The mushroom beast suckled on Tahlea’s finger, eliciting a moan of involuntary pleasure in response. Dink reached her side, attempting to pry her finger from the monster’s mouth. Subtle light was gathering beneath the skin of her hand. Dink succeeded in extracting her finger, but not before the worst could happen. Her accumulated mana rushed into the Myconid’s mouth.

It burped in satisfaction as Tahlea became unsteady. She blinked in confusion, placing her hand against her brow. Immediately after, she fainted on her feet collapsing backward. Dink caught her before she hit the floor. The iron cage clattered under the counter, disturbing the creature inside. Tahlea sprawled gracefully across his lap, her face looked peaceful.

“Tahlea, wake up! Are you okay?” Dink exclaimed.

He urgently shook her in an attempt to wake her, oblivious to the pink spores rising through the room. His focus was interrupted by something impacting his back, knocking him to the floor. Turning over, he encountered Martha looming over him with her broom poised to strike.

Fuck, I should have anticipated this. The spores have gotten to Martha. I can feel them starting to affect me too. What did it do to Tahlea? I never collapsed when it consumed my mana. Is it something to do with my draconic bloodline?

Dink rolled to the side just in time. The broom hit the floor where he had been laying moments earlier. Before he could react, Martha tossed aside her broom and leapt atop him. She tore open her shirt to expose her generously endowed chest. Grabbing him by the head, she smothered him in her breasts.

Dink floundered against her grip in an attempt to breathe. In the struggle, he desperately nipped her exposed areola. She yelped and pulled back long enough for him to briefly gulp in a mouthful of air. He felt his draconic bloodline beginning to stir after inhaling a mouthful of spores.

Shit, what if my bloodline attracts the wurm? I don’t know how an instinctive lesser dragon is going to react to the aura of a true dragon. I might just turn myself into a beacon to be devoured.

Between struggling for breaths, he gripped the nearby table leg for support. His face was smashed sideways into the floor by Martha’s large chest. Peeking between her breasts, he could see minuscule black scales starting to form over his skin. Panic rising at the prospect of becoming the wurm’s dinner, Dink drew on his bloodline for added strength. He gripped hold of her plump ass to haul himself from the floor.

Martha yelped in delight as she felt herself being slowly lifted from the floor at his display of herculean might. She submerged Dink in a sea of kisses, wrapping her legs firmly around his waist. Dink heard approaching voices coming from the common room. Strength was surging through him as he fought to suppress his raging mana.

Oh, no. I can’t let them in. If they’re exposed to the spores, there will be absolute chaos.

Dink rushed to the door, comically carrying the woman twice his size across the room. He bumped into tables and stools, scattering furniture and cooking utensils in his wake. He let out a sigh of relief once he felt his back pressed securely against the kitchen door. The respite was short-lived, Martha began tugging at his trousers, exposing his stiff manhood. She quickly began hoisting her skirts.

“Dammit, woman. Not now!” Dink exclaimed, wrestling with her hands to keep her skirts down.

Dink was rocked forward by an impact on the other side of the door. He relied on his bloodline strength to force it closed. Immediately after, a second impact jolted him into Martha. She gasped in pleasure as he inadvertently slipped inside. The surprise of entering between her thighs, caused Dink to become momentarily distracted. More bodies joined in to batter against the door, knocking Dink stumbling forward. They slammed into a nearby countertop.

Dink looked like a toy in comparison as she was flung backward by the impact. Gasping loudly, she maintained her grip like a wild rodeo. People burst into the kitchen, throwing the door from its hinges.

“Martha! I’m going to kill you for putting your hands on her, beast!” A man practically shrieked, his voice rising an octave. It was the large miner eating chicken at the table on the way in.

“She assaulted me!” Dink retorted. To emphasise his words, she moaned in pleasure, lost under the effects of bestial lust.

“Ugh, liar! Not my sweet Martha. What have you done to her?” The miner hysterically shouted, snatching a meat cleaver from a nearby hook.

He lunged forward, entering the imperceptible spore field. His distraught posture quickly turned murderous. Dink was waging an internal battle with himself to suppress his draconic aura from spreading.

For fuck sake, the spores make people either want to fuck or fight me. How am I supposed to deal with this? I can’t get Martha off me without hurting her. And I can’t loosen control of my aura or this could get much, MUCH worse.

The scales had retracted back into his skin but were struggling to emerge. The miner recklessly charged across the room, blinding the meat cleaver toward Martha’s head. Mentally cursing, Dink swiped up the nearby frying pan to block, swooping Martha out of the way. The sound of metal on metal rang out as Dink danced around the room parrying blows with the pan, Martha eliciting moans of pleasure after every impact.

Dink scooped up a rack of dirty dishes, hurling them across the room. Plates smashed against the walls and furniture as Martha’s chest and erratic movements threw off his aim. She suddenly slumped against him, completely spent after reaching climax. He was finally able to pry her from his hips as her legs quivered non-stop, allowing him to focus on staying alive.

The spores were dispersing, Dink could feel his draconic bloodline settling. Relieved, Dink spun to confront his opponent. The miner savagely swung the meat cleaver at his neck. Instead of retreating, Dink tilted his body at an impossible angle to step underneath. He mercilessly swung the pan upward into the miner’s groin as he passed. The man crumpled to his knees clutching his testicles, dropping the cleaver with a whimper.