Her Royal Pet, Ch. 4
Chapter 4: To Mount a Queen
My days are spent in the confines of her palace, away from
prying eyes.
The living chambers are off-limits in
the day, where the servants feed and clothe her, a state of affairs that the
Queen tells me is more for her people’s sake than hers. I can’t exactly
disagree, given how readily her audience hall fills each and every day.
Sometimes I watch from a high window,
appearing on the audience side to be a thing of beautiful stained glass, a
depiction of the Empress of Eternity with hands outstretched and palms upturned
to the bowing and kneeling masses of a trillion timelines, the Mother of
Mothers, the Queen of Queens, She Who Saves.
I am so full of doubt and conflict to
watch her, to listen in.
To see this woman who acts so regal
and queenly, there eating one sweet snack or another, upon a throne of black
metal adorned in a risqué yet intimidating garb befitting a Witch Queen. To
watch her decide the fates of people she has never known, complete strangers,
so few like myself and yet so many not all so different, despite their varied
species and shapes and qualities.
Murderers, the crowd will cry.
Saviours, the crowd will cheer. All dependent on so little. All dependent on
these people who – quite bloody rightly – trembled in the wake of this being
that reforms spacetime in her wake, this perpetuator of the greatest of spells,
a woman who became the closest thing to God.
And some she dissolves. And some she
absolves. And some she enslaves. Punishments and privileges, dished out with a
casual wave of a black-taloned hand.
If I trust her, it’s all just a show.
Just like Derrick, the deaths are a farce. It’s not impossible to imagine that
this being, this being of sublime power, could play with lives like that. Could
kill and undo, could remake from nothing.
When she arrived on Earth, the skies
split. The planets aligned. Our greatest weapons, wielded for the first time in
unity, were nothing. ICBMs exploded upon her shape and she turned the radiant
heat and force into works of crystalline beauty. Vehicles were aged a million
years in a heartbeat, becoming so rusted and forlorn that they collapsed
harmlessly on their occupants – the metal was simply left simply so thin.
She doesn’t use armies. She doesn’t
bother. Her soldiers, her guards, her warriors in finest black, are caretakers
of cities, guardians of the peace. A “peace” I loathed. A peace that felt
oppressive, these soldiers in all black plate barking orders and organising us.
Not raping and slaving and beating and hurting, but I did – as did so many
others – what seemed rational.
When an external force begins
organising your entire species, gives you designations and numbers, begins
categorising you by traits and qualities…and when in the history of your own
species, similar things have been done by your kind upon itself, with genocidal
results…
I did what seemed right. Derrick did
what seemed right.
And now, below me, the Queen dishes
out similar fates to others who, surely, thought they were doing what was
right. And she, if I am to believe her, understands this and ensures that one
way or another, all things turn out okay.
I am very much aware that I have a
bias forming.
Naked or dressed up in her queenly
garb, I am drawn to stare at her. This woman who I already found so attractive
– any fancier of the female form, and perhaps some who are not so inclined,
would be mad to deny her sheer appeal – grows more and more desirable by the
day. A day being, in this weird strange mess of chronological progress, that
period between waking and falling asleep at the side of the Witch Queen
herself.
It can only have been a week, two at
most, since I arrived in her care, but that rebel anger has only embers of its
past furore remaining. In my worst moments, in the dark of night when all is
silent, or during my long walks through the endless realms of her manse outside
of its living quarters, I am forced to confront the worrying possibility that I
am a traitor.
I do not feel it when my lips are at
her breast, her gentle motherly hand on my head, stroking me as she feeds me
the sweetest and creamiest of substances from those perfect mature womanly
bosoms.
I do not feel when she bathes me,
when she walks with me, when I am falling asleep beside her to the sonorous
lullabies she speaks in a million different tongues. In the Queen’s presence,
all is well. When I can call her Mother and she can hold me, all is
well.
But alone, I have my doubts.
