Sofia’s hand was over her own mouth.

She didn’t remember putting it there.

The , automatic self-muffling of a person whose body has decided that whatever sound was about to come out should not.

’That’s—’

’That’s the ability.’

’Father’s ability.’

’He—’

’He used his—’

The clone behind her mother reached forward.

Found her nipple.

Pinched.

Not the gentle, incidental contact of a body in motion. The deliberate, ’working’ pinch of a man who knows what he’s doing — the full twist of it, pulling the nipple outward and rolling, the flesh between his fingers going white at the base —

Her mother’s body went rigid.

"AANG~!! MASSTER~!! TOO MUCH~!! MY CHEST IS~!!"

The clone in front, watching, leaned down.

His mouth finding the other nipple.

Not kissing.

’Biting.’

The , firm, ’territorial’ bite of a man who has decided something belongs to him — his teeth closing over the dark bud, his head pulling back slightly, the nipple stretching —

Her mother screamed into the cock filling her mouth.

"MMMPPHH~!! HNNGGH~!! NOOOO~!!"

Her hips — moving despite everything, the involuntary, terrible, ’body-has-its-own-opinions’ backward thrust of hips that have been conditioned to respond, pushing back against the clone behind her even while her voice was saying no.

The Count watching from his chair.

Not participating. Just — watching. The , assessing, director’s gaze of a man reviewing his own performance.

"Her tail is still resisting," he said.

Voice even. Clinical.

To nobody in particular. To all of himself simultaneously.

"Increase the depth."

The clone behind reached down.

His hand finding where her tail began — the scaled skin of her lower body where the mermaid anatomy transitioned from the human configuration above to the fish-scaled below, the , tight, ’alien’ texture of it under his fingers — and grabbed it.

Used it as leverage.

Pulled her back onto him.

The full, brutal, ’complete’ depth of the next thrust —

"AAANGHH~!! NOOOO~!! MASSSSTERRR~!! IT’S TOO DEEP~!! MY INSIDES~!! SOMETHING’S~!!"

PAH!

"HIIEEK~!! POUND MY PUSSY PLEASE~!! GIVE YOUR SUPERIOR GENETIC SEED~!!"

Her mother’s voice.

Not her mother’s voice.

The , conditioned, ’trained’ voice of a woman who has been here for weeks and whose body has learned to say things her mind didn’t write — the , terrible voice of someone whose vocabulary has been revised by someone else’s curriculum.

"TO THIS VULGAR SEMEN TOILET~!! OOOOK~!! OOOK~!!"

"MASTER~!! ALMOST THERE~!! I CAN TAKE MORE~!! MASTER~!!"

Sofia was shaking.

Her hands on the floor.

Both of them.

The , grounded, ’I need something solid’ grip of a person whose entire center has left its location.

Elena’s voice.

From outside. Warm. Delighted.

"Oh, your father worked hard on her vocabulary."

"The Guild charges extra for that level of conditioning. Did you know? The linguistic reprogramming. Getting a woman to say things she would never have said." A pause. "Your mother was apparently resistant at first. The notes say it took almost two weeks."

Sofia’s fingers cracked against the floor.

"Mm. But once it takes—"

On the bed, all four versions of her father came simultaneously.

The synchronized, ’single-minded’ completion of a man with four bodies reaching the same conclusion at the same moment — the thick, hot, ’immediate’ flood of all of them, the clone in her pussy, the clone she was stroking on the left, the one on the right, the one in her mouth —

Her mother’s body received all of it.

At once.

The overflow immediate — her pussy couldn’t hold the full volume, the excess running down her thighs and over the scales of her tail in thick, white streams. The cries muffled, then full, then muffled again as she coughed and choked and swallowed what the clone in her mouth had deposited.

She fell forward.

All four versions of her father stepping back simultaneously.

Her body hitting the sheets in the , ’total’ collapse of a woman who has been emptied of everything including the ability to support her own weight.

Her breasts against the mattress.

Leaking.

Both of them — the thin, continuous drip of milk running from her nipples onto the sheets below, her body responding to sustained stimulation with the , involuntary production of a system that had been triggered.

She was shaking.

The full-body, continuous, ’can’t-stop-it’ trembling of someone who has lost control of her own nervous system.

"Husband—" Her voice. Barely. The scraped, wrecked, raw thing that was left of it. "Please—"

The Count sat on the edge of the bed.

Looked at her.

At the pool of seed on the sheets. At the milk on the mattress. At the , comprehensive, ’detailed’ evidence of an hour of four men’s combined attention.

He reached for the small bottle on the bedside table.

The pill.

Another one.

He swallowed it.

Looked at his clones.

Two of them were already showing the strain — the , visible fatigue of extensions that are approaching the ability’s limit, their edges slightly less defined, their movements carrying the faint, ’translucent’ quality of constructs running low.

One faded.

Just — went. The , silent, non-dramatic disappearance of a clone that has used its allocated share of the ability.

Then the second.

Two left.

The Count looked at his hands.

At his cock, which the medication was already addressing.

At his wife on the bed.

Her mother looked at him.

The pale, silver-blue eyes — hollow now, the , ’interior-lights-dimming’ hollowness of a woman who has been here too many times and is running out of the resource that lets her be present for it.

"Please," she said.

Just that.

"Husband, please. A human cannot — your body cannot — if you keep using the medicine at this rate, your—"

"I want a child," he said.

His voice was flat. Not cruel. The , ’this is simply true’ flatness of a man who has made an arithmetic decision and is executing it.

"The others have low affinity. The bloodline assessments—" He looked at her. "Only you have the correct resonance. Only your blood can carry what I need carried."

Her mother’s eyes closed.

"—I understand," she said. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

The , ’foundation-gone’ understanding of a woman who has run out of arguments.

The remaining clone moved.

Found her head.

Pressed his cock against her lips.

She opened them.

"Mmmnn~—"

The Count moved behind her.

Found the tail. The , still-tight, scale-edged entrance of her pussy that four weeks of sustained attention had stretched considerably but which still gripped like something that had not fully consented to any of this.

He pushed in.

Her cry was muffled.

His hands finding her hips — the full grip of them, the , ’I am using this as a handle’ grip of a man who has moved past the pretense of tenderness —

PAH! PAH! PAH!

"HNGH~!! MMMPHH~!! PLEASE~!! SLOWER~!! HUSBAND~!! PLEASE~!!"

"Master~!! Almost~!! I can’t~!! My tail~!! I can’t feel my—"

She was crying.

The tears running from the corners of her eyes and falling forward, dropping from her chin onto the sheets, the continuous, unstoppable production of a woman who has stopped trying to stop them.

Her tail.

Sofia looked at it.

The mermaid tail — the beautiful, silver-scaled, ’her mother’s’ tail that Sofia had sat beside in the estate pool as a child while her mother laughed and told her about the deep ocean and the warmth of the currents —

Limp.

Hanging. Not moving with the instinctive, autonomous responses it should have been making, the scales not catching the light with the , ’alive’ shimmer of a mermaid’s healthy tail.

Just — hanging.

Dragged. The dead-weight drag of something that has lost sensation.

"I can’t feel my tail," her mother cried. "Husband, something is wrong, I cannot feel—"

He didn’t stop.

PAH! PAH!

"AAANGHH~!!"