HER ROYAL PET part 1 By Thalaxian

The sycophants spit their insults at me. 'Savage,' 'Wildman,' 'Barbarian.'

They are many and I am one, and shackled besides. Dragged along the seemingly endless gilt-purple carpet, down the seemingly endless hallway, there is no originality in these people. Of many races, of many worlds, but all are dressed according to a fashion, neat and noble of cloth yet not of disposition.

Her guards, by contrast to the colourful nobles, are obsidian-clad warriors who speak little and say all they need with silence. Their armour is almost total, hiding everything to the outside world. An enchantment, or several, weaves the apparent interior with darkness, though I have seen their blood and the faces beneath. As varied as the folk of the hall, though my current captors are uniform.

The crowd peters out thirty feet from the stairs leading to the throne dais, held back by three soldiers aside. Beneath my feet the carpet blossoms into a large circle adorned with intricate artwork of conquest, domination, death to her foes. A macabre testament to her eternal victoriousness.

My captors stop and push on my shoulders, forcing me to kneel at the base of the stairs. Above is the great throne hewn of ivory bones, cushioned with exotic fabrics, and atop it sits the Witch Queen herself.

The woman has no guards, for she does not need them. Her arrival on Earth proved as much when she stopped tank shells with her bare hands and pulled the Seeking Storm from out of the heavens. Empress of Eternity, Designer of Divinity, Maker of Marvels, Queen of Witches.

She eats grapes from a platinum bowl, fat juicy white ones, plucked with lovely black-nailed fingers from the stem. The Queen of Queens chews slowly, languorously, tasting every bite. When she swallows, she seeks not another.

'The murderer, yes?'

'Slayer of three guards, your majesty,' the soldier beside me says. 'What is your judgement?'

There is a pause. She taps her pointed chin, and draws a smile onto those divine lips. A prettier mouth is hard to imagine, nor a more beautiful woman. Her lacquered black mouth, in a face of pure ivory, with a lovely sharp nose and high cheekbones and two eyes like wells of violet souls. The Queen's crown is twisted and spiked, tangled with braids of her seemingly endless black hair. It forms horns, six per side and a jewelled crest at the front, around which weave her braids that end in platinum hoops.

'Look at me, boy.'

Resistance is futile.

I trace out her body, from the spiked black sabatons with skull kneecaps to her exposed milky thighs, to the dragon-skulled girdle that loops her hips and from which hangs a flowing purple sash, past her creamy belly with its slight matronly bulge to the plated brassiere encasing heavy breasts that does little to support their natural sag and makes no effort to squeeze together for the sake of illusions (though they nonetheless display an enticing amount of cleavage), up beyond her lovely clavicle and the choker with a soul-stone embedded in it, to at least reach her terrible beautiful face.

The Queen smiles darkly. 'I should thank you, honestly,' her voice is gravelly, sensual, matronly. 'Any sword of mine to be bested by a mere unaugmented human is not worth life.' She rises, and moves to the top of the stairs. 'Better yet, your company held a harem of fertile young women, to birth replacements.'

Her heeled boots clack as she steps, a heavy percussion that echoes throughout the room. 'What to do, what to do?' The Queen taps her pointed chin. 'I am, most unusually, at a loss.'

'Kill him,' the other guard says. 'Wretched beast is not--'

She waves her hand and the crowds, the soldiers, disappear. Not dead, yet dispersed, sent away. The Queen sighs, and descends from the last step onto the rounded tapestry-carpet. 'Dullards,' she says. 'No imagination, in the soldiery.'

The Witch Queen paces around me, her full thighs twitching with muscular contractions, her prominent rounded buttocks jiggling up and down in my periphery when the angle is just right. I shut my eyes but her stink, a divine arcane fragrance like ozone and smoke and the sweetest of fruits, is too hard to ignore.

'You can speak, yes? They didn't remove your tongue?'

'I can.'

She brushes past me, running a finger up a bicep and across the same shoulder. 'Why so brave, young man? Why fight, where others surrender?'

'Survival. Better death than what you do.'

The Queen chuckles, and halts to my front. She cups my chin with a soft, terrible hand, sharpened fingers tickling my cheek on one side. With the slightest of efforts I am pulled upright, by physics and magic both. My eyes open, unbidden, to look upon the woman who stands a half-foot taller than my five-foot-ten. She smiles at me.

'What is it that I do, boy?'

'You know.'

The Queen rolls her eyes. 'I would quite like to hear it.'

'Throw women to beasts, throw men to torturers. Put on shows, laugh, enslave, destroy. A queen of slaves, of slavers.' I sigh and drop my head, but her power forces it up again. 'How many of my friends still live? That's why I fought back.'

She clutches my throat, and lifts me with a choking grip. 'The women, all; of the men, all but one. Derrick, I believe; the black boy. He was not eager to see Charlotte bound and shackled.'