When the day’s duties are done, and her servants have taken
leave of the palace, I waste no time in cutting to the quick of things.
‘I want to see my friends,’ I say, as
she’s drying me off post-bathing. ‘I want proof of their continued happiness.’
The Witch Queen, stinking divinely of
magic and feminine fruitiness, runs long lovely fingers through my wet hair.
‘Is there any point, sweetheart?’
‘Why do you say that?’
She wraps her arms around my
shoulders from behind, chin resting atop my head, those amazing matronly
breasts heavy and warm against my bare flesh. ‘You’re not stupid, Daniel. You
know what I can do. Knowing this, how could you ever trust anything I do, to
this end? We both know that if I were to convince you that I am precisely what
I say, you would lose all doubts.
‘You could, if you wanted, give
yourself wholly over to me,’ the Witch Queen says. Her voice, perfect as
always, nonetheless has a forlorn quality to it. ‘You could worship me, truly
and fully, in a way that I would only accept or desire from you, who came from
a place of loathing. But it’s that very detail that means that you will never,
not truly, be able to trust in me.’
Despite what she said, my memory was
left untouched on the first night I fed of her.
This woman is lonely. It’s easy to
accept that, even if she is not as benevolent as she presents herself to be.
How could anyone not be lonely, at the very peak of peaks, the highest of
highs, given the degree of separation from one’s peers that comes with being
the mightiest and most supreme entity in all of everything?
And that loneliness is easy to pick
out sometimes in her otherwise marvellous voice. Just like it’s easy to pick
out now, as she speaks something I struggle to dispute. I reach up with a hand
and place it upon hers where they rest atop one another, and the Queen promptly
shrouds mine between hers.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t
guarantee that it’s not an illusion, given how much you’d benefit from
convincing me.’ To say such a thing provokes me to wince. ‘The doubt is awful,
Mother.’
‘You call me that more and more,
sweetheart.’ She makes a warm noise, a humanised purr, against my head. The
Witch Queen kisses my hair, sniffs and smells me. ‘But yes, I have no way to
cure it. You would have to make a leap of faith.’
‘But only for my sake,’ I say. ‘For
my own pleasure.’
She nods. ‘Yes.’
What a troubling state of affairs. To
realise that I want this woman, this goddess, and yet am confronted eternally
with the damning possibility that in actually affirming that desire I will be
spitting on the memory of people who meant the world to me.
If my friends now live in the paradise
she claims they exist in, then to throw myself at the Empress of Eternity is
good for all. But if she lies, if they are in chains or suffering, or dead and
gone, then I would only be helping myself. And worse, I would be pleasing the
one who wrought their agonies.
A Pascal’s Wager of sorts. And worse,
for the sheer lack of alternatives.
The fact is that either the Queen is
lying or she is honest. And I truly, honestly, have no way of telling. I
cannot, pretty much by definition, ever know the truth.
‘The problem is that if I’m wrong
about you, I might as well have done the deeds myself. I might as well have
killed Derrick, raped Charlotte and the others, ruined their lives and
shattered their worlds.’
She squeezes my hand, strokes my
chest with the fingers beneath it. ‘I’d have been ever so proud to have had a
son like you, you know? To have had a husband like you, or even just a friend.
But you understand how this nobility of yours only makes me hungrier for your
affections, yes?’
‘Self-restraint isn’t nobility. I
value the lives of the people I love.’
The Queen of Queens kisses my head
for a long moment, holding the contact. It would take but a word to get from
her anything that I desire, to make all of my filthiest dreams come true. This
woman…
‘Come to bed,’ the Witch Queen says,
pulling away. ‘You must be hungry.’
With a bellyful of her indulgent milk, and a lullaby, I
should find sleep easy.
The Queen always does. Although, as I
understand it, sleep is an odd thing for her. The multiverse never sleeps, and
neither truly does she, but this fragment of her, this part she favours most of
all, rests beside me to give some illusion of affection and proximity.
