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Our Father	By : WhiteWinter Category: +A through F > Corruption of Champions Views: 9295 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Corruption of Champions or any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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          – A week later –

          You open your eyes right as the light of the early sun starts leaking through the crack between the bedroom’s curtains. You made sure to get to bed early last night. You’ve got something very important planned for today. A sort of . . . coming of age.

          When you flip the blankets down, you’re surprised to find long strands of platinum hair tousled over your chest. Kylie’s head is against your shoulder, and she has you hugged in both of her arms, with one over your waist and the other beneath your neck, and you’re both in the nude, with Kylie’s bare breasts pressed into your side. You slept with her again last night? Damn. You can’t help but feel a little guilty for letting Kylie have the lion’s share of private time with you, but why should you do any different? She’s the wife and daughter that gives you the most joy, comfort, and pleasure. She’s earned her place. Your family isn’t a democracy, it’s a monarchy, and you have every right to choose Kylie as your Queen.

          You very carefully ease Kylie’s head down from your shoulder and lift her arm from your waist. She lets out a deep sigh and shifts gently onto her back, but gives no sign that you’ve disturbed her sleep. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and touch your toes down onto the soft carpet. Yawning, you throw up your arms and jut out your legs, stretching your limbs, forcing the weariness out of your body. After you’ve got yourself feeling wide-awake and refreshed, you turn and look to the other side of the bedroom, beside Kylie. Her egg is within arm’s reach of her side of the bed, resting in a small nest of hay atop a sturdy wooden stand, Whitney’s creation. Sophie had warned her that the egg would grow in size before hatching, so Whitney made sure to fashion a roomy, good-sized nest for it. It’s only been a few days since Kylie birthed the egg, but it’s already noticeably larger than before, and sometimes you swear you can see it pulsing to the tune of the heartbeat of the growing girl inside. There’s a sort of relief that comes with impregnating a harpy, an all-female race. It’s comforting to know for a fact that the unborn child will be a daughter. The way your family is and the way you raise your children, daughters are easier to handle than sons.

          Grateful for her being such a good, fertile mother, you reach out and run your hand lovingly over Kylie’s warm, feathery thigh. She’s an incredible girl, Kylie, in more ways than one. Somehow, even though she’s been an adult for quite some time, she still looks no older than a teenager. She’s still incredibly youthful, still just as much girl as she is woman. It’s hard to believe she still looks the way she does. Her flesh is still smooth and tight, without any trace of age in her face or body. If she were a human in Ingnam, you wouldn’t think she’s a day over nineteen, and she could easily pass as two years younger. It seems the people born in this world, if they have even the slightest taint of corruption in them, they rapidly age into adulthood only to grow older dramatically slower after that. For Kylie’s mother Sophie to look as motherly and middle-aged as she does, with those faint crow’s feet around her eyes and just the slightest sag to her massive breasts, she must be far older than you once thought. She must’ve been an awfully wise woman once, only to have you change her and force her life into having just one purpose: being a mother to your children. You almost feel bad for what you did . . . but, no, it’s better this way. She gave you Kylie, after all.

          To your surprise, Kylie’s slender legs spread unconsciously at your affectionate touch, shifting to each side and revealing her crotch to your gaze. As her legs open, the golden short-feathers shielding her pussy open with them, baring her tight, pink slit to the air, and your eyes immediately catch and linger on it. It’s still stunning, still perfect, looking no less appealing than before she birthed her egg, no less arousing to your eyes, and you already know from experience that it certainly doesn’t feel any different. Gods, you could fuck your girl a thousand times and you’d still never get over the sight of her pussy. You’re addicted to her. It’s only been hours since you were last inside her, but already you need your next fix. You told Kian to meet you at the southmost barn at the crack of dawn, and he’s probably already expecting you . . . but making him wait a few minutes while you get in a good quickie won’t hurt him. Besides, it’ll be good to have that extra pep in your step today. Spent lust makes sharp wits.

          “Daddy . . .” Kylie mumbles, and you peer up at her, but still her eyes are closed and still she’s fast asleep. The way she said it, it wasn’t in a lustful moan like you’d expected, no, not even close. It was almost . . . childlike. Curiosity overtakes you, and you crawl back into bed and position yourself over Kylie. You put yourself at eye-level with her and put your open hand on her forehead. After drawing a deep, focusing breath, you gather your consciousness into a telekinetic feeler and bore it through the outer shell of Kylie’s mind, sinking it into her thoughts.

          Gently, you slither your mind deeper into Kylie’s, and you then start to just nebulously feel the emotions that are coloring her dream. Emotions not of lust, but joy, excitement, and wonder. Again, it’s . . . childlike. Having never tried anything like this before, you focus your efforts and try to make out some of the images of Kylie’s dream, but, damn, it’s near-impossible. It’s like you’re trying to piece together a jigsaw puzzle of a scrambled picture, or trying to form a sentence with words of a foreign language. These fragmented thoughts aren’t yours, and it’s a struggle to decipher them. So you double down, focusing on catching the thoughts swimming through Kylie’s mind, and sure enough, eventually you begin to piece together images and sounds as a narrated scene comes to form . . .

          . . . I’d never seen Mama so sick. Her face was wet with sweat, she was burning hot to my touch, and she was making these awful, sickly moans and groans that I didn’t like hearing. I was worried for her, but Daddy assured me she’d be fine. “Just a fever,” he said to me, and I felt better to hear it, because Daddy was always right. “I’ll stay and watch her,” Daddy told Mama. I was overjoyed to hear that, but Daddy looked frustrated as he took my hand and walked me down out of the nest.

          “Are you angry?” I asked him, looking up at him with big, curious eyes.

          “No, sweetie,” he answered, smiling as he looked down at me. He was so much taller than I was, and I liked it. I liked it when he stood over me, towering his tall, powerful frame over my short, girlish one, casting me in his cozy shadow. I didn’t ever want to be big like him. “Why would I be angry? I get to have you all day.” After he’d said the last word, he snatched me up off the ground and played pretend like he was a monster gobbling me whole, planting a flurry of kisses all over my face, on my chin, cheeks, and forehead, and I shut my eyes and squealed happily. I was uncontrollably excited by the time he set me down, bouncing on my feet, shaking my hands, wildly flapping my wings. Daddy crouched down and put himself at eye-level with me. “But Daddy’s got a lot he needs to do,” he said as he straightened the waistband of my panty bottoms. “Do you think you can be my little helper today?”

          I nodded furiously, smiling from ear to ear. Daddy had never let me help him with anything before.

