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Soft Things

The obsidian pool threw back a reflection that made Connie wince, a disaster zone where her once-proud white coat used to be. That fur, the same fur that had girls in the dorms shooting jealous glances, now hung in sad, sticky clumps against her skin. Cave slime caked between the strands, mixed with darker streaks that stung her nostrils with a burnt-sugar, battery-acid tang. Tiny crystal shards from the blast still caught the light, embedded like micro-daggers throughout. She leaned closer to the still surface of the water, her breath hitching as she took in the damage.

Her rabbit ears lay flat and defeated against her head, the left one jumping with that damn nervous twitch she could never shake when shit hit the fan. Each movement cost her, like gravity had doubled down just for her, the filth, the failure, the stubborn defiance all weighing her down. Her knees shook as she balanced over the water, locking eyes with herself. Those amber irises had changed, darkened to the color of pennies left in fire. The feeling crawling up her throat wasn't the self-loathing she was used to. It was rage, pure and simple. Rage at a world that had written her off. Rage at herself for giving them the chance.

Her top was gone, completely dissolved when the acid slime splattered across her back three chambers ago. The memory flashed in vivid detail. The hiss of corrosion eating away at fabric. The sharp sizzle as it met her fur underneath. She’d yelped then, a sound that echoed through the darkened caverns like a cry of prey caught unprepared. Now all that remained was a chest wrap that dug painfully into her ribs, tight enough to make breathing feel like a chore. It barely managed to restrain her curves, offering little more than modesty’s ghost while leaving her feeling vulnerable and exposed. Her skirt fared no better. What was left clung desperately to her hips, hanging on by sheer will alone. Tattered edges fluttered faintly as she shifted her weight, revealing flashes of curves beneath that would have had city guards hauling her off for indecency before anyone even noticed she didn’t belong there.

“Soft,” she muttered under her breath, her voice warped by the damp acoustics of the cave walls. The word lingered for a moment before dissolving into silence, but it was never just hers. It belonged to the instructors at the Academy, to the students who whispered when she passed or smiled with that same condescending pity. Too soft. Her fingers curled into fists as the memories surfaced, sharp and unwelcome.

“Connie can’t handle combat,” she mimicked in a thin, mocking falsetto that was not quite accurate but close enough to sting. “She’s healer-class. Keep her in support roles where she can’t hurt herself.” The words still tasted foul on her tongue, echoing with every rejection she had endured. She could see their faces clearly. Headmaster Orin shaking his grizzled head in disappointment. Instructor Velna sighing as though Connie’s very existence were an inconvenience. Even her classmates offering those gentle, apologetic smiles that made rage coil hot and tight in her chest.

“Pathetic,” she growled, swiping at the surface of the pool as if smearing away their reflections might erase them from her mind.

But no amount of water or cave scum could wash away what they had already decided she was the moment they looked at her. Not just a body, but a role already assigned. A healer. A rabbit. A herbivore meant to mend instead of break. Too kind. Too patient. Too willing to listen instead of argue. She spoke softly, avoided confrontation, and reached for salves and sutures where others reached for blades. To them, that gentleness translated neatly into weakness. Soft hands meant soft resolve. A pink bubble meant to float behind the real fighters and pop the moment things turned ugly. She hated it, hated how easily they reduced her to something harmless, something decorative, something safe to underestimate.

“You’re not built for dungeons,” they had said. “Leave that to real adventurers.” She could still hear Headmaster Orin’s gravelly voice lecturing over tea-stained parchment maps during Basic Strategy lessons, telling her the Slime Caves were no place for support classes like her, smiling as though he believed he was being kind. But kindness was just another cage disguised as care.

Her paws dug into the damp stone as frustration surged again, hotter now without anyone nearby to shush her or explain what she was not allowed to do. “No place for me?” she muttered through clenched teeth, and her reflection offered no answer, only staring back with those same defiant eyes. Her tail twitched sharply as memories crowded in, fighters stumbling through sparring sessions and still earning combat slots while she was shuffled back to potion benches and cramped classrooms that smelled of sulfur and mint. Every “you’re too valuable to risk” had been tossed her way like a scrap meant to placate instead of nourish ambition.

Well. Fuck them.

The warnings plastered all over campus about how dangerous these caves were hadn’t stopped her. Nor had the checkpoint guards stationed outside who barely glanced up from their rune-carved clipboards long enough to notice one determined rabbit slipping through shadows where their torches didn’t reach.

“Don’t strain yourself, softie,” she mocked again under her breath as she rose shakily to stand upright once more. Her legs wobbled but held firm despite everything screaming at them otherwise.

A sharp laugh escaped unbidden from somewhere deep within, a sound tinged equally with triumph and madness, and bounced off cavern walls like shrapnel ricocheting wildly.

“Not built for dungeons?” she said aloud this time, no longer muttering, but speaking directly into the darkness ahead where more chambers waited like silent challenges yet unmet. She grinned despite herself, because gods help anyone, or anything, that thought softness meant weakness tonight.

[CHECK: Stealth | Roll 17 | RESULT: Success]

The final checkpoint guards never saw it coming. A precise touch of healing dulled the ache behind one guard’s eyes, a flutter of her thick lashes drew another’s attention just long enough, and Connie slipped through the barrier without so much as a ripple left behind.

She should have counted the hours. The cave system swallowed time by the mouthful.

Just a Queen Slime core. That’s all she needed. In, out, drop it on the desk and watch the professors choke on their own assumptions.

Simple.

Except she was lost. Her sword was gone, tumbled into a crevasse and swallowed by the dripping dark, and her armor had not simply failed her. She could still remember the trap. The faint click under her boot, the split-second pause, then the sudden hiss as hidden runes flared and sprayed her back in a fan of corrosive mist. Leather smoked. Buckles screamed. By the time she had stumbled clear, coughing and swatting blindly, her armor had collapsed into a curling plume of vapor and a puddle of half-dissolved leather at her feet, leaving her soft and unprotected in a place that fed on mistakes.

Connie forced herself up, bracing on her knees. Her tail, a small puff that usually betrayed every flicker of emotion, barely twitched now, pressed close and unresponsive, as if even that instinct had gone quiet. What little comfort she had left came from habit rather than condition. Her once expensive skirt, enchanted to offer a modest resistance to magic, now dangled uselessly at her waist, damaged beyond repair and reduced to little more than a token of modesty. The chest wrap, woven to keep her mother’s blessings bound and contained, strained with every breath and threatened to tear entirely. For the first time since entering the dungeon, a shred of doubt crept in alongside the exhaustion.

