The Ice Shell and the Rutting Flesh (Cognitive Dissonance)
The deepest part of the Northern Duchy. An underground dungeon in a secret villa known only to the direct bloodline of the ducal family.
Or rather, calling it a dungeon felt far too crude for such an excessively luxurious and grotesque space. The vast chamber was finished entirely in the finest marble. At its center lay an enormous, plush bed shaped like an altar—far larger and softer than anything a typical noble would sleep on. The air filling the room was warm and thick with a faint, sweet fragrance, enough to make the North’s brutal blizzards seem like a distant memory.
“……”
In the middle of that bed, Kyle lay spread-eagled, staring up at the ceiling. What bound his wrists and ankles weren’t crude iron chains. They were the radiant, transparent Ice Handcuffs that Ayla von Valerius, ruler of the North, had personally crafted by condensing her own mana.
The freezing ice mana should have pierced his skin like blades of frost, yet the infinite Essence of the Creator that endlessly poured from Kyle’s dantian completely neutralized that chill, leaving only a pleasant coolness in its wake.
It’s been exactly twenty-four hours since I dragged that fainting bitch from the abandoned mine and loaded her into the carriage.
Kyle’s lips twisted into a smirk. The mistress of this lavish cage had not shown herself for a full day. She was probably desperately trying to bury the horrific shame of tearing off her uniform in front of hundreds of subordinates, clinging to his crotch, and gushing her juices everywhere—fighting to regain her sanity.
Clack. Clack.
Then came the sound of military boots from beyond the thick iron door—measured, disciplined steps. The heavy, imposing gait of the North’s supreme ruler.
Creak—!
The heavy iron door swung open, and a merciless wave of icy aura flooded into the room.
“……”
Kyle turned his head to look at the woman standing in the doorway.
Ayla von Valerius.
The rutting beast who had crawled across the mine floor begging for his cum yesterday was nowhere to be seen. She was perfect. Her frost-like silver hair was neatly tied back without a single strand out of place. The deep navy Northern uniform clung to her body without a wrinkle. Most striking of all was her neckline. The buttons she had frantically ripped open yesterday were now fastened all the way to her chin, so tight they looked suffocating.
It was a desperate, ascetic defense mechanism screaming with her entire body: I am not the mindless bitch from yesterday.
“Your eyes are rather arrogant for a slave.”
The voice that slipped from Ayla’s lips was cold as ice. She looked down at Kyle with frost-laden blue eyes and approached the bed with an arrogant stride.
Crack!
The riding crop in her hand sliced through the air and struck the marble floor beside Kyle’s cheek. A threat. A shallow display meant to remind him that she was the absolute ruler of this space.
But Kyle didn’t even blink. Instead, his gaze meticulously dissected her—watching the faint tremble in her chest every time she swung the whip, and the way her lower body stiffened each time her thighs brushed together inside those uniform trousers.
How utterly pitiful.
A translucent system window floating at the edge of Kyle’s vision laid bare her miserable reality.
Her body was already screaming wildly in reaction to the thick male pheromones Kyle emitted. Though she pretended to be the flawless Duchess of Ice on the surface, beneath that uniform buttoned to her throat she was surely soaked in sweat like a steam bath. Especially the pussy that had been forcibly imprinted by a single drop of Kyle’s blood yesterday—it was probably gushing uncontrollably right now, simply from sharing the same space with him, drenching her uniform panties.
“Why no answer? Have you lost your tongue?”
Ayla stepped right up to the bed and looked down at him, chin raised. She was so close that her breath brushed his cheek. At that moment, an unmistakable scent flooded Kyle’s nose—the sweet, musky aroma of a female in heat, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.
“You were simply too beautiful, so I lost myself for a moment, Your Grace.”
Kyle spoke with mockingly polite language and smiled coldly. He rattled the ice handcuffs binding him and deliberately lowered his eyes in a show of obedience.
“Shut your mouth. Do not speak of my beauty with those filthy lips, insect.”
Ayla’s brow furrowed sharply. But Kyle saw it clearly—the instant his praise and low voice reached her ears, her thighs reflexively clenched inward with a twitch. She couldn’t control the way her hole was soaking messily inside her uniform trousers; she was secretly crossing her legs, desperately trying to reduce the friction.
Ayla forced herself to steady her breathing, then spoke in a cold, decisive tone as if delivering a verdict.
“What happened in the mine yesterday… was a temporary delirium caused by the North’s fierce cold combining with my Mana Depletion Syndrome.”
“Oh, is that so.”
“Yes. My brain suffered a momentary overload, and the unusual mana waves flowing from your body simply acted as an emergency painkiller. That’s all.”
