Womb of the Unmaker

The interrogation room still stank of blood. Sour sweat, stale semen, and rust had fused until the smell sat thick and tacky on every breath.

Pain dragged Selena awake. The iron hook had flayed her back open, and the wound burned hot.

She lay naked on cold damp concrete, one cheek stuck to a crust of dried blood, a stranger’s stickiness still clinging to her inner thighs.

A single pale emergency light hummed in the corner, its beam carrying dust and gnats as it lit the way she sprawled, ass pushed up, everything between her legs laid out for inspection.

Less than a second after her mind cleared, a cold mechanical voice cracked open inside her skull.

System: Mother of Breeding system forcibly activated. Host: Fourth Cataclysm, Selena.

Novice Task: acquire at least 10 Breeding Value within two hours. Failure Penalty: biological tissue liquefaction, erasure.

Countdown: 01:59:47.

Red numbers seared straight into her optic nerve, and the countdown began to tick: 01:59:46, then 01:59:45. Each tick pulled her lower belly tighter, as if the number itself were pinching her womb.

Her eyes pinched shut, and the muscle of her groin clenched on instinct.

“Fuck...” The word shaped itself on lips gone raw, sandpaper dragged across her throat.

System. Transmigration.

Erasure.

She gave the three words three seconds. One second before, she had been a med student on twenty-first-century Earth, cramming through the night before an anatomy exam.

The next, she was naked on a cell floor with her back flayed open, dried filth caked at the root of her thighs, and a ghost thing in her skull counting down, telling her she had two hours to get semen. No dream.

The pain was too real. The system’s prompts were too clean.

Every word stabbed into her marrow and into nipples that stiffened in the cold air.

Bare, she forced herself to breathe. Inhaling pressed her chest to the floor, and her breasts swelled under the weight while her nipples scraped the rough concrete with a fine itch.

A med student. She was used to finding order in chaos.

But her body had woken before her mind did, her skin remembered every draft that brushed it, and the wetness seeping from her cleft told her the truth.

The med student in her ran the inventory the way she had once charted a patient. A wide torn wound ran down her back, edges flayed outward, deep muscle shredded, heavy blood loss.

Cuff marks ringed her hands and feet, the left wrist dislocated, at least two ribs cracked. She had been worked over at least one full round while unconscious; whoever did it had pinched her waist, knuckles sunk into the soft flesh at her side.

A cell. The stink came from a shit bucket in the corner and the dried blood pooled beneath her.

Past the iron bars ran a corridor, and in the distance a whip cracked while something moaned. Another scream tangled with a pant, impossible to say whether from pain or something else.

A concentration camp. She had transmigrated into one.

Countdown: 01:58:12.

The system’s second prompt arrived before she could gather her feelings.

Breeding Value Rules: host gains Breeding Value by having sex with a target. Higher target lust index and genetic quality yields greater gain per encounter.

Novice Guide: nearest viable target, cell guard. Distance: 3.6 meters.

Lust Index: low.

She lifted her head. Her neck arched, throat rolling, a thin film of sweat gathering in the hollow of her collarbone.

Beyond the bars, the guard dozed.

A Sirian. Just over two meters tall, thick-skinned, gray-green hide like lizard leather.

He leaned on an iron folding chair, whip hanging at his feet, breathing even, the bulge at his groin rising and falling with each breath. That posture said he read the bitches in the cell as no threat at all.

Her gaze ran from his face to his wrist, from his wrist to his boots, then stuck to his groin. His pupils reacted slowly to light, deep in sleep.

His left foot showed mild varicose veins and poor blood return, a brief lag when he stood. The fingers gripping the whip were callused, but the pads swollen.

Weak kidney, by the look of him. Even asleep, that gray-green organ swelled into a shape under his trousers, pulsing with every breath.

The med student’s instinct finished the assessment in three seconds. What made her own groin burn, though, was the system’s lust index: low.

Low, but not absent. As long as this race still wanted, there was room to work.

And her own young, naked, just-tortured body was the best bait there was.

Countdown: 01:57:30.