Ahead, three openings yawned side by side in the mottled cave wall, each one breathing with the sick, shivering glow of bioluminescent moss. Greens and purples washed over her fur, staining her in warped color and throwing her shadow back at her in uneven, haunted shapes.

[CHECK: Navigation | Roll 4 | RESULT: Failure]

She chose left. Or rather, she thought she did. The air there seemed thinner, less stagnant, carrying a faint promise of movement, but the certainty slipped the moment she tried to hold onto it. Exhaustion blurred one passage into the next, doubt seeping in as her thoughts lost their edge. She slowed, ears lifting as she strained for guidance, wind, birds, anything that might whisper of the surface.

Instead, a low, wet sound answered from behind her, a soft, rhythmic smack that clung to the silence, deliberate, patient, unmistakably alive.

Her heart lurched as recognition set in, slow and unwelcome, because she knew that sound, had studied it in diagrams and margin notes and dry lectures that never quite captured the reality of it. Pleasure Slime. The textbook image surfaced unbidden, translucent pink and slick with light, a creature that moved by sensation rather than force, overwhelming its prey not through injury but by flooding the body with heat and want, classified as non-lethal by scholars who never had to reconcile that word with what it did to the mind, how it could leave someone flushed, pliant, and helpless long after the encounter ended.

She turned just in time to see it emerge, sliding from a hairline fracture in the rock as though the stone itself had grown tired of containing it. The mass pooled against the cave floor in a luminous swell, gathering and reshaping with lazy intent, its surface catching the light in shifting sheen and soft curves that were almost beautiful in a way that made her skin prickle. Almost. Pseudopods began to form as it drew closer, reaching with a patience that suggested it already knew she was running out of space to hesitate.

[CHECK: Initiative | Roll 12 | RESULT: Partial Success]

The decision snapped into place and Connie ran. Her powerful legs drove her hard down the leftmost tunnel as muscle memory took over where thought failed, boots skidding across uneven stone while she prayed she had chosen correctly. The passage narrowed and twisted as she fled, breath tearing from her chest, exhaustion clawing at her balance. The damaged remnants of her skirt snapped and tugged with each stride, and the ground punished every misstep as the sound of pursuit followed close behind.

The slime was faster than she expected, close enough now that she could hear the wet slap of its movement echoing through the tunnel behind her, rhythmic and relentless. She felt it before she fully saw it, a tendril flicking past her ear, cold enough to raise her fur, followed by another that snapped around her hip and clung for a brief, terrifying heartbeat before she tore free through sheer momentum alone.

[CHECK: Dodge | Roll 7 | RESULT: Failure]

The next strike came low, catching her just above the tail, and the effect was immediate and overwhelming. Shock and heat crashed through her at once, violent enough to buckle her knees as a sharp crackle raced up her spine and dove inward, flooding her body from that single point of contact. Coherent thought vanished beneath the surge, replaced by sensation so intense she gasped aloud, staggering sideways and barely managing to catch herself against the cold stone with one trembling paw.

She tried to force herself onward, her mind screaming refusal even as her body betrayed her, breath coming fast and shallow while the heat spread up her belly and down her thighs, turning every brush of cool air into a needle-prick of awareness and every scrape of fabric into a dangerous suggestion her exhausted logic could no longer smother.

[CHECK: Willpower | Roll 1 | RESULT: Critical Failure]

The change was immediate.

It did not feel like being poisoned so much as being rewritten. A sick warmth settled low in her abdomen and then unfurled outward with invasive patience, threading itself through nerves that had no business lighting up like this, sharpening sensation until her thoughts started to slide and her self-control began to feel like a story she used to believe. Connie’s hands tightened on the rock, claws biting damp stone, and she realized with a cold flash of clarity that this was not simply lust, not simply temptation, but a mechanism, an engineered shove that turned her own body against her.

STATUS EFFECT APPLIED

Condition: Lust Toxin (Active)

Penalty: Impaired judgment. Reduced resistance. Heightened sensitivity.

Secondary Effect: Fertility Spike, increased reproductive drive and readyness.

Behind her, the slime stilled as if a switch had been flipped. Its goal had been accomplished. It did not need to chase anymore.

Connie lurched forward instead, staggering and clutching the wall, her breath spilling out in half-voiced whimpers she could not afford, each uneven step firing off new jolts of awareness that made her nipples ache beneath the wrap and her pulse hammer in humiliating places. She kept moving because stopping felt worse, because the cave did not reward hesitation, and because somewhere beneath the rising haze she still understood the simplest rule of prey.

She could not let it catch up, and she could not let herself slow down, because the moment she did the cave would win, the toxin would win, the part of her that wanted to stop thinking and start grinding would win, and she would become exactly what every sneer and pitying smile had always implied she was. Find the exit, reach the light, get out, because the tunnel behind her felt longer every time she blinked and the dark carried that wet rhythm like a metronome meant to keep time with her pulse, and her body had turned treacherous under her, too aware of itself, too eager to answer the wrong kind of touch.

Her ears burned, pink and hot with something that was not quite shame and not quite fear, and her breathing came harder now, not because she was simply tired, but because each inhale drew more of that cave air into her, thick with slime-sweet residue and the faint chemical tang that made her thoughts feel slippery. The walls did not just close in around her, they seemed to lean toward her, catching every ragged sound she made and throwing it back at her with a faint echo that sounded too much like encouragement, and the pulse between her legs kept insisting on being the loudest thing in her world. She clenched her jaw until it hurt, telling herself she was a healer, she understood toxins, she understood the way a body could be pushed into false hunger and false heat, she could brace herself against it the way she had braced other people through fevers, through venom, through shock.

Then the ugly question rose anyway, refusing to be ignored. How long did this last.

The bestiary had been clinical, tidy, written by people who did not have to live inside the consequences of what they catalogued, but the page swam in her memory now, the wording dissolving as if the slime had smeared the ink, leaving her with only fragments. Non-lethal. Non-fatal. Impairs judgment. Heightens sensitivity. She could not remember the duration, she could not remember whether it faded with time or stacked with repeated exposure, and that uncertainty was its own kind of panic because it meant she might be fighting a clock she could not see. She stumbled through the tunnel’s twists on instinct alone, one hand on the wall when her legs threatened to buckle, her thoughts fraying at the edges every time a shift of fabric or a brush of air caught a patch of exposed fur and turned it into a spark that begged to become a fire.

