I wake the following morning with a realisation that today is an auspicious one.
A day where, if the Queen -- Mother -- is telling it true, I'm going to find myself facing a very different reality, going forwards. Today, I undergo my true betrayal, if I choose to go along with it. If I choose to get that thing which I want more than anything else in the world.
The Empress of Eternity. The Witch Queen. The Mother of Mothers.
I shiver, to consider it. To consider that even after a night's sleep, waking late and alone -- as if time means much, though the palace does keep to a clock, for the sake of her counsel and audiences -- with a bottomless well of lusts utterly expunged from me the night before and yet in their place now resides a crystallised aspect of want.
I want her.
The noblest parts of me, or those best talented in the act of deception, might well view that desire through a rose-tinted lens. In becoming her child, in becoming a shard of herself, I'll have some element of power that -- if her truths are revealed to be lies -- might allow me to make things brighter for those she's wronged. If there truly are no other worlds, if she really has wrought evil upon the many peoples under her Eternal Empire, then I can at least fudge the numbers going forwards.
Yet I blush, knowing the truth. Blush, knowing that my truest desire is to make her my woman. To put a baby in her, to claim her body, to reduce this Queen of Queens to nothing more than an outlet for my sexual needs. Oh, I know it'll be purely in line with her own desires, of course. I know my place, insofar as power stacks up between us. Whatever happens, it happens per her own agreement. In no way, shape, or form, can I come out of this somehow at the reins of things.
Still, it doesn't matter. I can either do some good, or at least find good in enjoying myself. Ugly though the latter thought is, it's built upon the hope that she's been truthful with me.
Because if the Witch Queen is as benevolent as she claims, then I can enjoy myself without an atom of guilt.
I climb from the big bed and go to the adjacent bathing room, soaking my nude form for a while and passingly inspecting myself. My body, honed to be hard and firm during the futility of our rebellion, has regained its full vigour on account of...her feedings. I can't pretend I don't want her milk, and equally I can't pretend I'd so strongly desire it -- despite its deliciousness -- were there not the illicit intimacy of the act of nursing involved.
How far gone I am, truly, and yet it makes me smile. I've put up a fight, and I can justify my behaviour to myself. I can cope with who I'm becoming, even though...even though in some sense, I've no idea who I'm about to become.
I let my head relax back on the shelf of the bath and stare at the ceiling, at its mosaic patterns and beautiful artwork etched into the very stones themselves. This entire place is wrought from her, designed by her, wholly the product of that sublime and enchanting consciousness. Was the Queen always like this? Did it come about on account of her power, the tremendous abilities she developed in the course of becoming the tantalising terror I know her to be?
What will I become, if I go through with this? And more importantly -- so importantly -- why am I so happy to do this? Just for a chance of...impregnating her? In the light of day, in the warming steam of the bath, it's difficult to wield that reasoning as I intended it to be used.
Better to be powerful, of course. But there's another aspect there, and one which I'm passingly ashamed of. These feelings, towards her. These urges, which encompass her. To think of the Witch Queen, the Mother of Mothers -- who wants me to be her son, her scion, and to call her Mother -- is to experience a fluttering in the soul that nobody has ever induced in me before.
There have been women, yes. Pretty girls, clever girls, interesting girls...but the Empress of Eternities is not some mere girl. This twisted relationship I find myself in, appetising as it is, involves a mortal and a deity. That's the truth of it, the part that's impossible to deny.
'Lost in thought?'
Her voice wrenches me out of my contemplation, and I instinctively -- foolishly -- cover my junk, as if my cock hadn't been embedded inside of her last night.
The Queen stands at the entrance to the bathing chamber, in full garb despite being in the privacy of her quarters. Something about the contrast of her paleness and the blackness of her metallic armour appeals to me on a fundamental level, conjuring forth an amalgamation of love and fear. It has cut-outs at just the right spots to reveal her matronly curvature, the thickness of her thighs and plushness of her hips, the immensity of her motherly breasts. A body, my mind is eager to remind me, I could claim. A womb, ripe and ready, if I go along this path which awaits me.
'No, Mother,' I say, the word having such power even in daylight. 'Simply enjoying the waters. I never had a bath like this, even when all was normal.'
'It'll feel normal again, darling.' She steps forwards, once and then twice, the armoured heels of her thigh-high sabaton-boots rattling sonorously against the tiled floor. 'Do you still want to see what has become of your friends?'