It’s not doubt that keeps me awake
tonight. As I lay back in the engulfing warmth of what must – isn’t it all? –
be an arcane construct of her own design, staring at the ceiling which emulates
a display of stars and constellations specifically tailored to be familiar, I
am constantly aware of her steady breathing.
Aware, as well, that she’s rolled
onto her side to face away from me. The creamy-skinned goddess’s hair moves
even in the calm quietude of darkness, ever-shifting, alive with the phenomenal
energies of her being.
And I am struck by what she said, on
that first night she fed me.
Perhaps you might even try to mount
me…
I haven’t had sex in years, even
before the tumult of her arrival. It’s always been something to pair with love,
to pair with sincerest and deepest affection. Something I’ve always taken great
pride in performing more for my lover than for myself.
But as I stare upon her upper back,
milky skin visible where the black hair moves in coils upon it, I’m struck by a
dark and dirty desire. Consent is absent here, sleeping as she is. Oh, it’d be
enthusiastic, will be enthusiastic, the moment she wakes. It still seems wrong,
seems ignoble, to do this thing.
Yet I find myself pushing the covers
aside, all the same. Revealing, inch by perfect womanly inch, the curve of her
spine and the full bounty of her hips, the thick plump sag of those unearthly
buttocks, the way they dip upon voluptuous thighs that press together so
pleasantly upon one another.
I am erect. I am unable to be
anything else, so close she is, so divinely motherly in sensuality she is, so
incredibly devious and tempting a thing she is.
And she doesn’t stir when I put a
hand on her hip. Doesn’t twitch even when, with the utmost of carefulness, I
press my throbbing shaft against her fat backside. God, her smell is delicious,
that raw magical electricity, that womanly musk, that exotic fruitiness. The
heat of her body, the yield of her plump form, is too much.
She’s elsewhere. She’s busy. And if
she’s not, if she returns, so what? The best sex of my life, I know it’ll be.
The best sex anyone might ever have, with the Queen of Queens, the Empress of
Eternity, the Mother of Mothers.
The tightness, even of her big bum
alone, provokes me to wince. Her body’s sublime heat upon my unhooded tip,
slipped down beneath her buttocks, up against her fiery womanhood all welcoming
with its passive wetness, is a temptation I’ve never felt before.
But I hesitate. I hesitate, because
this is cheating. This is me, at war with myself. Hoping against hope that I
can do this and not deal with the Witch Queen, not face up to the fact that in
the worst world imaginable, I am the betrayer. I am a traitor.
‘It’s okay,’ she says, tilting her
head up. In profile, her beauty is sharper, her full lips tinged with a vulgar
smirk. ‘I’m your mother, sweetheart. It’s my job to take care of you, at
every hour, no matter the desire. No matter how sordid. Mount me, Daniel. My
womb will eagerly devour your lusts.’
I shut my eyes, and see them hate me.
See them despise me, curse me, until the end of time. My friends, they should
be. Their friend, I should be.
I’m not fully certain if the tears
come before or after I withdraw. One moment the world is clear, the next it is
blurred, and I’m on my back, sobbing. Sobbing, because I can’t be at peace
here. I may never be at peace again, may never trust anything or anyone. If I
leave here, if I go on my way, how will that solve anything?
How can I ever be free of this
madness?
‘It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.
Mummy’s here.’
The Witch Queen kisses my chest,
rests her head against me, stroking my leg and cupping my face as she stares up
at me with those wonderful amethyst eyes. It’s hard to cry with her against me,
with her gaze enrapturing me as it does, with that gentle reassuring voice in
my ears and sticking like honey to my world, adding sweetness where before it
was lacking.
‘I…can’t be happy,’ I say. ‘I can’t
be at peace. Even if I go, if you send me somewhere else, I’ll never know.
Everything will be tainted by this fundamental inability to believe.’
‘Do you think your friends want you
to be this way, Daniel?’
‘I know they won’t appreciate me
betraying them.’
