Princess of the Void

2.11. Love [R-18?]

Sykora nudges the band of Grant’s boxer briefs down and sighs happily as his cock bounces free. “Hello, handsome.” She kisses the head. “Want to see another Princess trick, Maekyonite?”

He laughs. “Sure.”

She gives his cock another kiss. Her lips linger. Then she deepens, stretching wider, until she’s taken Grant’s sensitive tip into her mouth. She looks up.

She winks.

With slow, exaggerated care, her lips slide further, and further, and further. Grant’s jaw drops.

His glans is pushing up against something; he isn’t quite bottomed out. Sykora makes a vibrating humming noise and shoves her face forward. Grant’s lungs empty in a gasping exhalation at the sudden tightness of his wife’s pharynx. The end of his cock has slipped snugly down her throat. He feels a gust of air from her nose against his hips. He’s sheathed in her.

A rasping grunt slips out between Grant’s gritted teeth. “Holy shit.” Sykora looks up at him, wry triumph clear on her face. She jerks her head back and his cock springs out from her, glistening with thick saliva.

“Ta-daaa,” she sings. “Look what your wifey can do.”

“What the fuck.” Grant strokes her face. “Where’s your gag reflex?”

She kisses his stomach. “The trick for me is humming when it goes past the uvula. Humming and relaxing.”

“You are a fucking gift from God.”

“I told you. I spent a long time preparing to be a wife.” She licks upward along the base of his shaft. “And learning how to keep a husband happy. Do you know why I never took one? Even when I was dizzy with longing for touch? Do you know how I kept myself?”

“How?”

“I told myself that when I saw him, I’d know. That there’d be no doubt, no questioning of whether I’d made a mistake. I’d see a man and it would be clear the Gods of the Firmament had put him before me, and he’d be so right I’d just know.” She nudges the velvet skin of her cheek against his length; it leaves a shiny trail on her face. “And then they did, and you were, and I knew. I knew with all of me.”

Grant doesn’t trust himself to speak. You will not cry while receiving head, Grantyde. You’re domming right now. Doms don’t cry.

“My husband came to me in the deepest pit of despair I’ve ever been in. My bright day after fifteen cycles of night. My husband is the answer to a prayer I’ve whispered for my entire life.” The starscape burns in the reflections of Sykora’s cardinal eyes. “And now I want him to fuck my throat.”

He laughs as he comes down from his emotional plateau. “You want me to do the moving?”

“Yes.” She traces a vein with the tip of her tongue. “And, um.” She steels herself. “Hold my horns while you do it.” There’s a tremor in her voice. It was hard for her to say that.

“Well, yeah. Of course.” He strokes the top of her head. “I was always gonna do that.”

Her nose wrinkles. “You’re so weird.”

“Shhh.” His chest jitters with suppressed laughter. He runs his palm along her horn as his cock nudges her lips. “Open up now, Princess.”

She rolls her neck in determined preparation. Then she opens wide, and wraps those thick pouty lips around his cock.

She yelps as he closes his fists on her horns. He runs his thumb along the length of the right one, tracing the curl at the end. She chokes out a moan around him and squirms against his legs. He gets a firm grip on his wife’s natural handlebars and, as requested, thrusts with slow determination all the way down her throat. She hums again. It sends a dancing spark down his spine.

“I’m gonna go gradually, okay?” He taps the pointed tip of her horn. “Just kick me in the shin if you need me to stop.”

Buried as he is in her, Sykora’s giggle weakens his knees. An affirmative mmhmm.

He starts slow and soft. Guiding her bobbing head forward and back, pushing little by little to meet her. But she’s making that liquid hum every time he gets deep, and her tongue is swirling and lapping, and her filled throat bulges against the choker, and she’s so goddamn beautiful. He’s having trouble staying gentle with her.

He gets faster. His breath comes in harsher exhalations. Her hum turns into a cadenced moan as he thrusts. A silvery strand of drool links him to her mouth on every pullback. He fights back the fog of his lust, tries to keep himself present and careful. At this speed, he’s reluctant to go all the way in.