The details of which have already been discussed, of course. Either I trust her, or I do not. But the offer is still tempting, if only to see...to see what my gut says. Though part of me, perhaps the same part wearing a different face, worries that I'll like what I find and lose myself in her grace.
'I thought we talked about this?'
'We did,' she says, smiling in her enigmatic fashion. 'I thought I'd offer it, all the same. I do want you to be comfortable with me, if it can be helped. Assuming that you still want to become my scion, and the only man worthy of breeding me.'
Her tone takes a slight dip into the vulgar as she says that last bit, and her luxurious lips hint at the makings of a sultry smirk. The Witch Queen knows all too well how to push my buttons, and seems to relish watching for any responses on my face. Sadly I lack her exquisite control, and I'm sure I give something away. That part of me which longs, like nothing else, to see her belly fat with a child of my own...it's ravenous beyond language.
'Let me just dry,' I say. 'I want to see. I want to...want to trust you.'
'I'll be waiting in the throne room. Don't give me a chance to get bored.'
She turns away with a wicked wink, passingly presenting her proud posterior to me, a feast for the eyes as exceptional as her breasts. The armour is obviously for show, given how it rides up between her pale plump buttocks like some thong strap. Her dark hair, vaguely purplish with her immense magics where the light hits it just so, sways side to side against her cheeks as they bounce up and down with every step she takes.
Her absence is like a chill, and it leaves a seed of worry. The Empress of Eternities is an addictive thing to contend with, a drug in sentient form. Even being in the presence of her voice is something to marvel at, the way the notes of her luscious tone seem to engulf and envelop. Not to begin on her raw physical appeal, the beauty of that baleful, impressive physique, the superior of any woman from the entire span of human history.
I don't quite notice myself thinking about her as I finish my washing and hurry out of the bath to dry myself off, but my mind revolves around her. A hunger for her milk, for the sweetness of her mouth, for her touch upon my skin. There, in the background, always.
The clothing in the wardrobe is...whatever I want it to be, it seems, so long as it stylistically suits her own apparel. Everything is dark, though the actual garments themselves are manifold in their variants. From clothing befitting some relic of the Middle Ages all the way up to modern outfits that would look at home on London's streets -- if notably gothic -- and then other things that seem almost futuristic.
I settle for something familiar enough, a jacket and jeans, a t-shirt beneath the jacket. The drawer beneath the wardrobe proper seems to extend out as far as I am happy to pull it, revealing a similarly endless array of footwear, though some stylish boots will do me fine.
Suitably comfortable, feeling more at home than I ever have in this place, I make my way to the throne room. That stained glass window which overlooks the audience hall possesses on either side of it a set of doors, and I slip through the leftmost one, coming out on the opposite side of the chamber from the Queen's seat. The vast room is empty for the moment, though I'm sure it'll be riddled with sycophants and servitors before long.
'There you are,' Mother says, manifesting beside me as if stepping out from unseen shadows. 'Are you ready to go?'
'As I'll ever be,' I say. Her scent is vaguely inebriating, syrupy and luscious. 'For whatever it's worth, I want to trust you. I do.'
'I believe you.' She wraps a hand around one of mine, clenching it with gentle tightness, fingers latticing about my own. 'I gain nothing from tricking you, darling boy. I want this to be authentic, lest I remind you. The sweetest victory here is your willingness, your wanting this. Nothing else will do.'
She eases me close to her, beside her body. It's easy to forget sometimes how much taller she is than me, even without her heeled sabatons, but right now almost a half-foot separates us. The metal which so sporadically encases her perfect paleness is warm to the touch where it brushes against me. If anything, her whole body generates a kind of comfortable heat, and a comforting sense of safety. Of...being home.
'I know, Mother. I'm ready to go. Show me my friends.'
The transition is instantaneous, a sudden injection of colour and sound into the omnipresent darkness which makes up the halls of her great house. We materialise on a field of green grass, overlooking a cottage which at first glance seems to be on the edge of a humble town out of a fantasy story. The very house I saw in the brief thoughts she filtered into my head, where Derrick and Charlotte were supposed to end up.
'They can't see us unless I allow them to, so observe as you see fit. Go brush the fencing and get splinters, or prick yourself on a knife in their kitchen, if you must. Anything to believe me.'
