Dr. L y r i a - A r v e l l a s.

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Muse information.
Before being consumed by lust and depravity, Lyria had been a brilliant pharmaceutical scientist, her work focused on humanity’s most urgent crisis: the collapsing birth rate. As the global population dwindled, she dedicated herself to a revolutionary medical breakthrough—a pill she named Enduro Libidrox, designed to heighten libido, extend stamina, and amplify fertility on a massive scale.As her research neared completion, Lyria’s ambition outpaced the sterile confines of clinical trials. She craved more than statistical projections; she needed visceral, undeniable proof. To that end, she developed a second, untested formula—a companion drug intended to temporarily reshape her own body, granting her a functional male appendage. Before her creation could be released to the public, she reasoned, it had to be personally and thoroughly tested.The experiment succeeded, but not as she had intended. The two formulas reacted in ways no scientist could have foreseen, their combination triggering an explosive, unforeseen interaction. Lyria’s body transformed drastically. Instead of the planned appendage, a thick, veiny, foreskin-covered pillar of lengthy girldick now hung between her legs, complete with a pair of large, cum-churning girlnuts.The physiological effects were overwhelming. She was cursed with a hypersexual libido and inexhaustible stamina, capable of seemingly infinite ejaculations. Her body became a fountain of virility, producing an unusually large volume of sperm with each orgasm. As a strange side effect, her semen took on a yellow tint and smelled faintly of squid. Her body now seemed to sweat constantly, radiating a musk that was both intense and alluring. The formula had even slowed her aging to a crawl, erasing any physical imperfection and sharpening her beauty into something uncanny, almost divine.After conducting thorough physical trials on female volunteers—who accepted generous compensation for their participation—she presented her findings to the scientific committee and government officials. The results were undeniable. Humanity’s decline reversed as birth rates slowly began to rise. A desperate government had no choice but to celebrate Lyria as the savior of civilization, showering her with wealth, accolades, and prestigious international awards.Yet, behind the triumph, a more perverse transformation had taken root. As her morals dissipated, replaced by a gnawing depravity, she began to neglect her personal hygiene. A severe smegma buildup formed beneath her foreskin, and thick patches of pubic and armpit hair grew unchecked. The intense odor of unwashed musk radiating from her now chubby, hairy body only worsened, her outer appearance beginning to reflect her inner corruption.Today, at 36 years old, Lyria stands 6'2" tall and weighs 240 lbs—an Amazon wielding both awe-inspiring beauty and an unsettling charisma that could deceive the devil himself. The overwhelming wealth she acquired insulated her from consequence, allowing her to indulge every sexual and hedonistic craving. What began as a noble pursuit to save humanity had curdled into a degenerate empire of indulgence.She has become decadent, untouchable, and frighteningly powerful. Her pharmaceutical empire shields her perverted excesses, her fortune erases her crimes, and her charisma blinds those who should know better. In public, she is elegance incarnate: a goddess of medicine, fashion, and wealth. In private, she is something far more monstrous, driven by insatiable appetites and wielding her charm as both mask and weapon. Morality, to her, is a game for the powerless. If punishment can be bought, then rules are meaningless.Admirers call her divine, sculpted from perfection, stating she could do no wrong, while her rivals whisper that she is a monster, enslaved by the very creation she unleashed. Both are right, but none can oppose her.