Then he sees the mural, the one they bought, resting against the far wall. Its red gaze fills the cabin. Those weaponized nightmares, that flash that enslaves billions of maleborns across the galaxy.

Something evil and defiant twists Grant’s grasp around his wife’s horns. He glares back at the imprisoning eyes of the Taiikari Empire and shoves his liberated human cock down the throat of their precious Princess, to the root. Her fluttery squeak muffles against his stomach.

His carefulness is gone, replaced by possessive lust. His grip is too tight on Sykora’s horns to allow any movement on her part. It’s all Grant, holding her still and fucking her face. Her ecstatic groan sends vibrations along his shaft. Her feet curve inward as she stands, the toes kneading each other. Her knuckles are white on the belt buckle that binds her wrists. Her hum is rising in pitch, getting sodden and frantic as he rams into her.

Her ears twitch. Her exhalations whistle through her nose. Her cheeks hollow. Her crimson conqueror eyes stare up at him through a mask of dripping black mascara.

Grant wants to steal this woman from the Empire that owns her. He wants to fuck the Empress out of her heart.

You’ll find a way to feel all right again, the Kovikan told him. If she’s good.

Sykora gags and her esophagus constricts, and Grant jolts back into himself. The little Imperial tyrant whose mouth he’s plundering becomes his wife again. He pulls her head off him with a gooey pop and kneels. Sykora’s filmy and unfocused. Drool and makeup streak her overwhelmed face as she heaves for air.

He cups her cheeks. “Are you okay, baby?”

A dizzy smile pushes against his palms. “Yeah,” she sighs. Her eyes refocus on his and he doesn’t see that tyrannical red. He sees eager, enraptured submission. “You taste like kavak.”

“What’s kavak?”

“It’s a flatbread that I just found out tastes like the most beautiful cock in the Empire.” She wipes her face on her shoulder. “Why did you stop?”

Because I was fucking you like I hated you. He nuzzles her hair. “Just making sure you’re okay.”

“You are a fucking beast, and I love you,” she says. “Use me. Cum in my throat.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You gagged.”

She gives him a cheeky wink. “Guys like it when you gag.”

“Let’s lie down, at least,” he says. “Break the bed in, right?”

“Okay.” Her tail wags. “But can I ask… this is weird.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. Whatever you want.”

“Maybe you could call me... maybe you could say it again.” She blinks rapidly, trying maybe to keep the color from rising in her cheeks. “When you’re in me.”

“Say what?”

“What you called me,” she says.

“Honey?”

Her breath rattles. “The other one.”

“Good girl?”

A full-body shiver at the words. Her throat is so pinched it barely lets her get the reply out. “Uh huh.”

He laughs. A surge of heart-shaking affection for this woman washes away the last of the spite that ruled him. She is a good girl. The best. He’s done with this one-sided thing. He wants to make Sykora feel good.

Grant lifts the Princess into his arms and settles back on the bed. She lays on her stomach, propped up on his thigh, and kisses his shaft. He feels her covetous shiver as he lifts his length to her wine-dark lips.

He takes hold of both horns and pushes his whimpering wife down, gentle but firm, until she’s engulfed him. Her face plants on his stomach.

Her tongue swirls and glides as she tries to milk his climax from him. One hand detaches from the top of her head to lift her dress along her sheer stockings, until it’s up past her lacy garter belt. He guides her face up and off his length. There’s that animal sound she makes every time he’s rough with her horns.

Her gasps for breath shake the thin ropes of drool still connecting her to him. He sticks his fingers in her mouth. She licks them like they’re coated in life-saving antidote. He pops them back out, watches her tongue quest for them as they depart. He shoves her back down onto his cock instead, and slides his dampened fingers between her legs. They rub against the coarse lace of the thong he chose for her. He hooks his thumb into its thin gusset and slides it to one side. Beneath, she’s wet and hot and throbbing with the urgent beat of her heart. He didn’t need her to lick his fingers. The Princess is drenched.

