Her Royal Pet Ch. 04

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.