          I flicked myself off the ground with my wings and plopped myself down onto his shoulders, and he laughed as I grabbed his head to keep myself steady. He walked me to the center of our camp, but to my surprise, we didn’t stay long, and after Daddy picked up an empty basket and an old-looking lantern, we left our campsite and walked to the entrance of a cave in a red-colored rock formation about ten minutes away. I had never been that far from camp before. I started to feel scared, and my hands tightened on Daddy’s head.

          “Don’t be scared, sweetie,” Daddy told me, sensing my fear. “Daddy’ll keep you safe.”

          It was dark inside the cave, darker than even a moonless night, darker than anything I’d ever seen – or, more aptly, hadn’t seen. I couldn’t see past where the daylight died, which wasn’t far. “I don’t like the dark,” I whined as I gazed into the blackness.

          “Here, sweetie,” Daddy said. He turned a squeaky dial on the lantern, giving it life and making it burn with a bright flame, and he raised it up to me. “Hold me with one hand, and hold that with the other. Got it?”

          “Okay,” I nodded as I took the lantern. It was a little heavy in my hand, but I could hold it.

          “The dark doesn’t like the light,” Daddy told me. “When you hold out that lantern, the dark runs away.”

          I held the lantern out to the end of my arm’s length, and sure enough, its flame cast back the dark, the shadows fleeing from the light.

          “See? You’re the one with the power,” Daddy said. “Don’t be afraid of the dark. Make the dark afraid of you.”

          He was right. It was comforting to see the dark flee the power of what I held in my hands. Daddy always knew just what to say, I don’t know how, but he did. The way he spoke to me, I always knew that for as long as I was with him, no harm would ever come to me. That was never once proved wrong.

          I relaxed myself on Daddy’s shoulders as he strode deeper into the cavern, and the further we went, the more of these strange objects began to pop up and appear along the soft, red earth of the corners of the cavern floor. Some were short, others taller, and all had helmets on their heads, some helmets being thin like flat dishes, others thick and bulbous. “What are those, Daddy?” I asked him.

          “They’re mushrooms, sweetie,” he said as he plucked them from the earth with his mind – a sight I’d long been used to seeing – and dropped them into his basket.

          “Why are you taking them?” I asked.

          “Well, those white ones, those are white buttons, and they’re good for eating,” he explained. “The pink-spotted ones, you don’t ever eat those, but I’m going to be using them in some . . . potions.”

          “Can I try one of the buttons, Daddy?”

          “Well, no, sweetie,” he said. “They need to be cooked first . . . but, actually . . . hold on.” He stopped in place and levitated one of the white buttons in front of him. He snapped his fingers at it, and a small burst of brightly white flames roasted the mushroom into a toasted brown. “Careful, sweetie, it’s hot,” he warned me as he floated it to my mouth. “Blow on it first.”

          I did as he said, pursing my lips and protruding them as I blew my breath on the mushroom again and again. After the fifth puff, I opened my mouth and took it between my teeth. It was warm and soft, easy to chew. It had a plain, earthy taste to it, but it wasn’t bad, and I swallowed it after just a few munches and immediately wanted more. Daddy always said I was an easy eater. Not picky at all. “More, Daddy?” I asked him.

          “Sure, sweetie,” he said, and he flash-fired a handful of more white buttons before raising them to my waiting mouth, where I promptly blew on them before taking them and munching them. It wasn’t the breakfast I was used to, a meal far different from Mama’s milk, but I ate it happily nonetheless. And they weren’t the first solids I’d ever eaten, anyways. “They’ll taste better with salt,” Daddy told me.

          Daddy gathered more of the mushrooms as I ate. He was quiet for a long time, not uttering a word. He was thinking of something. Even then, as young as I was, I could tell.

          “Kylie, sweetie,” he began as he plucked a slew of mushrooms in one clean stroke. “You want brothers and sisters, don’t you?”

          “Yes!” I cried out. My mouth was partly full, and I was too excited to stop myself from sputtering half-chewed bits of mushrooms as I spoke. I’d always wanted siblings. I often felt lonely when I was little. Daddy was always gone and off somewhere, I don’t know where, and Mama wasn’t always good company. But Mama never had any babies after me, and I didn’t know why, and Daddy never explained it.

          “What if . . . how would you feel about having another mother?” he asked.

          That was a hard thought to comprehend. More than one mother? Mama Sophie was the only mother I’d ever known. Would a new mother be better? I loved Mama with all my heart, but she left a lot to be desired. She never really taught me anything. She fed me and hugged me and was a warm body to sleep besides, yes, but she never made me smarter, not like Daddy always did, and I didn’t truly like talking to her very much. I wondered, would a new Mama be better? “Um . . . I’d like that,” I told him.

          “You would?”

          “Yes.”

          Daddy nodded. That was the answer he wanted to hear. I started daydreaming about what my new mother would look like. Would she look like Mama and I? With golden feathers, talons on her feet, and wings on her back? Or maybe like Daddy? Or maybe something else entirely? Then, as I wondered about that, my mind drifted and I began to wonder about a new Daddy, and no, no, no, I didn’t like that thought, not at all. I could only ever have one Daddy. No one could ever be like him.

          I tapped Daddy’s head. “But I don’t want another Daddy,” I said to him. “I only want you.”

          He chuckled as he looked up at me and patted my fluffy thigh. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” he assured me. “I’m the only Daddy you’ll ever have.”

          “Promise?” I asked.

          “Promise,” he said.

          I smiled at him.

          We left the cave not long after that, and Daddy took the lantern from me and snuffed its flame when we were outside. We headed back to camp, where Daddy moved each white button mushroom one by one into a crate by the campfire. When he’d finished that, we walked to the tent just next to the one he sleeps in. I had to get down off his shoulders, but Daddy actually let me come inside with him, and that had me excited. He didn’t often let me go in there. Inside, the tent was crammed to the brim, housing a desk topped with thingies and majiggers that I didn’t know what they did, a series of small shelves all lined with dusty books and old tomes, and a large, heavy trunk, which I could only assume was filled with various trinkets, flasks, and baubles. Daddy picked me up and plopped my little butt onto the trunk. “Stay there, sweetie,” he said, and he kissed my cheek before leaving for his desk.

          He took the pink-spotted mushrooms from the basket and started crushing them in a clay bowl with a little club. A ‘morder and pessle,’ Daddy had told me they were called, but I couldn’t ever remember how to spell it. My eyes drifted around the tent, gazing at every funny-looking object, and my crinkling nose picked up a lot of strange scents. I got bored before long, and I started daydreaming again, wondering about this and that. I recalled something strange Mama had said the day before, and as I recalled it, I immediately became confused again. So I did what I always did when I felt confused. I asked Daddy.

          “Daddy?” I chirped.