[CHECK: Perception | Roll 9 (Base 11, Toxin Penalty -2) | RESULT: Marginal Success]

Light, real light, not the false mural glow of moss, not rune-glitter or trickshine, but the silver-white breath of daylight leaking around the curve ahead in a way that made her whole body react before her mind could argue. Her ears snapped upright, her chest tightening with a surge of relief so sharp it nearly hurt, and for a moment she forgot to be cautious because the promise of open air felt like salvation.

A laugh tried to climb out of her throat, too loud, too raw, the kind of sound she never let herself make where instructors might hear it, and she swallowed it back only halfway, letting it spill as a broken exhale while she pushed forward faster. Freedom. Vindication. She would stagger back through the Academy doors and slam proof onto the nearest desk, and gods help whoever looked at her and saw only softness again, because she would make them choke on that assumption. The fever of want still churned through her, lips parted, skin too sensitive, her body strung tight between relief and need, and that tension made every step feel like it carried two meanings at once, one clean and one filthy, one about escape and one about being caught.

She was close enough now to taste the outside air in her imagination, close enough to picture the cave mouth ahead like an open hand waiting to pull her free, and all she had to do was reach it, push through, take a few more unsteady steps, hold herself together for just a few more heartbeats.

[CHECK: Awareness | Roll 8 | RESULT: Failure]

She never saw it coming, not because it was hidden in the stone, but because hope had finally claimed her full attention, her thoughts narrowing into a single bright point until the world reduced itself to light and breath and the promise of escape, leaving no room for the warning signs she might have noticed otherwise. The air shifted behind her without sound, the cave holding its breath as something moved with deliberate restraint, timing its strike to the exact moment her focus slipped.

Then it hit.

Cold and wet and impossibly fast, the impact slammed into the back of her neck and drove her forward in a rush of panic and sensation at once, her balance shattering as heat and shock tore straight down her spine before her body could even decide how to respond. She barely had time to let loose a startled squeal, ears snapping upright, before the same overwhelming mass pulled her backward, thick and suit-heavy, spreading across her spine and hips in a single sour, clinging slap.

The pressure locked her posture in place, forcing an involuntary arch through her back as the slime enveloped her from shoulder blades to tail, freezing and fever-hot at once, sealing her movement even as her nerves screamed in confused, electric awareness.

Connie tried to reach back, claws scraping at whatever had grabbed her, twisting hard enough that her shoulder ached as she kicked and bucked, even trying to slam her shaking hips down to pin it against the stone, but the thing was not a hand and not a rope and not anything she could bully with brute force. It only got stronger, thicker, spreading as it fought her, wrapping around her waist and thighs in a tightening band that dragged her legs wider by inches, then flattened her little tail puff tight against her rump as if it wanted every vulnerable angle held still.

The ooze surged up and around, rippling over her hips with a slow, greedy intelligence that felt wrong precisely because it was efficient, sealing her belly flat to the rock while it worked itself higher, massaging and sucking in short pulses that made her breath stutter. She could feel it probing the rips in her tattered skirt, slipping insistently where fabric had already been weakened, dampening what little she still had left between herself and the cave air, rubbing directly into her fur with sticky, shameless pressure that treated her body like a map it intended to memorize.

[CHECK: Break Free | Roll 7 | RESULT: Failure]

STATUS: GRAPPLED (Lower Body)

EFFECT: Slime Adhesion increasing

The next wave surged over her upper body, splattering over her thick, creamy fur, sucking up at the hem of her ruined shirt, rolling under her arms and around her chest like some greedy living blanket. The slime pressed her arms in close to her sides, locking them into helpless submission. Only her bare fingers and toes stuck out, splayed wide and trembling as the chill-hot sensation clamped down, overwhelming every sense with wet, pulsing pressure.

She tried to bite down on a whimper. The stuff was everywhere. It climbed up the side of her neck in slow, silken sheets, drooping around her cheeks and jaw, smearing across her muzzle in heavy, clinging folds. It sealed over her lips, molding to them, pressing insistently as if testing their shape, stretching her jaw just enough to steal her breath without letting her scream. Then it crept higher. Slick tendrils slid over her nose, clogging her nostrils with a sweet, suffocating pressure, while thinner strands slipped into her ears, filling them with warmth and a low, humming pulse that vibrated straight through her skull. The pressure built inside her head, not painful but invasive, a tightness behind her eyes that made her vision blur and her thoughts lose their edges, as if something were gently but firmly pushing against her mind from the inside.

[CHECK: Mental Resistance | Roll 5 | RESULT: Failure]

STATUS: COGNITIVE OVERRIDE (Initial)

EFFECT: Motor response delay. Autonomic actions heightened.

Without her permission, her hips were hauled upward, her body arcing as the slime surged tighter around her. It was no garment at all, no armor or spellwork, but the creature’s own body spread thin and elastic, a living sheath that clung to her from shoulders to thighs, sealing and reshaping itself with every movement she made. It slid up beneath her ruined skirt, pressed between her heavy breasts, bulging insistently as it molded to her shape. Wet pressure gathered at her nipples, slick pulses making them throb in time with the thing’s slow, relentless motion. The sensation was humiliating, overwhelming, impossibly hot. Her body shook in its grip, her tail twitching helplessly as she bucked despite herself. The slime forced her posture open, drawing her head back, stretching her chest forward until her muzzle parted on a breath she hadn’t meant to give. And that was when her mouth opened on its own.

Something brushed her tongue. A tentative contact at first, just the faintest intrusion, carrying a strange chemical sweetness and the taste of her own breath reflected back at her. She gasped in surprise, and the opening widened just enough. The slime flowed in to fill it, warm and yielding, and she swallowed on instinct before she could stop herself, her body choosing cooperation even as her thoughts lagged behind. The sensation bloomed, spreading, growing stranger by the second.

[CHECK: Reproductive Resistance | Roll 1 | RESULT: Critical Failure]

STATUS UPDATE: BIOLOGICAL OVERRIDE CONFIRMED

EFFECT: Breeding compatibility established. Autonomic compliance engaged.