I spit, and she lets it travel out, only to flip around and sting my eye. 'Bitch.'

'He would have been alive, and likely happy, had he not fought back. The other men are around, scattered, finding new purposes. Some are servants, others playthings, but all are contented.'

'Then why am I alive?'

She draws me in close and steps to one side, breathing into my ear. 'Because you intrigue me.' Her breath, sweetest darkness, makes my nose twitch. 'Do not think I have been leaving you to stew in those dungeons for no reason. It is a simple matter, and one of perplexity. All call for your death, and yet you are too rare.'

'For fighting back?'

The Queen chuckles. 'No, I've not seen so belligerent a world since I conquered the land of the orcs. Humans fight, yes, and humans kill, but they are fighters, soldiers, killers, guardians. You, Daniel, are none of those.' She twists me again, draws my face to hers. 'A small man, an unimpressive man, a man who defended his friends without hesitation.'

'Anybody would.'

She places an index finger under my chin, its nail sharp and painful. 'Then why are you here, boy, and not a corpse?'

'Said yourself,' I say. 'You don't know what to do.'

She nods. 'I have an inkling, but it is a troublesome one. Very troublesome.'

The Queen steps backwards, studying me from head to toe with her dark, voluminous eyes. They swirl, or seem to, the irises at odds with the stillness of her whites and pupils. From this elevated angle, the valley of her cleavage is too enticing to avoid entirely. Her sizeable areolae suggest themselves where the front of the metal cups cling to pale skin, faint pinkish and slightly bumpy.

'On my home plane, women were not well-treated,' the Witch Queen says. 'I was not well-treated, despite my prowess. The true symbol of power, always, was taken to be the male genitals: the penis, the testes. The unit of male power, therefore, being the sperm.'

She waves her hand across her front and that plated girdle with its purple sash drops to the floor with a clatter. I shudder, and blink several times, confirming that my mind plays no tricks.

'Do you like it?' With a magnanimous grin, she sways her voluptuous hips from left to right, causing the indiscernibly body-fitting manhood to shudder with her motions. 'The first thing I did, when I took my crown, was give myself this. I turned those stuffy old mages into the mothers of my first children, and those daughters bred their father-mothers in turn.'

Between her legs, hanging beneath a thick oily patch of pubic hair, is an enormous milk-pale penis. Soft presently, it's nonetheless bigger than mine is when erect, wreathed in pale veins and tipped with a large bulbous head, hooded with a drooping foreskin. Behind sway a pair of orange-sized testicles in a hairless scrotum, that same milky pale as her body, pulled low by weight and, I suppose, gravity.

'Charlotte, Emily, Karen, Samantha, Trisha, Annabelle...all are carrying my children,' the Queen says. 'There is little else so satisfying as seeding another body, making it into a replicator for your essence. They may well be bred by my minions afterwards, but the first child is always mine, such is my right.'

I shudder. 'Don't. Please. I'd rather die. I don't want to be a girl.'

She draws her finger back and plays with my vastly overgrown beard. 'You're in no position to demand anything, least of all of the Queen of Queens...but no, I agree with you. I have no interest in making you into a cocksleeve.' An evil, playful smirk twists her lips. 'Not a female one, at the very least.'

'I'm not gay.'

The Queen laughs, and rolls her eyes. 'Oh, Daniel. I don't care for a moment what you are, or aren't. I can make you into anything. All are putty.' She pulls on my beard. 'But you present an interesting man, and I have not lain with a man since long before my queendom was birthed.'

Her hand travels south, down my chest and across my belly, until it finds the front of my ragged trousers. The Queen of Witches squeezes, so hard I wince, her nails scratching on overly-delicate flesh.

'This is more than adequate, honestly.' She fondles me, and I bite my lip. 'Yes, more than adequate. A man who will not call me queen, who does not plead and beg, who sees me as the villain. How long would you last, before you lust after me? Not with your eyes, boy, but with your heart?'

'You're insane.'

The Witch Queen smiles, and nods. 'Oh, yes. I really should kill you, for your insolence, for your deeds, but I mean all that I've said.' Below, she starts to tug on me. Naturally, it's hardened. 'I will never have a consort, never have a prince, but I may yet make you into a pet. Would you like that, boy? My personal pet?'

'Ughn.'

My trousers are gone and her perfect hand is tugging and tugging, milking me with those sharp-tipped fingers. My cheeks are hot, my cock as hard as iron, and I can't do a thing about it. The worst entity in the world, the mother of suffering, is slowly but surely bringing me to orgasm.

'I think you would.' She giggles. 'I think many men would die for the chance.'

'N-o...stop. Ugh.'

'I still have my vagina, you know? Still have my womb. You're welcome, of course, to try and fertilise it. How sweet the image, you angrily fucking me, desperate to humiliate me in the only possible manner you have. It almost makes you want to cum, doesn't it?'

'Ughn.'

'Cum for me, boy. Cum for your queen.'