          “Yes, sweetie?” he said, though he kept his eyes on his project.

          “Mama said that, when I’m older, I’ll get to hug you like she does.”

          Daddy paused at that. He turned to me and gave me a strange look. “What do you think she meant?” he asked, only, he didn’t look confused like me. No, he looked . . . angry.

          “I don’t know,” I shrugged, swinging my legs happily. “You hug me all the time.”

          “When did she say that to you, sweetie?”

          “Yesterday. You were gone.”

          Daddy slowly nodded, but I could see fury burning behind his gray eyes. I was beginning to feel nervous right until he suddenly calmed his gaze and turned back to the bowl of powder before him. “Your mother’s just being silly,” he said, his scowl vanishing. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie.”

          “Okay.”

          Boredom struck me again, and the fact that Daddy had asked me to sit in that spot had completely left my mind. I slipped down and wandered around the tent, getting a closer look at the spines of the books and the labels of the varied bottles and poultices. Daddy always told me to practice my reading whenever I could, so I made it a challenge to myself to read all the words I saw. First I put my forefinger to the biggest book, thick and red, and trailed my finger under each letter on the spine as I slowly and quietly read them aloud. “D . . . O . . . M . . . I . . . N . . . A . . . N . . . C . . . E . . . Dom-i-nance. Dominance.”

          Next a thinner book, off-white and stained. “F . . . A . . . T . . . H . . . E . . . R . . . H . . . O . . . O . . . D . . . Fa-ther-hood. Fatherhood.”

          Finally, I put my finger to a tall, corked bottle filled with a golden liquid. “W . . . A . . . R . . . N . . . I . . . N . . . G . . . Warn—”

          “—Kylie!” Daddy shouted, and I whipped my head towards him and pulled back my hand, my wide eyes stricken with fear. “Don’t touch that, sweetie,” he told me as he hurried over to me. “It’s bad for you.” He picked me up and sat me atop his trunk again.

          “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I frowned.

          “It’s alright, sweetie,” he said as he flicked a lock of my platinum hair behind my ear. “Just be careful what you touch in here.” He grabbed my long hair again, and his brow furrowed as he felt the knots and clumps in it. “When was the last time you had a bath in the river?” he asked.

          “I don’t know,” I shrugged again. I truthfully didn’t know the answer. It had been at least a week.

          “Come on then,” he said as he took my hand and ushered me down from the trunk. “Let’s go get you washed.”

          We left the tent together, and Daddy grabbed a bar of soap and a hairbrush from camp before walking me to the river about three minutes away, just east of the nest. The water was mostly still and nearly silent, and there wasn’t much moss or vegetation in, on, or around it. When we got to the edge of the river, Daddy turned to me. “You okay with me washing you?” he asked me as he gently grabbed my chin.

          Mama had always been the one who bathed me – even when all three of us bathed in the river together, it was Mama who always washed me – but still, I didn’t understand why Daddy even bothered asking that, or how I could possibly take issue with him washing me. Gender didn’t mean anything to me then. I knew I was a “girl” and Daddy was a “boy,” but I didn’t know what that really meant beyond the differences of our bodies, and I wouldn’t know for a long time. I was just a child, and Daddy made sure to treat me like one; innocent, chaste, and pure.

          “Mhm,” I hummed in happy approval, nodding and smiling.

          With that, Daddy popped off my bra – which he always insisted I wear despite my still-flat chest – and tugged down my panties. He undressed himself, as well, and he set the hairbrush atop a tall rock before walking with me to the water. Daddy waded straight in, but I stopped and dipped my talons in first. It was cold, and my wings fluttered at the feel of it.

          “Come on, sweetie,” Daddy said, beckoning for me with his arms. “The water will feel warmer when you’re in it.”

          I mustered my courage and walked forth, letting the water rise around me, up to my waist. A shiver crawled up my back, but sure enough, the water soon felt far less cold than it did at first, and I could stay in it without discomfort. Daddy started running the bar of soap over the short-feathers of my shoulders, and I turned my head up at him. “I can do it, Daddy,” I said, and he let me take the soap from him.

          I started scrubbing myself, first my shoulders and then my flat belly, and I stuck my tongue out as I focused as hard as I could. I was eager to show Daddy that I could wash myself, but my eagerness did not make up for my childlike lack of coordination, and my hand was slow and clumsy. I would’ve taken half an hour to clean myself. Mama had always done it, and I still wasn’t any good at it. Daddy wordlessly took the soap from me and started scrubbing me down himself, his face holding a stern expression.

          I failed him. Daddy had spent all morning with me and I couldn’t even do for him this simplest of tasks. I started crying. It was a soft cry. I whimpered and sniffled as the hot tears ran down my cheeks, one after the other, until my eyes were puffy and my face was wet. Why did I always have to cry? The tears just flowed right away, always. Scrape my knee, cry. Have a nightmare, cry. Mess up, cry. It was always my first instinct, and I hated it.

          “Why are you crying, Kylie?” Daddy asked me with a tired sigh. He didn’t like it when I cried, and that made me cry harder.

          “Because—I’m—bad,” I sobbed hysterically, drawing quick, weeping breaths between each word.

          “No, you’re not,” he assured me softly. “You’re fine, sweetie. You’re still little. You’ll get good at it. Open your legs a bit.”

          I did as he asked, and my wings fluttered again as he gave my crotch a brief, chaste scrub. He bathed me quickly and efficiently, scrubbing down every nook and cranny, the scruff of my neck, my armpits, the crack of my bum. He washed me with both a fatherly gentleness and a firm thoroughness that only Daddy could manage, and it only took him a couple minutes to scrub me clean. After he’d washed me, he eased my head down and dunked my long, messy hair into the water until it was good and soaked. When it was, he picked me up out of the water and held me close, and I locked my legs around his waist and buried my face in his shoulder as I cried and cried. Daddy waded out of the river, lovingly patting my back all the way, and he kept me held against his chest as he sat down and rested his back against the tall rock he’d set the hairbrush atop.

          “Shh,” Daddy hushed me as he starting wringing out my hair with his hands, urging heavy drops of water to pitter-patter onto the red earth. After he’d gotten it a good amount dryer, he grabbed the brush from the rock and started running it through my hair, slow and gentle, untangling the knots one by one. “Shh,” he hushed me again. “It’s alright, sweetie. You’re alright.”

          I managed to stop sobbing, but the tears still came. “Are you angry?” I asked him, my face still buried in his shoulder.

          Daddy set down the brush and shifted me in his arms, so that he cradled me like a baby and we faced each other.