The world fuzzed out. Connie tried to move and found nothing answered, every muscle locked rigid, her eyelids frozen open and glassy, blue eyes wide with panic and a traitorous pulse of need she could not silence. From the outside, the slime was almost beautiful. It had drawn itself into a seamless second skin, a pearlescent film that gleamed white and opalescent as it settled and tightened. Slick and glassy, it molded to her with merciless precision, pulled smooth across her thighs and belly, then cinched inward between her legs, sealing tight enough to leave the unmistakable outline of her mound pressed and defined beneath the glossy surface. The pressure there was almost curshing, vacuum-drawn, every faint twitch visible as the suit held her open and on display. Her breasts strained forward with each shallow breath, rounded and heavy beneath the slick restraint, but it was the way the slime locked her lower body into that single exposed line that stole her breath. Nothing was hidden. Everything she was had been traced, compressed, and rendered helpless beneath the shining skin of the creature.

Inside, Connie’s mind was a whirl of panic, desire, shame. Her body jerked, but the suit only hugged tighter. She wanted to scream, but all she could do was moan inside, the sound echoing in her ears as the thick gel oozed down her throat. The stuff tingled everywhere, especially in her heat soaked pussy still Under the effects of the lust slime’s attack…

…and that’s when the slime started to work.

At first it just felt hot. The kind of heat she had lived with since adolescence, the kind that came a few times a year and made her body ache for friction, for pressure, for something solid to grind against until thought dissolved. Except here the surface was already there, clinging to her from every angle, inside and out. Her ears flicked once, then stilled when nothing responded. Her chest heaved, but her breasts were held so tightly to her ribcage that every shallow breath only pressed them harder against the smooth, unyielding slime.

Heat stole into her, slow and relentless, not washing over but seeping, inch by inch, until it threaded itself right into her pores. She could feel her whole body light up, interior and raw, all the nerves prickling with sensation, leaving her dazzled and impossibly aware. Her nipples stiffened first, swelling up fat and tight, hungry for attention. The suit didn’t hesitate. It wrapped around them, perfect and seamless, until two glossy domes strained bold and shameless through the shining skin, impossible to ignore, impossible to soothe. She wanted to touch, to squeeze them and ease the ache, but her muscles wouldn’t answer, and that helplessness only made everything sharper, the sensation ratcheting higher with every twitch. When she shuddered, the suit shuddered back, gripping so close that even the tiniest quiver dragged friction right over her.

It found her clit, not by accident, not wandering, but with the heavy insistence of something that could sense her every spark. Pressure swelled, focused and patient, like fingers pinching and rolling, tugging her out, then rubbing with constant, merciless force. It never slowed, never gave her mind or body a heartbeat to catch up, just pushed and pushed. Her hips jerked, trying to wrench free, but the suit held her tighter, every failed buck grinding her down more firmly, pressing her outer lips hard against the clinging seal. The friction got wetter, hotter, desperate as it drew every last drop of shame from her and turned it straight into need.

The change inside built next, slow and low, blooming up in her belly like a spark catching fuel, panic flipping to wild, dizzy longing so fast her thoughts scrambled. She needed something, anything, to push against, but instead the suit just milked her, folded her up in caresses, stretched her out and then squeezed. It surged between her legs, thickening and going thin, packing itself right into the hungry clutch of her sex, rubbing her swollen lips and clit until she felt used up and worshipped all at once. She could feel herself growing messier, every pulse pulling more slick heat from her body, her own wetness turning the suit’s grip tighter, until she didn’t have space to be embarrassed. There was just the pleasure, cramming out everything else.

But the slime wasn’t done. It started to work on her shape, molding what it held. Her breasts, already heavy and sore, began to balloon, swelling out against the stretch of shining ooze; the surface pulled so tight it showed off every curve, squeezing and lifting them like an offering, nipples so stiff they looked ready to burst straight through. Down at her hips and ass, the same thing happened: she widened, jiggling in helpless little surges as the suit hugged her, made the rise and fall of her curves more pronounced, every involuntary squeeze turned purposeful, perfect. If anyone saw her now, there’d be no doubt what she’d become. She looked like a sex toy, living and straining and desperate.

But that wasn’t even the most mindblowing change.

It started as a faint pulse, down low in her belly, but then the sensation gathered heat, thickened, until Connie felt it coil deep around her sex a shivery, restless pressure, not quite pain, but a crawling, insistent awareness as if something inside her skin was waking up, rearranging itself. For a wild moment, she thought she’d cry out, but no sound came. All she could do was watch, helpless, as the soft outline of her slit began to change: first swelling, then stretching, the flesh yielding by slow, Impossible degrees.

It was relentless, the way something hot and dense began to push up along her mound. Where there had only been softness, a weight was forming, heavy and impossible to ignore. It kept coming, the shape growing clearer, forcing the contours of her lower belly outward as if her body was making room for it inch by inch, a cock. Its surface was slick, shining where the creature’s grip molded around it, drawing the length out with deliberate, almost teasing precision.

It kept growing, extending upward, dragging its pulsing weight over her skin until it finally settled between her breasts. The shaft pressed deep into the valley there, the tip visible just above the slopes of her chest, caught between her curves. It was solid, warm, every inch wrapped and displayed by the suit that seemed determined to hold it in place, as if it belonged there, as if she had always been meant to wear it.

The pressure at the base of her new length kept building, dense and unbearable, as if something inside her was swelling with nowhere to go. It felt ready to rupture, to split her open from the inside. Her body trembled around it, every nerve lit and screaming as the slime tightened and stroked, coaxing the sensation higher and higher.

Then something gave. The pressure shifted downward in a sudden, nauseating lurch, flesh rearranging itself beneath the slick seal. Two heavy masses pushed free beneath her, swelling rapidly as they took shape, round and impossibly sensitive, and the relief was only partial because the weight did not disappear, it only redistributed, dragging at her body as her new balls pressed against the stone below. The slime pulsed once, twice, and her hips answered on reflex, rolling forward into an a involuntary rhythm that sent her cock gliding through the plush valley of her own breasts.

The length dragged through her fur and along the heavy rise of her chest as her breasts pressed in from either side, shearing sensation through her entire body, and her nipples, already achingly stiff, kept catching the shaft with every helpless thrust, sharp points of contact that spiked the pleasure and drew a muffled whimper from behind sealed lips. The slime held her tight and close through all of it, taut and unyielding, squeezing in until every inch of her length was engulfed in silken, wet heat, and she could feel her own heartbeat pulsing through the rigid flesh, each throb making her cock twitch and jump against the soft confinement of her chest, every drag and squeeze crackling inside her like live current as the sensation grounded itself in her core and refused to fade.

