Chapter 8: Expelled and Dripping
The Lactonapenthis Recess expelled her with a final, contemptuous squeeze.
Seraphine Duval spilled onto the rough-hewn stone in a gush of floral-scented fluid, her body a symphony of minor aches and major indignities. She lay there for a moment, breathing hard, her long black hair plastered to her olive skin. The cool air was a shock after the plant’s humid, pulsing interior. With a groan that was equal parts exhaustion and profound irritation, she pushed herself up on trembling arms.
“Rude,” she muttered to the wall, which had already sealed itself shut, the obsidian etching once more dormant. “Absolutely fucking rude.”
Her clothes were gone, dissolved hours ago by a pack of giggling, acidic slimes. Her nudity was an inconvenience, not a shame. More problematic were her breasts. They felt heavy, overfull, the skin tight and sensitive. A slow, stubborn trickle of milk leaked from each nipple, tracing shining paths down her torso. The living wall trap hadn’t just been invasive; it had been productive. She wiped at the moisture with the back of her hand, grimacing. It smelled sweet, like honey and vanilla. Disgustingly wholesome.
Disgustingly wholesome. She got to her feet, the stone cold and gritty under her soles, and took in the new tunnel. Glowing veins of blue-green mold pulsed softly in the walls, casting a sickly light that made her skin look necrotic.
The air smelled of wet clay and rotting fruit, thick enough to taste. She walked, the steady drip from her breasts marking her passage with tiny, sticky splashes. “A wardrobe would be a nice trap for once,” she complained aloud, her voice bouncing oddly in the fleshy corridor. “Or a cocktail. Is that too much to ask?”
Ahead, the pulsing glow concentrated around a wider opening. Sounds echoed from it—low, guttural grunts and the slick sounds of intense strain. Not pleasure. Effort. Seraphine slowed, her professional curiosity piqued. She peered around the mossy arch.
The safe room was a disaster of bodily functions. The woman from the ovidor chamber—the tall, blonde witch hunter—was on her hands and knees on the bedroll, her body bowed like a drawn bow. Her pregnant belly, massive and taut, clenched visibly with a contraction that made her entire frame shudder.
“Push, you stubborn bitch,” the hunter snarled through gritted teeth, her gray eyes screwed shut. “Push, damn you!” It was a command to her own body, furious and raw.
Beside her, the red imp woman, Silva, knelt, her own swollen belly resting between her thighs. She had one hand pressed against the small of the hunter’s back. “You’re crowning,” Silva said, her voice oddly calm. “Next real one does it. Don’t scream. It wastes air.”
Seraphine leaned against the archway, crossing her arms under her heavy breasts. “Well, isn’t this a charming tableau,” she drawled.
Two heads snapped toward her. The hunter, Korra, just glared, her face sheened with sweat. Silva’s vertical pupils widened at the sight of the new nude arrival, dripping milk.
“Who the hell are you?” Korra managed to rasp before another wave seized her. Her knuckles turned white where she gripped the bedroll.
“Seraphine. A fellow traveler, currently lactating against my will.” She gave a little wave. “Don’t mind me. Please, proceed. I’ve never seen a live birth before. It’s theatrical.”
“Fuck… off,” Korra grunted, her head hanging low. "You're not the only one." She massaged her own aching tits, a bead of milk forming on her of them. "Fucking ovidor pups are ruining me!"
"Fucking ovidor pups are ruining me!"
Her curse was swallowed by a deep, involuntary roar as her body took over. The contraction wasn’t a wave; it was a tectonic shift. Every muscle locked, driving the thing inside her down and out with a final, brutal urgency. There was a wet, tearing release of pressure.
A small, slick body slid onto the bedroll in a rush of fluid and dark blood.
It was quiet for a single, suspended second.
