Milking my cock on that first thrust, she came.
She came, weeping with the joy of release.
And I fucked her.
No woman had ever been fucked the way my Pearl was fucked through those days, through those nights. Blood pouring from where I had slit my throat, I fed the monster who strangled my cock for more.
Deceitfully slight thing that she was, she worked to drain me dry in all ways.
I hurt her.
She hurt me.
I pleasured the Goddess.
She fed me the torment that made my sac draw tight.
That first time I came, the ground shook. The second time, bits of Paris began to crumble.
Soothing me with a soft touch, even as she rocked her hips over my exhausted form, Pearl asked me to leave the city in peace.
The words alone drew another bubbling of seed from my body, my thumb rolling her clit as I expanded almost to the point her pretty body might not take.
Weeping, she found another climax, sucking my offering deep.
And I knew, that was the one that would plant a baby that would grow in her womb.
A baby in which she would find joy.
Epilogue
Vladislov
“Why doesn’t Mommy ever play with us?”
Because Mommy had been fucked senseless and was too tired to even feel when I carded my fingers through her hair. A pretty dark, waving lock I lifted off her pale cheek less than an hour before so sun might fall on her face as she slept.
Precious Pearl, always the napper, sleepy darling lass that she was.
“Mommy’s body is busy growing your sister.” Winking at the little hunter at my side, I said, “You’ve seen how big her belly is. She’d fall right over if she tried to run.”
The kid laughed.
And adored me.
The feeling was mutual. So much so that my other son had shown up more than he was welcome, the jealous sot.
“I’m going to catch her something good to eat.” And get all her kisses for it, no doubt.
Since she’d shorn him, washed him, taught him to speak, he was her world. But I was her God. Worshiped in the sun and in the moonlight.
Often, I had wept on her breast because the sensation of so true a love overtook me. I was her slave.
Which was why we now lived here, in the jungle, on an island where the world might let us enjoy what we were. Away from cities that quaked when my moods were free to roam. Away from Cathedrals she had a drive to purge.
And for sport, all the vampiric houses who wanted to survive my wife’s reign dropped immortal treats into the jungle for our boy to snack on.
Down to his bones, that kid was a killer. Even I, the perfect predator, had not needed to teach Jasper how to stalk.
And Mommy didn’t need to know that her occasional sip of morning blood had come from a screaming vampire her cute progeny had caught and dragged home especially for her.
He relished the screams, and he drained them into a teacup. Because it had to be fresh for Mommy.
Silver platter and all, Jasper would carry it in with a smile. “Pretty Mommy, look what I brought.”
Pretty Mommy would glow.
On her silk sheets. In the palace I ordered built for her. Where live-in staff treated my erection as a castle.
Yes, that was a penis joke.
There were civilized parties. There was passion. There was a garden tended by the only human on the grounds. One strictly off-limits to our son. Not that he had not tried a time or two.
Jasper was a real devil.
And Pearl knew it… and loved him anyway.
He brought her trinkets, sneaking out of his room while we slept. Amputated fingers, juicy leg bones… three times he tried to impress her with severed heads.
Which even I did not know how he found.
Because, once again, we lived on an island where there was none but us and those I knew were delivered.
Jasper, my beautiful, sweet, angelic boy, was a world ender.
One time, I cracked a joke that he was the antichrist.
Pearl refused to speak to me for almost a week.
She loved and she knew, fawning over her begotten monster as if the human jawbone he dug up that afternoon were a treasure.
I mean, I made it a treasure when I had it dipped in gold and set with diamonds.
I don’t think a more elated boy might have existed in the world when he saw it. When he presented it to his mommy.
Who kissed him for it and playfully put it on her head like a crown.
Unlike our son, I knew she cried after I’d taken the kid for a stroll.
I knew she fretted.
I knew that was why Yeshua sat at our table and smirked at me at least once a month. That was why Pearl asked him to be her tutor so she might no longer be ignorant.
My son, my obnoxious son, agreed.
She bloomed under his tutelage.
She still didn’t like him.
Who would? Her Jesus was a sanctimonious pain in the ass who refused to let a topic go, strangling the argument until there was nothing left but a carcass. He dumped way more dead things at my wife’s feet than the boy she had taken from the pens.
The night Jesus dared offer her his wrist for dinner, I almost killed him. And that was not in the hypothetical sense.
He and I battled for a week, bouncing from landscape to landscape. We rent, we purged, we fought like the truly elemental things we were.
Until I heard my wife weeping from hundreds of thousands of miles away.
Hand around the