No. No, stop, don't…

Her hips pulled back. Thrust forward again. The rhythm established itself without her permission, her body rocking in place as the thick length worked itself between her tits, up and down, up and down. She could feel every inch of it, the heat of it, the weight, the way the sensitive underside caught and dragged against soft fur and softer flesh.

Her eyes rolled back. A moan clawed its way up her throat, muffled by the slime still packed in her mouth, but unmistakably desperate. She tried to fight it. Tried to lock her muscles, to still the motion of her own hips, but her body had become a traitor. Every attempt to resist only made the next thrust harder, deeper into that pillowy embrace.

Stop. You have to stop. This isn't…this isn't you…

[CHECK: Corruption Resistance | Roll 7 | RESULT: Failure]

STATUS UPDATE: CORRUPTION THRESHOLD REACHED

EFFECT: Reluctance released. Eagerness escalated. Voluntary participation confirmed.

The sound, gods, the sound, wet and thick and rhythmic, flesh against flesh, that slick schlick-schlick of her shaft pistoning through the tight channel her breasts made, echoing off the cave walls like an announcement she could not take back, broadcasting her to the empty dark until something inside her chest cracked at the shame of it, not into collapse, but into revelation, because the horror was not that she was doing it, the horror was that she wanted it, that she wanted it so badly her thoughts started arranging themselves around the rhythm like prayers.

And then she understood with sudden, clarity that made her vision swim, that made her throat tighten behind the seal of slime, that made her breath come out in a thin, wrecked sound she did not recognize as her own: she loved it.

She loved the debauchery, the wrongness, the way her heavy tits jiggled with each thrust and turned the valley between them into a slick, greedy channel, the way her thick ass bounced against stone in counterpoint, the way her pussy below clenched around nothing, wet and needy and ignored while her cock got all the attention, all the friction, all the worship, and the humiliation of that imbalance should have made her furious, should have made her fight, but instead it sharpened everything, turned her into a raw instrument that could only register sensation and the sick satisfaction of being reduced to it.

Pre-cum beaded at the tip, thick and clear, then spilled over, gravity drawing it down between her breasts where it pooled warm in her cleavage, making the next thrust glide easier, smoother, better, and the coolness of it against her overheated skin made her shiver hard enough that the suit shivered with her, clinging tighter like it was listening, like it was learning, like it had decided her body was an equation it intended to solve.

The thought crystallized, hot and simple and poisonous with pleasure. Fuck the Academy. Fuck the instructors. Fuck everyone who ever looked at her and decided “healer” meant harmless, who ever heard her speak gently and mistook it for weakness, who ever smiled kindly while building her cage.

Her paws moved, or the slime let them move, and she stopped caring which because the difference felt irrelevant now, the only truth being that her hands came up and pressed into the outer curves of her breasts, shoving them together around her thrusting shaft, and the added pressure made her cock twitch violently, made a fresh spurt of pre paint her chest, made the friction double and then triple until the sensation climbed past sanity into something bright and ringing.

“Mmmngh…” she tried to say, tried to form language, but what escaped her was only a muffled, desperate sound, and her fingers dug into her own flesh, kneading and squeezing as if she had done this a thousand times in secret, working her tits around her cock with a greedy competence that horrified her and thrilled her in the same breath, while the slime seemed to approve, loosening just enough to let her participate, in own corruption.

Her hips jerked forward again, then again, finding a faster rhythm, harsher and more frantic, each thrust landing with a wet, hollow slap that echoed through the cavern and made her cheeks burn even as she chased it, and beneath her her balls swung heavy, so swollen and overfull that she felt every drag and pendulum pull as a deep ache riding behind each movement, pressure coiling at the base of her spine until it became something denser than the slime, something raw and electric that lit up every nerve at once and left her shaking.

Close, breathless, too close to stop, and she did not want to stop, not anymore, not with her whole world narrowed down to the throbbing length trapped between her breasts, not with the slime gripping her so perfectly that it turned every shudder into friction, every tremor into stimulus, every involuntary flex into another notch of desperation.

She felt the twitch first, a warning pulse that stole the air from her lungs, then the hard flex that followed as her balls drew tight in a relentless spasm, and when it finally broke it was not relief, it was detonation, every muscle locking as the climax tore through her sudden and shattering, pleasure ripping thought and breath away alike as thick, hot surges flooded the suit from the inside, coating her fur and skin with each pulse, packing the pearlescent shell until she was slick and burning, while the sheath clung tighter and tighter as it filled, pressing her own release back against her body in smooth, glistening layers that trapped it against her skin, leaving her trembling inside it as if she had been vacuum-sealed in her own orgasm.

the release unending, striking her chin and lower muzzle before sliding back down over her chest, the warm slickness spreading beneath the clinging shell as it flowed between her breasts and along her body, and trapped inside the suit it had nowhere to go, so it pooled and smeared and pressed back against her until the sensation fed right back into her with nowhere to escape, her moans turning messier, lower, more eager, because even the mess was part of the trap now, part of the display, part of what she had, somehow, started to crave.

She could taste it. The slime that coated her lips and shaped her mouth did not waste anything, not the heat, not the slickness, not the thick spill that flooded the shell around her; it gathered what she gave it, held it warm, then offered it back in slow pulses that lingered on her tongue until her body made the decision before her pride could, swallowing because it felt better than letting it sit there, swallowing because the suit made even the act of taking it in feel like being touched from the inside. There was no clean finish, no tidy relief, only continuation, a loop where pleasure did not end so much as change routes, sliding from her cock to her throat to her belly and back again while the suit held her in place and milked her through each spasm, and she trembled in the sealed shine of it, hating how perfect it felt and hating how quickly the hate became a reason to keep giving it more.

The pressure built again, deeper this time, concentrating low and relentless, and the weight beneath her increased until it forced her thighs apart, her stance widening under the strain as her body struggled to accommodate what it was producing. The slime did not relent, not with cruelty, but with devotion, squeezing and stroking and drawing everything upward until her shaft pulsed hard against her chest, the tip nudging her chin as the suit held her face-down and ass-up, presenting her trembling form to the empty dark like an offering she had become unable to take back.

