Chapter 4: The Queens hunger
The summons came at midday, delivered by a trembling elven boy whose delicate features were flushed with a mixture of fear and fascination. Marcus was in the courtyard they’d given him, a sort of gilded cage with a view of spindly trees, doing push-ups on the flagstones. The steady, heavy thump of his body was the only sound in the enclosed space.
“The Queen,” the boy stammered, his eyes fixed on the ripple of muscle across Marcus’s broad back. “She requests your presence. In her private quarters. Immediately.”
Marcus finished his set, stood up in one smooth motion, and grabbed a linen cloth to wipe the sweat from his neck. He looked down at the elf. The kid couldn’t have been more than ninety pounds soaking wet, draped in chiffon. “She ‘request,’ or she demand?”
The boy swallowed. “It is… a royal request, my lord.”
“Yeah, alright,” Marcus said, a slow grin spreading. “Tell her I’m on my way. Need to make an entrance.”
He took his time. Let the anticipation build. He rinsed off at the basin, the cool water beading on his dark skin. He didn’t put on the silly, constrictive elven clothes they’d left for him. He just pulled on his own fatigue pants, the ones he’d come through the portal in, frayed and stained with another world’s dirt. They hung low on his hips. He went barefoot and bare-chested. A statement.
The guards outside the Queen’s wing didn’t meet his eyes as he passed. Their ornate spears shook just slightly. The doors to her chamber were huge, carved with scenes of frolicking nymphs. He didn’t knock. He pushed them open.
The scent hit him first. Overpowering. Flowers and sugar and a deep, animal musk that he now recognized as arousal. The room was a pink nightmare of luxury. Silk everywhere, draping from ceilings, pooling on floors. And in the center, on a wide dais, sat Queen Selene.
She was perched on the edge of one of two velvet thrones, looking less like a monarch and more like a customer waiting for the main event. Her silver hair was a perfect cascade over one shoulder. The dress she wore was a scandal in fabric form, violet and sheer, cinched under a bust so massive and unnaturally round it defied physics. Her violet eyes were wide, unblinking, trained on him as he entered.
“You came,” she breathed, the words a sigh that trembled in the perfumed air.
“You requested,” he replied, stopping a few feet from the dais. He crossed his arms, letting the silence stretch. Letting her look her fill. The ceiling here was high, but he still felt like he dominated the space.
“I had to see,” she said, rising slowly. The dress did nothing as she moved, sheer panels shifting to reveal the heavy sway of her hips, the shadow between her thighs. “After last night. After the cellar. The girls… my daughters… they couldn’t stop talking. They smelled of you. They dreamed of you.” She descended the single step, closing the distance until the heady cloud of her perfume mixed with the natural, clean sweat of him. “I need to inspect the source of this… disruption.”
“Inspect?” Marcus chuckled, low and deep. “Go ahead.”
Her hands, adorned with intricate silver rings, rose. They didn’t touch his chest. They hovered, trembling, then drifted down, over the hard plane of his stomach, towards the waistband of his fatigues. Her breath was coming in quick, shallow pants. With a jerky motion, she undid the button. The zipper snarled down.
She didn’t pull them down. She just sank to her knees right there on the silk rug, the move so sudden her knees hit the floor with a soft thud. Her face was level with his groin. She stared, mesmerized, as he, with deliberate slowness, pushed the fabric down just enough to free himself.
Her mouth fell open. A tiny, choked sound escaped her. Then she leaned forward, not to kiss, not to taste, but to sniff. Like a dog at a fire hydrant. A long, deep, audible inhale right at the root. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
“Gods,” she moaned, the word muffled against his skin. “The stories are true. It’s… it’s the soil. It’s the storm. It’s power.” Her tongue darted out, a pink little swipe against his sack. Then another. She began nuzzling, face buried, inhaling in frantic gusts, slobbering messily. “It’s him. The God from the portal. The Dark Sun.”
“Crazy ass queen,” Marcus muttered, looking down at the top of her silver head. He put a hand on her crown, not petting, just resting it there. A claim. “You know what this is?”
She pulled back, her chin glistening with spit, her violet eyes blazing with a feverish devotion. “It is my king.”