She recited the script she had prepared in advance, unable to meet Kyle’s eyes directly. It was a tearful act of self-justification—wrapping up the disgrace of tearing off her uniform in front of hundreds of subordinates, clinging to a slave’s crotch, and squirting everywhere with fancy words like “delirium” and “emergency treatment.”
“Do not misunderstand, insect.”
Ayla roughly grabbed Kyle’s chin with strong fingers.
“You merely possess a peculiar constitution that can temporarily slow my Mana Depletion Syndrome. As the ruler of the North, I have a duty to protect my territory, and to do that, I must cure this illness.”
Her fingertips were trembling faintly. The moment her skin touched his bare flesh, the Essence of the Creator flowing through Kyle’s body surged into her like static electricity.
Zap—!
“Hng…!”
She had only grabbed his chin, yet a sharp nasal moan escaped Ayla’s lips. She hurriedly pulled her hand away and took a step back. Her face flushed red with shame and embarrassment, but she cleared her throat and forced her icy expression back into place.
“Th-this… is a legitimate and noble ‘treatment’ to extract your mana. It is absolutely not some vulgar act of mating like beasts. Do you understand?”
“Treatment, you say.”
Kyle rolled the word around in his mouth and gave a sardonic smile.
“And how exactly do you plan to carry out this noble treatment? To draw mana from my body, you’ll eventually have to drink my ‘fluids,’ won’t you?”
“Th-that’s…!”
Ayla’s pale cheeks burned bright red. The overwhelming pleasure of licking Kyle’s blood with her tongue yesterday and the scorching heat that had consumed her lower belly flashed through her mind.
She clenched her trembling fists tightly and lifted her chin in a forced display of arrogance.
“Keep your mouth shut and accept it obediently. I will extract your energy using the safest and most ‘non-contact’ method devised by the North’s mages.”
Ayla stretched her hand into the air. A chill mana began flowing from the ice handcuffs restraining Kyle’s limbs. The mana wove together like threads, pressing his pelvis and thighs perfectly against the bed and locking them in place. His lower body was now completely exposed and defenseless.
Ayla cautiously reached toward the waistband of Kyle’s slave trousers.
“J-just a moment—don’t move! I’m only opening the affected area… no, the source of the mana for treatment!”
The Duchess of the North, apparently stung by her own actions, offered excuses no one had asked for. Her slender fingers grasped the rough zipper of Kyle’s trousers.
Click. Ziiiip—.
The zipper slowly descended. Beyond the already-torn underwear, Kyle’s massive symbol was exposed to the cold air of the dungeon.
A ferocious, overwhelming pillar of flesh that far surpassed ordinary human proportions. The enormous thing, infused with the Essence of the Creator, had already reacted to Ayla’s pheromones. Veins bulged as if they might burst, and it stood rigidly erect.
“Hiiik…!”
Ayla gasped like someone who had seen a snake, her shoulders shaking. Her blue eyes were glued to Kyle’s gigantic cock, trembling with unease. Her mind screamed that she must despise this vulgar lump of meat, yet her womb and brain were madly rejoicing at the thick scent of mana pouring from that monstrous thing.
Gulp.
In the silent underground dungeon, the sound of Ayla swallowing dryly echoed like thunder.
“I-I will use my ice mana to apply physical pressure… and squeeze the mana from this filthy rod.”
Ayla gathered blue ice mana into her trembling hands. Unable to touch it with her bare skin, she converted the mana into a transparent block of ice, intending to envelop Kyle’s shaft. Her plan was to forcibly milk the slave’s cum using only the cold and pressure of ice—without laying a single finger on him.
“This… is nothing more than a sacrifice for the sake of the territory… I am simply enduring and accepting the energy of a filthy beast…”
Ayla muttered to herself as if casting a hypnotic spell. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled precariously down the collar of her uniform, which was buttoned all the way to her throat. Though her mouth spoke of disgust, her gaze was already fixed greedily on the transparent precum beading at the tip of Kyle’s rigid cock—the crystallized essence of mana.
Watching this pitiful and ridiculous farce from below, Kyle—perfectly bound to the bed with his lower body surrendered—curved his lips into a predator’s cold smile.
You’re going to milk me with ice? What a spectacular act of self-justification.
Kyle deliberately pushed a tiny amount of the infinite mana boiling in his dantian toward the tip of his cock.
Go ahead and try it, Duchess. The moment that ridiculous ice touches my cock, I can’t wait to see how your cunt screams and begs for my cum.
In the cold underground of the secret villa, the curtain was rising on the continent’s strongest woman’s first voluntary milking (training)—wrapped in the grand pretext of protecting the North.