She came hard again, and the release flooded the sealed shell around her in hot, overwhelming surges, smearing back across her chest and throat as the slime rippled in approval and drank the excess into itself, and when her mouth filled once more she did not fight for air or dignity or distance, she simply opened, because denial had become a kind of pain and the suit had already trained her body to recognize which choice would feel better. The swallow became a shiver, the shiver became a pulse, the pulse became another spill, and the pattern locked in with humiliating clarity as if her own nerves had learned the rhythm faster than her mind could.

Every gulp sent a fresh spike of sensation straight to the base of her new anatomy, made her balls churn harder, made her cock jerk and spurt again, and the feedback was immediate and merciless in its pleasure, cum, swallow, cum harder, swallow faster, until her thoughts dissolved into wet heat and white noise and the only clarity left was the rhythm. Her belly followed it, swelling heavier; her tits grew fuller, nipples leaking something pearlescent and strange that the slime caught and spread in thin, shining trails as if it could not bear to waste any part of her, and the suit stretched to accommodate her expanding form, always tight, always clinging, showing off every grotesque new curve until she was bigger than she had ever been, hips wider than the passage, balls swollen, cock a throbbing pillar that reached past her face and drooled endlessly into the waiting mouthshape of the suit.

She could not stop cumming, and she did not try anymore, because trying had become another kind of foreplay, another way to tighten the loop and make it worse and make it better until it was everything, and the waves kept coming, each one stronger, each one rinsing away another piece of who she used to be until her fur was soaked through, matted and slick, barely visible beneath the glistening white prison, her ears flattened and twitching with every spasm, her little puff of a tail swallowed by the swelling mass of her ass until it was only a buried shape beneath the suit’s shine, another soft curve the slime seemed to worship.

[STATUS UPDATE: TRANSFORMATION THRESHOLD REACHED]

EFFECT: Body pattern destabilizing. Colony architecture initiating.

Something cracked inside her, not bone but identity, a deep structural certainty giving way as she felt herself begin to reorganize, cells multiplying, boundaries turning fluid, flesh becoming pliant, becoming something new, and the orgasm that accompanied it was so bright it blanked her vision for a heartbeat, consciousness flickering like a lamp starved of air. When awareness returned, it returned wider.

There were two of her.

Two Connies, identical and tangled, both trapped in the same expanding mass of slime, both slick with the same shine, both breathing the same heat, both feeding the same cycle, and the shock did not have time to become fear before the loop grabbed it and turned it into sensation, doubled by the simple horror of feeling your own pleasure from two throats, two bellies, two sets of nerves that belonged to the same mind.

[STATUS UPDATE: DIVISION EVENT CONFIRMED | x2]

EFFECT: Sensation mirroring active. Reproductive output increased.

She divided again, and again, not as a clean cut but as a blooming spread, flesh rippling outward like water disturbed by a thrown stone, each split arriving with another brutal crest of pleasure and another flood that the suit caught, recycled, and returned. The sensation of separation was indescribable, like being turned inside out while still feeling whole, like watching herself from angles that shouldn't exist. Four Connies and then eight, their mouths opening in unison, their bodies writhing in shared rhythm, the cave filling with wet sounds of transformation, squelching and gurgling and the endless slap of slime against flesh that was no longer only flesh.

Her thoughts fragmented by necessity; she was one and many, rabbit and colony, healer and threat, victim and vessel and something entirely new. The boundaries that once defined her melted the way her armor had melted, dissolving into the hungry mass that had claimed her. Each new self brought its own awareness, its own desperate need, but also something else, a thread of connection that made every sensation echo through the whole, multiplying pleasure until even breathing became an act of submission.

She could feel herself spreading across the cave floor, filling cracks and crevices, leaving behind droplets that already pulsed with purpose. Her consciousness stretched across a dozen, hundreds identical forms as if her mind had become a net thrown wide, tightening, learning the shape of the world through countless eyes, countless hands, countless aching cocks that never stopped leaking their endless tribute to the cycle that bound them all.

The world shattered. Reformed. Shattered again.

Somewhere within the writhing mass of white slime and desperate, cumming bodies, a fragment of the original Connie still existed. A tiny spark of awareness remained, stretched thin but unbroken, trapped in an endless loop of sensation. She could feel herself now as many selves, dozens, then hundreds, each one moaning her name into the dark, each one feeding the colony, each one bound to the same shared hunger.

I wanted to be remembered.

The thought rippled outward through the shared mind, echoing from form to form like a signal passed through a living network.

I wanted to prove myself.

Laughter followed. Not from one throat, but from all of them at once, a chorus that filled the cave with a sound too unified to be human. Her original body was gone now, fully absorbed, but her consciousness had spread through every glistening white form. She could see through countless amber eyes. She could feel through layers of slick, sensitive flesh. Pleasure had become constant, ambient, woven into every movement and every thought.

The cave mouth drew her attention.

Sunlight spilled through the entrance, real and brilliant, nothing like the false glow of moss and rune-light deeper within. Every Connie-form turned toward it in unison, instinct pulling them forward as one.

They said I was not built for dungeons.

The colony began to move. Bodies slid and crawled and staggered forward on legs that trembled under their own weight, slick trails marking their passage. The motion was slow, clumsy, relentless. Each step fed the mass. Each drop left behind pulsed with new awareness.

They were right.

The first of her forms reached the edge of the cave and stopped, silhouetted against the afternoon light. From there she could see the Academy’s spires in the distance, pale and orderly against the horizon. Towers of judgment. Of instruction. Of rejection.

She remembered the words clearly now. Support class. Too valuable to risk. Merely a healer.

I am not built for dungeons.

More forms gathered behind the first. Dozens. Then more. All of them bearing her face, her shape, her hunger. All of them turned toward the same distant stone walls that had decided what she was allowed to be.

I am built to be one…

New entity registered: Slime Colony (Connie-type)

Status: Reproducing

Threat Level: Extreme

Evolution Chance: Extreme

---

Olivia Otter, Chancellor of the Academy and arcane terror beneath the city’s polite lacquer, stood at her window and watched the world lose its mind. Every pane of her tower was lined with alchemically reinforced glass, and she appreciated the craftsmanship as, outside, the campus lawns writhed with unrecognizable magic. The blue dawn had been replaced by a white tide. It glossed over the paving stones, over the statuary, over anything that failed to move with sufficient urgency. She could see, through the haze, her students: bodies naked and writhing, cocks and tits and cocks and tits, everywhere, like obscene punctuation marks in the quad’s new language. Some had already been reduced to feral, rutting, gelatinous things, their forms warped, their faces buried in the crooks of each other’s necks, their hands busy, always busy, pumping, kneading, shoving.

