Her Royal Pet Ch 01

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?'