Her Royal Pet Ch. 03

'Call me Mother,' the Queen says. 'I want to be your mother. Especially when I feed you.'

'I can't. You're not.'

'Do it. You know it's exciting.'

'I...' I'm at an impasse. Frozen, far from home, lost in lust. 'I'm hungry. Still hungry.' I turn my head, her milky nipple brushing my face. 'Feed me...Mother.'

She lets out quite the gasp as I begin nursing again. I can't help myself this time. I need to touch her, to feel her perfect breasts. With my left hand I make the breast that feeds me less of a weight on my face, and with my right I fondle and massage the other.

'Good boy. My good, good boy.'

'Mhm.'

My mouth fills again with the sweetest milk, and the Queen takes her hand to my cock, stroking it towards the righteous end that I so long to reach. Her touch on my manhood is electric. The way her breasts sink against my skin, so full and soft and heavy, surpasses the peak of every boob-obsessed fantasy I've ever had.

This terrible, divine, perfect creature feeds me from her bosom and milks my cock by hand. An orgasm surges through me before long, a wildfire cataclysm that rocks my body, and the seed that spills out never lands upon the sheets. Her magics contort and congeal it, making the stuff swirl up into a little bubble of white seed that floats towards her face.

The Queen smirks at me before making quite the sensual shape with her mouth, full lips spread and tongue extended. She catches my load on her pretty tongue, wiggling the captured bubble from side to side as if to show me, as if to make absolutely clear what's happening.

Only when I flutter my eyes does she curl back her tongue, sultry as can be, and roll my ejaculate about her mouth. The Queen stays silent for a while, tasting me for quite some time, much as I continue to taste her filling breastmilk. At length she licks her lips, making a smacking noise of appreciation.

'You are a sweet thing, aren't you?' The Witch Queen pats my head. 'Keep nursing, boy. You must be ever so hungry.'

So it goes that I stay latched until quite full, until sleepy with satiety. The Queen, my lusty would-be-mother, strokes my stomach and kisses my forehead. She goes to such easy lengths, but goes to them all the same, to tuck me in beside herself, to play with my hair, to even sing a soft lullaby as I drift into a much-needed and ever-so-welcome sleep.

The comforts of this place, at least, make my betrayal easier to accept.

If indeed I am a betrayer.