Chapter 2: Celestial Bonds
The darkness behind Manon’s eyelids dissolved not into light, but into sensation. A deep, burning, relentless fullness. A thick, slow stretch that opened her up in a way that was shocking, even after the crucible of the first day.
She came awake with a gasp, her consciousness slamming into the present. Atticus was already moving inside her. Not her cunt—that was sore, swollen, tender—but her other entrance. He’d taken her ass while she slept, her body pliant and unresisting. A slick, generous oil eased his passage, but the intrusion was profound, a claiming that bypassed all thought.
Her wings, lying slack across the bed, gave a violent jerk. Her back arched as the unfamiliar pressure ignited a chain reaction along her nerves. It was too much, it was invasive, it was exactly what she needed. The climax tore through her without warning, the sixteenth, a sharp, blinding detonation that left her shuddering and clenching around him, her inner muscles spasming in a confused, ecstatic welcome.
“Fuck!” she choked out, her voice ragged with sleep and shock.
“Good morning, wife,” Atticus rumbled behind her. He was braced over her, his chest against her back, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangled in her hair. He didn’t stop. He set a deliberate, deep rhythm, each thrust a slow, devastating conquest. “Your ass is so fucking perfect. So soft, so greedy.”
He was right. The generous, lush curve of her backside cushioned each of his drives, the soft flesh yielding and then bouncing back, a rhythmic applause to his possession. Her pink cunt, untouched, glistened wetly below, an overflow of her violent awakening.
He shifted his grip, pulling her up onto her hands and knees. Doggy style. Now the angle changed, went deeper. Manon cried out, her head dropping between her shoulders.“Yes! There! Gods, Atticus, fill my ass!” The filthy words spilled from her, a necessary incantation. Her own desperate want shocked her. This wasn’t just about the heir; this was a hunger for the violation, for the complete surrender of every part of herself.
He fucked her like that, his balls slapping against her wet pussy with every drive, the sounds obscenely loud in the dawn-lit chamber. The seventeenth orgasm built quickly, a tighter, more focused coil than the ones before. When it snapped, she screamed, her vision whiting out, her body clamping down on him so tightly he groaned, his own rhythm faltering.
“Turn over,” he commanded, his voice thick.
She collapsed onto her back, legs splayed, utterly spent and yet pulsing with need. He didn’t let her rest. He moved between her thighs, hooking her legs over his shoulders, pressing her knees almost to her chest.The mating press. He was so deep inside her ass now she felt split in two, impaled. He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking harshly as he resumed pounding into her.
“These tits,” he growled against her skin. “I dream about these perfect fucking tits.” He bit down, not gently, and she came again, the eighteenth, a sobbing, broken release. Her cunt wept a fresh rush of fluid, soaking the small of her back.
He was sweating, his white hair stuck to his forehead, his glowing eyes narrowed in concentration. “Prone,” he grunted.
She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow. He covered her, his weight a delicious anchor, his cock sliding back into the hot, willing tightness of her ass. Prone bone. His chest pressed against her wings, his mouth on the nape of her neck. This was intimate, crushing, inescapable. His thrusts were shorter, harder, grinding into her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t escape the relentless friction. The nineteenth climax was a slow burn, a creeping fire that consumed her from the inside until she was shaking apart beneath him, muffled screams eaten by the pillow.
A firm, polite knock echoed at the chamber door.
Both of them froze. Atticus’s rhythm hitched. Leah’s voice, strained and unnaturally formal, filtered through the wood. “Your Majesties? I apologize for the intrusion. I can return at a more… convenient time.”
Manon, her face still in the pillow, her body trembling with the aftermath and the ongoing, stretched-full sensation of him buried in her ass, let out a shaky, exhausted laugh. She turned her head, gulping air. “No! Leah, we will need more sheets… please… change them… and leave at once!”
Her words were punctuated by Atticus resuming his movement, a slow, deep roll of his hips that drew a whimpering moan from her. The door opened a crack, then wider.
Leah stood there, a fresh stack of linens held before her like a shield. Her dark eyes were wide, fixed on a point on the far wall, refusing to look directly at the bed. But she had seen. The flush that had been on her cheeks yesterday was now a full, crimson stain down her neck. Her uniform skirt, usually perfectly smooth, bore a subtle, telltale crease at the front. Her breathing was too quick.
