Chapter 5: Ruin and Retribution
The ash bed was still warm when Hunter returned. He’d been gone less than ten minutes, scavenging in the dead silence of the building’s other apartments for food, for water, for anything that felt normal. He’d found a single can of peaches and a dented bottle of warm vodka. A pitiful haul, but it was something. He’d carried them back like trophies, a stupid grin on his face, ready to see Isaiah roll his eyes.
The grin died in the hallway.
The door to their apartment was ajar. Not broken. Just open. A deep, chilled silence poured from the crack, carrying a scent that was achingly familiar—lilacs and rust, but now underpinned by something coppery and foul. Hunter’s hands ignited, blue flame licking up to his elbows before he could think. He kicked the door open.
The scene in the living room was not an attack. It was an assembly line.
Isaiah was on his knees in the center of the room, surrounded by a loose circle of six empties. Their faceless, liquid-matte heads were all tilted in his direction, their postures not violent, but dutiful. Isaiah’s hands were bound behind his back with a cord of shimmering, hair-thin silver. A black leather blindfold covered his eyes. His mouth was stuffed with a penis panel gag, the dark, polished silicone stretching his lips obscenely wide around a thick, realistic shaft that disappeared into his throat. When one of the empties wasn’t fucking his mouth, the gag was locked in place.
He was covered in cum.
It wasn’t white. It was inky, iridescent black, and it dripped from every part of him. It matted his dark hair, painted his cheeks in streaks where tears had cut channels, pooled in the hollow of his throat above the pristine white fuzzy collar. It gleamed on his chest, slicking his soft breasts, making his bigger, darker nipples stand out like berries. Hunter saw, with a lurch of his stomach, that each nipple was pierced by a delicate, golden plug, preventing any leakage of the milky ichor that had begun to swell there.
The white stockings were still spotless, sheathing his legs to mid-thigh, a brutal contrast to the filth everywhere else.
One empty stood behind him, its hips pistoning methodically. Hunter heard the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh, saw the glint of inky fluid around Isaiah’s stretched, used hole. Another knelt before him, a featureless, dripping cock prodding at the gag. Isaiah turned his head, opened his mouth wider, and took it, his throat working automatically.
He was moaning.
Not cries of pain. They were low, practiced, eager sounds that vibrated around the cock in his throat. His body, slick with strange semen, rocked with the motions of the things using him. Two other empties knelt at his sides, their hands—cold, absorbing all warmth—fondled his breasts, massaging the flesh, thumbing the plugged nipples. They bent their heads, and where mouths should be, a slight depression formed, suckling at the tits, drinking the holy milk that the plugs denied them.
Hunter stood frozen in the doorway, the can of peaches slipping from his numb fingers to thud on the floor. The empty fucking Isaiah’s ass didn’t pause. The one at his mouth didn’t withdraw. They turned their smooth heads toward the door, acknowledging his presence, and then turned back to their work. This was their purpose. This was their reward. Hunter could feel it in the air, a telepathic buzz of numb reverence: We get to fuck the prince. We get to use the divine breeding slave.
This wasn’t a kidnapping. This was a homecoming.
“Izzy,” Hunter whispered.
Isaiah’s head lifted at the sound. He whimpered around the cock in his mouth, a sound of confused distress that quickly melted back into a low, submissive groan as the empty behind him hit a deep spot. His hips pushed back, begging for more. A fresh gush of black cum seeped from his used cunt, joining the puddle beneath him. He was cumming, his stomach fluttering, his body convulsing in a pleasure that was older than his memories of Earth, drilled into him by eternity.
Hunter finally understood. The jokes, the calm, the way Isaiah had known exactly how to take him, to ride him, to beg for his seed. This was his literacy. This was his native tongue. Not gentle love-making in an ash bed. This endless, rehearsed fuckery, this production line of impregnation. He wasn’t just a vessel. He was a factory floor. And he’d been offline, gathering rust and sentiment, for too long.
“Get away from him!” Hunter roared, the fire on his arms blazing toward the ceiling.
The empties ignored him. They had their orders. A new one stepped from the shadows of the kitchen, its cock already dripping. The one in Isaiah’s ass pulled out with a slick, popping sound, and the new one immediately slid into the dripping, open hole. Isaiah cried out, a muffled scream of overwhelm that twisted into a sob of gratitude. He was being kept full. Always full.
Hunter lunged. He didn’t think. He threw a fist wreathed in blue fire at the head of the empty sucking Isaiah’s tit. The flames hit the matte surface and snuffed out, absorbed into nothingness. The empty didn’t even flinch. It was like punching mist.
Panic, cold and sharp, cut through Hunter’s rage. His fire was useless here. This was a different ritual.