          “Kylie, listen to me,” he said as he stared into my eyes, unblinking. “I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to remember it for as long as you live. I want you to remember it when you’re awake, and I want you to remember it when you’re asleep. Okay?”

          “Okay,” I sniffled, fighting back the tears.

          “I get angry a lot, I do,” he began, “You see me get angry at your mother a lot, for one. But, Kylie, I want you to remember this: I will never, ever be angry at you. You’re my baby. You’re everything to me. You’ll always be everything to me.” Daddy’s jaw tensed and his nostrils flared. He looked from me to the river and nodded to it. “You see that river, Kylie? I’d turn it to dust for you,” he growled, and then he looked back to me. “I’d break this world in half for you. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Kylie. Nothing. You understand?”

          I nodded again. That’s all I ever did, but it was always appropriate, because Daddy was always right, and he always said everything right.

          My tears had stopped then. “I love you, Daddy,” I said to him, losing myself in his gray, steely gaze.

          He sighed. The tenseness left his flesh and a softness came to his eyes. He leaned down and kissed my forehead. “I love you too, princess,” he said. He lifted me and held me against his chest again, nuzzling his head against mine. “And I always will.”

          We rested there in silence, holding each other, dripping water onto the earth. Nude and wet, father and daughter, embracing with love, affection, and devotion, like only a man and his child could.

          I’ll never forget it.

          . . . The dream is turning blurry. Kylie’s narration is being drowned out. Your concentration is wavering, and your head is pounding from the exertion. As much as you wish you could keep reliving this memory with Kylie, to live through the rest of that day again, you can’t bear the fatigue of projecting your mind into hers any longer. The pain’s too much to endure. Carefully, so as not to scatter any of her thoughts and disturb her dream, you pull back and withdraw your mind from hers. When you’re back in your own head, you discover a trickling feeling under your nose. You wipe your hand against it and find red on your fingers. Blood. A mark of over-exerting yourself. Another few minutes in Kylie’s mind and you’d be bleeding from the eyes, ears, and mouth, as well.

          You feel another trickle running down your cheek. It isn’t blood.

          You shift and sit on the edge of the bed again and wipe away the lone tear. Gods, it’s . . . conflicting. Though you greatly enjoy being intimate with her, a part of you still wishes Kylie could’ve stayed a child forever. There was something special about that relationship you had with her, when it was still innocent, when she was still young. Yet she’ll never be that again, and there’ll never be a tougher pill to swallow than that. But . . . things change. The sun rises only to later fall, and the heat of the summer comes only for the cold of the winter to later take its place. Childhood begets adulthood. Life begets death. Kylie may not be little anymore, but just as you told her on that day so very long ago, for as long as you and her still live, she’ll be everything to you. She and all her siblings.

          “Daddy?” Kylie whispers.

          You turn to face her. Her eyes are open at last, half-lidded and a bit sleepy, but open. She’s laying on her side, facing you, smiling.

          “Have a good dream?” you ask her with a knowing grin.

          She nods.

          “What did you dream of?” you ask.

          She doesn’t answer at first. Her smile widens, and she whispers, “The best day of my life.”

          You climb over Kylie in a blaze of passion and wordlessly put your lips against hers, and she accepts your kiss happily, draping her arms over your neck and opening her mouth for your tongue, reciprocating your love. She greets your tongue with her own, swirling and twirling them as your lips mingle and dance, until each of your tongues are layered with saliva not wholly their own. Kylie opens her long legs and locks them around your hips, and she reaches down to your crotch and wraps her soft hand around the shaft of your stiffening cock, giving you a few slow pumps, but you break your kiss and shake your head at her. “No,” you tell her. “This isn’t for me.”

          She looks confused by your words, but that look leaves her when you shed her legs from your hips and shimmy down and lower your head down between her thighs. You bring your hand to her muff and pet her soft crotch-feathers, goading them into spreading for you, and they soon do, revealing the treasure of the glittering, pink slit that hides beneath. You spread open her slit with your middle and forefinger, and her cunt is hot and sticky to your touch. You brush two fingers of your other hand against your tongue, getting them good and wet for your daughter’s pussy, before you lower them and run them up and down her moistening gash, and it doesn’t take much teasing before that tight hole on the bottom of her slit starts bubbling with her clear fluids, the nectar of a woman. Kylie mewls sweetly and cups her breasts in her hands as you pet her pussy, but she raises a hand and takes her knuckles between her teeth with a blissful squeal when you give her pink button a quick flick of your finger. You puff hot breaths over her soaked, needy cunt, but you don’t yet put your open mouth onto her. You want her to tell you to do it.

          “Do you want me to use my tongue?” you ask her.

          “Yes,” Kylie whimpers.

          “Say it, sweetie,” you tell her as you lock your eyes with hers. “Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

          “Lick it, Daddy,” she begs you. “Please.”

          You won’t tease her any longer. It’s not often you concern yourself with the pleasure of your wives, but Kylie deserves this.

          You keep Kylie’s slit spread as you finally plant your open mouth onto her and jut your tongue forward. You brush your hot tongue against her cunt in long licks, lazy and languid. Though you take your time easing yourself into lovingly devouring your precious girl, Kylie’s mewling has already shifted into deep, breathy moans that float from her full lips. You lap at her soaked slit from tunnel to clit, occasionally stopping to give her little button a single lick, which prompts the muscles of Kylie’s legs to visibly lock and spasm. You dive your tongue into her, forcing her tight tunnel to widen around you. Her seeping wetness soaks your tongue, making it thick and heavy with her feminine essence. She’s salty and acidic on your tongue, strong and nearly sour. It’s a healthy taste, a taste that’s not wholly pleasant and yet utterly addicting.

          “Does it feel good, sweetie?” you ask her in a brief moment where you don’t have your tongue stuffed in her delicious muff, still keeping your eyes trained on your girl’s cunt.

          “Yes,” Kylie moans.

          You don’t spend much time with your tongue inside your wives, considering they’re all perfectly capable of getting off without it, but it’s nice to remind yourself how a woman tastes every now and then.

          “My clit, Daddy,” she whispers. “More.”

          You obey her and refocus your efforts. You press the flat of your tongue firm over her pink clit, bathing the little pleasure buzzer in your tongue’s heat and moisture. Kylie’s slender legs lock again as you push an intense pleasure through her, and her back arches as her hands shoot down and grab your face. She’s nearing the top of her mountain. You dart your tongue over her in a frenzy, worshipping her quivering pussy rabidly and fervently, alternating between diving into her tunnel and licking Kylie as deep as you can reach to flicking it over her clit and giving her enough pleasure to blind her. She keeps your face gripped in her hands as she keels forward and pushes her crotch desperately into you, as if she can somehow get your tongue deeper inside her, and though it’s no use, it certainly isn’t from any lack of your trying. Her long hair drapes over her face as she bites her bottom lip, and her great wings flap hard enough to nip your ears with strong gusts of air.

