“Come in, Mother,” he said, stepping aside and waving his hand in a flourish to welcome her inside.
“I’ve brought your milk, my sire,” she murmured, stepping inside as the king closed the door behind her.
“I see you have,” Atheling said, “Put it on the table and come sit.”
He watched her slowly step to the table and set the jug on it. Then he motioned to the same chair that the Earl of Sade had sat in on that auspicious day that he had agreed to kill Prince Gothling.
As she sat down, Atheling strolled over to the other chair and sat down facing her.
“I am lonely, Mother and I have decided to take a queen to ease that loneliness,” he smiled, taking a tiny sip of wine.
“Oh,” she murmured. “Who? Who is to be your new queen?”
“I have decided to invoke my kingly right to succession,” he said, watching her as she looked back at him with a puzzled look on her face. “Invoke my right to take the hand of the old king’s queen.”
“What?” she gasped.
“I have no need for another queen,” the prince smiled, letting his eyes stray down to her bosom, then back to her ashen face. “I have my mother to stand by my side as my queen . . .”
Her hand flew up to her throat as she looked at him with a fearful, confused look on her pretty face.
“Me? Your mother? Your mother as your queen?” she gasped. “How can that be?”
“I am the king, mother! I can do anything I please . . .” he grinned. “Anything I please . . . and it would be best if one didn’t forget that . . .”
“Yes, my sire,” she mumbled, staring at him with a shocked look on her face.
Then Atheling pushed himself up out of the chair and purposefully stepped over to the table. He could see that his revelation had unsettled her as he reached out and picked up the jug of milk.
As she sat watching him, he slowly tipped the jug. The white milk poured out onto the floor, splashing and sending white droplets flying all over, some of them even splattering onto her dress.
“My sire,” she gasped, staring down at the milk as it spread out over the floor. “Why? You . . . you told me to bring milk.”
“Come, my Mother,” he said, placing the empty jug on the table and stepping over to where she sat. “Did you really think I wanted cow’s milk when I can have mother’s milk!”
“What, what do you mean?” she asked as he stood smugly looking down at her.
Atheling reached down to her and slowly ran his fingers over the swell of her bosom. “This is the milk I thirst for, Mother.”
Ides gasped, staring down at her son’s hand as it brushed across her heaving bosom.
“You can’t . . . you can’t . . . I can’t . . . not that,” she whimpered, starting to push his hand away, but thinking better of it.
“Yes, Mother, I can,” he told her kneeling to the floor in front of her. “Remember, Mother, dear, I am the king, and I can do as I wish.”
Then, as she stared down at his hand, she watched as he began to unbutton the bodice of her dress.
“This is . . . you can’t . . . please . . .” she begged as he continued to slowly move his fingers down the front of her dress unbuttoning button after button. “I am your mother . . .”
“But I am also your king . . .” Atheling reminded her. “And you have milk that is going to waste. You have no one to give it to . . . And what can be wrong with giving your milk to your own son? Just as you did, lo those long years ago.”
“Please, my king, please, don’t do this,” she begged.
Finally Atheling’s fingers stopped moving down her dress which was now unbuttoned all the way down to her waist.
Looking down, she could see that his fingers were trembling as he delicately pinched the material between his fingers and thumbs and slowly began to spread her dress open.
She couldn’t stop the blush of red that painted her face as Atheling spread her dress open to reveal the two ripened melons jutting out from her chest. They were exquisite examples of motherhood as they hung down from her chest, heavy and laden with mother’s milk.
Atheling had never seen a pair of breasts so beautiful as he gawked down at the drooping treasures. So full, so ripe like two melons ready to be harvested. Melons filled with the nectar of the gods. Nectar to quench the thirst that he had endured for so long. He had thought them to be big before, but now, heavily laden with breast milk, they were huge.
And now they were his. Cherished prizes to feast his eyes on and his to bring forth the liquid treasure they held.
King Atheling slowly ran the tips of his fingers over his mother’s sagging udders, marveling in their smooth softness.
“So beautiful . . .” he whispered, gently fingering the swollen, purple nipple that jutted out of the center of the darkened tip of one giant breast.
“Please, my king, please don’t do this . . .” she wept as tears began to flow down her cheeks and drip down off her jaws onto her quivering breasts.
“But I must, Mother,” he murmured. “We mustn’t let the treasure they hold go to waste. I must taste your sweet mother’s milk once again. Taste it and drink from your beautiful breast just as I did so long ago.”
As he spoke, Atheling gently cupped the tear-slickened breast and slowly lifted it up to his mouth.