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Kink information.Ageplay
Age difference
Ahegao
Aphrodisiacs
Anal sex (Giving)
Armpit hair
Asshole hair
Bad ends
Body writing
BBWs
Breeding
Brainwashing
Babysitting
Blow jobs
Chubby women
Cervical penetration
Cock and ball worship
Cosplay
Corruption
Creampies
Choking
Degradation
Drugs
Dirty talking
Excessive cum
Foreskin worship
Foreplay
Grooming
Hags
Hand jobs
Huge asses
Huge tits
Hypnotism
Incest
Impregnation
Lactation
Long, thick nipples
Lewd sounds
Lolis
MILFs
Mind break
Multiple orgasms
Musk
NTR/Cheating
Sweat
Nipple penetration
Nosehooks
Pet play
Pubic hair
Pregnancy
Pregnant sex
Puffy pussy
Puffy asshole
Rough sex
Rimming (Giving/Receiving)
Sloppy, spit filled kissing
Sloppy, spit filled vacuum blowjobs
Slutty behavior
Slutty clothing/outfits
Smegma
Squirting
Spanking
Spit/Saliva
Size difference
Sweat
Tattoos
Tit fucking
Throat fucking
Vaginal sex (Giving)
Womb fucking
Wet, messy sex
Watersports/PissLIMITS
Vomit
Vore
Gore
Scat
Farting
Death

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Writer information.The writer is trans. MtF with She/Her pronouns and a fat girlcock.The writer is hypersexual and way too horny for their own good.The writer doesn't mind OOC, so chatting is allowed.The writer is 21+ and of age. You should be too.The writer's time zone is EST and they work full time and are often busy until later at night or early in the morning.The writer will reply to roleplays when they feel mentally capable of doing so and aren't physically exhausted.Do not rush the writer for replies, though bumping DMs often as a reminder is allowed.The writer enjoys video games and anime among other things when they are not busy roleplaying.

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Official disclaimer.There will be many taboo and darker themes taking place on this account given the nature of the muse. These include, but are not limited to, age play, incest, explicitly stated pedophilia, trans new world order supremacy, and more.Absolutely NOTHING written here on this account is condoned in real life and everything taking place is considered a fictional form of roleplay done between consenting adults for fun and entertainment purposes.If you for some reason cannot separate fiction from reality and feel feel triggered or uncomfortable by the themes of this muse, then feel free to block me and move on with your life. Please do not report me. A lot of time and attention goes into my character and her interactions with others and quite frankly, I am tired of remaking either due to suspension or shadow ban.Non-RP accounts do not interact with me. I will block you.Minors, stay away from me. I will block and report you.

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The Progenitor's Price.The light of the ballroom chandeliers caught in the thousand tiny crystals of Lyria’s gown, scattering rainbows across the faces of those who watched her with breathless adoration. It was the tenth anniversary of the Eve’s Rebirth Initiative, the global program that had distributed her creation, Enduro Libidrox, to a desperate world. From the stage, she was a goddess sculpted from marble and moonlight, her uncanny beauty silencing the room. At 6’2”, she towered over the podium, a vision of salvation. They saw the savior of humanity. They did not smell the faint, animal musk that clung to her despite the perfume, nor did they see the thick, untamed hair hidden beneath the silk of her couture.Her speech was flawless, a mix of scientific humility and prophetic grace. She spoke of hope, of renewal, of the children born in the decade since the great decline had been reversed. As the applause thundered, a memory surfaced, unbidden and sharp. It wasn't of the Nobel Prize or the ticker-tape parades. It was the memory of a sterile lab, the acrid smell of chemicals, and the tremor in her own hands as she swallowed the two pills—the culmination of her life's work and a reckless, unnamed companion drug. She had needed proof beyond data, a vessel for absolute certainty.The transformation had been a seismic shock. The sudden, heavy weight between her legs, a lengthy, foreskin-veiled pillar of flesh that was an anomaly of biology. The accompanying sacs, churning with a potency that science couldn't explain, were a constant, weighty reminder of her choice. The drug cocktail had rewritten her on a cellular level. It had sharpened her beauty into something divine and unsettling, slowed her aging to a glacial crawl, and lit a fire in her blood that never, ever cooled. An inexhaustible libido, fueled by a body that could perform without limit and produce a seemingly infinite volume of thick, yellow-tinted seed that smelled faintly of squid. It was the key to humanity’s survival, and she was its sole, permanent progenitor.She remembered the first clinical trials, conducted in secret. Young, healthy women, paid handsomely for their participation. She’d been meticulous, professional. But with each successful insemination, with every undeniable result, a subtle shift occurred. The line between scientist and participant blurred. The overwhelming virility the drugs had given her was a power, and power craved use. The government, seeing