‘But if you cannot know? If you
cannot feasibly work this puzzle out?’ The Queen sits upright, breasts sagging
with gravity, her healthy mature body all pale perfection and intense beauty.
She strokes my stomach, fingers gentle and affectionate. ‘They may well be in
paradise or may not. I can show you, but you cannot trust what you see. And so
you are stuck, trapped in this thought spiral. If it were reversed, if you were
on the outside, would you blame Derrick for choosing what pleasures he could
find in this place?’
I…I shake my head. ‘No. I wouldn’t
wish this state on anyone.’
‘You’re ever so hard on yourself,
sweetheart,’ the Empress of Eternity says, fingers brushing across my chest.
‘As straight-backed and resolute as the finest of my royal guard. But who wins
here?’
She moves then, twisting about onto
all fours beside me, horizontal across the bed. I stare for a long moment at
her presented backside, with that thick creamy set of buttocks and between them
a pale red arsehole, and below that her royal pussy with its puffy outer folds
and glistening pink inner ones.
And below that, her huge sagging
balls, and semi-erect cock.
‘Imagine if you were to impregnate
me,’ the Witch Queen says. The words, the idea behind them, rattles my bones.
‘What would the court say? What would my subjects think?’ She turns her head
aside to glance back at me, full black braids shifting off of her back,
dangling down upon the sheets. ‘You’d have usurped my body, sweetheart. The
Mother of Mothers, yes, but the mother of your children, as well. Can you think
of anything more powerful than to claim me, to make me into your own personal
broodmare? Could you imagine seeing this perfect form growing successively
plumper all to bring about–’
I’ve never moved so fast in my life.
Never done anything so quickly.
God, she’s divine. Her lower lips
suck down and her insides are molten perfection, the glory of glories, the
reproductive cavity of a goddess. I grit my teeth and suppress the moan of all
moans, stricken blissful by the sheer magnanimous grip and pull of her pussy.
‘Good boy,’ the Queen says. ‘My good,
good boy. Take what is–mhm–rightfully yours.’
I say nothing, concentrating wholly
on ploughing her. My hands sink into the fat of her hips, my cock melts inside
of her. I dig in my fingers and thrust with rampant abandon, a will to conquer
and dominate, to hurt if such is even possible, this tricksy confusing
difficult being that at once I adore and disdain.
If I must give in then let me mark
her. Let me claim her, once and for all. If my friends are in comfort, all is
well. And if they are not, at least their shades might witness the Empress of
Eternity having her fertile form ravaged by a mere human who once attempted to
spit at her face.
The silence of the night is broken,
ruined by the sloppy slick slapping of my genitals on hers, our bodies
colliding in the humid stickiness of animalistic abandon. Her pussy milks me
with voracious intent, my balls bouncing against her own as if our swings are
timed in perfect opposition.
‘Ughn. Guh.’
I cannot suppress my grunts forever,
or even for long. I look down, wide-eyed in the dark of our bedroom, watching
her perfect form writhe and shudder with pleasure untold, a salacious grin writ
into her divine face, at once emboldening and mocking me.
‘That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck your
mother. Breed her. Make her yours. Mhm. Good boy. Such a good, good boy.’
That foetid part of my ape brain,
swamped in depravity, lavishes that language. Feasts on the taboo, the filth,
the decadence of it. This woman, like no other before, like surely no other
after, awakens my rawest and truest lust.
‘Take it, Mother. Get fucking
pregnant. You perfect fucking whore.’
I tangle the fingers of one hand in
her braids, wrapping them about my forearm. With increased force and ferocity
the sloppiness of the union grows louder, the orchestra of lusts given further
instrumentation in the form of her beautiful moans and my nigh-bestial grunts.
The Witch Queen chuckles to herself,
laughter and pleasure combining. ‘Good boy. Take me. Good, good, sexy boy.’
Every grunt, every slap, every word
spurs me on. I lean down upon her, twist my arm around her throat, making a
collar of her hair with which to yank her upwards so that our bodies press
together. ‘Ugh. Fuck.’
