Chapter 7: Divine Duty and Secret Longing
The air in the celestial chamber wasn’t breathed so much as consumed. It tasted of ozone and myrrh, of lightning-struck stone and the faint, cloying sweetness of nectar left to ferment in a sacred cup. It was heavy, a tangible weight that pressed not just on the body, but on the soul, insisting on its own supreme reality.
Isaiah existed within that weight.
The pristine white stockings sheathed his legs to the upper thighs, the material so fine it was a second skin, highlighting the soft muscle beneath. The matching mittens encased his arms to the shoulders, rendering his hands into useless, soft clubs that occasionally brushed against his own sides or the gleaming skin of his father. A white collar, simple and stark, circled his throat. Opal nipple plugs, cold and heavy, kept his sensitive flesh in a state of perpetual, engorged alertness, tiny shocks of sensation radiating through his chest with every movement. The white panel gag filled his mouth, the phallic shape a constant, silicone reminder of his primary function, forcing his jaw open and collecting saliva that dripped in thin, shining strands onto his chest.
And the crown. A delicate, monstrous thing of gold and white filigree. Laurel leaves woven between slender, polished penises and milky teardrop gems. It sat upon his brow, light yet inescapable, a symbol of his dual royalty: Prince and Sleeve.
He was bouncing. A steady, practiced rhythm, his body moving on autopilot, driven by a deep, cellular need. Beneath him, stretched to a obscene, perfect fullness inside his cunt, was his father’s cock.
Metagos was immense, not just in size but in presence. Seated upon a throne of living, twisting marble that pulsed with slow light, he was a figure of terrifying serenity. One broad hand rested on Isaiah’s mitted arm, a gesture that could be mistaken for affection. The other gestured lazily as he spoke, his voice a resonant vibration that passed up through his cock and into Isaiah’s very core.
“...and the influx from the Tertiary Spheres is still below projection, Ambassador Phanuel,” Metagos said, his tone conversational, administrative. He shifted slightly beneath Isaiah, and the movement drove his cockhead deeper, kissing Isaiah’s cervix with a pressure that made stars burst behind his closed eyelids. A soft, muffled whimper escaped the gag. “The fertilization cycles need to accelerate. The infernal tides are rising in the Seventh Deep. We require legions.”
Isaiah’s body jiggled with each descent, his ass slapping against his father’s divine thighs. His belly, already softly rounded from continuous seeding, quivered. Each impact forced a fresh trickle of thick, opalescent cum from his stretched, leaking hole, adding to the glossy mess on his father’s lap and his own inner thighs. The air was thick with the smell of it – clean, potent, alien.
His cunt was a miracle of obscene engineering. Puffy, perpetually soaked lips, flushed a deep rose, struggled to close around the girth invading them. Inside, it was a silken, clutching heat, molded by eons of design to perfectly sheath divine flesh. Every ridge, every pulse of Metagos’s shaft was mapped onto Isaiah’s nerves, delivering a pleasure so profound it bordered on annihilation.
Yet, beneath the gag, behind the gloss of pleasure-hazed eyes, a fragment of Isaiah screamed.
It screamed for the smell of burnt popcorn and cheap laundry detergent. It screamed for the scratch of a coarse beard against his neck, for the sound of a loud, ugly laugh booming through a cluttered apartment. It screamed for the clumsy, hungry touch of human hands, for the way Hunter would fumble with his jeans, swearing, before finally pushing inside with a grunt that was all heat and want and Hunter.
Hunter. The name was a shard of glass in his soul.
Metagos leaned forward, interrupting his dialogue with the shimmering, multi-eyed ambassador who hovered nearby. He pressed a gentle, paternal kiss to Isaiah’s temple, just below the obscene crown. His lips were cool.
“You’re doing beautifully, my heart,” Metagos murmured, his voice for Isaiah alone. At the same time, he rolled his hips upward, a sharp, precise thrust that sheathed himself to the root, grinding against Isaiah’s deepest parts. The pleasure was a white-hot wire, singeing away the thought of Hunter for a brilliant, shameful second.
Isaiah’s body sang its approval. His cunt rippled, fluttering wildly around the invading cock, spilling more of his father’s earlier deposit. His swollen clit, neglected and throbbing, ached with a different emptiness. It was the only part of him that ever ached for something other than this. It remembered the rough pad of a thumb, the eager, messy pressure of a mouth that didn’t know what it was doing but was determined to learn. It remembered friction, not just sublime, effortless fullness.
He missed Hunter so much the longing was a physical sickness, a hollow space the divine cum couldn’t fill.
But he needed this. The thought was a worn prayer, a dogma beaten into him. He needed his daddy’s cock to feel whole. The emptiness without it was a yawning chasm of non-being, a terrifying lapse in purpose. This fucking, this breeding, was his sacred duty. He was raising an army. Each shuddering climax that pumped another torrent of potent seed into his fertile womb was a soldier forged, a blade tempered for the coming war against the rising dark. He was the factory, the holy vessel, the prince whose throne was a pelvis and whose scepter was the cock that split him open.
He was created for this. A cock sleeve. A baby maker. A needy slave.
The ambassadors murmured their approvals, their forms flickering with serene light. This was the natural order. This was celestial diplomacy.
Metagos resumed his conversation, his thrusts becoming more rhythmic, more demanding, a counterpoint to his calm words about supply chains and spiritual logistics. “...the chambers in the Western Wing must be purified again. The last brood exhibited traces of… melancholic variance. Unacceptable.”
Isaiah bounced, his body a well-oiled machine of ecstasy and production. Tears, clean and silent, mixed with the saliva on the gag. They were not tears of pain. The pleasure was too vast, too total. They were tears for the human hands that would never hold him again, for the ugly, beautiful laugh he feared he was already forgetting. He rode the divine cock, his perfect pussy taking every inch, his womb drinking down its purpose, and a tiny, hidden part of him dreamed of a match-flame in the dark, and a voice that growled his name like it was a swear word.
He came then, silently, his internal muscles seizing around his father’s shaft in a series of frantic, fluttering clenches, a worthless little death that barely registered in the vast economy of his divine servicing. It was an autonomic response, empty of everything but base sensation.
Metagos smiled, a curve of timeless lips, and kissed his son’s forehead again as he finally, with a low, tectonic groan, began to pump his own climax deep into Isaiah’s waiting cradle. Isaiah felt the hot, impossible flood, another legion claimed, his duty fulfilled for this hour. His belly tightened, the rounding becoming more pronounced.
The fragment that was Izzy screamed one last time into the void, a sound lost in the hum of heaven and the wet, squelching sounds of sacred use.
Then, it went quiet.