“Please, my king . . .” she begged watching him purse his lips around the big, jutting nipple.
Atheling began to gently suck on the swollen pap. As he did, milk began to flow from it. Slowly at first, the sweet milk trickled out into his mouth as he savored its rich sweetness. As he suckled her, she wept, her sobs making her other udder quiver and bobble beside his face. The flow of milk flowing out into his mouth slowly became thicker and thicker as he sucked harder and harder.
Finally, Atheling let go of his mother’s nipple and kissed his way down into the valley between her big, milk-laden breasts and up onto her other quivering breast. As he did, milk continued to trickle out of the nipple he had just suckled. The white liquid ran down the rounded under slope of her breast and down onto her heaving belly to where it was soaked up by her dress. But it went unseen by him as he pursed his lips around her other nipple and began to suck on it.
His mother continued to weep as he drank his fill of her sweet mother’s milk. At last, he was finished with her breasts. Then, as she continued to sniffle and try to choke back the tears, Atheling pushed up to his feet in front of her. Looking down at her, he watched as she ran the backs of her hands across her tear-stained cheeks trying to wipe away the tears.
“My britches,” Atheling said to her. “Open my britches, Mother.”
Her mouth dropped open as she stared up at him in disbelief.
“No—no—you can’t—not that,” she gasped.
“Open my britches, Mother,” he said, watching a look of revulsion wash across her face. “Open my britches and find your king’s gift to you. I wish to repay your generous offering of milk with a gift of my own milk.”
“No—no—I can’t—” she wept, her eyes dropping down to the bulge jutting out in the front of his britches.
“You must, my queen,” he told her, reaching down and roughly grasping her hand in his. “I am your king. It is your duty as queen to please your king . . .”
Just then, he lifted her hand and shoved it up against the bulge.
“No—no—please, my king,” she pleaded as he held her trembling hand thrust against his hard, throbbing cock.
“Feel it? Feel what your beauty has done to it! It is you who have done this to me. It is you that has made it hard and swollen,” he snarled. “Now you must take it and make it soft once again.”
“Oh, my Lord, please, please don’t do this thing. It’s, it’s sacrilege . . .” she wept.
“Open my britches, my queen,” he told her, a hint of anger creeping into his voice.
More tears were streaming down her cheeks dropping down onto her quivering breasts as she wept. Then finally, her trembling fingers crept up to the button at the top of his britches. Sobbing plaintively, she slowly pushed the button through the buttonhole. Then with a look of fear, she slowly spread open his pants. As she did, Atheling’s big, hard penis sprang out into the open.
He heard the sharp intake of breath as his mother stared at the giant, evil creature bobbing up and down in front of her face.
“Touch it, my queen,” Atheling told her, stepping closer. “Touch your king’s royal scepter.”
“I can’t—please, I can’t,” she sobbed. “I’m your mother . . . please don’t make me do this . . .”
“But you’re my queen; too,” he told her, inching even closer. “And it is your duty to please your king!”
Then, he grabbed hold of her trembling hand again and roughly thrust it against his twitching cock.
“Touch it and feel its power,” he said, holding her shaking hand against his cock. “Wouldn’t you like to feel that power down between your legs. Feel its power filling your cunt . . .”
“Please—please—please—” she pleaded, straining to pull her hand away from his cock.
“But you must, my queen . . . it is my command . . . and you know what happens to those who disobey the king’s commands, don’t you,” he told her, straining to hold her hand against his penis.
As the threat sank in, he felt her slowly stop resisting.
“Hold it,” he ordered her. “Hold it in your hand and fondle it.”
“Please, please, my king, don’t . . . don’t make me do this,” she wept.
But even as she spoke her little hand slowly curled around the thick shaft of his jutting cock.
“Is it bigger?” he asked her, thrusting his cock at her. “Is it bigger than my father’s cock was?”
“Yes—yes,” she hissed. “Yes, it is bigger than your father’s . . .”
Yes, he arrogantly thought. He was bigger than his father was, and now he was going to lay claim to the treasure that his father had hoarded all the long years. Now that treasure that lay down between her pretty legs was waiting for him. Waiting for him to take it as his own.
“Kiss it,” he commanded. “Kiss the royal scepter with your lips . . .”
“No—I can’t,” she whined.
“But you must . . . you must show it respect before it enters your sacred chalice,” he scoffed. “Show it the same respect that you showed to father’s royal scepter. Surely you didn’t disrespect father’s scepter, did you?”
“No—no—I didn’t disrespect your father,” she whimpered. “I did touch it that way . . . to please him, but you, you’re my son.”
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