Chapter 13: A Wedding of Gods
The drive back from the clinic was a silence so thick it felt like wool stuffed in Camila’s ears. The Collector sat in the passenger seat of her sensible sedan, his bare feet propped on the dashboard, humming a tuneless song that seemed to twist the autumn sunlight slanting through the windshield. Camila could still feel the phantom stretch of his fingers inside her, the cool tiles of her clinic floor against her knees. The taste of her own shame was a metallic film on her tongue. She’d left the stabilized dog with her assistant, offering a mumbled excuse about a family emergency. It wasn’t a lie. This was the emergency. She was the emergency.
He’d redecorated.
That was her first, disconnected thought upon pushing open the front door. The living room was unrecognizable. The warm, faded floral sofa was shrouded in heavy draperies of black velvet and silver chainmail. Her late husband’s recliner was gone. In its place sat a grotesque, beautiful throne of polished obsidian and twisted bone. The walls themselves seemed to have receded into a void sprinkled with slow-moving, unfamiliar constellations that pulsed with a faint, sickly light. The air was choked with incense—sandalwood and myrrh—underlaid by that same coppery, sweet scent she now associated with him, with his sweat, with his spend. It smelled like a temple built over a slaughterhouse.
Luz was on the transformed sofa, still wearing the same stained jeans from the morning. She was curled into a tight ball, staring at the shifting stars on the wall with hollow eyes. The television was on, the volume low, playing an old home video. Camila’s own laughter, younger, brighter, echoed tinny and ghostly from the speakers.
On screen, a much younger Camila in a white dress twirled in a sun-dappled backyard. Manny, alive and smiling, held a camcorder. Little Luz, maybe five, chased bubbles with chaotic joy.
“I found it in a box,” The Collector said, skipping past Camila into the room. He gestured at the screen. “You all looked so happy. So… complete. It gave me an idea.”
Luz didn’t look away from the wall. “What idea?” Her voice was flat.
“A game!” He clapped his hands, the sound sharp in the heavy air. “A wedding game! You had one.” He pointed at the screen. “But that’s boring. Just one husband, one wife. So limited.” His starry eyes swiveled between Camila, still frozen in the doorway, and Luz on the couch. A grin spread across his face, wide and unsettling. “We’re going to have a better one. Right now.”
He snapped his fingers.
The sensation was not painful, but profoundly violating. A cool ripple passed over Camila’s skin. Her coat, her robe, her clothes simply dissolved into motes of light. The air hit her bare, pregnant body, raising goosebumps. Beside her, she heard Luz gasp. A glance showed her daughter similarly stripped, her small breasts exposed, the ripe curve of her belly naked to the room.
Another snap.
Fabric coiled out of the air itself, weaving around them. It was lace, white and intricate, but it covered nothing. It was a harness of decoration. Straps cupped Camila’s heavy, swinging breasts, digging into the flesh, her dark nipples exposed and tightened by the cool, magical air. A garter of lace bit into her thigh. A flimsy veil was pinned in her graying hair. Luz was adorned similarly, the white lace a stark contrast against her tan skin and the brown, wiry hair at her apex. They were dressed like obscene parodies of brides, their pregnancy a blatant mockery of purity.
“Beautiful,” The Collector breathed, circling them. He was still in the flannel shirt, now hanging open. His own arousal was blatant, jutting out from his body, thick and veined and impossibly large, a flushed, ruddy contrast to his pale skin. His heavy balls hung low and full beneath it.
He took Camila’s hand. His touch was electrifying. He pulled her, with a gentle, irresistible force, towards the velvet-draped sofa. He guided her down, then Luz, positioning them side-by-side. Their pregnant sides touched, a warm, solid line of shared complicity. The lace scraped their skin.
He knelt on the floor before them, not like a supplicant, but like a predator at a feast. He looked up, his golden eyes reflecting the pulsing constellations. “This is the vow part. You will both take my cock as your husband. You will both carry my children. You will both be my wives. Say ‘I do.’” It was not a request.
Camila’s mouth was desert-dry. She looked at Luz. Her daughter’s eyes were wide with terror, but beneath it, a frightening acceptance was already there. Luz gave the tiniest nod.
“I do,” Luz whispered, the words cracking.
The Collector’s eyes locked onto Camila. “Mommy?”
The infantilizing term, in this context, shattered her last fragment of resistance. She was not a mother here. She was raw material. She was a hole to be filled. A tear traced a hot path down her cheek, disappearing into the lace at her collar. “I do,” she rasped.
“Good!” he chirped, his mood flipping to joyous. “Now we consummate!”
