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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