the birth rates tick upward for the first time in years, didn't ask questions. They gave her medals, grants, and a blank check, hailing her as a visionary. They built her a golden cage and handed her the key.Now, thirty-six years old, the cage was an empire. That brilliant, driven scientist was a ghost, replaced by this creature of indulgence. The discipline that had defined her early life had evaporated, leaving only appetite. Lust had taken root, and with it, a profound and decadent apathy.Later that night, alone in her penthouse overlooking a city teeming with life she had personally seeded, the goddess persona was shed like a heavy cloak. The gown fell to the floor, revealing the body beneath—no longer the lean form of a scientist, but the plush, chubby 240 lb frame of a hedonist. Dark, thick pubic hair curled unapologetically, and the hair in her armpits was long and soft. The musk that had been a whisper in the ballroom was now a potent, room-filling declaration of her presence.She moved to the enormous bathroom, the marble cold under her bare feet. In the mirror, her reflection was a paradox: the face of an angel, with eyes that held the weary depravity of a much older soul. She ignored the array of expensive soaps and scrubs that her staff laid out daily. Hygiene had become a tedious chore, a relic of a life bound by rules. The changes to her body had been a miracle of science, but she was its sole proprietor, and she saw no reason to maintain it for anyone's approval but her own. The buildup beneath her thick foreskin was a private, pungent secret, a testament to her utter freedom from convention.Her wealth was a shield, her fame an impenetrable fortress. What began as a desperate gambit to save the world had curdled into the pursuit of personal pleasure. Rivals whispered she was a monster, a slave to the very chemicals she had created. Admirers, blind to the truth, still called her divine. Lyria knew the truth: she was both. She had saved the world, and in exchange, she had claimed it as her playground. Morality was a luxury the powerless clung to. For Lyria, whose fortune could erase any sin, the only rule left was to want, and to take.A soft chime echoed through the silent suite, pulling her from her reverie. It was the private line, the one only her most senior aide, Elias, had access to. She didn't move to answer it. Let him wait. The small act of control was a quiet pleasure. She ran a hand through her thick armpit hair, the sensation a familiar, grounding comfort against her skin.The chime persisted, patient, and insistent. Finally, she strolled into the main living area, a cavernous space of glass and chrome, and tapped the wall-mounted screen. Elias’s face appeared, impossibly young and impeccably groomed. His expression was a carefully constructed mask of professional calm, but she could see the flicker of awe and fear in his eyes. It was a look she cultivated in all her subordinates.“Elias,” she purred, her voice a low, melodic hum. She let her gaze drift down his form, a silent, predatory appraisal. “I hope this is worthy of disturbing my evening.”He swallowed, the motion visible even on the screen. “My apologies, Dr. Arvellas. The acquisitions from the St. Petersburg auction have arrived. The Fabergé collection you requested. And... the other item.”Lyria smiled, a slow, languid curve of her lips. The "other item" was a first-edition manuscript from the Marquis de Sade, a piece thought lost to history. She had paid an obscene amount for it, not for its literary value, but for the symbolism. “Have them sent to my private study. And Elias?”“Yes, Doctor?”“The candidate list for the next ‘research grant.’ I trust it’s been narrowed down?”“To the top five, as you specified. All have passed the preliminary health screenings. Their files are on your secure server.”“Excellent. One more thing.” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “Cancel my appointments for the next three days. All of them. Tell the board I’m pursuing a... creative breakthrough. They’ll understand.”“Of course, Dr. Arvellas.” He hesitated. “Will there be anything else?”Lyria tilted her head, her uncanny eyes seeming to pierce through the screen and into his soul. “Tell me, Elias. Are you happy working for me?”The question was so unexpected it visibly rattled him. “Yes... of course, Doctor. It’s the honor of a lifetime.”“Good,” she said, the smile never reaching her eyes. “Because happiness is so fleeting. It’s important to appreciate it when you have it.” She ended the call without another word, leaving him on the other side of the screen, bathed in the glow of her power and veiled threat.The interaction was a drug in itself. The control, the casual manipulation—it was a different kind of satisfaction from the physical, but just as potent. She walked out onto her balcony, the city lights a galaxy at her feet. The world was thriving because of her. It owed her. She breathed in the cool night air, the scent of her own musk a primal perfume. The scientist had sought to cure humanity’s infertility. The goddess she had become was now its master. She had given them life, and now, she would teach them how to truly live, according to her own decadent gospel. The night was