‘Mhm. Such valiant effort.’
I sink my teeth into the back of her
neck, roughly manhandle her breasts from behind. The Queen titters and squeals,
writhing against me, gyrating her hips and pushing back in earnest with
lascivious energy. Her womanhood squeezes down on me, a heavenly vice, hot as
hell, and somehow I’ve not finished yet.
The soft flesh of her bosoms spills
over my hand, nipples points of hardness amidst the cushioning squish that
makes up the most of her oversized milky chest. My biting, no matter the force
I apply, only seems to elicit squeals and erotic whines from the mouth of the
Empress of Eternity.
‘You fucking love it,’ I say, kissing
her throat. ‘You’re such a fucking slut.’
‘Your slut. Your mother. Your queen.’
I breathe against her ear, inhale the
tantalising sex musk of our nocturnal union. ‘Have my children. Have my children
and I’ll accept you as my queen. Forever.’
‘Is that all it would take, boy? All
that nobility gone, for a chance at passing on your genes?’
I shake my head, nibble her ear, then
say, ‘No. I never cared. Never would. But–ughn–I can’t think of anything more
fitting. A mortal, fathering the children of a god.’ I chuckle, kiss her
throat. ‘Especially one as…’
‘One as what, sweetheart?’
One as perfect as you. One I want as
badly as you. One I lust for as I do for you.
‘If I tell you, you have to get
pregnant. You must.’
The Queen chuckles, all darkness and
rapture. She squeezes, and my mind explodes. As if my seed is my soul, she rips
it out of me. My eyes roll back in my head, lost in the light of the orgasm
that splits my world in two. Like a thousand ejaculations at once, it feels like
my balls shrivel and fade, my cock spitting the motherlode into my “mother”.
I fall backwards, vaguely aware of
the immense quantity of jizz dripping out of her beautiful vulva, thicker than
I’ve ever shot before. As if my body, as if that animal core of my brain,
wanted nothing more than to mix my line with hers, to establish that same
supremacy that is so tantalising to the intellect of the man that sits above
the mere ape.
The Witch Queen looks back at me
across her shoulder, dark hair swaying and swimming, smirking mouth disrupted
by the biting of her lip. Her womb, hungry as it is, slurps up the leakage from
her pussy, spilling not a drop. And the Queen licks her lips, as if tasting my
seed without it touching her tongue.
‘So virile,’ she says. ‘So manly. But
you misunderstand how things work, boy. Let mummy make a thing or two clear.’
She reaches backwards and grips my
cock, sparks of violet darkness lighting it up, growing it to full rigidity and
making my teeth rattle. Powerless, exhausted, I can do nothing as she sits
herself back upon my manhood, plunging it again into the sloppy pink paradise
between her thighs.
‘Ugh. Shit.’
The Queen rises and falls, rises and
falls, the weight of her body pinning me as she milks my cock with her succubus
womanhood. Her fat backside slaps against me, wobbles about, the heaviness of
it and the way it jiggles and shudders a wonderful sight if not for the primal
fear that grips me alongside the depravity of such dangerous pleasure.
‘You are my pet,’ the Witch Queen says.
‘You are–mhm–here as a guest. Here to be treated so well, treated as a son and
a toy, but if I am to grow fat with your seed, it will not be because you trade
me your loyalty for such a fate.’
She drops her full weight and I gasp,
suck in the sweet tang of our fucking, the arcane glory of her sex. The Mother
of Mothers gyrates her fertile hips, those big balls of hers slapping against
the tops of my thighs, that ravenous cunt setting my cock aflame as it slurps
and drains my body of all sense and reason.
I try to push her off, but I’m
nothing. Powerless. All that I did, all that I thought I was doing, was nothing
but a show. ‘Mother…’
The Queen chuckles and pumps her body
up and down on me, the pleasant sound of flesh slapping atop flesh muted by the
white noise furore of my head scrambling to comprehend such impossible heights
of pleasure.
