men were equally eager.
Even more disturbing, we all lactated. Men eagerly latched onto whomever Damon permitted. As they reached Mariella, she seemed almost resigned; it wouldn't be too bad for her, as she had always enjoyed being nursed before.
Still, she would receive an initial cocktail of etorphine, ketamine, and medetomidine. She was also GIS, but also BDS—a breeding domination subject. He licked his lips, twisting her nipples until they protruded. A bead of milk emerging. Damon latched onto her himself, preventing others from drinking her milk as he reveled in it.
I tried to distract myself by examining the room. I had no idea where I was, what house this was; the smell of lust was overwhelming, and nothing was familiar. The walls were red brick, with some exposed masonry; the concrete floor felt like a basement, yet the room was surprisingly warm. Even naked, my hypermetabolism prevented me from feeling overly cold.
The men wore mostly t-shirts and leather pants. Wulfe wasn't concerned about me or trying to stop this; in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. He explained how he'd created a potion that channeled our powers into our milk, a concoction tweaked for each person, starting mildly and increasing as tolerance grew, allowing men to gain more power from our milk as needed. I wasn't keen on that and hoped it would all end soon, as surely the men would notice this wasn't sustainable.
Number Four's voice was crisp as he read Mariella's assessment aloud: "Subject is a multi-morphing vampire chimeric hybrid with modified alpha power and magic in her veins; excellence in energy manipulation makes her an energy witch. She is currently chemically subdued and lactating; her power seeps into her milk at approximately two parts per million."
Number One listened, his hands all over Mariella's body. She clearly resisted, but was helpless. The assessment continued, detailing Mariella's fighting prowess and snarky comments. It noted her primary energy source was lust, but now it was a complex mix of lust, justice, and revenge, not simply lust or sex. This made Number One smirk.
He muttered, "Oh, sweet cheeks, that won't do. This body is gorgeous; you're the most amazing creature I've ever seen, and you'll be mine soon enough, begging for release. And I will grant it, once we've properly tuned your lust."
The bimbos, jealous, vied for Damon's attention, eager for his berating slaps, his insults—whores, cows, and so on—all met with giggles and smiles. Their brainlessness was either genuine or forced. Still drugged, I struggled to make sense of it all, desperate to stop the madness before things spiraled further.
Drugs hadn't yet been administered; the team was preparing them. Colin, Adam, and Charles cannulated each of us. I couldn't grasp it fully, but I was sure a time would come when these men would see their mistakes and end this farce. The bimbos continued their tittering. Though not angry, something compelled me to speak.
Looking at Jojo, I asked, "Still hoping he'll kiss and lick every inch of your body and take you to Hawaii for months?"
Mariella, her voice hoarse and barely audible, whispered, "Really? He did that?"
I nodded, my own voice rough. "Right after I died and recovered. Jojo was more important to him than I was."
Mariella glared at Damon. Jojo paled as Damon backhanded her, reminding her of her place. He then smirked at me. They had got Mariella's diagnosis: involuntary lust witch, needing cock and lusting after tits that begged to be suckled. It was couched in clinical terms, but that was the gist of it.
After Mariella was violated—groped, caressed, and her breasts emptied—Damon, primarily, and then Numbers Two and Ten, had their way with her. He'd instructed them to forgo gentleness; pain, he'd said, would heighten her experience.
Damon then approached me, appraising me from head to toe as if I were a sex object. Normally, such an overtly seductive gaze would have aroused me, but this time it felt awkward, a performance. My body wasn't alluring enough to genuinely excite anyone.
I was unaware of the mental programming; therefore, I couldn't block it. Men at the hospital had discovered small devices in our ears, indicating some form of programming. Damon and the others hadn't found any yet, as it was deeply ingrained. This therapy was meant to surface these programmed thoughts, but it would be a long, difficult process for both men and women.
As Number Four began his report, Damon watched me. "Subject is a multimorphic chimera, triple alpha, vampire queen, and a pain in the ass," he stated. "Immortal, unkillable—though she can die and revives. Estimated age: 200 years or more. No human DNA, though she's been human in the past. This is the result of some past experiment."
Number One hummed, fondling my breasts and sensing milk inside them.
Number Four continued, "She's resistant to human drugs, but large animal sedatives work. She's a dental vampire with a separate vampire side, approximately 30 primary forms, but can take any shape she can conceive, provided it's functionally possible."
I rolled my eyes. Fine, let's play along. I hissed and snarled, but I couldn't break free.
Damon condescendingly said, "Don't bother; those are titanium-infused magic bonds, and we know our job. You're so tiny."
He continued caressing me as Number Four checked my vitals—or what should be my vitals, along with my several new spleens; it seemed I'd grown another crop.
Number 4 noted my dragon scales as well, and Damon caressed them. They were as sensitive as they had been, but it did not bring pleasure to me, not this time.
Damon declared, "Involuntary hold on this one. She'll be housed in my quarters. I have plans for her. Oh, buttercup, we'll correct that attitude in time. Soon you'll purr for your daddy like a good little kitten. Reason being: alpha needing mate, little bitch not knowing her place. Clinically, defiance disorder with unstable mutation. She's a danger to herself and others and needs medical treatment because of her excess organs. Since she's lactating, nutritional support is also needed."
This earned me another hiss. My eyes flashed; I wasn't in the mood for Daddy's games or being his little slave, not right now. He was amused by my defiance. I wasn't truly angry, but I tried to make it clear I didn't want this.
He pulled my nipples, as number 4 was stating, "Her milk is the strongest—less than one part per million—and yet it floored Magnum when tested."
Damon gestured to numbers nine and ten, saying, "Raise Tinkerbell; she's so tiny, and I don't bow down."
The rack raised my breasts to a proper distance or him to nurse, lifting me higher. Damon said nothing as he latched onto my nipple and suckled with strong pulls.
He withdrew, cursing, "Damn, I see fractal patterns! Oh wow, this is some juice!"
He latched on again, gesturing for number two to latch on as well. I could feel his greedy lips on my nipple, though neither man could drink that much—but hey, there were twenty-four of them. Within a minute or so, numbers nine and ten latched on, and a minute or two later, they pulled off. Wulfe and Charles were next, smiling at each other as if in competition to drink the most.
I hissed as much as I could. Number one stepped up, took a silver syringe, and further paralyzed my vocal cords. It took time to empty my breasts, but eventually, all twenty-four of them, including Colin, were nearly drunk on my powers. Dresden hummed, Constantine swore my milk was better than any booze, and number one took a few more sips, causing him to hallucinate equations or something else.
As they finally got the drugs ready, it was time to hook the bags up. This time, I was first. I was trying to keep my eyes open and my mind awake, but as number 4 adjusted to the drip, my vision blurred. I could see someone being brought to the exam table. Someone was handling her.
I was almost passing out, my eyes closed, and then snapped open briefly. At one point, I saw mimosa on the table, drugged and barely awake, as Salvatore was eating her pussy out. Her body jerked, even though she was out of it. I could smell her arousal. Her body was aroused, but at some point, she passed out. However, that did not stop the men.
Someone, maybe one of Mariella's daughters, begged for mercy. I felt someone taking me too, and then darkness enveloped me. This time, my eyes stayed shut as my mind plunged into darkness and remained there.