“Good girl,” he says. She lets out a choked moan.

Her back arches as his fingertips slide knuckle-deep into her slippery body. Her toes flex under her dark stockings. He explores her folds and ridges, her tight, clutching walls, her firm clit which scrapes another bubbling groan out of her when he caresses it. He reaches deeper and curls his fingers, seeking that little squeaking noise she makes when her mind starts to melt.

There it is now, identifiable even around the obstruction in her esophagus. He watches her ample ass jiggle against their restricting garters as he picks up speed. A huff of hot air as she gasps on his cock. Her ears flutter. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her technique is out the window; it’s all she can do to keep from gagging on it. Her thighs squeeze around his hand. Her hips buck and send another quake through her soft round flesh. There’s a cramping quiver in her calves. He’s got her close.

He takes an uncompromising fistful of her hair and eases her off him. He gathers her into his lap and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Graaant,” she whines. “I wanna swallow it.”

He undoes his cravat. “You will, Princess.” His thumb digs into the soft little paunch of her stomach as he pulls her hips up against him. “Just not with your mouth. Your mouth’s full.”

“What—oh.” Her chest heaves as he ties the cravat over her mouth. “Ohgog—”

“Shhh.” He knots it behind her head. “You want to be used? I’m going to use you. All of you.” He whispers in her ear: “Is this okay?”

She nods. “Mm-hmm.”

“Can you still say our word?”

“Goansub,” she tries, and they both laugh. Close enough.

He kisses her nose. “Good girl,” he says, again, and she writhes giddily.

He slides his hands under her dress, gets two smushy blue handfuls of her, and stands up, raising her with him into the air, face to beautiful red-eyed face. Her legs fold around his back. Her tail loops upward around the nape of his neck.

With slow, tantalizing care, Grant lowers the Princess of the Black Pike onto his cock. Her deep breath becomes a groan becomes a high cry as her husband stretches her open. He watches her shoulders shake, her brows angle upward, her pupils dilate. The cold air of the shuttle, stinging the coating of spit, is replaced, inch by sweet sucking inch, with the heat of his wife’s trembling body as it remolds around him.

He’s all the way in. His forehead touches hers. Their gazes lock together.

“I won’t let you fall,” he says. She nods.

He adjusts his grip, bear-hugging her to keep her upright, and pistons her bound body against him like a sex toy. The thong he pulled to one side plays frictional counterpoint to the plump squish of his wife’s pussy, its lace rasping along his length with every stroke. She enfolds him in her legs. The steel cable muscles in her thighs tighten; the soft downy cushion encasing them deforms against his waist. Her tongue lolls at the edge of her gag. The cravat is soaked with saliva and torn where her fangs are digging into it. She groans, loud and lustful.

Their symphony fills the cabin. The erotic sounds her body makes as he churns her insides. The overwhelmed, feathery moans. The slap of skin on skin. That animal aggression is creeping back up through Grant as his grip tightens to a bruising vise on her arms. The Princess of the sector, the warlord of dozens of worlds, the woman who terrified an entire gathering of covetous nobles into fearful silence, has been reduced to Grant’s little blue cocksleeve, moaning and drooling around her gag as he overloads her mind.

He pulls her closer so he can feel more of her jiggling softness. Her endlessly reactive body squeezes against his. No resistance in her hugging walls. No strain in his arms as he holds her light frame. No thoughts or anxieties or voidship to rule over. Just sultry, sticky bliss. Like they were meant for this.

One plump breast has jostled free of her dress. He palms the fabric and tugs until the other’s bounced out to join its twin. Again he feels that fistlike ring of muscle inside her, squeezing and pulling in reverse of his pumping cadence. He’s felt nothing like this in his life. Her hands are bound and her legs are tight around him to keep her in the air, and she’s playing him like an instrument. He clutches her supple waist as her greedy cunt undulates and pulses. “Holy fuck, Batty.”

