Chapter 64 — The Queen's Night (3): Addiction?

It's morning.

The queen's bedchamber. Sunlight squeezes through the gap in the curtains and draws a golden line across the sheets. Elena's blonde hair lies scattered over that line — like shards of a broken crown.

It feels fucking great.

Elena is still asleep. Her first engagement is in an hour: the psychological treatment for her three concubines, promised last night. I left a note by the bed and got up.

Treatment. Even saying the word twists something in my gut. While pretending to heal these women, I'm pushing my fingers into their minds. It leaves a bitter taste — and my hands don't stop. That's the kind of bastard I am.

Rianne's quarters.

A small room granted to a royal concubine: a bed, a vanity, one narrow window. Sunlight does get in, but everything sits a shade darker than the queen's bedchamber. Rianne, twenty-five — eight years in the palace, the longest-serving of the concubines.

Rianne sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the floor. 'Psychological treatment,' by royal order. No right to refuse.

I took her hand. Small hands. Cold.

Subtle. Natural. Like water seeping in.

Rianne's eyes went distant for a moment, then came back. And then... a tear fell.

"...Why are you crying?"

A tear she hadn't meant to shed. The inserted concept was colliding with her old frame of perception, and everything she'd kept pressed down came bursting out with it.

"It's all right. You're allowed to cry."

Rianne wept. Quietly. Without a sound. Eight years of practice had gone into that weeping — make a noise and the maids come running, because a king's concubine in tears is 'unseemly.'

This palace can go to hell. Eight years in a place like this. Maybe digging around inside her head myself is the more merciful option. What a joke.

Sofia. Twenty-two. Red hair, green eyes. The youngest of the concubines.

They offered her up to the palace, and the king never once came for her.

Sofia's reaction was nothing like Rianne's. Bright. Too bright. Over-adaptation. Her room is packed with fresh flowers; she does her embroidery, trades gossip with the maids.

But this is what the Memory Read shows underneath: 'I'm a person nobody needs. There's no reason for me to be here. But I have to smile — a concubine who cries gets thrown out.'

Behind the smiling face, she's caving in. The brightness is only a shell. In its own way, this is more dangerous than tears.

"Magician, would you like some tea? It's an herbal blend I put together myself!"

"Thank you."

Sofia's hands trembled as she poured. Barely. But I saw it.

I pretended not to notice and took the cup. It smells lovely. Tea made with real care — care with nowhere else to go, so it all spills into a teacup. Fuck.

Mireille. Twenty-eight. Black hair, gray-blue eyes. The oldest of the three.

On every day he visited Mireille, there had always been a council session on northern affairs beforehand. A tool. Nothing more than a tool.

And then... the record of abuse.

Four of the king's eleven visits ended in violence during sex. A fist in her hair. A slap across the cheek. Mockery: 'What would your father think if he saw you?'

Mireille's eyes were dead.

"Counseling? I have no need of it."

"It's protocol, Lady Mireille."

"...Then sit."

Cold. Defensive. Emotions switched off. Her eyes are here, but her mind has fled far away — the face of someone who has pried herself loose from her own body, whole.

I held out my hand.

"Your hand, please—"

"Don't touch me."

Of course. Her body has been branded so thoroughly that a man's touch simply means violence.

"Understood. I won't take your hand."

Instead, I met her eyes. Physical contact works best for Common Sense Alteration, but the eyes alone can carry it — only the focus comes out weaker.

I laid it on. Not as deep as it would have gone with her hand in mine, but I threaded nearly everything I could through.

Mireille's gray-blue eyes wavered. Just for an instant. And then... her lips trembled.

"...Is the session over?"

"Yes. That will be all for today."

"You needn't come again."

"It's protocol. I'll come all the same."

Mireille looked at me. Something flickered across her eyes. Wariness? Confusion? Or... something she hadn't felt in a long time.

I left the room.

Three concubines. Three victims of abuse. Every one of them made that way by Kalandel.