'Argh.'

She readies her other hand and catches my load. A series of white gushes from my twitching cock fill her palm, thick and stringy. The Queen laughs and milks the last drops, leaving not a trace in my shaft. Then she lifts the hand up and breathes in the scent of my semen, passingly licking her lips.

'Mhm. So musky and potent, for a mere human.' Slowly but surely, she scrapes her agile pink tongue across her palm, scooping my semen into her mouth. As if eating those fat grapes, she delicately chews and savours, moving it around and spreading its presence. 'Delicious. Such a healthy, manly taste.' The Queen scoops up the rest, does the same, and swallows. She licks her lips. 'Yes--mhm--I think I'll keep you.'

'I'll never want you.'

She giggles. 'We'll see, won't we?'

———x———

She washes me in her chambers, in the great bath.

As though I'm a child she scrubs and detangles, preventing me from acting of my own accord. I must've been in the cells for weeks and now I'm in the royal chambers, being cleaned by the Witch Queen herself. It would be a victory, were this not clearly some game on her behalf. The bountifully sexy Empress of Eternity washes me in the nude, standing in the deeper part of the tub.

Her enormous motherly breasts sway and sag forwards, tear-shaped and beautifully rounded. Their nipples are large and half the length of my thumb, and about as wide around. Each is surrounded by a big areola, a wide faintly bumpy circle, a delicate shade of pink that distinguishes itself from the milky pale of her skin, softly veined with blue around her bosom.

Without her crown, her serpentine black hair falls into many long braids, all of which run lower than her hips. At the back it expands into a long section of straight hair, flowing as if alive, but all the rest is braided. Her body shows peculiar agedness, that of a woman in her forties perhaps, the way it sags and shows lines here and there. An aesthetic choice, I imagine, for a being ageless and divinely powerful.

Between her legs swings that girthy long penis, and those fat bloated balls. They weirdly suit her, but their presence is ever-unnerving, a reminder of her peculiarities. Every now and then when she turns I get a look at her heavy rounded backside, and rarer still a brief glimpse of pale pink where her by all accounts perfect vagina sits, hidden by her balls.

'Would you like to see it?' she says, catching me off-guard.

'What?'

'My cunt.' The Queen smirks. 'Would you like to see?'

'I...'

Before I manage a reply, she turns her great backside to me. The huge, fat-padded, muscular cheeks droop slightly with their weight. She could engulf my head, her arse is so plump. The Witch Queen leans forwards, then spreads her cheeks with her hands. At the top, between that erotic valley, is a pale yet darker than its surroundings butthole.

Beneath it, a half-inch down, is her neat vulva. Puffy lips spread wide by her hands, its interior is pinkish and tight, the hole difficult to miss. Glistening with water, it runs down to a hooded aperture which hides her clitoris, visible as a pink pearl from this angle. Just below that (above it?) her scrotum begins, the two giant testicles hanging low with her bend.

She looks back at me, smiling. 'Nice, isn't it? Queenly, you might say.'

'Y-eah.'

'Do you want to taste me?'

I blush. 'No.'

'Unconvincing.' She moves slowly backwards, moving up the submerged steps until her arse is above my face. 'No teeth.'

The Queen sits, and my vision goes black. Her fat arse conceals the world, the great rounded cheeks smashing my face against the edge of the great basin. All I can smell is this carnal, sensual, feminine muskiness. I salivate at the taste, at the sweet, hot fragrance. I shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this, but instinct is mightier than reason.

'Mhm.'

'Good boy,' the Witch Queen says. 'Taste that forbidden fruit.'

It's delicious, the way she tastes. Wrong, bad, awful, because of who she is and because her warm, heavy balls are bumping against the underside of my chin, but her pussy is salty-sweet and a touch metallic, while her juices are syrupy ambrosia. I lap at first, then trace out the folds of her womanhood, tasting the divide between skin and vulva, and then bury my tongue inside of her holiest of holes.

'Oh, my. Such a good seat.' She grinds herself against me, wobbling side to side, smearing my wet face with her dirty juices. 'You're tasting a goddess, boy. You had best swallow all of my nectar, and savour it besides.'

'Mhm. Slurp. Slurp.'

As I taste and inevitably swallow my cock stiffens painfully, and my mind goes to strange places. This creature, this great enemy, intrigues me beyond comprehension. If this were any other woman this might be divine, and yet this is the Witch Queen, and all part of her play.

Yet all the same I suck on her lower lips, tease them with my mouth, slurp up the copious amounts of juices that leak from her lovely, soft, hot cooch. She grinds backwards, bouncing her balls against my throat, and her engorged clitoris brushes my lips. I slide my tongue into its hood and folds, prompting her to shudder.

'Mm. So dutiful to your queen.'

'N-ever.'

'Yet you are, boy. And you will continue, until I am done.'