‘You’re just a little boy,’ she says.
‘And have no right fertilising a god.’
‘Ughn.’
‘But that is not to say I do not want
such. Mhm.’
‘Ugh. Gah.’
‘It is simply that you are not ready
yet. Not this night. Not as you are.’
She squeezes again and the world
explodes, balls that felt empty producing another monstrous once-in-a-lifetime
load that has her licking her lips as her body sucks it clean out of me,
devouring my essence and absorbing it utterly into her own.
‘You taste so, so good,’ the Witch
Queen says. ‘Perhaps it’s my lack of activity, but I don’t think I ever before
relished a man’s seed as I do yours.’
She rises and turns about, facing me.
I can do little but stare, paralysed
by the shock of it all, the sheer ecstasy of her lusts, as I behold her
incredible and unusual body. The Witch Queen hovers her hips above the tip of
my yet-hard length, her full-figured motherly form creamy and perfect in its
show of beautiful agedness. Her heavy breasts sag gently, huge things with
bluish veins and pale pink areolae suitably sized for such large bosoms. The
living darkness of her hair coils and sways, and her amethyst eyes crackle with
the energies of creation. She wears a salacious smile, a thing that could claim
any heart with but a whisper of her succubus voice.
But for all her divine appeal, I am
ill at ease with her other genitals. Her big pale balls droop and
faintly shift, each larger than my own. The penis that they sit below is
mammoth, easily twice as thick and twice as long as my own, and size has never
been a worry of mine. White and veiny, the thing’s ruby tip is exposed, a fat
crown of regal and imposing character well-suited to a monarch.
‘You are ever so handsome,’ the Queen
says, resting a hand upon my stomach, stroking circles upon my flesh. ‘My
little warrior, so brave and noble.’ Her smile gains a mischief, hints at white
teeth, the canines appearing as vague fangs. ‘Help me finish, sweetheart. Call
me Mother. Tell me you want to shoot all of those excitable little sperms up
inside of Mother. Up inside Mother’s womb.’
We are filth, aren’t we? That this
woman is so much older, twice my age by appearance and far beyond that in
truth, only excites me. The appeal of the older woman is strong by itself, but
to play this dirty game, this pretend incestuous carnality, and to incorporate
the notion of impregnation into the mix…
I’m not sure where the strength comes
from, but I manage to lift my hands, which she promptly seizes and places on
her wide womanly hips. ‘Mother…I want to fill your womb with my sperm. I want
to…to impregnate you, my Mother.’
She chuckles and spears herself on
me, the glorious wet heat of her innards forcing my back to arch and my whole body
to writhe and tremble. I’m barely aware of her fat balls sagging against my
belly, or that ruby-tipped ivory erection so unusual and intimidating.
‘Right where you belong, my sweet
handsome boy. Mhm.’
I shut my eyes, grit my teeth,
melting anew between her thighs. The Witch Queen puts her hands upon my chest
and lowers herself forwards, throbbing cock coming to rest across my belly,
heaving chest sagging down against my own as she takes hold of my shoulders and
begins to gyrate her powerful motherly hips.
She slides her hands behind my neck
and starts to slowly pump her body atop mine, heavy breasts dragging back and
forth upon my chest, huge cock grinding against my belly and almost up at my
pecs, hanging balls wobbling against my lower gut. And when I open my eyes our
faces are so close, her black hair floating of its own accord, violet lightning
alive in both her eyes and surrounding the black tendrils.
‘May I kiss you?’ the Mother of
Mothers says. With eyes aflutter, I nod. ‘Wonderful.’
Such a simple thing, given what we’ve
shared. Simple, and yet earth-shattering. The lustiness of our joining is made
sweeter, grander, by the inclusion of her voluptuous-lipped mouth upon my own,
the sweet electrifying taste of her spit, the muscular warm compassion of her
loving tongue.
