Chapter 1: An Unexpected Visitor
Roboute Guilliman’s throat scar itched slightly as the private elevator connecting his quarters to the hidden chamber of the Cawl Inferior ascended 200 decks in mere seconds. It wasn’t due to a pressure differential, as there was no such thing as “altitude” aboard a voidship, with all the decks present being equally affected by their particular set of gravplates, ancient things formed with arcane sciences which Guilliman understood, but often tried to avoid considering with any great measure of earnestness. Best not to look for answers I’d rather not find regarding the maintenance of The Macragge’s Honor in those hundred centuries I’ve been gone, he thought.Neither was the hardened regrown flesh tingling from natural causes of abrasion or dryness, as The Macragge’s Honor was kept at a comfortable humidity and room temperature at all times, and the Primarch’s genehanced epidermis was resilient to adverse atmospheric conditions regardless. Further, despite the difficulties his armourers seemed to find when attempting to tailor the environmental seals on his warplate so that they would not catch on his scar, the discomfort from the tight sealant rings and undersuit he would wear into battle never lasted longer than the time he spent wearing the gear, with all discomfort fading almost immediately after doffing his equipment.
No, it was when he felt apprehension, anxiety, or a disquieting sense of foreboding that his scar itched. Ten millennia ago, when he was more thoroughly immersed in his Father’s Great Deception, he would have denied such a superstitious thought, and likely would have ordered the resealing of his power armor to better fit his slightly altered topography. His thoughts paused for a moment, not more than a neuron’s pulse in timespan, as the last battle he fought with the Pheonician replayed in his mind; the screams of his sons as they were cut down on the steps of that damnable arena, the four envenomed blades wielded by his estranged serpentine brother lashing out like a whirlwind of hate edged with a monomolecular lust for destruction, each gash opened on the ceramite and flesh of his felled sons refracted five fold in the cracked view lenses of his helmet’s eyeports.
The memories stopped suddenly, just before the blades came down on him. I mustn’t dwell on the mistakes of the past, lest I become trapped in them like Curze, he thought. He glanced over at the tri-dimensional hologlyphs denoting the elevators vertical progress. Just a few more seconds, then I can get back to my notes. The lift slid to a smooth, nearly imperceptible halt just before the doors opened, but very little could escape the demi-god’s insurmountable senses. Like Yvraine lounging across his immense wooden work table, her left thigh tensing as she lifted her leg straight into the air, pulling it towards her collarbone, as if to stretch the ligaments and rotator cuffs at it's base. His eyes hungrily pored over her unclothed body, draped only in a few red sheer sashes and her own unpinned stark white hair, its prodigious length flowing across her unblemished chalk white skin like a snapshot of an avalanche thundering down a snow covered mountain, the transparent silk sashes intermingling with it like ethereal rivers of blood.
Guilliman’s reaction time was so far beyond that of a baseline human’s that he often found himself slowing his interactions down with mortals to a fraction of their godly maximum, as he’d discovered that many humans would process his nearly instantaneous reactions as being precognitive, and this did little to discourage his worship. However, in this moment, when his response came half as quickly as it might otherwise have, it was not due to an intentional input lag on his own behalf. It had been... some time since he had last seen the soft, supple form of a woman out from behind the artificial defilade of worn clothing, war grime, and battered armor. Even before his brother had put him down for an unwanted 10,000 year rest, he had been crusading amongst only his sons and their chapter serfs, all men, more or less, for...
His initial thoughts, and the practical/theoretical analysis sure to follow, were cut short by a rich, luxurious voice, deeper than that of some mortal men’s, yet still drenched in feminine smoothness. It did not grind like the gritty growl of Guilliman or his transhuman sons. “Robu, you were a touch late to our meeting, so I figured I’d let myself in,” Yvraine said. Her voice, though deceptively soft in texture, struck him hard, like an adamantine cudgel wrapped in craftworld velvet. Guilliman glanced up through the glass dome of his quarters, his eyes running across the surface of the icy moon his flagship was orbiting, fixating finally upon the ring of light which represented the rogue trader outpost upon which he was meant to have met the Aeldari. “Do tell, what was so important to you that it kept me waiting?” Yvraine asked.
