Yuna arrived.

From somewhere in the palace, she had been there for the duration, and she moved to him with the quiet coordination of someone who knows their role and fills it without requiring direction — kneeling at his feet, her red latex suit having developed, at some point in his absence, a helpful opening at the front that she had clearly prepared.

Her mouth found him.

He settled.

His cock hardening under her attention as he watched the garden.

Akane arrived beside the throne.

Not beside — on, straddling him with the round belly between them, her nine tails arranged behind her, her gown open, her warmth lowering onto his cock with the deliberate ease of a woman who has done this enough times to know exactly what works for her and intends to apply it.

Her breath caught on the way down.

"Nnh~—"

Her golden eyes finding his face.

His hand on her belly, feeling the warmth of the child within.

She began to move.

Slowly.

The way a woman moves when she is not performing — the genuine rhythm, the rise and fall that serves her, the small sounds that came from the back of her throat with every return.

The elf arrived on his left.

Pressed against his arm, her thick body warm against him, her green eyes on the garden floor where Chulteka was being — organized.

Her hand found his.

He let her keep it.

The garden floor:

Chulteka, secured.

Both wrists in the chains that ran to anchor points in the stone. Her legs spread, the same chains, her ankles fixed to rings set in the path’s edge so that her knees were bent and her thighs open and the full exposure of her between them was unavoidable from any angle.

Her back against the log post.

The ridge of it running along her spine, the narrow top pressing between her shoulder blades, her ass against the lower section — not sitting, pressed, the edge of the post finding the cleft of her and her pussy resting against the rounded surface with a contact she could not shift away from.

The first Amazonian woman crouched in front of her.

Looked at what she was working with.

Looked back at the throne for the single beat of confirmation.

He was watching.

His hand on Akane’s hip as she moved above him. His cock buried in the nine-tailed woman’s warmth. Yuna’s mouth no longer needed, having been replaced by gravity and Akane’s decision-making.

He nodded.

The hook was small.

Cultivator-grade silver, thin, the curve of it precise.

The Amazonian woman parted Chulteka’s pussy lips with two fingers — her hairy cunt, still carrying the dried evidence of Arvij’s earlier attention, the inner folds flushed and sensitive and already responding to the exposure with the involuntary biology of a body that didn’t distinguish between wanted and unwanted stimulation.

She found the clit.

Pressed the hook.

"WHAT — DON’T — YOU—"

The hook went through the hood.

Small.

Silver.

A thread attached to it, and the thread’s other end attached to a ring set in the post above her head — taut enough to pull, not to tear, the cultivator-grade silver conducting a constant low-level tug that kept the clit exposed, kept the nerve cluster engaged, kept the stimulation running at a level that her body processed as on and could not process as anything else.

"BASTARD — TAKE IT OUT — I WILL—"

"Mhnn~."

The Amazonian woman, satisfied with her work, sat back.

The second came from behind.

The catkin queen — crimson-grey hair loose now, her collar catching light as she moved — circled the post, found Chulteka’s back, and placed both hands on her hips.

She pressed.

Just — pressed the hips forward, driving Chulteka’s pussy against the post’s ridge with a grinding motion that the hook above translated immediately into a jolt of stimulation that Chulteka’s body received and reported at full volume.

"HNNGH—!!"

"Quiet," the queen said.

And pressed again.

PAH.

A Amazonian woman’s open hand, finding Chulteka’s left breast.

Not a slap — a strike, the flat palm landing across the full weight of it with a sound that rang through the garden, the breast bouncing hard to the right and swinging back.

"HAAHH—!!"

The nipple, which had been stiff from the combination of cool garden air and the hook’s constant work, went redder.

The Amazonian woman studied it.

Struck the other one.

PAH.

"AAAHH—!!"

Both breasts swinging, jiggling, the dark skin going hot and red across the face of each where the strikes had landed, Chulteka pulling against the wrist chains with the full force of a three-century cultivator finding them immovable.

The second catkin queen arrived at her feet.

Sat.

Placed both her thumbs at Chulteka’s inner thighs, just below the junction, and pressed inward — a sustained pressure that drove against the nerve cluster where the thigh met the groin, the place where stimulation ran directly into the clit’s root, and held.

And held.

And held.

Chulteka’s jaw was working.

Her pride — three centuries of it, four continents of it, the accumulated self-image of something that had emptied cultivation sites and eaten souls and stood over weaker things — was running at full capacity against the biological reality of what was being done to her.

Biology was winning.

"Stop — stop — this is—I’m not—"

The queen behind her pressed her hips forward against the post again.

The hook pulled.

"NNNGH~!!"

He watched.

Akane’s warmth around him, rising and falling in her slow genuine rhythm. Her tail brushing his thigh on the downstroke.

"Mnh~—"

He watched the garden.

Chulteka’s breasts, red from the Amazonian woman’s work, jiggling with every press of her hips against the post.

The hook catching the garden light on every tug.

Her thighs straining in the chains.

The third catkin queen approached from the left.

She had something in her hand.

A thin rod — not metal, carved cultivation wood, the kind that carried qi vibration when flexed, that delivered sensation through the wood’s resonance rather than through direct force.

She found the inside of Chulteka’s thigh.

Struck.

Crack.

"HIEKK~!!"