          “Daddy, I’m—” she pauses when a moan steals the breath from her lungs. “—I’m cumming.”

          You don’t make the mistake of taking your tongue from her cunt to acknowledge her. You shift your hands, thrusting two wet fingers into her tight cunt with one hand and glomping onto one of her two perky breasts with the other, and you start twirling your tongue against her clitoris right as Kylie hits her high. Her wings extend to full breadth in a final gust of air, shedding more than a few golden feathers as the two tips of her wings touch the ceiling. Her gushing pussy wets your hand down past your knuckles, and you can feel her pelvic muscles rhythmically clench and squeeze your fingers as her orgasm wracks her flesh with pleasure and bliss.

          Kylie’s body gives out from under her when her orgasm ends. She collapses, gasping for air, her chest heaving. You lean forward and gently cup Kylie’s cheek as you kiss her. “Go back to sleep, sweetie,” you tell her. “It’s still early. Someone’ll have breakfast ready in a few hours.”

          You pull the covers back over her and tuck them under her chin, but before you can roll out of bed, Kylie leans forward and captures your lips in another kiss, a deep one this time. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispers after she breaks the kiss, looking into your eyes.

          “I love you too, princess,” you whisper back.

          You get down onto your feet and hurriedly clothe yourself from the dresser. Kian’s waiting for you, and you need to get going. But before you do, you make a stop by the nest next to Kylie’s side of the bed. You run your hand over the egg’s smooth shell, and you lean down and kiss the top of it. Sometime soon, sooner than you know it, you’ll be greeting the girl inside there and welcoming her to this world. And what a wild world it is.

          You leave the room and close it gently behind you, but you otherwise don’t have to bother being quiet as you make your way to the front door. Whitney’s already finished furnishing and walling a couple homes out of the old barns, and you’ve already gone and divided your family amongst them, housing Amily and your mouselings into one and Sophie, Kylie, and Vapula into the other. Kelly and Cain and Hannah already had their own. Rebecc still sleeps in the farmhouse cellar, and she probably prefers it down there, anyways. You don’t keep her locked down there during the day. It’s not bad living here, not for anyone. You can finally say you’re proud of the home you’ve given your family. No one’s starving, your wives aren’t lacking affection, your children aren’t lacking guidance, and now everyone has a roof over their heads, and with some breathing room, no less.

          You’ve spent too many lazy days on the farm since you came, and you’ve been starting to feel a little cooped up and stir-crazy, but now, at last, you’re getting back into the swing of things. A hunter needs to hunt, and there are always prey waiting to be predated upon. And the hunter doesn’t hunt alone today. Today, he takes his cub with him. You’re going to show Kian just how a man of this family gets on in this world.

          It’s twilight outside, an odd blend of darkness and daylight, with the fledgling sun still working its way above the horizon. The air is crisp and clean, easy to breathe, and you feel light on your feet. You raise up your legs one at a time, raising them to your hip-level, loosening up. You take a long breath, letting the cool air fill your lungs, and you shift your stance, readying yourself to run. Then you take off a sprint down the dirt path, running fast, faster than you’ve ran in days. The air whips past you, and you’re skidding to a smooth stop at the door to the southmost barn in just five seconds. You’ve still got it.

          The interior of the barn is dingy and unfurnished. Inside, Kian is dressed in a shirt and shorts, and he’s perforating a stick-and-strawbag dummy with a hundred swift stabs of his two iron daggers, grunting as he attacks it, and every strike seems to land right where he wants it to. He’s a natural with it. He’s a quick learner, which seems to be a recurring trait in your children. He’s taller every time you see him, but this is likely the apex of his height. He must be over six feet now, only an inch or two shorter than Kylie and far taller than his mother Amily. Kian’s lean and fit, but he has a good bit of muscles to his limbs, with firm biceps and pecs. He’s strong, you can see it in the way the dummy shakes from his strikes, and he’s fast, his daggers being blurs of motion whenever he lashes out with them.

          “Kian,” you call out. He doesn’t hear you. He’s working up a good sweat, his shaggy, brown hair shaking as his head whips back and forth. His grunts are getting louder, his snubbed, mouse-nose twitching, his long tail thrashing from side to side. His scowl hardens as his strikes get angrier and angrier, his daggers discharging the anger his corruption is always building within him. He doesn’t know quite how to control the taint in his blood, the taint he inherited from you, but he will, in time. “Kian!” you shout.

          He stops and turns to you. “Hey,” he says breathlessly as his arms fall to his sides.

          “Sorry to keep you waiting,” you smile at him. “Was, uh . . . reliving a memory. You feel good with those?” you ask him, your eyes lingering on his daggers.

          “Yeah,” he nods, panting for breath. He raises one of the daggers and rotates it before him. “I could do some real damage with ‘em now, Dad,” he says as he admires the blade.

          You shake your head. “Stabbing a dummy and stabbing a living thing aren’t the same, Kian. There’s different . . . emotions at play.” You stride over to the dummy and push your finger into the holes of the sack of its torso. “It’s a whole different game, cutting a person.” You turn to Kian and give him a grave look. “There’s no straw inside a person, Kian.”

          “I know, Dad,” he says snootily, a bit of arrogance coloring his voice.

          “No, you don’t, Kian. It’s . . . harrowing, you know, when you see for the first time what we’re really made of. Blood and flesh and guts. You have to be ready to see it, or it’ll change you when you do.”

          Kian’s listening keenly, his gray eyes fixed to yours. He respects you, and he knows to listen when you speak. But more than he respects you, he’s awed by you. The seemingly infinite knowledge and experience you have to offer him, it silences him, it shuts his mouth whenever you open yours. That’s good. Good for him, that is. He’ll be wiser for it.

          “I want you to stab me,” you tell him with a curt nod, and his eyes widen a bit when he hears it.

          “What?”

          “Stab me.” You put your finger against your stomach. “Right here. Right in the belly.”

          “Is . . . is this a joke?” he mutters, looking to your stomach.

          Your eyes turn cold and icy. “No,” you utter. “Do it.”

          Slowly, he comes towards you. He looks to your eyes one last time, but when he finds your iron gaze unchanged, he looks to your belly and rears back his right hand, clutching tighter on the hilt of his dagger. Then, finally, his face tightens as he thrusts his hand forward . . . but the blade of his dagger finds nothing, as you’ve shifted out of its path. You tap him on his shoulder, and he turns to you with awe in his eyes. “How’d you do that?” he asks.