She moved with robotic efficiency to the wardrobe, fetching the cleaning cloths. She approached the bed, her gaze averted, her movements stiff. The scent in the room was overpowering—sex, sweat, spent power, and the particular, musky scent of anal intercourse. The sheets were a disaster, stained with the evidence of multiple kinds of surrender.
As Leah leaned over to gather a sodden corner, her eyes flickered, against all her training, downward. She saw the powerful flex of Atticus’s back muscles, the way Manon’s soft, ample ass swallowed him, the glistening proof of her queen’s arousal coating her inner thighs. A small, inadvertent gasp escaped Leah’s lips.
Atticus heard it. He paused, turning his head just slightly. His glowing white eyes met hers for a fraction of a second. There was no reproach there, only a feral, knowing intensity that speared right through her. It was a look that acknowledged her presence, her voyeurism, and her irrelevance all at once.
Leah stumbled back, her composure shattered. She fumbled with the fresh sheet, managing to drape it haphazardly over a clear section of the bed before fleeing, the bundle of ruined linen clutched messily in her arms. The door shut with a softer click than usual.
The interruption seemed to fuel Atticus. “Where was I?” he muttered, his hands gripping Manon’s hips hard enough to bruise. He drove into her with renewed vigor, a punishing pace that had her scrabbling at the new sheet. “This ass. This fat, gorgeous, heavenly ass. It’s mine. Every fucking inch of you is mine to breed.”
He was close. She could feel the thickening of his cock, the frantic tempo. She pushed back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, her own body coiling once more. “Give it to me!” she screamed. “Nut in my ass, Atticus! Fill me up!”
With a roar that seemed to vibrate the crystal decanters on the sidebar, he came. His release was a torrent, a hot, claiming flood that spilled deep inside her, a sensation so profoundly intimate it triggered her twentieth and final orgasm of the day—a long, quaking, full-body convulsion that left her utterly hollowed out.
He collapsed atop her, his weight a comfort now. For a long time, they just breathed.
In the antechamber, Leah leaned against the wall, sliding down until she sat on the floor, the dirty linens beside her. Her hand was under her skirt, her fingers working in a frantic, shameful rhythm against her soaked slickness. She’d seen. She’d heard. The image of Atticus’s powerful body moving, of his possession, was burned behind her eyes. She came quickly, violently, biting her own wrist to silence her cry. The aftershocks left her trembling, consumed by a divinely curious hunger she could never, ever sate.
Inside, Atticus finally rolled off Manon. He traced a finger down her spine. She made a weak, protesting sound.
A soft chuckle escaped him. “Happy 32nd birthday, Manon.”
Manon turned her head, a tired, blissful smile on her face. “You fuck me so hard and ragged I feel like I’m 50.”
Atticus smiled, a rare, full expression that softened his fierce features. “I’m 32 as well. It gets easier.” He scoffed, the sound rich with amusement and disbelief, as he pulled her limp form against him. The sun was high now. Day two was consecrated. Eighty-four zeniths remained, and the chamber held the heavy, fertile silence of a promise being kept.
Eighty-four zeniths remained, and the chamber held the heavy, fertile silence of a promise being kept.
Atticus broke it. He moved, the shift of his weight on the mattress a deliberate disturbance. His hand, broad and warm, slid down Manon’s stomach, fingers splaying possessively over the faint, golden glow that still emanated from her skin. “Sixteen,” he stated, his voice a low vibration in the quiet. It wasn’t a question. He was counting, tallying the sacred quota against some internal ledger only he understood.
Manon whimpered, a soft sound of protest mingled with exhaustion. Her body felt liquefied, used, every muscle humming with a deep-seated ache. “Atticus, please… I can’t even feel my legs.” She tried to laugh, but it came out as a sigh. “Can’t we just… hold the count here for today?”
His fingers dipped lower, through the soaked, tangled curls, finding the swollen, hypersensitive flesh of her cunt. He pressed the pad of his thumb against her clit, not moving, just applying a steady, undeniable pressure. “No.” The word was final, edged with a tenderness that made her breath catch. “You will take twenty. You will scream twenty. Your body will remember nothing but my name and my seed by sunset. That is the covenant.”
He stood up in one fluid motion, the corded strength of his thighs, still slick with her and his own release, a stark contrast to her boneless sprawl. Before she could form another plea, his hands were on her, gripping her beneath her arms. He hauled her to the edge of the bed, the new sheets whispering in protest as her back slid across them.
