Side Story: The Banquet's Finale

The restraint device binding Gloria could be reshaped to a certain extent. From the classic pose with limbs splayed wide, it could shift into something ridiculous, like a posture for defecating.

The bindings holding Gloria slowly ascended to the highest point in the banquet hall. Her legs, spread just wide enough, were then wrenched straight out—one beyond the limit.

"Eeeeekaaaah!! Aaagh! Oooohhh!!"

Pleasure came second to pain, and pain second to shame. It crashed over her first.

"Behold, the asshole of this lewd noble sow!"

Gloria's anus had been ravaged to its deepest depths. Parasitic semen filled her sigmoid colon and rectum to bursting, making her guts writhe in spasms. Gurgle♡ Grrruuurl♡ Grrurl♡ The sounds of her intestines churning echoed through the hall. Wriggle♡ Squirm♡ Wriggle♡ Squirm♡ Even without touch or sight, Gloria could sense her own state. Overstimulation had her bowels alternating between loosening and clenching, desperately trying to expel the foreign filth, the waste.

"Haa...♡ Haaah...♡ N-No...♡ No way...♡"

Shit. Of all things, defecation...♡ A princess who should always be beautiful and elegant, reduced to shitting herself grotesquely before everyone?♡ Anything but that. Gloria shuddered violently.

She recalled the countless spells she'd mastered. —Should I use them? No, that's insane. I have to feel it all with my bare body.

"Gaaargh?!♡♡ Oooh♡ Don't scrape, don't scraaaape!!♡♡♡"

Intense pleasure and pain shattered her deliberations. The clown and attendants prodded her intestinal walls with long rods.

In this extreme ordeal, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Gloria clenched her teeth. She endured with ironclad willpower. Her guts squirmed. She poured every ounce into her abdominal and anal sphincters. Then, with a ppffft♡, the intestinal movements halted.

Jeers and mockery rained from the watching nobles. Gloria, who had farted thunderously before them all, gasped amid shame and agony. She'd held it back, but the itching and pain across her body, the throbbing in her clitoris—they lingered.

"What a foul stench. What did you eat?"

Gloria remembered her meal: packed with meat and stew. To maintain her figure and mana-rich body, she had to eat like a pig. Of course it reeked.

"Chances to witness a noblewoman's disgrace like this are rare. Take a good look now. These twitching anal folds."

The host—another clown in this farce—prodded her with the rod as he spoke. Gloria gritted her teeth and endured, but the piercings affixed to her body betrayed her emotions outright. No matter how composed she pretended, everyone saw she was a shameless pervert climaxing from public humiliation.

Thus began the anal appraisal session. They counted each wrinkle, critiquing relentlessly. Shape, number—every detail. They observed how the folds moved when her anus winked in arousal. Fine hairs, moles, patterns, texture, color—everything appraised.

Gloria had no choice but to listen. They had no idea they were judging the body of the renowned Gloria.

How many screams and stifled moans had she uttered? Her throat was raw.

"Uh...♡ Guh...♡ Guh...♡ Aaah...!! Oooh♡ Oooohk♡♡"

Enduring alone made each second stretch like a minute. After the anal inspection, they pumped her belly full of enema fluid, then sealed it with a massive anal bead to block expulsion.

"Grrrooooh!! Nyaaargh!!♡♡"

Gloria desperately clenched her sphincter, straining to dislodge the bead. With a mighty push, it popped out amid pop♡ pop♡ lewd sounds. Thanks to lifelong training, her cow-like frame unleashed surprising strength.

But that was her limit. The beads lodged deep in her rectum were enormous—beyond solo removal.

"Hahk! Ha! Haa♡ Haha♡ Haaah♡ Haaaah!♡"

Her mind was a wreck. The mask made her head stuffy, heavy with dizzying pain. Yet deep down, a Gloria yearned for more torment. This wasn't enough. She could still endure. Born with freakish endurance, pleasure and pain hit her equally—but her perspective on pain differed. Even now, straining her anus, her body itched, stung, burned. Like scraping hypersensitive skin with coarse sandpaper. Was her flesh peeling, her skin flaying? Armpits, pussy, everywhere reeked. Her fierce resistance ground her bones. Limbs and thighs strained to tearing. Sturdy thigh muscles pulled to the brink.