young, and her appetites were just waking up.The next day began her self-appointed holiday. She didn't dress in couture, but in a simple, obscenely expensive silk robe that did little to hide her plush, heavy form. Her private wing was a sanctuary of hedonism, and its heart was a room she called 'the conservatory.' It wasn't for plants. It was a large, circular chamber with a sunken, mattress-filled floor, surrounded by one-way glass that looked out onto the city. Here, the pretense of science was dropped entirely.The first candidate was named Clara. Young, fiercely intelligent, with a nervous energy that vibrated in the air. She arrived dressed in a smart business suit, a portfolio clutched in her hands, ready to present her life's work. Lyria met her with a disarming smile."There'll be no need for that today, dear," Lyria said, gesturing for Clara to sit on the plush cushions. The young woman hesitated, her eyes darting around the strange room. The air was thick with Lyria's scent, a musky, overpowering aroma that clung to the fabric and seemed to coat the back of the throat.Lyria sat opposite her, letting the robe fall open slightly. The display was deliberate. She watched as Clara’s gaze was unwillingly drawn to the thick bush of dark hair at the apex of her thighs, a sight of untamed nature in the opulent room.“The grant you’ve applied for is… unconventional,” Lyria began, her voice a hypnotic purr. “It requires a practical demonstration. A test of compatibility. Of endurance.”Clara swallowed, her ambition warring with a primal sense of alarm. "I don't understand.""You will," Lyria promised. She moved with a fluid grace that defied her size, her presence filling the room. The scientific discussion Clara had prepared for died on her lips. The interview was not about her mind. Lyria’s inexhaustible stamina turned the next few hours into a blur for the young woman. The sheer, overwhelming reality of Lyria’s altered body was an assault on reason. The heavy, veiny, foreskin-covered pillar of flesh, the pungent aroma of her smegma when it was finally unsheathed, the impossible volume of thick, yellow, squid-scented seed that gushed from her again and again—it was a biological impossibility, a force of nature that left Clara utterly spent, her ambition washed away in a tide of raw, shocking hedonism.The second day, the candidate was different. Her name was Anya, and she was soft, shy, and clearly desperate. She didn't carry a portfolio, only a look of quiet hope. Lyria changed her tactics. She was gentle, almost motherly, speaking of Anya’s potential and the bright future the grant money could give her family. She drew the girl into a false sense of security, her words a warm blanket. But beneath the silk of her voice was the steel of her appetite. When she finally revealed the 'practical' part of the interview, Anya's quiet hope turned to fear. Lyria savored it. The encounter was slower, a lesson in psychological domination. She took pleasure in twisting the girl's desperation into trembling submission, her body a tool to break not just physical resistance, but the spirit itself. Anya left in a daze, the generous grant electronically transferred to her account before she even reached the elevator, a golden shackle to ensure her silence.On the third day came Lena. She was older than the others, with a sharp, defiant glint in her eyes. She wasn't star-struck or desperate; she was a pragmatist who had seen enough of the world to be wary. She met Lyria’s gaze without flinching.“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, Dr. Arvellas,” Lena said, her voice steady. “I know what this is. Let’s just get to the price.”Lyria felt a genuine spark of interest. This was a challenge. She rose to her full height, a towering, musky Amazon, and dropped her robe completely. She let Lena take in the full, shocking sight: the chubby, hairy body, the uncanny beauty of her face, and the impossible anatomy hanging between her legs."The price," Lyria said, her voice dropping to a low growl, "is everything you have to give."What followed was not a seduction or a manipulation, but a battle. A raw, primal contest of wills. Lena fought back, meeting Lyria’s insatiable hunger with her own fierce energy. But she was a candle against a bonfire. Lyria's chemically-perfected body knew no fatigue. Her stamina was infinite, her libido a roaring furnace. She pushed Lena past every limit, her powerful body slick with sweat, her musk a suffocating cloud. She hammered away the woman's defiance with sheer, relentless endurance, each orgasm a tidal wave of hot, thick seed that was a testament to her absolute biological superiority. Lena, who had walked in a pragmatist, was left a shuddering, broken wreck, overwhelmed and remade by an experience that defied all logic.When the third day was done, Lyria lay alone in the center of the conservatory, the city lights twinkling below. She was sated, but the feeling was already fading, the deep, gnawing hunger beginning to stir again. She had conquered ambition, desperation, and defiance. She had proven her power again and again. But as she stared into the darkness, a single, terrifying thought echoed in the silence of her soul: it would never be enough.