No time to hesitate. She bit her lower lip, used the pain to force out one last clear thought, and pushed herself up.

The back wound tore wider with the move; fresh blood ran down her spine and dripped onto the dried scab below. She made no sound, because crying out would have spent strength she needed for what came next, so she swallowed it the way she swallowed everything now.

The crawl was clumsy, but it worked. Propped on elbows and knees, she dragged herself toward the bars like a bug.

Her bare nipples scraped the floor and sent a fine numbness up through her, and each inch reopened the back wound. Her buttocks trembled wrong with the motion.

Three steps in, her forehead was already slick with cold sweat that slid from her temple to her jaw, then fell to her chest and pooled a cool line in her cleavage.

The cell bars had a gap, wide enough to push her face and hands through. Reaching with her hands would be useless, though.

What she needed was not her hands.

Her mind had already climbed out of her own body. The med student in her logged the facts with a clinician’s eye, cervix softening under forced arousal, the traitorous slick of her own wetness, pulse jumping at the base of her throat.

Fuck the system. Fuck the thing counting down inside her skull.

Her body was doing what a body did, and she hung somewhere above it, counting heartbeats, waiting for the Breeding Value to drop. Shame was a luxury she would earn later, when she was alive enough to feel it.

The guard slept deep. Selena pressed her face to the cold iron bars.

Her lips found, through the cloth, the bulge at his groin, gray-green fabric rough enough to numb them, yet the heat beneath seeped through the fibers and burned her mouth.

A med student, not a whore, and she would not lie to herself and call this degradation. Facing a death countdown, no ethical judgment outweighed the words stay alive, and her groin was already wet, her body far more honest than her reason.

The trouser button came loose. Metal coolness brushed her fingertips.

Her movements stayed clumsy, but light. Lightness was the only metric that mattered now: light enough that the guard wouldn’t notice, light enough that the glands woke before the brain.

She had guessed right, because Sirian physiology differed from human. Their organ was one solid muscle tube that beat on its own once filled, needing little stimulus.

Eyes closed, she opened her mouth and took it in. It was thick and hard, the gray-green skin giving off a rank heat that filled her mouth, the head leaking a salty slick fluid that brushed her palate.

Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to relax and let the pulsing flesh press deeper. The guard grunted in his sleep, and his hips thrust forward without thought.

His leg twitched; his eyelid fluttered. His mind was still in the fog, but his body was fully awake, the burning organ swelling fuller in her wet hot mouth, its veins pulsing against her tongue root.

That instinctive pleasure kept his eyes shut. Selena’s bet: the Sirian wouldn’t end a wet dream, and would never pass up a mouth that came to him.

Then a big rough hand slammed the back of her head down.

“Oh... fuck...”

The guard woke. His fingers dug into her hair, pain at the roots, and he looked down to see black hair stuck to his groin.

The next instant, instinct drove his hips forward; her throat was rammed. The gag reflex rose and she forced it down, the thick hard flesh ramming into her throat.

Tears squeezed from her eyes, but she made herself take it deeper, tongue circling the shaft, wrapping the pulsing tube airtight. Do not dodge.

Dodging meant giving up the last half chance.

One second. Five seconds.

Thirty seconds.

The guard’s panting grew ragged. The rank smell spread through the whole cell, mixed with the sweet rank of her own groin.

His hand left the back of her head and clamped her face; his hips began to pump in rhythm, each thrust grinding over her tongue root and throat, fluid running from the corner of her mouth and drawing a silver thread down her chin.

At the end, his legs went visibly soft. The filth poured in pulses into the depths of her throat, salty and thick.

The hand on the back of her head let go, and she turned aside and coughed. She coughed up blood from the bite inside her lip, mixed with the salty slick residue she hadn’t swallowed.

The system prompt exploded.

Breeding Value: +10. Novice Task: complete.

Basic Ability Unlocked: Basic Charm (passive). Effect: slightly raises initial favor and desire perception from the opposite sex.

Basic Repair: initiated. Detected Damage: back torn wound (third degree), left wrist dislocation, rib fracture (2), preshock from blood loss.

Repair Rate: 2x.