"You've spoiled me, you know," she coos, savoring the feel of Esme's body, touching her everywhere with hands and tentacles and lips. "No other sexy kidnap victim can compare. I'll just have to keep you forever, now, destroying and rebuilding you again and again."

The corrosive ink burns hotter inside her now. the pain is overwhelming, organs melting away to a delicious soup inside her, before being absorbed by the ink and then regrown again. It gets a little hard to breathe, now and then, as the ink splashes against her lungs and eats away at them.

And all the while, Sable's thick tentacles pound into her body, stretching her out and filling her up blissfully. The aphrodisiac only sensitizes her further, pushing her pleasure and pain to new heights.

"Mine forever. No escape from the sexy horrors, here to be broken by my consumptive touch over and over."

When the ink damages her lungs, she shudders, captivated by the sensation of her breath getting shorter and shorter—

—and then it passes, and she realizes what that means.

Oh, fuck, that's good.

She pictures it, Sable's tentacles squirming inside her, passing through bones and organs that dissolve at their touch and reform in their wake. What a profound kind of power that is, visceral and immediate, inescapable, inevitable. Sable could keep her here indefinitely, fucking her and consuming her and playing with her, making her more and more sensitive to it all, and there would be no escape even in death, not until Sable allowed it. She is an utterly helpless plaything.

...maybe this is greedy of her, but she wants to be here for a long time. She wants to be shown just how helpless she is. She wants Sable to spend all day enjoying her, sipping away her insides drop by drop and healing them back into place, fucking her and playing with her senses so the pleasure and the pain only ever get more intense. She wants to be fucked absolutely senseless.

Sable certainly doesn't plan to stop anytime in the next several hours, at least. 

One tentacle plunges through the melted remains of Esme's womb, another liquifies bits of her intestines as it fucks her ass, every thrust coiling them through and around her organs, melting and healing her from within. The third tentacle, pounding into her throat, occasionally flexes and presses out of her esophagus, into her lungs and heart and ribs, stealing her breath or making her light-headed for moments at a time. Her body truly is Sable's plaything and meal, slowly drank and repaired over and over, gradually pouring more of the delicious, blissful nutrition and power of Esme's body into Sable.

She moans and shudders as she caresses Esme's writhing form, letting her aura out again, soaking up the blissful feelings and pressing herself adoringly against Esme.

The worshipful haze that melts her mind along with her body is the final ingredient in utter perfection. Sable is the center of her thoughts and the anchor of her soul. There is nothing in her but Sable. Her mistress, her goddess, her beloved owner. Nothing matters except the need to please her, to feed her, to belong to her, to worship her—and what a perfect act of worship this is.