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Quoted By: >>6371335
You wake up in a pile of bitches.
Last night got a little wild. Fridays always are. The Tantric Submersion Tanks you run for your manacite side hustle keep your conquests pent up and panting for decades at a time, so whenever you cycle out your batteries for bed-slaves their libidos just don't quit. Heat up the onsen and drop some spice and the only reason why you're not a shriveled up husk this morning is your elven blood, <span class="mu-i">engineered</span> through ten thousand millennia of high alchemy to be superior in every way.
Greater strength, greater speed, greater stamina, greater intellect, greater magic potential. You stand two heads taller than the tallest of their men, with a "sword" to put their entire species to shame and a bosom whose perfect size and shape made their women weep with envy. The very picture of elven perfection, as every Star Ranger ought to be.
The small legion of human bitches you keep aboard your tree-ship as maids, batteries, and bed-slaves were all supposedly the champions of their worlds. Proud lady knights, magical girls, saintesses, and sorceresses, none of them put up much of a challenge when your <span class="mu-i">Red Oak</span> pulled into orbit to harvest their world and bring them into the Aelvar Dominion. Now the lucky ones spend their days keeping your ship clean and their nights polishing your sword. The rest spend their days in near constant erotic torment so that their souls can contribute to the Dominion by producing a steady supply of manacite for your use and profit.
It's not like they'll ever rebel, either. Human souls are easy to manipulate, and you've engraved an indelible crest upon each of them that marks them as your property and makes them yearn for your command.
"Lady Sandra, your breakfast is ready." Your favorite maid breaks you from the thought of continuing last night's activities. Tall for a human, fair of skin and hair, and with tits half as big as yours, she took to her role in your service quite well as you conquered your first world. Plus, she looks good enough in the maid outfit that you don't waste her by putting her in a pod. "Additionally, you will want to know that First Prince Calamar has sent new orders for you over the ansible."
"Good morning Loulou. I take it the council found another garden?" you ask, already knowing the answer. You need to pull your sword out of some pink haired bitch's mouth as you rise from your bed.
"Just so, Lady Sandra," Loulou says. She helps you into your clothes and bats away some of the horny bitches who think they deserve to cling to you or try to whine for another round. There's a perverse pride she takes in batting them away, as she knows that you only tolerate that sort of behavior from her, as she's the most reliable slave you have. "It was not classified, so I took the liberty of reading through the prince's commands and preparing a summary for you."
Giving Loulou's butt a squeeze, you lead her to the dining hall and tell her, "Let's hear it."
Last night got a little wild. Fridays always are. The Tantric Submersion Tanks you run for your manacite side hustle keep your conquests pent up and panting for decades at a time, so whenever you cycle out your batteries for bed-slaves their libidos just don't quit. Heat up the onsen and drop some spice and the only reason why you're not a shriveled up husk this morning is your elven blood, <span class="mu-i">engineered</span> through ten thousand millennia of high alchemy to be superior in every way.
Greater strength, greater speed, greater stamina, greater intellect, greater magic potential. You stand two heads taller than the tallest of their men, with a "sword" to put their entire species to shame and a bosom whose perfect size and shape made their women weep with envy. The very picture of elven perfection, as every Star Ranger ought to be.
The small legion of human bitches you keep aboard your tree-ship as maids, batteries, and bed-slaves were all supposedly the champions of their worlds. Proud lady knights, magical girls, saintesses, and sorceresses, none of them put up much of a challenge when your <span class="mu-i">Red Oak</span> pulled into orbit to harvest their world and bring them into the Aelvar Dominion. Now the lucky ones spend their days keeping your ship clean and their nights polishing your sword. The rest spend their days in near constant erotic torment so that their souls can contribute to the Dominion by producing a steady supply of manacite for your use and profit.
It's not like they'll ever rebel, either. Human souls are easy to manipulate, and you've engraved an indelible crest upon each of them that marks them as your property and makes them yearn for your command.
"Lady Sandra, your breakfast is ready." Your favorite maid breaks you from the thought of continuing last night's activities. Tall for a human, fair of skin and hair, and with tits half as big as yours, she took to her role in your service quite well as you conquered your first world. Plus, she looks good enough in the maid outfit that you don't waste her by putting her in a pod. "Additionally, you will want to know that First Prince Calamar has sent new orders for you over the ansible."
"Good morning Loulou. I take it the council found another garden?" you ask, already knowing the answer. You need to pull your sword out of some pink haired bitch's mouth as you rise from your bed.
"Just so, Lady Sandra," Loulou says. She helps you into your clothes and bats away some of the horny bitches who think they deserve to cling to you or try to whine for another round. There's a perverse pride she takes in batting them away, as she knows that you only tolerate that sort of behavior from her, as she's the most reliable slave you have. "It was not classified, so I took the liberty of reading through the prince's commands and preparing a summary for you."
Giving Loulou's butt a squeeze, you lead her to the dining hall and tell her, "Let's hear it."
