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?'