Guilliman began to speak, the rumbling, inhuman baritone of his ocean-deep voice barely mounting in his throat when the Herald of Ynnead cut him off, “Lord Commander, I’m unsure why I asked, seeing as you are wearing that stony face you always have on when you’re about to tell me something you know I won’t like. May I guess what the delay was caused by? Or should I assume it’s some classified project you’ve started, but will never finish? Perhaps it is a secret which you refuse to share, in an attempt to maintain the tattered veil your father threw over the pulsating mists of the Warp in some desperate but ultimately vain quest to save all of Humanity from its dangers. Or, maybe, you wish to keep the project a secret because it is using some method, technology, or material otherwise banned throughout the Imperium, and you are loathe to be proven a hypocrite,” Yvraine’s verbal onslaught, though certainly delivered in a pleasing manner, was anything but when processed by Guilliman.
“You really are just like your Father.” Yvraine concluded, a smug smirk on her lips, her heavily lidded eyes drilling into Guilliman’s very being. A singular, infinitesimal moment of panic coursed through Guilliman’s mind. Does she know of Cawl’s infernal machine? His face, however, remained stoic, and the fear passed as quickly as it came on. “I was 58 minutes and 13 seconds late when the doors to my elevator opened, ma’am. Hardly an amount worth distressing over, considering our shared longevity.” Yvraine’s eyes narrowed, and she rolled onto her left side, placing her right hand flat between her thighs, her thumb resting on the front of her left thigh, stroking her soft, xenos flesh. Roboute struggled to pull his gaze away from her hand, his eyes seemingly locked onto the manicured nail, black as night, as it's exquisitely honed edge glided nanometers above the surface of her exquisite form. Yvraine did not seem to notice the placement of his gaze, or she simply didn’t care, as she continued to speak, her head resting upon her left hand, propped up on her elbow.
“Yet, after exiting that doorway, you would have needed to travel through your flagship to your armory to be outfitted in all that bravadacio and pageantry. Then, once you’ve donned your ceramite eyesore of a combat suit, you’d need to board a dropship and head down to the surface, after which there would be Ynnead knows how much diplomatic foreplay between dignitaries and translators, proof of identification, landing code verifications, pleasantries…” Yvraine drifted off mid-sentence, as she finally seemed to notice Roboute’s wandering eyes. Her smirk turned into a mirthful grin, and she coyly said with a gasp, “Robu, oh the indignity! My eyes are up here!” She accompanied this barely veiled mockery by sliding her hand out from between her thighs and tracing her fingers quickly up her legs and torso, before flicking her wrist with a flourish and holding her slightly fanned out fingers just below her eyes, with her right knee now lifted and her entire leg pulled back up towards her torso, revealing her inviting labia to Guilliman, and doing nothing to help him maintain eye contact.
“Guilliman,” she said breathily, her warm exhalations misting up in the frigid, preservational temperature of the Primarch’s study, “I didn’t know you could be so lurid! Was this also part of your Genesire’s intention, or did you learn it from your adoptive fath-” Guilliman’s temper got the better of him, his typically bronzed cheeks now flush with anger, and he shouted, “Enough! How dare you come into my study uninvited, let alone infiltrate my ship without reason! I was less than an hour late and you decided to… to mock the sovereignty of Ultramar’s greatest warriors? What have you to say for yourself, you knife-eared harlot!” Yvraine seemed taken aback for a moment, her eyes widening ever so slightly, but she took his sudden wrath in stride, quipping, “It was not after an hour of tardiness, Robu. I decided to come see you myself when you were only ten minutes late. You’d be surprised how long it can take a transport ship to warm up on that frigid death world. Then I had the transit time between the surface and orbit, and then we had to evade your primitive sensors to get close enough for me to be teleported into your vessel! There was at least forty minutes of forethought involved.” She smiled with self-satisfaction, and Guilliman inhaled deeply, his fists clenched in rage.