I want to heal them. Genuinely. There's no lie in that feeling.

At the same time, in some corner of my head, a calculation is running on how these women could be used as weapons. There's no lie in that either.

The two coexist. It's a contradiction. But show me a human being without one. At least I don't pretend mine away — I know it's there, and I carry both. Maybe that's the more fucked-up part, I don't know.

One thing is certain: the king has to be removed. From the healer's point of view, and the strategist's alike.

That night.

Past midnight. I was reading — a treatise on magical theory from this other world. Still so much left to get through.

Knock-knock. A knock at the door.

I opened it. A maid stood there — one of Elena's personal attendants. Her name is Clara.

"Her Majesty... is summoning you."

There it is.

"Where to?"

"The usual place."

Usual. Two visits, and it's already 'the usual.' People get tamed in an instant. That woman — and me too.

The queen's bedchamber.

The moment I opened the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠door, Elena was standing at the window, moonlight at her back. A silk nightgown. Her blonde hair catches the light and glows; her violet eyes glisten wet in the dark.

The single layer of silk shows everything in the moonlight, and the instant I step in, my cock stands up on its own. Press it down, you idiot — summoned here, and already hard at the threshold. Fuck, I'm not a healer, I'm just an animal in heat.

"You came?"

"You called."

"...Sit."

I sat on the edge of the bed. Elena turned from the window, and the moonlight fell full on her face.

Her eyes are red. She's been crying.

"What I said this morning."

"Yes."

"I said it was a mistake."

"You did."

"...It was a lie."

I knew it.

Elena came closer and stood before me, looking down. I'm seated on the bed; she's on her feet. Seen from this angle... she isn't the queen. She's a woman. Trembling lips. Wet eyes.

From this angle her cleavage is inches from my face, and those trembling lips looking down at me make my gut throb and pull like crazy — hold it, she'll notice you getting hard. The woman is a breath from falling apart, and here I am rising again. Even 'fucked up' is too generous for this pathetic bastard.

"Dohyun."

"Yes."

"Three years. For three years, no one has touched me."

"I know."

"Last night... I..."

Her words trailed off. Then she laid a hand on my shoulder. Lightly. With a trembling hand.

"I am the queen. A queen cannot be like this."

"Your Majesty."

"But..."

She bit her lip. Between self and desire — a thirty-eight-year-old queen wavering on that border.

"...Thank you for coming."

I can't kiss her here. Elena has to be the one to do it first. The choice always belongs to the other person — that's the only way the story of 'I wanted this' will hold up later.

I'm disgusted with myself for running that arithmetic while she lays a trembling hand on me, timing the moment. Still, I wait. I wait to the very end.

Three seconds. Five. Ten.

Elena's hand took hold of my cheek. And then...

A kiss.

Soft. Nothing like last night's ferocity. Slow. Like confirming something.

It melts through me.

The nightgown slipped from her shoulders.

"Tonight... slowly."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Call me Elena."

"Elena."

"...Yes."

That night, we took it slowly.

Nothing like last night's explosion. Unhurried, confirming each part of her one by one.

I laid Elena down on the silk sheets. Moonlight traced a silver outline over her body. Thirty-eight years old. A body that has carried a child — the faint pregnancy line at her waist, her breasts settling naturally to either side. It isn't perfect. But that's exactly why I like it.

A body that has borne a child once. A body that knows how to receive seed — the beast of a thought makes my cock pull heavy one more time. Filthy instinct. I can't call it a lie, though.

"What are you staring at?"

"You're beautiful."

"Liar."

"I have no reason to lie."

Kisses. From her neck down to her collarbone, from her collarbone to her breasts.

Chup. Chup. Chup.

Slowly. Elena's breathing roughens; her hand tangles in my hair.

"Ah..."

"Here?"

"...Yes."

Her left nipple is the more sensitive one — confirmed last night. Trace a circle with my tongue and her back shudders. Lick. Suck. Almost bite.