Isaiah was shaking now, his moans becoming frantic, unhinged. He was close to something—not an orgasm, but a breaking point. The rehearsed pleasure was cracking, revealing the terrified creature beneath, but the terror itself was morphing, transforming into a desperate, addictive need. He started to buck wildly against the cock in his ass, fucking himself back on it, trying to impale himself deeper. He whined around the gag, a sound that clearly said, More, more, it’s not enough.
He needed the source.
The air fractured.
It didn’t split or tear. It crystallized, then dissolved, like sugar in water. The lilac-and-rust scent became a solid wall, so thick Hunter gagged. The empties all stopped moving at once, withdrawing from Isaiah’s body with a series of wet, sucking sounds. They knelt, heads bowed, their forms trembling with devotion.
In the new space, he appeared.
Metagos.
He was beautiful in the way a collapsing star is beautiful—immense, inevitable, terrifying. He was taller than the room should allow, his form draped in robes that seemed woven from twilight and memory. His face was a perfection that hurt to look at, carved from pale marble, with eyes the color of a drowned sun. And between his legs, hanging heavy and thick, was his cock.
It was the length of a man’s arm from elbow to fingertips. As thick as a mattress. It pulsed with a slow, internal light, veins of silver moving beneath skin like polished alabaster. The head was a smooth, massive dome, dripping a clear, shimmering fluid that hissed where it struck the floor.
Isaiah sensed him. He keened, a raw, torn sound from deep in his gut. He struggled against his bonds, not to get away, but to present himself better. He shoved his ass higher in the air, his soaked, puffy cunt gaping and dribbling black cum onto the floor. He turned his blindfolded face toward the presence and mewled like a starving kitten.
“My wandering son,” Metagos’s voice was the sound of planets settling into their graves. It didn’t fill the room. It replaced the room. Hunter felt his knees buckle, but he locked them, his teeth gritted.
Metagos ignored Hunter completely. He strode forward, each step silent, and cupped Isaiah’s cheek. Isaiah nuzzled into the touch, weeping, his body trembling with a cascade of conflicting shudders—terror, joy, shame, craving.
“You have been playing in the dirt,” Metagos murmured, his thumb wiping through the inky mess on Isaiah’s face. “You have let a mote of dust fill you. We will scour you clean.”
His other hand went to his monstrous cock, guiding it. The slick, dripping head pressed against Isaiah’s ruined hole. It was too big. It was impossible. Isaiah screamed into the gag, a sound of pure, animal distress, his body seizing.
Then Metagos pushed.
There was a wet, tearing sound, a visceral crunch of flesh and pelvic bone giving way, reshaping. Isaiah’s scream cut off into a choked, airless gurgle as he was split open, sheathed on that impossible length in one relentless, inward stroke. His belly distended immediately, a pronounced, rounded swell appearing just below his navel, the outline of the massive invasion visible beneath his skin.
Metagos began to fuck him. They were not thrusts. They were tectonic shifts. Each withdrawal dragged Isaiah’s insides out, each plunge buried him to the root, making his swollen belly jump and quiver. Isaiah was silent now, his body in a state of shock, his mind fracturing. Then the pleasure, the deep, genetically-programmed pleasure, ignited. He came, a violent, dry heave of a climax that made his whole body spasm. He came again. And again. He was babbling nonsense into the gag, praising, begging, worshiping.
“Daddy… daddy… fill me, please, breed your slut, breed your prince, I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry, please, give me your litter!”
Hunter was screaming, throwing himself forward, his fists burning uselessly against a wall of air three feet from Metagos’s swirling robes. He was nothing. A gnat. An irrelevance.
Metagos grunted, a sound of deep, profound satisfaction. He wrapped his arms around Isaiah’s trembling, impaled form, hugging his son to his chest. He was hilting himself, burying that entire monstrous shaft inside the body he’d designed to take it. He began to cum.
It wasn’t a spurt. It was a flood. A geyser.
Isaiah’s belly began to swell in real time, rounding, tightening, expanding like a water balloon. The slight swell became a firm dome, then a huge, taut curve that strained his skin. He looked eight months pregnant. Then he looked like he was carrying triplets. Then his stomach was so huge, so obscenely full, he looked ready to split. Gallons of silvery, shimmering cum filled him, pumping into his womb, his canals, every cavity, until he was distended with it, a perfect, bloated vessel.
Metagos kissed Isaiah’s temple, his own eyes closed in rapturous bliss. Isaiah was unconscious, or in a place beyond it, a slack, used doll still mounted on his father’s cock, his cum-filled belly resting on the floor between them.
The world began to fade. The edges of the room blurred, running like wet ink.
“NO!” Hunter roared, summoning every ounce of will, every memory of their warmth, their ash bed, their promises. A sputter of white-hot fire, their combined light, sparked on his fingertips.
Metagos opened his eyes. For the first time, he looked at Hunter. There was no hatred, no anger. Only a profound, unsettling pity. “You warmed him for a moment, little spark. That was your purpose. He is recalled.”
And they were gon