          “Again,” you tell him. “Do it again.”

          He turns to you and stabs at you again, but again you flow around him, and this time you grab his right arm from behind and pin it upwards, and you twist his wrist until the pain’s too much to keep him from crying out and dropping his dagger.

          “How are you doing that?” he asks you as you release him and step away from him.

          “The thing about this world, Kian, is that there’s always going to be someone faster than you. Someone stronger than you. Always. You have to know to pick your targets.”

          “Okay,” he nods. “Yeah, I understand.”

          “Now cut the palm of your hand.”

          Kian doesn’t question you this time. He slips one of his daggers into its sheath along his belt before grabbing the other one from the ground and holding it against his empty palm. He draws a hissing breath as he presses the blade into his palm and runs it across it, rending his flesh in two, and blood promptly pours outwards, darkening his purple fur.

          “See that? See how quick it spreads?” you ask him as you cup the bottom of his hand with one of your own, and both of you watch intently as his short fur flushes with crimson. “You need to get used to that. Seeing your own blood. If you can’t deal with that, you’re not going to be able to do much in this world.”

          He nods again. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I got it. I’m good.”

          “Good. Now hold still.”

          You hover the fingers of your other hand over Kian’s palm, and your tensed mouth twitches as your eyes focus on his wound. A moment later, his severed flesh shifts back into place and begins slowly sewing itself whole. “This . . .” you utter as his fur sheds the stain of his blood and regains its natural purple. “I can’t ever teach you.”

          When there’s no sign of any wound on Kian’s hand, you release it and let his arm fall to his side. You snatch the dagger from his hands with your mind and wipe it clean of his blood against the dummy. “Kian,” you say as you slip his dagger into his holster on his belt. “We’re not murderers. You might think I’m a cold-blooded bastard, but I don’t spill blood unless it’s in self-defense.” You grab him by the scruff of his neck and gaze into his eyes. “And you won’t either. Are we clear?”

          “Yeah,” he says softly. “We’re clear.”

          “Good.” You pat the back of his neck “Now come on. We’re leaving.”

          “Leaving?” he asks as you leave his side and head for the door. “Where are we going?”

          “The forest.”

          . . .

          “Lesson number one:” you begin, “Listen. Listen to the grass crinkle beneath your feet. Listen to the leaves of the trees rustle and shake, listen to the birds tweet and chirp. It’s the song of the forest. Memorize it. That way, when you hear a sound foreign to the song . . . you’ll know it.”

          You and Kian are walking shoulder-to-shoulder in the forest. You’re lazily looking from one side to the other, enjoying the sights of the tall grass and the even taller trees, enjoying the smells of flowers and honeys, but Kian’s head is whipping to and fro, anxiously watching for any and every possible twitch of movement. His hands are clutched on the hilts of his daggers, ready to draw them at a moment’s notice. You stifle a chuckle. It’s his first time. He’ll get better at it. And it won’t be the only cherry he’s popping today.

          “Relax,” you tell him. “You don’t have to be an emotional wreck to be safe, Kian.”

          “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, swallowing a nervous gulp. “Sorry.”

          “Enjoy yourself!” you laugh as you throw up your arms. “Don’t ever be afraid to explore, Kian. We’re hunters. Exploring is what we do. How else are we supposed to find our prey?”

          He turns to you with his brows knitted. “‘Prey?’”

          “Kian, your mothers and I didn’t exactly meet at some watering hole and decide we wanted to be together. I found them and I made them mine. I was the hunter . . . and they were my prey. It wasn’t consensual, not at first, not with any of them. I had to be forceful before they realized they wanted to be with me.” You stop and grab Kian’s shoulder, turning him to you. “Kian, I’m going to tell you what I told Kylie long ago. This world,” you pause to sweep your eyes on the towering trees around you, before bringing them back to Kian’s gaze, “I made it mine . . . to make it yours. I’m the King. This land is mine. The peasants may not know it yet, but it is mine. Now, because it’s the King’s land, his children, his Princes and Princesses, that makes the land theirs, too. It’s theirs to use how they see fit. Is this all making sense to you?”

          “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks, Dad. That . . . means a lot.”

          Your lips tighten as a swell of emotion plucks at your heart. “No,” you shake your head. “Don’t thank me,” you tell him, running your hand along the side of his jaw. “You’re my boy. I’m thankful for you. Now come on.” You turn and stride from him. “Let’s get you a girl.”

          “A—a girl?” he stammers. “What—what do you mean, ‘get me a girl?’” he asks as he jogs to catch up with you.

          “Why do you think I told you all that? You’re like me, Kian. You’re a hunter. That’s why we’re here. It’s time for you to catch your first prey. I’m sorry I made you wait as long as I did, but I wanted you to be ready. Thinking back, I probably should have just paid some slut to stay at the farm for a bit for you to dip yourself in whenever you wanted to,” you chuckle. “Anything’s better than the hand, don’t you think?” you ask him with a smile.

          Kian stays quiet. He’s probably blushing beneath his fur from your mentioning of him touching himself. As confident as he is, he’s still got a bit of timidity to him. It’s nothing like Alaya’s, but it’s there.

          A sound prompts you to grab Kian and stop him in his tracks. “Hear that?” you ask in a whisper.

          “No,” he whispers back.

          “Listen.”

          You both fall silent, and soon enough, Kian’s ears twitch as he hears what you do, coming past the bushes of the tree-line just east of you: two voices, both feminine, one noticeably younger than the other, chirping, chatting, and occasionally laughing. Goblins, sounds like. You lower yourself to a crouch and creep towards the source of the voices, and Kian follows suit. The two of you weave through the bushes nearly silently, one slow step at a time, until you’re both peeking at a clearing through the edge of the shrub.

          Sure enough, in the clearing, you discover two goblin women sitting on a mossy log. It’s a mother and daughter by the looks of it, both with green skin, greener eyes, and long, blue hair. The mother in particular is heavily curvaceous, seated atop a plump, fat bottom, with her heavy breasts giving her top a hefty swell, and the daughter isn’t much less curvy. They’re both applying vibrant purple lipstick to each other’s lips as they gab about this and that, not needing a mirror for as long as they can just groom in pairs. The mother has a half-dozen ring piercings on her face, on her nose, her mouth, and her ears, but the daughter’s only piercing is a single stud just below her full lips. They’re marks of sexual experience, you know that much, but you aren’t quite sure how they’re calculated or what exactly each piercing means. But this is perfect. This couldn’t be a better find.