He moved with that unsettling, fluid speed. One hand pressed firmly against Camila’s chest, pushing her back into the plush velvet. Her legs fell open, a reflexive, trained response. He loomed over her, his massive cockhead, slick with pre-come, nudging against her soaked, bushy curls. He didn’t tease. He didn’t prepare her.
He drove forward.
The entry was a brutal, stretching burn. He was too big, impossibly big, and he was taking her dry despite her wetness, her body forced to accommodate him in one relentless, sinking thrust. Camila screamed. A raw, ragged sound that tore from her throat. Her back arched off the couch, her belly jutting towards the ceiling. He buried himself to the hilt, his pelvis grinding against her, his balls slapping against her ass.
“There,” he sighed, as if settling into a comfortable chair. “My wife.”
Then he began to move.
There was no rhythm, no technique beyond possession. He pulled back until just the thick head stretched her entrance, then slammed back in, a piston of flesh intent on remolding her from the inside. Each impact jarred her entire body, making her full breasts jump and sway, her pregnant belly quaking. The slap of skin-on-skin was obscenely loud in the transformed room, punctuating her choked cries.
“Look at you,” he grunted, his childish voice taking on a guttural edge. “My broodmare. Look how your ugly, hairy cunt swallows me. Made for this.”
Camila’s world narrowed to the splitting fullness, the brutal friction, the degrading words. Her hands scrabbled at the velvet, finding nothing to hold onto. She came suddenly, a sharp, unwilling climax that made her cunt spasm violently around the invading girth. She squirted, a hot gush that soaked the velvet beneath her and made the thrusts sound wetter, dirtier.
He laughed, pulling out of her abruptly. She gasped at the sudden, aching emptiness, her used hole fluttering open, dripping.
He turned to Luz.
Luz was watching, her hand between her own legs, fingers working frantically in her brown curls. Her face was a mask of agonized arousal.
“Your turn, wifey,” The Collector said, his cock glistening with Camila’s release. He didn’t reposition Luz. He simply grabbed her hips and pulled her to the edge of the couch, next to her mother. He nudged his cockhead against her smaller opening. “You saw how she took it. Be a good girl.”
Luz nodded frantically, spreading her legs wider. “Please.”
He plunged into her.
Luz’s cry was higher, a sharp yelp that melted into a long, trembling moan. Her body convulsed, trying to accept him. He fucked her with the same relentless, pounding pace, his hips a blur. Her small frame was nearly folded in half by the force. Camila, lying beside her, could only watch, could only hear the wet, squelching sounds of her daughter being violently taken.
“Tighter,” The Collector groaned, his eyes closed in pleasure. “Little, but so tight. Gripping my cock like a fist.” He leaned down, biting Luz’s shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make her yelp. “Mine.”
He switched again. Pulling out of Luz, leaving her whimpering and empty, he shoved back into Camila’s well-used, dripping cunt. She was so loose now, so open, that he slid in with a single, smooth, shocking stroke, burying himself in her depths. He fucked her hard, his balls slapping against her, his pace frantic. “Two wives,” he chanted, “two cunts, one cock. My cock.”
He was a blur of motion between them. A few dozen brutal strokes in Camila’s gaping hole, then back to Luz’s tighter clutch. He never softened, never slowed. He was a machine, a force of nature, reducing them to nothing but bodies, receptacles. The air filled with the sounds of their degradation: guttural moans, sharp slaps, squirting releases, his animalistic grunts. The scent of sex and sweat became overwhelming, drowning out the incense.
Camila lost count of how many times she came. Her body was no longer her own. It was a thing that convulsed and spasmed and gushed fluid on command. Luz was the same, a sobbing, pleading mess of ecstasy and shame beside her.
Finally, he pulled out of Luz and stood, his cock raging, dripping with their mingled fluids. He was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on his pale chest. “The wedding night,” he announced. “Get up.”
He pulled Camila to her feet. Her legs almost buckled. He sat on the edge of the obsidian throne, his cock pointing straight up, a monstrous pillar. He guided her, his hands on her wide hips. “Ride your husband, wife.”
Understanding, Camila straddled him. She guided him to her entrance, still gaping and slick, and sank down. The angle was different, deeper. She took him all, a slow, agonizing descent that made her see stars. She was full, impossibly full, her pregnant belly resting against his slender torso. He looked up at her, his expression one of curious delight.
“Now you,” he said to Luz, patting his face. “Here.”
Luz, trembling, crawled onto the couch. She straddled The Collector’s face, her knees on either side of his head, her dripping, hairy cunt hovering over his mouth. He didn’t wait. His tongue, long and preternaturally skilled, licked a broad stripe from her perineum to her clit.
Luz cried out, her hands flying to Camila’s shoulders for balance. Mother and daughter were connected now through him—Camila impaled on his cock, Luz ground down onto his mouth.