“Wait, Atticus…” Her protest was weak, a token resistance already melting under the heat of his focus. He hooked his hands behind her knees, lifting her legs up and apart, draping them over his shoulders. The position bent her nearly in half, exposing her utterly, opening her wide. The cool air of the chamber kissed her wet, spread folds. “Can we do more tomorrow? Just… let me breathe.”
He was already pushing into her, his cock, still semi-hard from his earlier climax in her ass, finding immediate, slick entrance. He filled her in one long, relentless stroke that punched the air from her lungs. “No,” he breathed, his glowing eyes locked on where their bodies joined. “We do it now.”
He set a pace that was brutal in its efficiency. No playful exploration, no varying rhythm. This was a mechanical, piston-like drive, each thrust bottoming out inside her with a wet, solid slap of flesh. Her oversensitive nerves lit up, a confusing storm of pain and piercing pleasure. “Yes… yes… Atticus… I love you… don’t stop!” The words tumbled out, a chaotic chant. Her climax, the seventeenth, was a sharp, sudden eruption, a geyser of sensation that made her back bow off the bed, her cunt clenching in rapid, involuntary pulses around his invading length.
He didn’t pause. As the last tremors shook her, he pulled out, his cock glistening. He turned her over onto her hands and knees with impersonal force. Doggystyle. He entered her again from behind, one hand fisting in her blonde hair, the other gripping the lush, soft swell of her hip.
His thrusts were shorter, harder, aimed with vicious precision. Each one made the full, generous curve of her ass jiggle, a rhythmic, obscene bounce that he watched with dark approval. The slap of skin was a rapid, demanding tattoo. The eighteenth orgasm built differently, a deep, rolling wave of pressure that crested and broke with a sobbing cry she muffled into the mattress. Her vision swam, her knees threatening to buckle.
“Again,” he commanded, his voice rough. He lifted her left leg, placing her knee on the bed beside her hand, canting her hips at a sharper angle. He sank into her, and the new depth was shocking, a profound invasion that touched something untouched. “Oh fuck, Atticus!” she screamed, her voice raw. “You’ve never been so deep!” It was true; he was rearranging her, claiming virgin territory within her own body. He fucked her like that, in this twisted, vulnerable doggystyle, and the nineteenth climax was a slow, terrifying unraveling, a dissolution of self that left her mind blank and silent even as her body convulsed around him.
He let her leg drop. She collapsed forward, a puppet with cut strings. He didn’t let her fall. He flipped her onto her back once more, his own breathing ragged now, sweat tracing paths through the dusting of hair on his chest. He came down over her, his weight a familiar anchor, and pushed back inside her well-used, dripping cunt. Missionary. His mouth found hers, swallowing her gasps.
“Breed me,” she whispered against his lips, her words slurred, her consciousness clinging to this single purpose. “Don’t stop… breed me…”
“I love you,” he growled, the words fierce, a contrast to the savage rhythm of his hips. “I want you. Yes. Yes.”
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she chanted, a desperate prayer, each declaration timed to his driving thrusts. She was nothing but a vessel for this feeling, this consuming fire. She felt his rhythm fracture, become erratic, desperate.
Their eyes locked. In his glowing white gaze, she saw the feral king and the devoted husband fused into one relentless being. Her twentieth climax began as a spark in her core and exploded outward, a supernova that shattered her final semblance of control. She screamed, a sound of pure, unfiltered release.
Atticus roared, his body plunging deep and staying there as he came. His release was a hot, copious flood, his angelic seed pumping into her in pulse after powerful pulse, a claiming baptism inside her womb. He shook with the force of it, his forehead pressed to hers.
They lay entangled, the only sound their ragged,同步的 breathing gradually slowing. The golden light beneath her skin flared once, brightly, then settled into a soft, steady hum.
Eighty to go.
In the hidden alcove designed for discretely observing the royal health, Lady Leah’s body finally stilled. Her fingers, soaked with her own slickness, slid slowly from beneath her skirts. She had bitten her lower lip raw watching the final, devastating four. A single, hot tear traced a path through the sweat on her temple, following the same path as yesterday’s. It was not a tear of sorrow, but of a hunger so profound it felt like a sickness. She had witnessed the complete engineering of a queen’s surrender, and a treacherous, shameful part of her had wished, just for a second, to be the one so beautifully, brutally broken.