          “See their belts?” you whisper to Kian. “The potions and needles? Those are their weapons, more so than their daggers. They’ll dope you up until the only thing on your mind is that cunt between their legs. That’s the nice thing about goblins. It won’t quite be the end of the world if they get the upper hand on you. That’s why they’re good for young hunters like you. If there’s any race to have to submit to for an hour, it’s them.”

          “Why?” Kian asks.

          “Well, because you both want the same thing, more or less. The only difference is how it’ll be done.”

          As the two of you speak, the goblins stand to their feet – showing their short stature – and give each other a hug and a kiss on the lips before parting ways. The mother heads off down a pathway through the grass to the west, but the daughter stops when a white jaybird flies down and perches on a low-hanging branch just above her.

          “Go to her,” you whisper.

          Kian turns to you. “And do what?” he asks, furrowing his brows.

          “Confront her. Tell her you want her. She won’t resist you. Lure her.”

          “Are—are you sure?”

          “Go!” you growl, shoving his back.

          Kian stands to his feet and starts forward, emerging from the bushes. The goblin girl turns and faces him when she hears him, and she smiles at the sight of him. Kian stands tall and proud, with only one hand resting on one of his two daggers.

          “Hey, cutie,” she says as she saunters over to him, her voice high and light and gentle. Her wide, womanly hips sway as she walks to him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mouse-boy before.”

          Kian shakes his head. “I’m not a boy,” he tells her confidently, his voice markedly lower than hers.

          “No, you’re right,” she says as she puts her hand on his chest, admiring the tight tone of his flesh through his shirt. “You’re a man.” Her other hand finds its way to Kian’s shapely ass, and she gives a cute, joyful squeal when she discovers it to be as delightful as it is.

          After a moment of letting the girl grope him, Kian can’t help but return the favor by grabbing her right back and groping her fat ass through her sheer pants, squeezing her tight, sinking his furry fingers deep into her pliant flesh. Kian gets heated and rowdy before long, utterly losing his composure like only a young man groping his first woman could. He gives the goblin girl’s bum a series of sharp, greedy spanks before slipping his hand beneath her pants, eager to touch a woman’s cunt for the first time, but the smiling girl clearly takes no issue with it. “You’ve got such pretty gray eyes, cutie,” she coos to him, giggling. “So . . . striking and piercing. Who’d you get them from?”

          “My father,” Kian answers absent-mindedly, looking somewhat preoccupied with the hot flesh in his hands.

          “I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes like those,” the girl says. “He must be a special man.”

          “You have no idea,” Kian utters.

          “What’s your name, cutie?” she asks.

          “Kian,” he says, his eyes affixed to the cleavage bared by her low-cut top.

          “‘Kian,’ ooh, that’s so . . . exotic. Your daddy give you that name?”

          “Yeah.”

          “It’s a good name. Mine’s Emmie. So, you wanna have some fun?”

          “Yes.”

          Emmie moves her hand from Kian’s ass to one of the syringes on her belt, and when she does, you noisily dart forward from the bushes, shaking your head when Emmie looks to you. “No, no,” you say to her, a smug grin curling around your lips. “There won’t be any of that.”

          Not at all to your surprise, Emmie recognizes you right away, your infamous visage and your unmistakable stature. Her eyes widen when she sees you, and she pushes off of Kian’s chest and turns and runs, but you throw forth your hand as you lash out at her with your mind and lasso her feet, tripping her onto the grass. “What’s wrong?” you ask her with a hearty, near-manic laugh. “Why are you running, Emmie? You seemed so eager a moment ago.” You yank back on your invisible leash, dragging Emmie across the grass, dirtying her clothes with green stains. “You’re not teasing my boy like that without finishing the job. Grab her, Kian.”

          Kian kneels over Emmie’s thick legs, pinning her to the earth.

          “O—Okay, okay,” Emmie stammers. “I’ll—I’ll do what you want. Just, please, don’t . . . don’t do anything crazy or—”

          “—Tell her to shut up,” you growl to Kian as you crouch on the other side of the goblin girl.

          Kian takes a fistful of Emmie’s blue hair and yanks on it, forcing her head back. “Stop talking,” he snarls into her ear, and his words force meekness into Emmie’s eyes. Well done. He’s a natural. Just like his old man.

          “Pull her pants down,” you tell him.

          Kian grabs the waistband of her pants and yanks them down, freeing the two green orbs of Emmie’s bubble butt. No panties. Figures. Kian immediately fills his hands with her ass, growling as he squeezes and gropes her, flushing with the hungers and desires of a man. If Kian’s feeling anything like what you felt the first time you took a woman like this – and you know he is – then he has zero control over himself right now. There’s no going back from here. It would take a knife to his heart to stop him now.

          “Open her cunt,” you tell him. “Spread her lips with your fingers.”

          Kian does as you say, parting the heavy cheeks of Emmie’s ass and spreading open her pink pussy with his thumbs. Her cunt is shining with moisture, but that doesn’t surprise you. A goblin cunt is always sodden wet, as far as you know. Lustful little sluts. But your eyes are disappointed to find that she’s lacking her hymen. You were hoping you could have Kian’s first victim be a virgin, but alas, this’ll have to do.

          “She’s not a virgin. She’d have a hymen, there, on her tunnel, if she did,” you explain to him. “But that’s fine. She’s got another hole,” you muse as your eyes switch to the puckered star resting above her pussy. “And I’ve a feeling that one hasn’t been used.” You turn to Kian and grab his jaw, forcing him out of his rape-ready trance, making his eyes meet yours. “She wants you to use her cunt, Kian,” you tell him. “Lesson number two: do what they don’t want you to do.”

          “No, no, no,” Emmie says in a flurry, wriggling beneath Kian’s knees, shaking her head. “Not there, please,” she begs. She reaches forward with her arms and tries to crawl out from under Kian, but without looking to her, you silently grab her arms with your mind and pull them to her back, where you keep them fastened tight with an unseen rope.

          “I thought you told her not to talk,” you utter coldly, having never taken your eyes from Kian’s.

          Kian leans forward onto Emmie, pressing all of his weight down on her, and he locks his muscled forearm under her throat as he again puts his mouth next to her ear. “This’ll hurt a lot more if you fight me,” he growls at her. “So be a good girl and behave, alright?”

          “Okay,” Emmie grunts, struggling to draw air past Kian’s arm.