Why argue? Why fight the inevitable? She's right, though I hate it. I cannot stop her from taking what she wants...and some lust compels me to continue. For all the wrong of this slavish subservience it feels right, as well. Licking and sucking and slurping, licking and sucking and slurping...

Her balls, most confusingly, feel good. The way they bounce and shudder, their weight obvious, their presence unmistakeable, brings with her movements a strange tempo and a warmth I've never experienced. Gay, and wrong, and weird.

'Such a good mouth.'

The Queen grinds back and forth, the slapping of her balls more noticeable when she does so. My nose brushes her butthole and the opening of her vagina, and after a few back-forth motions, she plants her arse itself above my mouth.

'Eat my arse, pet.'

'No!'

'Eat it. That is a command.'

It...tastes of little. The texture is rougher, tighter, where it strains into her sphincter. What taste there is of her body, faintly salty, and not unpleasant. Before I know it, I'm licking her arsehole, teasing it with my tongue and squeezing her butt cheeks with my hands. The soft pale skin, slick with water, practically eats my finger as I dig into her cushioning buttocks.

The Queen moans, her sultry voice a dark, mature, tempered pleasure. Something about her noises, her shudders, eggs me on. I shouldn't, but I want to do a good job. The one true enemy, and I'm eating her butthole. I'm rimming her, lapping at her sphincter, massaging her cheeks with eager hands. This is so virulently wrong, and yet feels so disgustingly right.

'Oh, so--ugh--dutiful with that tongue,' the Witch Queen says. 'I'm getting--mm--really, really close.'

She grinds backwards again, forcing her vulva against my mouth. Pussy is much better than arsehole, and I find myself weirdly grateful to taste anew her sweet, salty, feminine nectar. For one so evil, she certainly tastes good. 'Mhm.' I bury my tongue into her snatch, grip her hips to really eat from her womanhood, and then suddenly she tears away from me.

Light returns and I pant, inhaling the steam of the bath. The Witch Queen turns to me, turns about, and pokes a weapon towards me. Her snow-white cock, more than a foot in length, spears the air inches from my face. The Queen frantically strokes it with one hand, in the process tugging back her foreskin to reveal a pretty pink glans, a fat apple of a thing, with an ominous-looking aperture in its glistening pearlescent crown.

'Eyes and mouth shut, boy. Quickly now!'

She doesn't have to tell me twice. The last thing I see is her immense erection shudder, and her great heavy balls jiggle beneath it. Then the world goes dark and the Witch Queen groans, moans, and screams ecstatically. 'Yes! Yes--ughn--fucking yes!'

She must bring her member to my face, or so close that its radiant heat is unmistakeable. It brushes my cheek, a hot, slick, pulsating heaviness. Then a fat rope of royal seed splashes across my right cheek, covering my eye. Another crosses my mouth, a third my nose, a fourth my forehead and other eye.

It would be degrading, shameful, if only I could think straight. Instead, something in her ejaculate, that evil potent seed, reverberates through my being. An orgasm instantly hits, bringing a shudder to my loins, and I shoot a load into the bath waters. The urge to moan is supressed, thankfully, by the presence of that hot heaviness around my lips. Her semen stinks muskily, powerfully, a dirty smell that belies her beauty.

With its presence comes, however, a pleasant warmth that spreads like a drug through my flesh. It brings an orgasm, yes, but also a feeling of...simple purpose. To be marked by the Queen of Queens, the Eternal Empress, is to have a purpose. Her blessing is on my face, my skin, hot and fresh and sublime through its filth.

And as her last two shots add to the heavy load already painted upon my features, the Witch Queen cackles with pleasure. She squeezes out the last dregs of her orgasm then splashes through the water, dropping onto her knees above me. Her tongue, wild with passion, cleans my mouth first, then my eyes.

'Mhm-hm.'

I open my eyes to the sensation of that perfect tongue, sweeping and washing, removing her potent mind-shattering seed. The Queen is smirking, beaming at me, her lips glazed with her own white produce. She kisses my cheek, laps it at, swallows her own semen. I should despise this, and yet to be licked clean by her is something terrible in its perverse glories.

'So few have had the pleasure of tasting my essence,' she says, moving to playfully bite my ear. 'Were I to offer, to those crowds of sycophants, the opportunity to fellate me, to taste the milk of my testes...how many would refuse, Daniel? Can you imagine?'

I shut my eyes and stifle the powerful urge to groan as she laps at the contours of my face, tasting my skin beyond her seed, a mother cat and her kitten. The question itself is dangerous, and all answers trouble me. Is it even a question? Why would I know the answer?

The Witch Queen presses her great matronly bosom against my chest, rising and falling, kissing my forehead at the bottom of her stroke. She massages my shoulders, tussles my hair, treats me with alien, dangerous affectation. Her bumpy areolae tickle, while her nipples practically stab with the soft hardness.

'Are you scared of the answer, boy? Or do you simply not know it?'

'All of them,' I say, shuddering.