Then the creature twitched, and a thin, reedy cry pierced the humid air. The ovidor pup looked like a miniature version of its father, its face tentacled and alien. Its face was a nest of short, questing feelers around a soft mouth. Despite that, Korra felt a begrudging, overwhelming maternal pull toward it. Her breath caught, a sharp ache that had nothing to do with physical pain blooming behind her ribs. That was her baby.
“Huh,” Silva said, leaning forward. She deftly cleared the pup’s mouth with a finger. “Looks healthy. Sounded healthy. One down.”
Korra couldn’t speak.
Silva scooped up the squirming, wet pup with a matter-of-fact grip. She turned, her red eyes locking onto Seraphine’s leaking chest. Without a word, she stepped over and pressed the small, seeking mouth against Seraphine’s left nipple.
The pup’s facial tentacles latched on with a soft, insistent pull. A sharp, unexpected jolt shot through Seraphine. “Hey! What the—oh.” The complaint died in her throat. The relentless pressure in her breast immediately began to ease, a deep, visceral relief unknotting the ache. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her as the pup fed, its tiny throat working. “Well, that’s… efficient, I suppose.” She looked annoyed but held still, her hand coming up to tentatively support the creature’s wriggling body.
Another contraction ripped through Korra, cutting off any protest she might have had. She dropped her forehead to the bedroll, a choked gasp tearing free. “Another. Now.”
“Told you they come fast,” Silva said, shifting back to her position. Her own swollen belly, with its dormant slime core, pressed against Korra’s thigh as she knelt. “Short rest. Then you go again.”
Seraphine watched, feeling the odd, rhythmic pull at her breast. The milk flowed freely now, and the pup made soft, contented noises. The relief was profound, almost embarrassingly so. She’d spent a lifetime cultivating pleasure, but this was a primal, utilitarian satisfaction that left her strangely quieted.
Korra bore down with a raw, guttural sound. The second pup emerged more quickly, a slick, dark bundle that Silva caught and cleared. Its cry joined its sibling’s. Korra panted, trembling, her strength clearly ebbing. “How… many?”
“You’ll know when you’re empty,” Silva said, placing the second pup on the bedroll. It immediately began nosing toward Korra’s hip, its tiny feelers twitching.
“This one’s hungry too,” Seraphine announced, her voice devoid of its earlier performative edge. The first pup was still draining her, a warm, tingling sensation spreading from her chest. “Don’t just leave it crawling around.”
Silva nudged the second pup toward Seraphine’s other side. “They imprint on a food source. You’re it now.” She didn’t ask, just guided the small mouth to Seraphine’s right nipple. Another sharp latch, another wave of relieving pressure. Seraphine grimaced but didn’t object, bracing herself with a hand against the cold wall.
Korra moaned, a sound of pure fatigue. Her belly clenched again, visibly hardening. The process was relentless, a brutal factory of life. She pushed, her cry this time was weaker, more desperate. The third pup slid free.
Silva handled it, her movements clinical. “Good. You’re doing it. Almost there.” She set the third pup near Seraphine’s foot, and it immediately began to crawl upward, seeking the milk-scented heat.
“I’m not a goddamn buffet,” Seraphine muttered, but she was arching her back slightly to give the climbing pup easier access. The sensation of three small, fervent mouths drawing on her was overwhelming, a constant, pulling drain that left her light-headed and oddly pliant.
“You are today,” Korra grunted, sweat dripping from her chin. She swallowed hard, gathering herself for what she hoped was the last. Her body felt hollowed out and bruised. The final contraction built, a deep, concluding tremor.
With one last, spent push, the fourth and final ovidor pup was born. Silva placed it with the others, a writhing pile now attached to Seraphine’s chest and torso. The witch hunter collapsed forward onto her forearms, her breathing a ragged scrape. The huge, tight swell of her belly was gone, replaced by a softened, empty pouch of skin.
Silva sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on her thighs. “Done. They all look viable.” She glanced at Seraphine, who was now adorned with nursing creatures. “They’ll drink until they’re asleep or you’re dry. Whichever comes first.”