Dizzying agony, body-wide stimulation. Torture that could kill. Yet the banquet guests cared nothing for her survival. She was mere hors d'oeuvre. Dead? Fine. Alive? Play more.

Growing bored, perhaps, the host shifted questions: masturbation frequency, sexual preferences.

No reason to lie. Gloria answered honestly. Once a week, using magic dildos till her pussy and ass broke. Daydreams of public humiliation.

Thus, before all, she bared her shame. A high noble craving disgrace before commoners. A sacred kingdom's elite yearning for debauchery. That's why she offered her body now.

Her confessions ignited the hall. Whores scorned her; noblemen eyed her violently. Each word set her ablaze with shame. Was it pain or humiliation? Indistinguishable. But she felt alive this moment. No wealth or glory could rival it. Alive. Truly, vibrantly alive in this world.

"I... I'm♡ an utterly♡♡ hopeless maso sow♡♡ Born a noble, yet desperate to offer my tits and pussy and every inch♡ to be bred—impregnated, turned into an onahole, my brain drowned in cock-juice♡♡"

The lie-detecting magitool reacted not.

"I'm♡♡ I-I am♡♡────"

Instead of her name, she called herself sow onahole, debasing her dignity. Miserably♡ Utterly obscenely♡ The tool didn't judge sincerity—only lies.

"I'm a sow who craves defeat, mockery, submission above all—no, only thinks of that♡"

Her voice rasped, yet seduced. Defiled, Gloria shone gold—purest, whitest gold.

She trembled in utmost pain and shame. Anus gaping, twitching; pussy spasming. Body ruined by dildos and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠torments. Still beautiful.

She recalled the next acts. Whippings, orgasm torture. Games to push her further. She screamed inwardly, laughing. More. Torment me more♡ Break my mind. Make me believe I'm truly a sow. Force me to confess it all myself. More, more♡♡

Samiel, infiltrated as a participant, sighed at Gloria. Half a day into the banquet, Gloria lay abandoned, fitted with sex toys. Even depraved nobles needed breaks.

But not Gloria. Post-sow declaration, hours of torments and games. Piercings gauged her pain and pleasure; they tortured the exquisite balance. Ass, pussy, tits, armpits, collarbones—every feminine treasure scourged. Save her face, all exposed.

Sexual weaknesses, tastes, ideals, first masturbation. All shames bared, name aside. Wrinkle counts. Labia shapes. Anal folds. Moles. Pubic hairs.

She was stripped bare. Yet not over.

Chastity belt for sex torture clamped her; mouth gagged. Nobles laughed, fucked whores, watched her convulse in agony.

Torture no normal woman—or creature—could survive. Yet nobles inflicted it casually, unperturbed by her endurance. This banquet deviated from norm.

Samiel had scripted Gloria's ultimate ruin and despair. Her life to plummet utterly. Per their contract.

Thus, Samiel secretly revised the script. Revived a discarded lie-detecting torture device. Slipped aphrodisiacs into food. Even the hall's perfume.

All stagecraft for savoring Gloria.

Samiel sipped wine, herself aroused, sinking into perversion. Gazing at Gloria anew—from shadows, fingering her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pussy lightly.

Samiel was a woman too. That horrific sight stirred her. But she didn't want that. Not to become such a pathetic, sex-ruled wretch.

Gloria could escape anytime—yet reveled. Royal blood. Goddess-descended genius. Kingdom's mana pinnacle. Her flesh, divine magic incarnate. Mana unblockable. Spellcasting breath effortless.

Yet she stayed. Craved exposure. Life's end, utter fall.

Preparing safeties despite that. Samiel huffed aroused breaths. Stimulating clit and folds, she climaxed with Gloria. Wiping slick hands, she murmured unheard:

"...Lady Gloria. Your identity mustn't be revealed yet."

Not yet. She must become supreme sage-king and worst tyrant before all. Supreme bitch, sub-sewer meat-toilet. Punished worst. Name befouled in history.

Their contract.

Samiel swallowed noble fare, watching. Now, tattooing Gloria's womb: indelible sow-sexslave mark.

"Please be satisfied with this tonight."

Samiel eyed the window. Dawn lit streets, silently ending the banquet.