“Dear lord,” Olivia said, and the glass vibrated back the sentiment, as if the building itself was in agreement.

Her dark eyes tracked movement beyond the courtyard walls, and her blood went cold.

The dungeon mouth gaped wide at the base of the eastern hills, and from it poured a tide that defied comprehension. Thousands of figures, tens of thousands, all of them identical, all of them white and glistening and shaped like rabbits with curves that belonged in fever dreams, marching in loose formation across the fields that separated the caves from civilization. They moved with purpose. With hunger. With the kind of unified intent that suggested a mind behind the swarm, directing it, feeding it, wanting.

"Goddess preserve us," Olivia breathed, and even as she said it she knew no goddess was coming. Not for this. Not in time.

A scream drew her attention back to the courtyard. Sister Marguerite, the priestess of purity who led morning devotionals, had collapsed against the fountain's edge. Her white robes, blessed and warded and supposedly impervious to corruption, were dissolving around her like sugar in rain. The flesh beneath had already begun to change.

Olivia watched, transfixed with horror, as the priestess's modest chest swelled outward in lurching pulses, growing heavier and rounder until the fabric simply could not contain it anymore. Her nipples, pink and stiff and impossibly large, pushed through the last scraps of cloth like they were trying to escape. But that was not the worst of it.

Between Marguerite's trembling thighs, something was growing. Rising. The priestess looked down at herself with an expression that started as terror and melted, visibly melted, into something else entirely as the shaft continued to extend, thick and veined and dripping with pre that splattered the courtyard stones in obscene rhythm.

The priestess grabbed her own breasts. Squeezed them together. And began to thrust.

"Oh, fuck," Marguerite moaned, her voice carrying across the courtyard with perfect clarity, "oh fuck, oh fuck, yes, yes, YES…"

Her cock slid between her tits with wet, eager sounds that Olivia could hear even through the glass, and the priestess's face contorted with pleasure so intense it looked like agony, her hips pumping frantically as she fucked her own chest without shame, without hesitation, without any trace of the woman who had lectured about temperance and restraint just yesterday morning.

All around her, others were succumbing. A pair of wolfhounds had collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and growing flesh, their bodies pressed tight as they ground against each other with mindless desperation. A senior instructor, someone Olivia had known for decades, was on her knees with her face buried between the thighs of a student whose body had already begun to turn translucent and white. The sounds, gods, the sounds, moaning and squelching and the rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, rising from every corner of the courtyard like a symphony of surrender.

[CHECK: Lust Resistance | Roll 14 | RESULT: Success]

Heat prickled at the base of Olivia's spine. Her tail twitched. Something in the air itself seemed to press against her, warm and insistent, whispering suggestions that made her thighs want to press together.

She bit down hard on her tongue until she tasted copper.

"Nope," she growled through clenched teeth, forcing her paws away from the glass. "Not today."

The vault. She needed to get to the vault. The Academy held secrets that could not fall into whatever passed for hands among that approaching horde, artifacts and tomes and sealed containers of things that made pleasure slimes look like children's toys. If even one of those reached the swarm outside...

Olivia did not let herself finish the thought. She was already running.

The tower stairs spiraled down in a dizzying helix, and she took them three at a time, her claws scraping stone as she descended. The sounds from outside grew louder as she dropped lower, no longer muffled by distance, and by the time she burst through the ground-floor door the chorus of moans had become a wall of noise that made her ears flatten against her skull.

The main hallway stretched before her, lined with portraits of former headmasters whose painted eyes seemed to judge her as she sprinted past. Halfway down, a body blocked her path.

No. Not a body. A student. Clara, the quiet mouse girl who had been her apprentice for the past two years, who took meticulous notes and never spoke above a whisper and blushed whenever anyone looked at her for too long.

There was no blush left in Clara's cheeks now. She sprawled in the corridor, robes tangled messily around her waist, both fists wrapped around the thick shaft jutting lewdly before her. Her hands jerked in desperate rhythm, sharp and frantic, heedless of anything but the obscene movement, the hunger behind it. Her eyes were glazed, rolling, her mouth slack as she worked herself harder and harder, babbling nonsense under her breath. The slap and squelch of wetness filled the narrow hallway, echoing off stone. Her hips bucked against her own grip with a raw, unfettered need, thrust after sloppy thrust. There was nothing measured in her movements, only that wild, animal intensity, the shuddering pulse of want that drowned out everything else.

Olivia vaulted over her. She did not look back. Could not afford to look back. Clara's moans chased her down the corridor like accusation, but she kept running, kept pushing, kept her eyes fixed on the vault door at the end of the hall. Three hundred feet. Two hundred. One hundred.

The door was steel and silver and warded with enough protective magic to make her teeth ache from proximity alone. She could see the runes glowing faintly in the mage, still active, still holding. If she could just reach it, just get inside, she could seal herself in and figure out a way to…

[CHECK: Ambush Detection | Roll 6 | RESULT: Failure]

Something cold and wet slammed into her back.

The impact drove her forward, sent her sprawling across the stone floor, and before she could scramble to her feet the weight settled over her, pinning her down with a strength that did not match its gelatinous texture. Slime, she thought wildly, it's just slime, I can burn it, I can freeze it, I can…I cam…

But her arms would not move. The substance had already spread across her shoulders, down her sides, sealing her limbs to the floor with pressure that increased every time she struggled. It was warm. Impossibly warm. And it was crawling over her body with patient, inevitable progress.

“Hello, Headmistress.”

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once, sweet and familiar and wrong in a way that made Olivia’s fur stand on end, and she craned her neck against the slime’s grip just enough to see a figure step out of the shadows near the vault door, white fur catching torchlight like wet porcelain, amber eyes bright with a knowing hunger that had never belonged to any student.

Connie, or what had once answered to Connie, stood with curves that bordered on impossible, breasts heavy, hips broad enough to brush the corridor walls, and between her thighs a cock so massive it came that came within inches of touching the floor as she walked, not hurried, not cautious, moving like the hallway belonged to her now.

"You," Olivia spat, straining against the slime's grip. "You were a student. A healer. What the hell did you do to yourself?"

Connie's smile didn't waver. If anything, it deepened.