The Queen cups my face, and runs her thumbs beneath my eyes. I slowly open them, finding her proud, perfect, smiling visage. 'Call me contrarian, perhaps to a fault, but what joy is there in such mindless dolts? They worship me, beg of me, would kiss the ground I walk on even had I trodden through dog shit.'

She leans in, leans down, until her lips brush mine. My cheeks flush, and I cowardly shut my eyes. Her breath is hot, sweet, alluring. If that musky scent of her seed is present, I cannot detect it on my nose.

'I do not grow bored of my pets, boy. They are rarely so interesting as you, but they never bore me.' The Queen bites my lower lip, teasing it between her teeth. 'One day you will adore me, and I will be your queen.'

'Never.'

She giggles and kisses my mouth. 'How sweet, that you resist. You, who would spit at my face. You, who would be lavished with attention and not thank me.' The Witch Queen scratches the underside of my chin through my beard with her taloned nails. 'Stay this way, please. It keeps you highly entertaining.'

And with that she rises, splashing, from the water. The Queen climbs the steps and descends the other side, instantly drying.

'We must groom you, and then you'll need to eat.'

'And if I should drown myself instead?'

She chuckles. 'Oh, silly boy. You would sooner die than live in luxury?'

'Every moment here is a betrayal of my friends.'

'Good, then you are enjoying yourself.' She rolls her eyes, and beckons. 'Come, boy. You cannot sit and mope in the waters until time ends.'

———x———

The Witch Queen sits me on a cushioned stool in the lounge area of her palatial quarters.

She proceeds to groom me, a mother with an unruly child. Her nails become slicing talons with which to cut short my now-clean hair, reducing it to mere shoulder-length. I half-expect her to rid me of my beard entirely, but she settles for merely trimming it, after which she applies oil and perfumes.

I am then dressed in silks, purple with golden weave, and yet she continues to walk around in the nude. The Queen steps back and studies me, eyes tracing out every contour of my form and the clothes attached to it. After a brief interlude, she nods.

'You are handsome, beneath the filth.'

I sigh. 'Are we done?'

The Empress of Eternity lifts her breasts, cupping the great sagging shapes with each hand. Such excessive size they possess that perfect pale fullness spills over fingertips, beyond the sides of palms, and through gaps between her fingers. Such full, matronly breasts, but they unfortunately belong to her.

'Which would you like to feed from first?'

My eyes twitch, the question catching me wholly off-guard. 'What?'

'Your presence here is, to a degree, secretive,' she says, letting her heavy mammaries fall and jiggle against her slight motherly overhang of belly. The Queen steps forwards, halting a foot ahead of me. 'I cannot risk my advisors and sycophants hearing of your living situation, and so I cannot alert my cooks. But I can nurse you. My milk is quite delicious, I promise.'

'No.' I avert my gaze, but my cheeks are red. 'No way.'

'Really? You would rather starve?'

'It's...it's wrong. I'm a grown man.'

'Oh, please. I'm almost ten thousand years old, boy. Don't play the age card, not with me.'

'I'll happily eat scraps.'

'Perhaps I always clean my plates,' she says, humour in her voice. 'Are my breasts too saggy? Too large? Too small, on the other extreme? I would think any man happy to be fed by such a beauty as myself.'

'No...it's all just...'

I hate it, but her body is perfect. That mature edge, the matronly curvaceous older woman's form, with its lovely details and peculiarities. And the notion of nursing on her breasts, tasting the cream of her royal udders, has me instantly hard. I've got a tent in my robe, and my hand does an awful -- and far too slow -- job of covering it.

'Ah, you like the idea, at least.' The Witch Queen giggles, and strokes my cheek. 'It's okay, pet. They're quite something, aren't they?'

She gently urges me to face her. To face her heavy, plump chest. 'I can't.'

'Another excuse? Pray tell me it?'

'Trickery. Corruption.'

'Daniel, if I wanted a mindless pet, I'd simply make you into one.' She shakes her head. 'No tricks, boy. It's just breastmilk -- albeit, a touch more nutritionally complete, to fit the needs of an adult man's body -- but is still, honestly, just my milk.'

I snort, and grimace. 'And how long until you're feeding me sperm, then? Is that the ultimate aim? Some mindless cocksucker, the ultimate humiliation?'

The Queen grips my chin forcefully, but not aggressively. She forces me to look into her eyes. 'If a day dawns where I fill your belly with my seed, it will be a day you chose. And on such a day, and the days that follow, your faculties will not diminish. Quite the contrary, in fact. My semen is power, and if anything would only enhance your capabilities.

'What occurred in the bath, I hope, is an example of that. My seed was not for you to taste, and I left not a drop on your person. It is, to some extent, an extension of my body's "mana", the raw energy that powers my magicks. Inside a womb, it makes divine children. Inside a belly, it gives power.' The Queen smirks at her own lewd majesty. 'I do not spread my seed onto just anyone's tongue, boy. To date, only the carriers of my children have received it, and among those, only while they are pregnant.'