“Move,” he commanded, his voice muffled by Luz’s flesh.
Camila began to ride him. It was a clumsy, desperate motion, her tired muscles straining to lift and drop her heavy body on that massive shaft. Each time she sank down, a groan was punched from her lungs. Below her, The Collector was feasting on Luz, his tongue delving deep into her, lapping at her squirt, sucking her swollen clit into his mouth with noisy, vulgar intensity.
Luz was babbling. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, right there, please, don’t stop—!” Her fingers dug into Camila’s shoulders, her hips grinding in frantic circles against his face.
The Collector’s hands gripped Camila’s ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, guiding her pace, forcing her down harder, faster. “Take it, you greedy whore,” he grunted against Luz’s cunt. “Milk your husband’s cock. Get every drop.”
The pressure in Camila’s belly was cosmic. It wasn’t just an orgasm building; it was a cataclysm. She could feel him throbbing inside her, could feel the heat of his impending release. Luz’s cries peaked, becoming screams as she came, her body shaking violently, another flood of fluid gushing over The Collector’s chin and neck.
That was his trigger.
With a roar that seemed to shake the very stars on the walls, The Collector’s hips hammered up off the throne, burying himself as deep as he could go inside Camila. His fingers became vises on her ass, holding her down. He erupted.
The sensation was unlike anything Camila had ever felt. It wasn’t a pulse; it was a flood. A hot, impossible torrent of his seed filled her, pumped into her with such ferocity she felt her womb distend further, her belly tightening. It kept coming, wave after scalding wave, as if he had reservoirs of the stuff. It overflowed, spilling out around the base of his cock, dripping down his balls and onto the dark throne. He was marking her, claiming her, seeding her all over again even as she already carried his child.
Through the blinding, white-hot haze of her own simultaneous orgasm, Camila heard him laughing, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy.
He finally stilled, the last few twitches pumping the last of his spend into her. He gently pushed Luz off his face. She collapsed onto the couch beside the throne, boneless and crying softly. The Collector looked up at Camila, still impaled on him, her body full of him. He smiled, a sweet, innocent smile.
“I now pronounce us husband and wives,” he said. He gave her a playful little bounce on his lap, making her wince. “You may kiss… oh, never mind.”
He lifted her off him. His cock slid out with a wet, sucking pop, followed by a rush of his seed that painted her inner thighs white. She stumbled, catching herself on the arm of the sofa, her legs unable to support her.
The Collector stood, stretching like a cat. He was already flagging, slick and glistening. He looked around his transformed living room, at his two brides, broken and used and weeping on the furniture. He sighed, a sigh of deep contentment.
“Best wedding ever,” he declared.
He snapped his fingers again.
The obsidian throne, the velvet drapes, the starry walls—they all shimmered and faded. In a blink, the room was back to normal. The floral sofa, the recliner, the benign beige walls. The only evidence of the violation was the three of them, naked but for shreds of dissolving white lace, covered in sweat and spend and slick, their bodies heaving with spent passion and profound shame.
The front door lock clicked.
Amity’s voice called from the hallway, bright and clear. “Luz? Noceda? I’m back! I got those glutton-free muffins you wanted, and—“
She stepped into the living room doorway, a brown paper bag in her arms. She stopped. Her golden eyes took in the scene: the two naked, pregnant women, one collapsed on the couch, one leaning against it, both looking ravaged and tear-stained. The Collector, naked and smirking, standing between them.
Amity’s smile faltered. A confused frown creased her brow. “What… what’s going on? Why are you all…?” Her nose wrinkled. “What is that smell?”
The Collector beamed at her. “We were playing a game! A wedding game. It got really hot and sweaty.” He gestured vaguely. “You missed it.”
Amity’s eyes darted to Luz, seeking an explanation. Luz, with a terrifyingly practiced motion, pulled a throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over herself, covering her body. She attempted a smile, but it was a grimace. “Yeah. Just… a dumb game. Magic stuff. Got out of hand.”
Camila could not move. She could only stand there, exposed, The Collector’s seed slowly leaking down her trembling thighs, meeting her daughter’s shattered eyes. They were brides now. Bound. Owned.
And as Amity, with a hesitant, uncertain laugh, said, “Well, you guys are weird. Clean up, you reek of… sulfur, or something,” and headed towards the kitchen, Camila understood the final layer of the game.
The horror wasn’t just in the violation.
It was in the perfect, seamless normality that could now so easily contain it. Amity would never know. The world would never know. They would live in this beautiful, terrible secret, a family built on a foundation of cosmic semen and silent screams. The wedding was over. The marriage had just begun.