Chup. Chup. Chup.

The pink peaks stand stiff, slicked with saliva and shining in the moonlight.

I moved lower, tongue trailing along the pregnancy line. Elena's stomach flinched.

"Not there... it's embarrassing..."

"Why?"

"...The mark's still there."

"This mark is proof of who Elena is."

The tip of my tongue traced that faded line — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠below her navel, over the place where her womb sits. A place that swelled once, and can swell again. My tongue lingered there a long time, as if it knew the thought.

...

She says nothing. But the hand in my hair goes slack. A signal of permission.

Lower still. Between her legs.

Elena's pussy. Thirty-eight years old, a mother's history. The hair between her legs as blonde as on her head, trimmed neat. And inside... already soaked through. Clear fluid draws a long strand from between her lips and drops onto the sheets.

Instinct answered: 'A door shut for three years. It needs to be made ready to receive seed at the deepest point.'

I licked her clitoris. Lightly. Top to bottom.

"Ah...! Dohyun...!"

Her thighs shake. Reflexively she tries to close her legs — I'm holding them open.

"Relax."

"...Okay."

Chup. Chup. Chup.

I sucked her — wrapped my lips around her and rolled her with my tongue — while two fingers slid into her pussy, slow, feeling along the roof of her inner wall.

Soft and yielding. Warm. Tight. A road barely traveled in three years — I can feel it clinging, cramped around just two fingers.

My fingers found the swollen spot inside, a place that puffed up just slightly. The moment I pressed it, Elena's back arched like a bow.

"There... right there... I'm melting..."

Schlick.

Every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time my fingers pulled back, liquid welled up from inside her and ran down to my wrist.

Five minutes. Elena's first climax.

Throb. Throb.

Her thighs quiver as if seized. The mouth of her pussy clenches around my fingers and lets go, clenches and lets go. The sheets are soaked through.

I looked up from between her legs. Elena's face under the moonlight — mouth open, eyes shut, chest heaving. Tear tracks on her cheeks.

"...Come inside."

I stood and stripped off my pants.

My cock sprang free. Twenty-six centimeters, fully erect, a bead of precum gathering at the tip and falling. Hot. Pulsing. Instinct knows the way — that at the end of this road waits her womb, the place to pour seed into.

Elena's gaze traveled down. Even in the dark, its presence is overwhelming.

"...It amazes me every time."

"You'll get used to it."

"I hope I never do."

I pressed the head against her entrance. Slippery — her wetness guides the way.

Schlick.

I pushed in to the hilt. Slowly. A centimeter at a time. Elena's expression shifts — her mouth falls open, her brows lift, her head tips back.

It reaches her cervix. All twenty-six centimeters. Her inner walls wrap around the whole length of me, warm flesh closing in from above and below, left and right, without a gap. The head plugs the entrance to her womb exactly. Here. The door the seed must enter through.

"Nnngh...!!"

"Are you all right?"

"...Move."

I moved. Slow. Deep. Withdrawing slowly, driving back in slowly.

Schlick. Schlick.

Every time I pull out, her pussy tries to follow; every time I bury myself again, I knock on her cervix, and Elena swallows a short cry each time.

Each knock makes me think: the king left this womb empty for three years, and now my cock has moved into that vacancy and is knocking on its door. In the very seat meant to breed the royal line — a man who is not the king. It feels fucking glorious.

Creak. Squeak. Squeak.

The bed weeps in rhythm — the combined pressure of a thirty-eight-year-old queen and an eighty-six-kilogram man. Even the palace's mahogany bed can't hold up under it.

"Haah... haah... Dohyun..."

"Elena."

"It's good... it's so good..."

I picked up the pace.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Pelvis striking pelvis. The inside of Elena's thighs flushes red. The liquid pouring out of her soaks the sheets through.

Thirty minutes.

Elena's second climax. Third. Fourth.

Throb. Throb. Throb.