Seraphine looked down at the squirming litter. The initial annoyance was gone, replaced by a dazed, physical gratitude. The painful fullness was receding, replaced by a warm, liquid lightness. “This is the most absurd thing that has ever happened to me,” she said quietly, not moving an inch.
Korra watched them, her gray eyes unreadable. The pups made soft, suckling sounds as they fed, their tiny bodies pressing into Seraphine’s warmth. A fierce, hot twist of something ugly clenched in Korra’s gut. It wasn’t just about the milk. It was the intimacy of it, the simple biological purpose being fulfilled by a stranger. She wanted to shove the socialite aside. She wanted to feel those small, urgent mouths on her own sore, leaking skin. The desire shocked her with its intensity.
She looked away, teeth gritted. It was a weakness, another vulnerability. “They’re fed. That’s what matters,” she muttered to the floor.
Silva’s sharp red eyes didn’t miss a thing. She saw the tension in the hunter’s jaw, the way her gaze kept darting back to the nursing cluster. Without a word, Silva moved. Her own bulk made her waddle, but her hands were gentle as she carefully detached two of the pups from Seraphine. The creatures mewled in protest, their tiny maw-tentacles searching the air.
“What are you doing?” Seraphine asked, a note of actual protest in her voice. The relief of the draining was profound.
“They need to know their mother, too,” Silva said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She knelt beside Korra, who was still slumped on the bedroll, empty and trembling. “Here. Sit up a little.” Korra resisted for a second, a stubborn set to her shoulders, but the exhaustion won. She let Silva maneuver her back against the wall.
Silva guided one pup to Korra’s left breast. The small, seeking mouth found her nipple, latched on, and began to pull. A sharp gasp escaped Korra. It wasn’t pain. It was a deep, resonant rightness that traveled straight to her core, bypassing all her trained hatred and logic. The second pup found the other side, and the dual sensation made her head fall back against the stone with a soft thud.
Her eyes closed. The jealousy evaporated, replaced by a rushing, liquid warmth that softened her rigid spine. A low, almost inaudible sound hummed in her throat. She brought a hesitant hand up, her knuckles brushing the damp, furry back of the pup on her right. It was alien. It was monstrous. It was hers.
“See?” Silva said, settling back. “They’re yours. Little abominations.”
Korra opened her eyes. She looked down at the two small bodies drawing nourishment from her, their strange features softened in the act of feeding. A fierce, protective pride bloomed in her chest, hot and defiant. “They’re strong,” she murmured, her voice rough. “They’ll need to be.”
From across the small chamber, Seraphine watched, still connected to the other two pups. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. “And just like that, the mighty witch hunter is conquered by a pair of hungry mouths.” She didn’t say it cruelly. It was an observation, tinged with her own brand of weary amusement.
Korra didn’t deny it. She just kept looking at her pups, at the way their little bodies rhythmically kneaded against her. For a few silent minutes, the only sounds were their feeding and the distant, wet pulse of the labyrinth. The absurd peace was palpable, a temporary armistice in the war of attrition the maze waged.
Seraphine sighed as her two pups finally detached, milk-drunk and sleepy. She carefully detached the satiated creatures, setting them on the bedroll where they immediately curled into a fleshy pile.
She watched as Korra’s own pups finally detached, their little bellies rounded, and the witch hunter’s head lolled back in utter exhaustion. “We’re a pair of pathetic milk fountains now, aren’t we?” Seraphine said, her voice slurred with a fatigue that went deeper than bone. Korra didn’t answer, already sliding sideways onto the bedroll, one arm curling instinctively around the pile of sleeping pups. Silva gave a final, assessing nod, then pushed herself up with a grunt, waddling past them toward the dark passage Becca had vanished into earlier. The last thing Korra and Seraphine heard was the imp’s determined shuffle fading into the labyrinth’s hum before a thick, dreamless sleep pulled them under.