Chapter 13: Tit Worship
The taste of her was rich and sweet on his tongue, a familiar comfort laced with the sharp, metallic aftertaste of her desire. Mishadion’s fingers, slick with her arousal, slid from her cunt with a soft, wet sound that echoed in the vast silence of the solar. Hegozia whimpered, her hips canting forward off the throne’s arm, seeking the pressure he’d denied her.
“Patience,” he rumbled, his voice a vibration against the skin of her inner thigh where he’d positioned her. He licked a stray drop of milk from the curve of her breast, his dark eyes fixed on her face. “The whelp has been feeding from you again.”
It wasn’t a question. The knowledge was just there, in the air between them, thick as the myrrh smoke. Hegozia’s breath hitched. She knew better than to lie. The nursery had been… careless. The scent of Sephoryn, of their frantic coupling on the silk blankets, had clung to her skin even after she’d washed. Mishadion could smell lies as easily as he could smell her cunt.
“He… needed sustenance,” she whispered, the excuse flimsy even to her own ears.
Mishadion’s laugh was a low, cruel thing. He squeezed her breast again, not gently, and a fresh jet of milk splashed across the obsidian arm of his throne. “Sustenance. Is that what they’re calling it now?” He leaned in, his breath hot on her nipple. “I can taste him on you. In you. The little prince, fucking his king’s wife like a common barracks whore.”
His other hand came up, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass, holding her immobile. “Did you drip for him? Did you let him taste what’s mine?”
Hegozia’s mind flashed to Sephoryn’s mouth, hungry and urgent on her, his light hair between her thighs. A fresh surge of wetness soaked Mishadion’s fingers where they still rested near her opening. He growled, sensing it.
“You did. You soaked his tongue. And now you come to me, still aching from his little cock, thinking I wouldn’t know.” He released her breast and gripped her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. Centuries of cold, amoral calculation stared back at her. “You forget what I am, wife. I am not some cuckolded human lord to be pitied. This pleases me. Your treachery is a spice. Your fear is the wine.”
He shoved her off the arm of the throne. She stumbled, catching herself on the cool marble floor, her knees smacking the hard surface. Before she could rise, his hand was in her hair, fisting the dark strands, pulling her head back until her spine arched.
“But the spice must be balanced,” he hissed. “You gave him your milk. You gave him your cunt. Now you will give me your throat.”
He dragged her, scrambling on her knees, to the foot of the great thornwood bed. The embroidered sigils seemed to pulse in the brazier light. With a brutal yank, he positioned her on all fours, her ass high in the air, her face pressed into the silken covers that smelled of him, of sex, of power.
“Stay.”
The command was absolute. She heard the rustle of him moving behind her, the soft, ominous creak of leather. He wasn’t done with his toys. When his touch returned, it was the cool, slick touch of oil being poured in a slow, deliberate stream down the cleft of her ass. She flinched at the chill, then gasped as a thick, calloused thumb rubbed the oil into her most forbidden entrance, circling the tight furl of muscle with a pressure that was both a threat and a promise.
“He didn’t take this, did he?” Mishadion’s voice was almost conversational now, a terrifying calm. “The boy still thinks like a human. He fucks the cunt. A king… a king knows every hole is a vessel for his will.”
The blunt, oil-slick head of his cock, impossibly large, nudged against her asshole. It wasn’t his usual cock; it was the one he kept for punishment, the one fashioned from dusky, enchanted leather and carved demon bone, thicker than his fist and veined with ridges. He’d used it on conquered chieftains, on oath-breakers. The memory of their screams was a phantom echo in the room.
Hegozia began to shake. “Please, my lord… it’s too…”
“It is what I say it is,” he cut her off, his voice devoid of all mercy. He pushed.
The pain was a white-hot spear, tearing, splitting her open. She screamed into the silks, her fingers clawing at the bedding. He didn’t stop. He didn’t pause. He pushed forward with the relentless, hydraulic force of a landslide, burying the monstrous length of the false cock deep inside her ass in one long, excruciating stroke. She felt stuffed, ruptured, her body forced to accommodate an intrusion it was never meant to hold.
Then he began to move.
It was a brutal, piston-like rhythm, each withdrawal dragging the ragged ridges against her screaming nerves, each thrust sinking it back in to the hilt. The squelch of oil and the raw, wet sound of the violation filled the solar. Hegozia sobbed, the pain a blazing corona around her vision. But beneath the pain, buried under layers of fear and shame, a treacherous, shameful spark ignited. Her body, trained over twenty years to respond to his dominance, began to betray her. Her cunt, untouched, wept a steady stream of slickness down her inner thighs. A broken moan ripped from her throat.
Mishadion heard it. His hand came down on her ass with a crack that reverberated off the obsidian walls, the sting a sharp counterpoint to the deep, grinding ache inside her.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his rhythm becoming more frenzied. “You filthy bitch. You love it. You love your king reminding you who owns this ass, who owns every fucking part of you.”
He was right. The line between agony and ecstasy dissolved into a terrible, dazzling haze. Her climax built not as a wave, but as a convulsion, seizing her from the inside out. She came with a raw, screaming cry, her body clamping down on the invading shaft in a series of violent spasms that seemed to amplify the sensation into something unbearable, exquisite.
He fucked her through it, through the shuddering aftershocks, his own breath becoming ragged. Finally, with a final, deep drive that lifted her off her knees, he groaned, a sound of pure, bestial satisfaction. She felt a strange, hot rush fill the core of the false cock, a simulated completion that somehow felt more degrading than true seed.
He withdrew slowly, the sound obscenely wet. Hegozia collapsed onto her side, her body a map of bruises and aches, trembling uncontrollably. The air in the room was cold on her sweat-slicked skin.
Mishadion stood over her, looking down at his handiwork. He wiped the oil from the leather cock with a scrap of silk, his expression unreadable. Then he crouched, his fingers, surprisingly gentle now, tracing the welt rising on her ass.
“The nursery reeks of him,” he said quietly. “And of your spend. You will not go there again unless I accompany you.” He tilted her chin up. The cold fire was back in his eyes. “Let the boy hunger. Let him look at you and know every part of you answers to me. That is the only lesson he needs.”
He stood, a massive silhouette against the braziers. “Clean yourself. Then come to bed. I am not finished with you.”
Hegozia, lying in the ruin of her own pleasure and pain, understood. This wasn’t forgiveness. It was a reaffirmation of the order of things. Sephoryn had trespassed. She had allowed it. And Mishadion, her king, her husband, had simply redrawn the boundaries in the most visceral way possible. The game, it seemed, was far from over. It had only just begun.