          When Kian releases her and rears back, you do him the favor of ripping away Emmie’s shirt and tugging her pants down off her feet, again not with your physical arms. Kian gives her ass a few more swats, giving it a red imprint of his hand as it jiggles, before unbuckling his belt and pulling down his shorts and underpants. Though you’re watching him closely, there’s no shame or shyness in his eyes as he grabs his human-like cock. He’s far past that point now. There’s only a frenzied lust in his gaze. He spits on his sizably lengthy prick and gives himself a few jerking pumps, getting himself just lubricated enough to take the hole that awaits him. After he readies himself, he holds his dick by the base as he eases his hips forward, guiding himself to Emmie’s crinkled pucker. Emmie couldn’t squirm now if she wanted to, with Kian pinning her bottom half beneath him and you pinning her arms against her back, and she has no way to struggle as Kian forcefully pushes his member into her. Emmie’s clenching asshole can’t keep Kian’s cock at bay, and she cries out in pain as her tightened flesh gives way around him. First his thick crown slips into her ass, and inch by inch he then forces the rest of himself into her, gasping as his penis is sheathed in an incredibly hot hole, like nothing he’s ever once felt before.

          You can see the muscles of Emmie’s back and butt tighten and clench from the discomfort and pain, and you know full well that her rectum is doing the same around Kian’s cock. “Don’t hold back,” you say to him. “You’re the hunter. She’s the prey. Devour her,” you snarl.

          Though you aren’t sure if your boy heard you over his lust, he nonetheless wastes no time before drawing back his prick, which now twitches in pleasure, until only his cockhead is still sheathed and gripped in her pucker, and when it is, he slams himself back in, rocking Emmie’s body, forcing her round rump to bounce from his thrust. Emmie throws her head back and cries out again, but Kian cares not, and he starts hammering himself into her, abusing her asshole.

          Kian works himself into a good, violent ass-pounding rhythm, grunting and growling as he rapes the little goblin girl, and you simply grin and watch. Your trousers feel ready to burst from your lust for already the second time in this young day, and you’re tempted to use Emmie’s mouth . . . but no, this isn’t the time. This is Kian’s moment, not yours. Besides, you’ve got all the time in the world to double-team some wanton slut with Kian on some later day.

          “Talk to her,” you encourage him, nodding. “Mock her.”

          “Little slut like you can’t – nngh – take it up the ass?” Kian asks her with a laugh, and you laugh with him. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll – rrgh – help you get better.”

          Not bad, not bad at all.

          Emmie’s eyes are watering, but it’s not from sorrow, as they’re half-lidded and lustful, and her open mouth is breathing heady, conflicted moans. She’s in pain, but she’s also enjoying herself, there’s no doubt about it. Kian slumps his weight down onto her again, pinning her firmer than before, and he lies on her lazily as he moves only his hips, taking his bitch with deep, long thrusts, battering the girl’s poor bum with all the force and violence he can muster, building up to that moment he’ll be spurting his spunk deep into his bitch’s bowels for the very first time. Kian’s grunts turn to moans, delighted by the tight heat coiled around his prick, enjoying the sensation of his hips and balls noisily slapping into his victim’s fat, fleshy ass, a sound that silences the singing birds and echoes through the forest’s trees.

          Kian lasts a good while for it being his first time. You think it’s just over five minutes when an orgasmic groan leaves his lips and he punches every inch of his cock into Emmie’s jiggling, beaten-up bum, bottoming out balls-deep into her asshole. His eyes fall closed as he empties his balls of their load, and though you can’t feel it yourself, you know his cock is twitching out everything he’s got, slathering her innards with spunk, filling her to the deepest of her bowels with his seed. After he spurts out the rest of it, he just lies still atop her, groaning, letting the pleasure fade as warmth flushes through his limbs. When the last bit of his orgasmic bliss leaves him, he rises to his knees and wipes away the spittle that he’d drooled. You stand to your feet and pace to Emmie’s rear, and you and Kian both watch intently as he slowly pulls out, the goblin’s rubbed-raw asshole slowly letting his cock draw back. Her anus gapes a bit when Kian’s cockhead finally pops out, and a rope of black seed hangs from the slit of his crown to her bumhole for a brief moment before breaking. Kian stumbles back and falls flat on his ass, breathing heavily, but you pay him little mind. His black cum – which’ll be white next time and every time after – flows thick from Emmie’s ass, and when the last of it pools into the grass between her thick thighs, it changes color in one smooth wave from black to purple, and as its color shifts, so too does its form, from fluid to solid, from liquid seed into a bumpy, shining crystal. Kian’s Lethicite.

          You snatch the purple crystal from the grass and grimace as you twirl it in your fingers. It’s not exactly appetizing, but . . . making yourself stronger hasn’t always been a pretty affair, has it? Shit . . . bottoms up.

          You pop the crystal into your mouth and crunch down on it, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t trying to eat it much quicker than you did Kylie’s Lethicite. When you’ve got the last of it down your throat, you steady your stance and ready yourself for the agony that comes with devouring shards of souls, but . . . it doesn’t come. There’s a bit of a prickly, pins-and-needles feeling flushing through you, but it’s nothing like the agony Kylie’s Lethicite put you through. It’s not from any lacking of potency on Kian’s part, no, you don’t think so. It seems your strength is reaching new heights. Again your mind feels sharper than before, in vague, nebulous ways you can’t really quantify or explain. You’re tempted to see how much of this forest you could instantly set ablaze with a single snap of your fingers, but you stop yourself. That’d make quite the mess that you’re not willing to clean up. Besides, this forest makes for good stomping grounds for your sons.

          You pace back around to Emmie and crouch down. You lift her head by her hair, just enough so that she faces you, and you lock your eyes with hers. With a short grunt you effortlessly bore your mind into hers, burrowing deep into her, forcefully tearing through her barriers and resistances, until your consciousness is resting squarely within hers and her eyes have gone slack and listless. “You’re my boy’s bitch now,” you growl at her, rearranging her thoughts with your own as you violently bend her will and shift her very being. “Whenever you see him, you’ll open your legs for him. You’ll serve him, you’ll worship him, and you’ll fucking pray that he thinks you worthy enough to put a squirt of seed in your cunt.”

          “Yes,” she says, nodding dopily. “I’m his.”

          “Say his name. Say your master’s name.”

          “Kian.”

          You roughly wrench your mind free from hers and stand to your feet. Kian’s already pulled his shorts back up and buckled his belt, and you nod to him when your eyes meet. The two of you leave Emmie quivering in the grass as you stride back in the direction you’d came from.

          “You can go out whenever you like,” you say to Kian as you walk with him shoulder-to-shoulder. “Just make sure one of your mothers know you’ve left. And be back by nightfall.”

          “Okay,” he says, sighing a pleased breath, looking utterly satisfied. You know that look well, but it’s strange seeing it in a face that isn’t your own. Kian sure did grow up fast, but unlike with Kylie, you’re not lamenting it. You’re glad he’s grown. It’s going to be great, having a right-hand man. You and Kian are destined for great things, you already know it.
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Our Father