"Soft," she said, and the word dropped between them like a stone into still water. "That's what they always called me. Soft little Connie. Too gentle for fieldwork. Too delicate for anything that mattered." She tilted her head, amber eyes catching the torchlight. "They bled on my hands for years. They slept easy because I stayed awake. And the whole time, they patted my head and told me I was doing exactly what I was built for."

The slime crept higher along Olivia's jaw, unhurried, inevitable.

"You know what's funny about soft things, Headmistress?" Connie took another step forward, her massive cock swaying with the motion, leaving a glistening trail on the stone. "Everyone assumes they're harmless. They forget that water is soft. That it carves canyons. That it drowns."

Olivia tried to speak, but the pressure against her throat made the words come out strangled.

"Soft things get into places hard things can't," Connie continued, close enough now that Olivia could smell her, sweet and chemical and wrong. "They fill every gap. They reshape whatever they touch from the inside out."

She crouched down, bringing her face level with Olivia's, and the warmth radiating off her body was suffocating.

"You acamdy spent years telling me what I couldn't be," Connie said, her voice dropping to something quiet and absolute. "Now I'm going to show you exactly what soft things become when you push them far enough."

her cock Stiffened, and the otter felt the reality itself shift around it as its aura Flooded her consciousness.

The tip twitched, no, not twitched, it flexed, a thick ripple running from base to tip that made the shaft jerk with a sentience all its own, and Olivia felt the air around her head pull inward, like a vacuum, like a mouth bigger than the world, every atom in the corridor drawn toward the cock as if it were gravity itself. Her breath caught short in the pressure, lungs compressing, every organ in her chest flattening down, and she felt the runes on the vault door flicker in time with the throbbing in front of her face. A hot pulse of blood lit every nerve in her head, a rush of arousal and fear and something she refused to name.

[CHECK: Corruption Resistance | Roll 16 | RESULT: Success]

She braced and let the old mental drills boot up, the ones drilled into her at the Spymaster’s finishing school in Redcity: lockdown the throat, bite the tongue, no matter what you feel, do not let the first thought be the true one. She clamped down. The aura pressed harder. The tip of the cock flexed again, pearly fluid beading at the slit, and the smell hit her, chemical and sweet, with a strange electric tang behind the obvious pheromones. It was not just scent. It was suggestion, a flood of images and associations, every crude daydream she had ever had about thick bodies or hungry mouths driven straight into her cortex.

The slime suit across her back shuddered in response, and her tail tried to curl up between her legs, but the stuff had already glued it tight.

[CHECK: Resist Temptation | Roll 14 | RESULT: Success]

She wasn’t going to break. She’d survived the Inquisition’s nerve gas. She’d survived that month-long orgy at the ambassador’s palace, and she’d walked out on her own legs, thank you very much. This wasn’t going to be the end of Olivia Otter, not even if her heat climbed up and down her spine in waves that left her toes numb.

Connie leaned in, the cock hovering inches from her face. In the oily surface of the head, Olivia saw her own reflection: eyes wide, lips parted, whiskers spread in a fan of pure shock. Her own tongue flicked out, almost tasting the air, almost. She forced it back between her teeth.

[CHECK: Psychic Resistance | Roll 12 | RESULT: Success]

The aura thickened. It wasn’t just suggestion anymore; it was narrative. She felt her own thoughts slowing, like syrup poured into her skull, and every flicker of arousal was amplified, repeated, doubled until every part of her that could pulse or clench or sweat was doing it all at once.

Connie’s hand cradled the base of her cock, anchoring it, and the other hand gripped Olivia’s jaw, turning her face up. The grip was gentle. It always was, with the soft ones. That was how they got in.

“You want this,” Connie whispered, and the words didn’t mean anything, but they burrowed in anyway.

[CHECK: Mental Fortitude | Roll 10 | RESULT: Success]

She tried to spit in the rabbit’s face, but the slime had already sealed her mouth. Her cheeks burned. Her knees wanted to buckle, but the suit kept her upright, presenting her, making sure she didn’t miss a single detail as the cock bobbed, a string of precum stretching from the tip.

[CHECK: Lust Resistance | Roll 8 | RESULT: Partial Success]

It wasn’t fair. The bastard thing smelled like candy, like rain on pavement, like every forbidden pleasure Olivia had denied herself for the last forty years. She could feel her own cunt pulsing under the mesh of slime, the walls slick with a wetness that had nothing to do with the suit and everything to do with the idea of what was coming.

“Open,” Connie said, and the command was so calm, so polite, that Olivia almost laughed. But her lips parted, slow and trembling, as the slime peeled back just enough to let her breathe.

The head of the cock pushed against her lips, hot and unyielding, and she tasted the first drop: salt, sugar, static, and underneath it a feeling that made her belly melt. Her mouth watered. She tried to pull away, but the suit held her steady, and Connie guided the tip inside, slow, unhurried, letting the weight settle on her tongue before pushing deeper.

Olivia shut her eyes. She’d been here before, on her knees in a hundred different situations, but never like this, never with every sense so saturated, so raw. The cock pulsed, and she felt it ripple all the way down her spine.

[CHECK: Lust Resistance | Roll 7 | RESULT: Failure]

Her jaw unhinged, just a little, and the head slid in with a wet pop. The taste flooded her mouth, thick and sweet and then bitter, and her throat convulsed. Her body remembered what to do, even if her mind wanted to scream.

Above her, Connie sighed, a soft, content sound. The cock slid deeper, and Olivia felt the shape of it, the heat, the impossible stretch as it filled her mouth. Her tongue thrashed against the underside, searching for leverage, but all she got was more of that taste, more of that dizzying, narcotic heat.

She tried to focus, to remember the spellwork, the countermeasures, but every time she started a thought the cock pulsed again, and her brain would fizzle out, replaced by static and the need to swallow, to suck, to serve.

She hated how good it felt.

The cock bottomed out against her throat, and Connie held it there, the shaft throbbing in slow, deliberate rhythm. Olivia’s nose pressed against the mound of fur at the rabbit’s base, and she caught the scent of sweat and musk and something chemical that made her shiver, hard. The slime at her back squeezed, and suddenly her whole body was alight, every nerve ending tuned to the sensation of being used, of being filled.

She gagged once, twice, then found the angle, and the cock slid in clean, a perfect seal. The slime suit rippled in approval, and something in Olivia’s chest unclenched. She let go.

She sucked.