I shake my head. 'Can't believe a word you say.'

'Oh, come off it. What do I gain from lying?' She clicks her fingers, eyes darkening with light, and suddenly my body feels weird. 'What a lovely mare you'd make, Danielle.'

I look down and find myself nude, feminine, sexy. Big breasts, wide hips, long curvaceous legs. My cock is gone, my beard vanished, all that was me re-written by the power of the Queen of Queens. And then she clicks her fingers and I am back as before, a man in my twenties, bearded, masculine. My cock, in fact, remains hard.

'You underestimate me, boy,' the Queen says. 'I can redesign the world, should I choose to.' She sighs, and gesticulates while turning away. 'A hundred million sycophants would take your place in a heartbeat, would kill to sit where you sit. Go hungry, then. See if I care.'

She storms off, leaving me alone in her chambers.

My stomach, unfortunately, rumbles.

*

Night is strange in her palace.

The endless fractal network of mismatched civilisations that makes up the bedrock of her strange transdimensional domain is a place of interacting seasons and cycles also. In her palace, the highest of all places, night is a thing that creeps long and slow from all angles and congeals overhead, creating a carpet of glittering lights in a sea of black that cannot really represent anything beyond perhaps her imagination.

She sleeps on her great bed and I linger on a balcony overlooking a pastiche of different timelines, worlds, and universes smashed together. Down there is a kind of chaos and yet from here all seems peaceful. I could leap, and fall, but to what end? My friends are gone, elsewhere. My world doesn't exist, not really.

I wander the halls, finding an endless span of rooms, chambers for every purpose. Great walk-in wardrobes and libraries and galleries and symphony halls. Light comes and goes as necessary, reacting to me, knowing my passage. Her dining hall is barren, and the smells of superb cooked food remain. My stomach bothers me again.

Anger strikes, a feeling of being trapped, and I seize a sword from its mount in the main hall. The Queen doesn't stir as I rush to her, weapon held overhead with both hands. Only at the last minute, when the blade would cut her through, do her eyes open and the weapon disintegrates in my hands. She smiles at me, amused but not threatened. There never was a threat. All is an extension of her power.

Pathetically I shudder, burst into tears, and collapse on the floor beside her bed. Trapped, broken, scared, hopeless. The prisoner of a web-weaver, a spider-woman, a liar and a pretender and a torturer par excellence.

I expect laughter, mockery, and instead find a gentle hand on my back. She strokes me softly. 'Don't cry. What's bothering you?'

'You have to ask?'

She might shrug, but I'm not looking. There's a pause. 'Honestly, yes. Yes, I do have to ask. You have everything, and act as though you have nothing.'

'I have nothing, yes. No friends, no family, no world. Just your prisoner. A gilded prison, but a prison all the same.'

Images flash before my eyes, an overlay. There I see my friend Robert, sleeping soundly with a beautiful lamia around him. My family, all of them, in a spacious new home. Charlotte, smilingly pregnant, stroking her belly...with Derrick beside her?

'You said he died.' I turn to her. 'Didn't you?'

The Queen nods. 'Oh, he did. He struggled and a guard slew him. But death is hardly an obstacle in a dimension of my own creation.'

'Lies.'

'Would you like to go and see? Would you trust your own senses?'

'You invaded the world.'

'Because that is what I do, boy. I am...without occupation, otherwise.'

'I don't understand. All was chaos when you arrived. I saw death.'

'Yes, and I undid it. Believe or don't.' She shrugs, and leans up against the headboard. Nude, her heavy breasts sag down upon the faint protrusion of her pale belly. 'Nature is chaotic, while I bring order. Order, initially, takes getting used to.'

'But you're a tyrant.'

She rolls her eyes. 'You've not walked the cities. How would you know?' The Queen sighs. 'Daniel, where I was born, the men of power did awful things. When I completed my spell of apotheosis, I promised myself that I would give a mother's touch to the multiverse. Obviously you disagree, but I like to think I have done so. In the world below, all is at peace. Life and love go on, untouched by petty lords and rulers.'

'Some mother, locking me up here with you.'

'To maintain order, the slain go to different realms. I cannot change the ideal of justice present in the minds of the many peoples. Tell me, do you humans let criminals, or perceived criminals, go freely about their business?'

After a moment, I shake my head. 'No.'

'And if I released you, a killer of brothers and a sister, would I appear a monarch of order?'

'Fine,' I say. 'No. You wouldn't.'

She smiles faintly. 'Tomorrow, I'll set things in order. You can take on a new shape, of your own design, and go elsewhere. Or you can remain yourself, and go to the underworlds. Pleasant enough places in parts, where "criminals" as yourself live.'

'Aren't I meant to be a pet?'

The Queen sighs. 'You do not trust me for a moment, boy. How could you possibly come to love me, to accept me as your queen?'