The Queen gyrates her hips and I
squeeze the fat of their curves, fingers sinking into the warm pleasant abyss
of her playground body. Our movements – I find myself instinctively thrusting,
albeit slow and exhausted – produce a low slick sloppiness, the suction sounds
of her divinely sensual pussy and the weighty fleshiness of her big breasts and
big balls shifting. And now the smooching, the passionate play of face on face,
tongue on tongue, adding to the carnal orchestra.
‘Mhm-hm.’ The moan is shared, a thing
neither can claim as solely theirs. Our kissing completes the union, makes
weirdly romantic what is otherwise pure bestial drives. In making out with her
like this, in plying her perfect form as I gently lift and lower my hips, I am
far beyond the point of betrayal. There is in me more than mere lust for this
creature.
Oh, for it to be mere lust. Tongue
locked with hers, lips upon lips, I cannot pretend that my attraction to the
Queen of Queens runs deeper.
‘Mhm.’
And my moans, and her moans, tell it
true. Does it matter anymore?
I slide my hands up from her hips,
desperate to fondle her motherly chest. The Queen chuckles sensually into my
mouth as I slip my fingers beneath each plump breast, driving her body against
mine, pussy and cock and breasts and balls, as I thrust up between her thighs.
‘You must be tired,’ the Witch Queen
says, taking her mouth from mine. She makes no comment, much as her eyes
express such a desire to tease, at the fact that I chase her lips. ‘Let Mother
feed you, sweetheart.’
She sits upright and I am too far
gone. The temptation of those sagging tits, nipples upright points, the pale
pink halos on each bumpy and appealing, is greater than my will to maintain
whatever amounts to some semblance of self-restraint.
Her sweet cream upon my tongue and
the cushioning warmth of her bosom smothering my face makes it straightforward
to ignore the huge penis pressing against my belly. The Queen moans sublimely,
expertly slamming her hips up and down, milking my cock with her tight dripping
womanhood as she breastfeeds me with a massive matronly breast.
As she fills my body, I fill hers. I
suck hard on the Witch Queen’s teat and I shut my eyes, groaning against her
flesh, my balls being drained yet again by her demanding sex. I’m vaguely
aware, somehow, that her womb is utterly packed with my semen, which she allows
to enter but will not allow to leave. An arcane thought, a realisation she has
allowed me.
‘Good boy,’ she says, beginning to
shudder. ‘Mummy’s very–mhm–good boy.’
The Queen wraps her arms around me
and pulls me into a tight embrace, my head buried in her pillowy tits as her
body sucks me dry of seed. We fall together, her cock thankfully not producing
anything as her lewd pussy leaks down my cock to make a mess of my crotch and
thighs. She kisses my head, coming to rest atop me, and nuzzles my hair.
‘You can feel them, can’t you? You
know you’re inside of my most private of sanctums, but you also know that your
seed will not take.’
I slow my suckling, open my eyes. Her
amethyst gaze is naughty, supernaturally captivating. The Queen’s cheeks are
flush, her living-darkness hair twitching as though electrified.
‘But it can, Daniel. I will allow
it…but we need to make this real, first.’
Pulling my mouth from her, licking my
lips of her sweetness, I say, ‘Real how?’
‘Real in that I have to become, in
the metaphysical sense, your true mother,’ the Witch Queen says. ‘A
process whereby your body, little by little, becomes a shard of my own. And
then, when all is done, when you are reborn as my true son…then I will let your
seed take root. I will, as your mother, be the mother of your children.’
Betrayer. Traitor. Turncoat.
The thoughts come, but as I stare up
at her, I find them easy to deny. Easy to throw aside, in favour of the greater
thought, the greater outcome. I have never wanted anything else quite so much
as, in this lascivious moment, I want the Empress of Eternity.
I want her to myself.
‘What must I do?’
The Queen smiles, and kisses my
forehead. ‘Sleep, sweetheart. Mother will organise everything, beginning
tomorrow evening…’
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