Every time, her pussy clenched around my cock and released — harder each round, longer each round. As if refusing to let go of what had come inside. As if her womb had recognized the seed and was trying to draw in one drop more.

It feels fucking incredible.

Her legs locked around my waist, heels pressing into my back. Don't pull out. Pour it all in. Her body is saying it first.

"Inside..."

"Yes."

"Give it to me inside... all of it..."

"...Are you sure? Inside?"

"I'm sure... it's not because today's a safe day... I just... want to take you at the very deepest part of me..."

She's saying it knowing full well it isn't a safe day. That the queen's womb is at its most fertile right now — she knows it, and I know it. Knowing, she pulls me in tighter with her legs. That uncalculating look in her eyes is fucking electric.

One last time. Deepest of all — the head of my cock jammed against her cervix, the door sealed completely shut.

Spurt. Spurt. Spurt.

I poured out. Deep. The very innermost — pressed directly against the mouth of her womb, as if shoving every last drop through that door so that nothing could leak back out. Elena swallowed her scream, teeth clenched. Because she is the queen.

Inside her, my cock throbs once with each pulse of release, and with each pulse another hot clump shoots toward her womb. Elena's inner walls contract along with it, as if to swallow down every drop of what she's been given without spilling a single one.

I came in waves. Once. Twice. Three times. What her womb couldn't hold pushed back up through the seam of where we joined and ran down her thigh. That's how full I'd packed her.

The afterglow. Both of us panting. Sweat.

"...Don't pull out."

"I won't."

We stayed like that, still joined. Elena buried her face in my chest, blonde hair tickling under my chin. Her belly, filled moments ago, still smolders warm. My cock stays planted inside like a stopper, holding it all in.

"Dohyun."

"Yes."

"...It's still warm inside me. It's been three years — since anyone filled me like this."

The king left the queen's womb — the seat meant to hold the royal succession — empty for three years. And the one filling it now is not the king. It's me. That fact will stay planted in this woman like a seed. In her body. In her head. One hell of a certain wedge.

"Tomorrow morning you'll regret it again."

"I know."

"And tomorrow night I'll call for you again."

"I know."

"...Fool."

Morning regret. Night summons.

This woman already knows she's crumbling. Knows it, and can't stop. And I'm holding that collapse in the palm of my hand. So who's the fool? I stare bitterly at the ceiling. Nobody knows yet what might be left behind inside that belly.

Second morning.

"Forget last night."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Second night.

"...Come."

Third morning.

"This really is the last time."

"Of course."

Third night.

Clara came. No words — just a glance. I followed without a word either.

That night too, I spilled inside her. Elena no longer permits pulling out. Every time, the deepest point, pressed right against her cervix. The queen's body is being tamed to receive seed — a little more each night.

Fourth day.

There was no morning regret.

Elena rose from the bed and walked to the window. Nude. Naked in sunlight instead of moonlight. The morning light poured over her body, and Elena didn't hide. A first.

Morning light passes over the pregnancy line at her waist. I've poured night after night into the depths of that womb. I don't yet know what it might be holding now. Only one thing is certain: that body has grown fully ripe for receiving my seed at its deepest point, night after night.

"Dohyun."

"Yes."

"There's a state report this evening."

"Yes."

"Attend it."

"I'm not sure that falls within a court magician's authority..."

"If I say you attend, you attend."

The queen turned back to me. But this is... the same woman from last night. What's changed is her eyes. The fire that used to burn only at night is burning in the morning too.

"There are things you need to know ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for that report. What kind of man the king is."

Political intelligence. The queen has begun opening the door to me as a political ally.

What began in the bedchamber is spreading to the council chamber. That's the picture I painted for myself. And yet, now that the door is actually opening, my stomach doesn't feel clean at all. Taming a woman in bed to pull power out of her. Planting seed in her deepest place every night while accepting her whole heart along with it. Efficient. Disgustingly so.

"Thank you, Elena."

"...During the day, you call me 'Your Majesty.'"

"Thank you, Your Majesty."