The First Patriarch: Streaming My Cosmic Harem

"Then I’ll fuck you until it takes," he said quietly.

The words came out measured, deliberate, the tone of a man making a promise rather than a declaration.

"Every time harder than the last."

He didn’t give her time to respond.

He crushed his mouth to hers in a kiss that was nothing like the tentative peck she had given him, deep and bruising and consuming, his hand tightening at her throat as his body pressed hers back into the bed, his tongue driving past her lips and demanding everything she had left to give.

When he finally broke it, both of them were breathing harder than they had been.

He held her gaze.

Then his free hand dropped between them, wrapped around his cock, thick and dark-veined and already slick with the evidence of what they had already done, and lined himself up against her dripping entrance with a precision that felt almost ceremonial.

He drove in.

SQUELCH.

One stroke.

No easing in, no warning, no mercy, just the full, brutal claiming of every inch in a single devastating thrust that knocked the breath from her lungs and the last of her composure from her face entirely.

Vesperia’s mouth fell open.

Her tail snapped rigid.

Her fingers found his forearm, the one whose hand still gripped her throat, and wrapped around it not to pull him away but to hold on.

Above her, Azriel exhaled slowly through his teeth, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing.

"Every time," he said, low and rough and certain.

"Harder than the last."

He pulled back and drove forward again, and Vesperia stopped being capable of anything except receiving him.

"Ahhh—!"

He didn’t ease into a rhythm.

He set one immediately, hard and deep and entirely merciless, exactly what she had asked for.

Slap. Slap. Squelch.

"Say it," he said against her ear, his hips rolling forward with a force that drove her up onto her toes with every thrust.

"Az—"

"Say it, Mommy." His hand tightened at her throat.

"What do you call me?"

Her pride held for exactly one more thrust.

Slap.

"Daddy," she gasped, the word tearing loose. "Daddy, right there....ohhhh... don’t stop—"

Something feral lit in his eyes.

Slap. Slap. Squelch. Slap.

"Naughty Mommy," he growled against the curve of her ear, his free hand finding the heavy weight of her breast and squeezing with brutal, possessive force.

"Coming to Daddy like this. Wanting to be filled. Wanting to be bred like a good little—"

"Yes." The word was desperate. "Yes, Daddy, please—"

His hand came down across the side of her breast in a sharp, ringing slap.

Smack.

She cried out, the sound cracking open at the top, her internal walls clamping around him in an involuntary, crushing pulse.

He spanked the other side.

Smack.

She sobbed his name, the real one, not the title, not the honorific, just Az, and he rewarded her by grinding deeper, angling himself until he found the specific place that made her tail go completely rigid and her voice stop working.

His hand migrated to her thigh, gripping the full, soft flesh there hard enough to leave the ghost of his fingers before landing a stinging slap against the inner curve.

Smack.

Then her backside.

Crack.

Then, with a gentleness so extreme it was its own kind of violence, he reached up and ran his thumb along the soft, sensitive base of her ear, that particular catkin vulnerability, warm and nerve-dense, and felt her entire body shudder beneath him like something coming apart at the seams.

"Daddy’s going to fill you up," he said quietly, his voice rough at the edges, his rhythm relentless.

"Every time. As many times as it takes. Until Mommy gets exactly what she asked for."

Vesperia stopped being capable of words.

She had words, somewhere.

A century of them, accumulated in the course of ruling and negotiating and commanding, a vast and sophisticated arsenal of language that had never once failed her.

Every single one of them was gone.

There was only this, the relentless, driving weight of him, the hand at her throat, the rough creaking bed at her back, and the specific, devastating angle he had found that made her vision strobe white at the edges with every thrust.

Slap. Slap. Squelch.

Her tail had wound itself fully around his calf now, a reflexive, helpless anchoring, as though some part of her was afraid that without it she might simply cease to be solid

Her fingers dug into the forearm at her throat, not fighting, never fighting, just holding.

Slap. Squelch. Slap.

"Daddy’s going to fill you up," he had said, and the words were still reverberating through her like a bell that wouldn’t stop ringing.

She believed him.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

"Az—" The syllable came out fractured, barely recognisable.

"Az, I’m going to—"

"Not yet," he said immediately, his voice rough but controlled, and his thumb pressed against the base of her ear again with that precise, intimate knowledge of exactly what she was, what her body’s specific vulnerabilities were, and the sensation that flooded her was so overwhelming she actually whimpered.

She had not whimpered in a hundred years.

"Not yet, Mommy," he said against her temple, his rhythm unbroken, his hips meeting hers with a force that rattled the bed at her back and sent creaking noise around the hollow.

"Hold it for Daddy."

Slap. Squelch. Slap. Slap.

She held it.

She held it through three more of those devastating thrusts that bottomed out against something deep and previously unreached, held it through his hand migrating from her throat to her jaw, tilting her face up toward his, held it through him looking down at her with those blazing violet eyes that were watching her come apart with the focused attention of someone who intends to remember everything.

"Look at me," he said.

She looked at him.

Squelch.

"Good girl," he said, low and private and devastating.

-x-

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