'If...if all you say is true, I've been confused.'

'Yes, it seems fair to say so.'

'I'm sorry.'

She chuckles. 'Sorry? Pah, boy, as if I care. I am ageless and I am infinite.' The Queen crosses her arms, concealing her breasts but pushing them up, squishing their bulk against itself. 'Perhaps I thought you might appreciate this life better than a false new one, or an alien one. Perhaps I am getting lonely in my old age, and wanted some hybrid of a pet, a son, and a plaything.'

'Hard to feel things are genuine, when you make the world.'

'Precisely that. If you are a rich man, and a beautiful woman adores you, what is the reason? It may be fully honest, and yet, you cannot trust it.' She sighs, and shakes her head. Her black braids twists and writhe. 'This cannot leave this room, and I will wipe such a remark from your memory, but I am lonely. I am also contrary, haughty, perverted, and dominant. And so we play this game.'

'Thank you for being honest.'

'Yes, well, it matters not.'

She eyes me, and I her, for a silent minute. 'Why are you old? Or older, I should say. You know, motherly, mature, that style?'

'I was older when I achieved my powers,' the Witch Queen says. A look of pain, faint and fleeting, passes her sublime features. 'For all that I had suffered, it seemed fitting to maintain my look. A few touch-ups here and there, of course, but I always rather fancied my beauty. Perhaps I would be less lonely, do you think, were I to pursue a younger look?'

I shake my head. 'I think you're perfect, actually. Queenly, motherly, regal.'

She smiles, broad and bright in the gloom. 'That may be the first genuine compliment you've paid me. Progress, at the least.'

'Why me?'

The Queen of Queens chuckles. 'For all that I said, fool. You are not slavish. I feel, on some level, that to earn your loyalty would prove to some silly part of me that I am fully capable of inspiring awe in the awe-less.'

'And should I stay?'

She smirks. 'Stay with me, you mean?'

I nod.

'There is no trap, boy. I will honestly set you free, if that is what you wish.'

'I don't know anything right now.' I sigh, and let my head fall back against the side of her bed. Silken sheets cushion me, somehow emitting an ideal amount of warmth and comfort. 'I like being me. But I can't go home.'

The Queen shifts, and she runs delicate fingers softly through my hair. 'You will have to decide, then, but there is no rush.'

I look up at her, side-on, and blush. The Witch Queen is sat upright, cross-legged beneath her sheets, with her body nude above her waist. She continues to tussle my hair, smiling warmly at me. The most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on, without a doubt.

Some past self would be screaming at me, thinking me an utter idiot. This woman, this perfect mother-I'd-like-to-fuck, will feed me from her ridiculous breasts, will have sex with me, will make my life dreamy. But what's the cost of this?

If I stay, am I really betraying my friends, if she's showing me the truth? Will I even be able to discover the truth, given this mismatch in power, her infinity and my absolute finiteness?

My stomach, writhing, protests.

'Do you really leave no scraps to eat?'

The Queen smirks at me. 'Do you really think I couldn't conjure up a feast for you if I so needed to?'

I feel my cheeks grow hot. 'You just want to feed me yourself.'

She scoops up her left breast with the same-sided hand, the fat pale bosom spilling beautifully over her elegant fingers. 'I do,' she says. 'I very much want to breastfeed you.' The Queen pats her lap with her other hand. 'Would it be so wrong, boy? To rest your head and nurse on a goddess, for just a little while? Just until your belly is full, that hunger sated?'

'You promise you've told me the truth?' I say. Even hearing my words, even thinking them, feels like a betrayal. But a seed has been planted. What if I'm wrong about her?

'I promise,' the Queen says. She pats her lap again. 'Come rest your head, boy. Let the Mother of Worlds be, tonight at least, your own personal mother.'

*

I want to believe her. My head screams "betrayer" at me, but I want to believe.

She watches as I regain my feet, those brilliant violet eyes studying my every movement as I crawl onto the bed, as I move towards her, as the distance between us closes to the point of nervous intimacy.

Still the Queen holds her left breast, but her right hand beckons to me, delicate fingers curling and uncurling. Her smell, that arcane force paired with sweet femininity and perfumed fruitiness, is welcoming and encouraging. I can barely meet her eyes, awkwardness peaking as I crawl near enough to put a hand -- wholly accidentally -- on her covered thigh.

'Come to mummy,' she says, winking, smirking. Her free hand slips behind my head and guides me forwards until my face is on the cusp of her lap. 'Face up. Head down.'

I say nothing, and twist about onto my back, laying across the bed horizontal to her vertical. My head comes to rest upon her lap, where I half-expect to feel some bulging shape, but find only the soft embrace of the sheets and the warmth of her divine body. The Queen looks down at me, excitement aglow in her eyes. Between my face and hers hovers that shapely heavy breast, so large and full, creamy pale, laced in faint bluish veins.