“Nah,” he said, his voice calm, conversational even as he guided himself towards her parted, gloss-smeared lips. “This a Black king. And you lookin’ like a whole snow bunny queen of spades right now. You know what that is?”
She shook her head, her lips brushing against him, hungry and seeking.
“It’s what you are,” he said, and pushed forward into the wet heat of her mouth.
She gagged instantly, her body jerking, but her hands flew up to clutch at his hips, holding him there, begging for the choke. Tears sprang to her eyes. She didn’t pull away. She leaned into it, trying to take more, muffled sounds of worship vibrating around him.
He set a rough, deep rhythm, using her mouth like it was made for him. Which, in her mind, it now was. She took every thrust, her nose pressed into his skin, tears and spit and ruin smearing her perfect makeup. Between gags, she tried to talk.
“Yes! The Black… the Spade… my kingdom… yours… all snow… all bunnies… for you… only this… real… only this… is god…”
He fucked her face until her jaw went slack, until she was just a drooling, used receptacle for his pleasure. Then he pulled out, glistening and slick with her. She collapsed forward onto her hands, coughing, drawing in ragged breaths, a string of saliva still connecting her lips to him.
“Please,” she croaked, looking up at him, utterly shattered. “The throne. Please. Claim your throne.”
He nodded towards the twin velvet seats. “Which one?”
“Mine,” she whimpered. “The bigger one. Take mine.”
He walked up the dais, his fatigue pants still around his thighs, and lowered himself into her throne. It was warm from her body, molded to an absurd shape. He spread his legs, a king on a ridiculous pink throne. “Come here then.”
She scrambled up onto the dais on all fours, then crawled to him, a creature possessed. She mounted him right there in the seat, sinking down with a scream that echoed off the jeweled walls. It wasn’t a scream of pain, but of shattered reality. Her back arched, her massive breasts straining against the sheer violet fabric.
“It’s in my soul!” she shrieked, beginning to ride him with a frantic, desperate energy. “You’re branding my soul! This throne… this kingdom… it’s a QoS kingdom now! A snow bunny farm! I’ll breed them for you! I’ll order them to worship! I’ll make every last pretty boy bend for it!”
Hours dissolved.
The pink light from the enchanted windows shifted from gold to deep rose. The scene changed, a montage of obscene devotion.
Her on her back on the silk rug, legs hooked over his shoulders, him driving into her so deeply the sound was wet and brutal. Her chanting between screams: “Black throne! Black crown! Spade on every banner!”
Her bent over the arm of his stolen throne, him taking her from behind, one of his big hands fisted in her silver hair. Her babbling devolved into fragmented howls. “Snow… bunny… queen… takes… her… god!”
Him sitting again, tired but relentless, and her in his lap, grinding down, sweaty and spent but still moving, still whispering, her mind completely gone. “The twins were right… it’s an addiction… the smell… the stretch… it’s all we are for…”
Finally, as a deep twilight purple stained the sky beyond the windows, it ended. He was spent, leaning back in the throne. She slid off him, a boneless heap of used-up queen at his feet. But she wasn’t done. She crawled the few inches to his leg, wrapped her arms around his calf, and pressed her feverish face against his thigh.
She began to hump his leg like a bitch in heat, a weak, pathetic motion. Her eyes were rolled up, showing white, her mouth hung open in a slack, drooling ‘O’. An ahegao mask of ultimate submission.
“Snow… bunny…” she slurred, her body still twitching with tiny, residual spasms. “Queen of… Spades… owns nothing… is owned… by the Black… by the God… the portal sent a god… and I’m his… squealing… bunny…”
Marcus looked down at her, then out at the opulent, pink chamber. He let his head fall back against the velvet. A slow smile touched his lips. He’d had a lot of wild nights in Chicago. But this? This was a whole other level of takeover.
Outside the chamber doors, unnoticed by either, two pairs of identical blue eyes peered through a crack in the carvings, having watched the entire divine coronation. Sylvara and Lyriana clutched each other, their own needs a screaming void within them. Their mother’s chanting was their new gospel. They slipped away into the darkening hall, a shared, desperate plan already forming in their twin minds. If their mother was the queen of this new order, they would be its most fervent priestesses.