>>5691774“I will give you power,” you accede. “TEMPORARY power. You are not wholly wrong, after all, to borrow your words: Ekaterine is soft. Glowie is… Alien. You are well-suited to lead.”
“Exactly!” she shouts, looking up, only to stop when she sees your stern expression.
“Temporary,” you reiterate. “Blood does not matter, and Bloodrise requires not just a keen mind, but a warm heart, if it is to survive.”
“Warm like your blood,” she spits. “Race-traitor.”
There’s no venom in the words, despite her best efforts. You suppress a laugh—she calls you race-traitor as she begs with her body to carry your cross-caste, interspecies mongrel offspring.
“You too,” you say.
She has no counterargument, and can offer no resistance as you remove your robe and—finally, after decades of tension, after the better part of two years together, after everything—you take her.
If what you and Ekaterine do is ‘making love’, this is more like ‘making war’. Even Glowie’s approach to sexual congress—insistent, extractive, efficient, absorbing—is unlike Sseztlussth’s. It is a struggle for dominance. To the delight of some dark and primal part of you—that awakened by Irinnile the Succubus, perhaps—the Serpent Queen seems to grant and revoke consent moment-by-moment. At times she struggles to get away, spitting insults and aggression, swatting with her tail and cutting with claws. At others, she forces you down and seems more the rapist—a strangely-erotic turn you allow, since with a simple <Dragonshape> you could easily turn the tables.
“Filthy Degenerate!” she hisses at you even as she rises and falls atop you, impaled upon you, her talons around your wrists. “Learn who is your mistress! Surrender to y-your Queen!”
You’re not sure you’ve ever seen her this frantic, this fired-up. It must be the hormones—estrus is a passing thing for the Master Race, occurring only every one to three years for a healthy female, but the surge of hormones is intense. There is a reason that breeding pits require pit-GUARDS, after all! You rather like it—it’s the most unabashedly that your Beloved One has ever reciprocated your want—even if it is couched in racial degradation and dominance-displays.
“Give it to me!” she demands imperiously. “Give me all of it! I want it I c-c-command YOU!”
You give Her Majesty what she has demanded, and then some. Her body quakes, her limited physicality giving way to endearing weakness as her fervor is spent. You aren’t done, though—she whimpers and moans almost pitifully as you turn the tables and exhaust your own vast reserves of energy until you join her—at last—in torpor.
You hold each other close. You wonder if—just in this moment, just for now—she maybe knows something of True Love?
>True Love Status (Novice Fleshweaver): ??? 