'Are you hungry?' she says.

I shift my head, an attempt at a nod. 'Very.'

'Good. I like being needed.'

She lowers her breast, letting its soft weight sink upon my mouth, but the sheer volume of the motherly bosom causes it to spill over and threaten to smother me. The Queen laughs as I strugglingly readjust, but she cups the back of my head and strokes my hair, something about her touch easing me, making everything a bit dreamy and relaxing.

'Suckle,' she says. 'You won't ever be hungry with me around.'

It's so wrong, to want this. To at once debase myself and to enthrone her, to give her some power over me and the satisfaction that comes with it. But those violet eyes are enchanting, this body of hers is no mere temple but a cathedral to womanly excellence, a mature body out of my filthiest fantasies.

Her nipple breaches my lips the moment I let it. A pointed thing, its surroundings are pleasantly bumpy. The breast is plump against my face and fragrant with the sweetness of her skin and a faint creaminess that suggests the motherly purpose of her great heaving bosoms. For the first time since I was a baby I'm nursing on a woman's chest, suckling again out of desperate need for sustenance.

'Mhm. Such a lucky boy, Daniel. Oh, how the sycophants would envy you.'

I expected deliciousness, but not like this. Thick sweet milk results, coming out in a continuous dribble, glazing my tongue with a stickiness. The Queen of Queens tastes sublime, a Mother of Mothers, producing the finest dairy cream imaginable. I find myself innately suckling harder, more fiercely, but such only produces a biting of her lower lip and a low breathy moan that makes my dick ache.

This is, beyond any mere feeding, deeply sexual. I keep looking at her face, keep meeting her eyes, all the while nursing on her plump immense breast. Such pleasure she gets, from so simple an act. Not a mere mother but a pervert, a game-player, one who revels in the dirtiest kind of victory.

'I always wanted a child of my own,' she says, stroking my hair. 'Though, I suppose, were you my actual son I'd be far less inclined to do this.'

I almost choke on a warm mouthful of breastmilk when her fingers clench around my cock, finding it up and alert, ready for her attentions. Our game of staring takes on another note, a cat-and-mouse, a realisation that beyond anything else here, I am prey to this woman.

It...it feels weirdly good, to realise that.

'Ugh. Mhm.'

I groan around her nipple as the Queen slowly strokes me, tugging up and down on my shaft. Her fingers are the softest silks, her grip a vice of lace and splendour. She teases my cock with the sensation of nail-edges, as if a low warning, as if to further establish who is in charge here. I've given her something, today. Given her a piece of me that I worry I cannot take back.

'Such a war in that handsome head of yours,' the Empress of Eternity says. 'No, don't stop. Don't panic. I'm just watching your eyes.' She smiles, makes a sound like a humanised purr. The Queen glances at my cock and licks her lips, then reasserts her powerful violet gaze upon my own. 'All this worrying. All this fighting. Is it so awful, to taste such sweetness from such a full and lovely breast?'

No. Not for a moment. I withdraw my gaze from her, as if that will hide me from those all-piercing amethysts. The warmth of her body, of that motherly bosom that smothers my face and feeds my hungry mouth, is inescapable. The way she strokes and tugs on me, the gentlest of skilful extractions, makes my heart flutter, my spine shudder, my mind spin.

'Mhm.'

I moan softly. How can I not? She's delicious. The smell, that creamy breastmilk smell and the sweet arcane glory of her body, is a thing for the ages. I look back to the Queen, who watches me with such sultry intent, and find myself more than a little enraptured. I could so readily lose myself in those eyes. Could debase myself, become utterly hers, through the labyrinthine seductions of that full-lipped smile.

'You can sleep in here with me, if you'd like,' she says. One set of fingers teases my manhood, the other traces lines through my hair across my scalp. 'I don't mind. Honest. I'd quite like to wake up to my handsome boy, so bold a warrior, having a nice midnight snack on my motherly tits.' She chuckles, darkly sexy, all confidence and not the least bit worry. 'Or perhaps I'll wake to you stroking your cock at my face, thinking to defile my good looks with your healthy seed. Wouldn't that be a sweet thing? Perhaps you might even try to mount me...'

My cock is starting to ache, so masterful are her strokes. The pressure is building, and of course, nothing gets past her. The Queen releases me, edges me with just the slightest running-down of my length with a finger.

'I'll swallow every drop, every time,' the Queen says. 'A mother's job, to take care of her boy, wouldn't you say?' The grin is dark, enveloping. I must blush, must make some face beneath the smothering engulfment that is her breast, because the Witch Queen laughs again. 'Oh, come on. Lighten up. Tell me you don't enjoy the dirtiness of it. The pretending.'

Bravely, stupidly, I pull back from her nipple. God, her breasts are so heavy, and sag in such an aesthetically divine manner, that I have to shift my head quite a bit to the side or else remain smothered. 'I do. I like it.'

'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.

———x———

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...'