She hums with satisfaction. The corners of her mouth tighten in a lascivious grin beneath the cloth. Her tail drops from his neck and wraps around the base of his cock, tensing and releasing.

This woman is a fucking miracle.

“Bike be.”

“What?”

She tilts her head away from him. Her eyes are wide and pleading and flashing. “Bike by geck.”

He cradles her head and bites the side of her neck.

She gasps out a husky, primordial moan. Her tail releases his shaft and snaps rigidly around his waist, clutching for dear life. She convulses violently, and he lets himself fall backward onto the bed, pulling his squirming wife with him into a bent-over straddle, her breasts flattened into his chest, her wild, welling eyes centimeters from his. Her hips rub and roll and knead like she’s trying to burrow into his body. He feels the friction of her stockings, the spill of her pillowy thighs from their compression, the whisper of her silken dress against him. The muscles stand out in her bound arms, her graceful shoulders. The fist inside her goes haywire, seizing and pulling.

He reaches behind her back and unbuckles the belt that binds her. It falls away from her, leaving little grooves in her forearms. Her arms snap magnetically across his shoulders. He tugs the wrecked cravat free from her mouth. “Say it again,” she demands. “One more time.”

His chest rumbles a laugh between his deepening breaths. He finds her thrashing tail and gives it an insistent pull. “Good girl,” he says.

“Grant,” she wails. She arches and writhes and kisses him with frenzied desperation. When she pulls away her face is glowing and eager. “Are you close, dove?”

He nods.

“Do it with me. At the same time. I want to cum while you’re filling me. While I’m brimming with you.” Another convulsion ripples through her. Her body is sucking and burning and ready to receive. “I need it, Grant.”

His lips brush the indent in her skin where her gag was tied. “How should we finish?”

She drags her sandpapery tongue across his jaw. “Squish me,” she says.

She doesn’t need to tell him twice.

He rolls over and flips her onto her back. Her dress rides up past her belly button as he pushes her thighs up and apart, his hands cradling her ass, holding her in place. And it’s there again, as he traps her beneath him and buries his face in her hair and her little stomach presses against his. Grant and Sykora were born an astronomical distance from one another. They were never meant to meet. She isn’t human. He isn’t Taiikari. So why, as his hips pound hers into this narrow shuttle mattress, why this perfect feeling of rightness, as though they were made for each other? Why does every atom of his body cry out to fill her full, to flood every silky fold and crevice of her, when he knows no seed of his can grow in her?

And the feverish spell breaks again, and he’s not a beast, and she’s not a cocksleeve. They’re Grantyde and Batty, and they’re in love.

“Sykora.” He says it, before he can think it away: “I love you.”

“I love you,” she sobs, as her hands frame his face, as her eyes sparkle and flash like a thunderstorm, her heart hammering, her tight nipples brushing the fabric on his chest. “I love you so fucking much, Grant, I love you, I love you!” and she’s screaming it now as her brain breaks, the translation implant glitching out again, the words melting together while she comes apart beneath him, and as the pressure snaps, he knows he was right to say it, knows it’s true. Fuck the consequences. Fuck the uncertain future. Fuck the Empire. He doesn’t care. He’s fallen in love with the alien warlord who abducted him.

And when the night is done, and it’s time to rule the sector, she’ll wash him off of her and out of her, and take off her garters, and cover the bruises on her neck. She’ll return to the command deck of her massive battleship. And he’ll join her seven hundred other servants in faithful obedience. His little wife will be a Void Princess of the Taiikari again, and he’ll be Prince Consort. And if he doesn’t believe in the Empire, that’s okay, because he believes in her.

But in this crystallized moment, as his pressing weight pins her to the floor, and he folds her quivering ankles up to her ears, and their sweaty skin sticks and pulls, pink on blue, and they feel it together, the first burning pulse painting her womb, and the tendons of her neck stand out below the choker he put on her as she cries his name to the stars, Sykora doesn’t belong to the Black Pike, or the sector, or the Empress.

Sykora is his.