Chapter 6: The Morning After
The darkness was not empty. It was full of her—the heat of her skin against his, the rhythmic sigh of her breathing, the intoxicating scent that had replaced oxygen in his lungs. Flash woke to a profound quiet within his own skull. The static was gone. The echoes had been silenced. There was only the present, a warm, heavy reality centered on the weight of the woman draped across him.
He was already achingly hard, a throbbing insistence pressed against her thigh. It felt natural, an autonomic response to her proximity, like a flower turning toward a sole source of light.
She stirred, feeling him. A slow smile touched her lips before she even opened her eyes. She stretched languidly, grinding her hip against his erection, drawing a choked gasp from him.
“Already?” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep. She propped herself up on an elbow, her fiery hair a chaotic cascade over one shoulder. Her green eyes, sharp and assessing even now, scanned his face. She saw the blank devotion, the eager tension in his jaw. A experiment occurred to her. “What do you want?”
The question seemed to confuse him. His brow furrowed slightly, as if the concept of personal desire was a foreign language. “I… I want to serve you, Princess Aura.”
“Serve me how?”
He glanced down at his own body, then back at her, a desperate honesty in his eyes. “Please. Let me… let me taste you again. Let me make you feel good.” The words tumbled out, raw and stripped of pride.
A thrill, cold and bright, shot through her. This was better than she had dreamed. The hero, the defiant Earthman, reduced to this beautiful, begging animal. She slid off him and lay back against the sapphire silk, opening her legs. The intimate sight of her, glistening and exposed, made him shudder.
“Then worship,” she said, a casual command.
He moved between her thighs with a speed that was almost undignified. His hands trembled as they gripped her hips. He didn’t hesitate. He buried his face in her with a moan that vibrated through her core. His tongue was relentless, a broad, wet stroke from her opening to her clit, which he circled with frantic, focused pressure.
“Yes,” she hissed, her fingers knotting in his hair. She didn’t guide him; she simply held on, letting him learn her through desperate, obedient exploration. “There. Just like that. Use your tongue inside me. Get it deep.”
He obeyed, his jaw working, his tongue plunging into her softness. The sounds were obscenely wet, loud in the humming silence of the chamber. He drank from her as if she were the only source of water in a desert, his own needs forgotten, his world narrowed to the taste of her, the smell of her arousal, the twitch of her muscles under his hands.
Her climax built quickly, fed by his absolute submission as much as his skillful tongue. “Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop, I’m going to—” Her words dissolved into a sharp cry as she came, her back arching off the bed, her heels digging into his shoulders. He lapped at her through the shuddering waves, gentling only when she roughly pushed his head away, oversensitive and spent.
She was panting, looking down at him. His face was slick with her, his eyes wide and waiting for his next command, his next chance to please. An idea, delicious in its cruelty, took shape.
“Come up here,” she breathed.
He crawled up her body. She put a hand on his chest, stopping him before he could kiss her. “No. Turn around.”
Confusion flickered, then obedience. He moved clumsily, turning so he was kneeling over her, his back to her face, his knees flanking her shoulders. His erection stood thick and straining inches from her mouth. She ignored it. Instead, she looked at the other part of him now presented to her.
“Now,” she said, her voice a low, commanding purr. “Lower yourself. Onto my mouth.”
It took him a second to understand. When he did, a tremor of something—shame, excitement, sheer vulnerability—racked his powerful frame. He slowly complied, lowering his hips until he felt her warm breath, then the devastating, soft stroke of her tongue against his most sensitive flesh. He gasped, his arms buckling.
She held his hips firm, keeping him in place. “Stay. And don’t you dare come.”
Then she began in earnest. She gave him the same ruthless, analytical attention he had given her. She used her tongue, her lips, the hint of her teeth, reducing the proud athlete to a shuddering, moaning wreck. He was muttering a stream of consciousness—“Aura, please, god, oh fuck, Aura”—his fists clenched in the silk. She could feel the tension coiling in his balls, the warning tremors in his thighs. She stopped, blowing cool air on his wet skin, making him whimper.
“You are mine,” she stated, her voice muffled against him.
“Yours!”
“This cock is mine.”
“Yours!”
“And you will only spend when I allow it.”
“Yes! Yes, anything!”
She took him deep again, all the way, until he choked on a sob. This time, when she felt him teetering on the edge, she pulled away completely and pushed him off. He collapsed onto his back beside her, his chest heaving, his body gleaming with sweat, his cock angry and purple with denied release.
She straddled his hips, but didn’t take him inside. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, her lips at his ear. “Has anyone ever owned you like this?”
“No. Never.”
“Do you want anyone else?”
“No.”
“What about Dale?”
The name meant nothing. It was a sound, empty as the void outside the ship. He blinked, genuinely perplexed. “Who?”
The victory was absolute. It was a cold, clean triumph that settled in her bones. She kissed him, deep and possessive, and finally, slowly, sank down onto him. The feeling of being filled after such exquisite torment ripped a ragged shout from his throat.
“Now,” she whispered, riding him with a slow, grinding intensity. “Now you can come. Give it to me. Everything.”
It was a permission that shattered him. His control, already stripped to the wire, snapped. He erupted with a force that was almost violent, his hips pumping up into her, a raw, guttural cry tearing from his lips that was more pain than pleasure—the pain of total surrender. She milked him with the muscles of her cunt until he was spent, hiccupping and blank-eyed beneath her.
She lay on him, feeling his heart thunder against her own. In the quiet, a different hunger stirred—not for flesh, but for permanence.
“We’re going home,” she said into the silence.
“Home?”
“To Mongo. To my father’s court.” She traced the line of his jaw. “You will be at my side. My consort. My pet. Everyone will see you. Everyone will know what I took from Earth and made my own.”
He nuzzled into her touch. “Whatever you wish.”
Years later, on a balcony overlooking the crimson spires of Mingo City, Flash Gordon stood impeccably dressed in the silks and metals of the royal house. Below, triumphant banners bearing the likeness of Emperor Ming fluttered in the ash-choked wind. Earth had fallen, its resistance extinguished, its resources flowing into the Mongo war machine. The reports were a dull buzz in the periphery of his old world.
He felt a familiar presence beside him. Aura, her beauty undimmed, her eyes holding a secret, satisfied glow. She slipped her hand into his.
“Content, my love?” she asked, though she knew the answer.
He looked at her, his eyes clear, his smile genuine and untroubled. He saw no banners, no ash, no conquered worlds. He saw only her.
“I have everything,” he said.
And he did.