“Is this a joke to you?” Guilliman asked, waving a hand at her sprawled out form. Yvraine paused, insincerely so, sardonically contemplating his query, a razor sharp fingernail tapping her chin in a parody of deep thought. “Mmmm… no, I don’t think I am joking. Is this funny to you? Am I funny to you, Lord Commander? Are you… mocking me? Is my insistence on punctuality, and my willingness to meet you more than halfway in guaranteeing our agreed upon timetables are met, a joke to you? Is that what you are implying?”
At this, she dramatically flopped onto her back, the palm of her right hand pressed to her forehead, and her left hand clutching at her chest, pushing her ample, pale breasts together in a most pleasing manner. Guilliman’s cheeks blushed a deeper shade of red as he snarled, attempting to hide his building desire to plunge himself deep with her exposed womanhood, and through gritted teeth replied, “No, witch, you are not a source of amusement for me. What matters are you so doggedly keen on discussing with me?” Yvraine’s face lit up, and she propped herself up on her elbows, her gorgeous breasts dropping from the cradle of her arm, which the Spiritual Liege found himself incapable of looking away from. Her voice, once harsh with impatience, had now softened, and it permeated his frontal lobe like a sedative as she said, “Guilliman, you are always so concerned with efficiency, but I will have you know that your hour long dalliance was extraordinarily inconvenient for me! You would not believe how much trouble I could have been in had I been caught by any other than yourself, and then you would have had so much Munitorum paperwork to fill out. Really, I think you owe me recompense.”
Guilliman sighed heavily, his shoulders tight with anticipation and anger. “What, in the name of my Father, could you possibly want for such a recompense, woman? I am short on time and even shorter on temper, so it would do you well to moderate your answ-” Yvraine once again cut him off, speaking with such speed and excitement that the words almost tumbled over one another, “Robu, I think it would be best for both of us if you provided me with some carnal stimulation. I’ve had my eyes on you for quite some time, and a not insubstantial portion of my drive to bring you back from the twilight between life and death was spawned from an even greater drive to find out what it feels like to have the greatest son of man deep inside me. After all, your sons often speak of the supremacy of man, yet none have yet had the gall to prove it to me.”
Guilliman’s lips parted into a furious sneer and he growled, “You dare attempt to defile the sanctity of my genetic progeny? You wench!” Yvraine rolled her eyes, replying, “I wasn’t successful at it, Robu. None of the loyalist sons I’ve encountered wanted to sleep with me, and few even comprehended why I would want them to. In many ways, your geneline have been indoctrinated into childishness.” Guilliman paused, a moment in thought spent with absolute focus. Theoretical: this invasion of my flagship by the xenos witch constitutes all but an outright declaration of war, and she came unarmed and unarmored. To purge her would be an easy task, and one which would be readily explained. Practical: it has been… centuries since I last permitted myself the release of intimacy, and perhaps some stress relief couldn’t hurt… it wouldn’t hurt me, at least.
Guilliman’s hand moved to the clasp of his robes, and he pulled himself free of his clothing as he began to approach her. Some quip, most assuredly asinine, was halfway formed in her mouth before Yvraine stopped, seemingly awestruck. Her breath, typically as fine and even as mastercrafted bed sheets, caught on the ragged edges of her mind, the perverse experiences she had lived out a dozen lifetimes ago as a Succubus flooding forward into her conscious thoughts. It's so... massive! She thought, as Guilliman's enormous blue robes piled upon the ground with a soft thud, and his expansive length was revealed to her, half hard with the frustration she had instilled in him.
It was far longer than her forearm, and almost as thick as his own wrists. It swung mightily between his thighs as he strode towards her, and for a moment she felt a severe, almost inescapable mixture of arousal and terror, her genitals becoming so flush as to start steaming in the chilly, air conditioned atmosphere of Guilliman's study. She had not truly appreciated his sheer body-mass before, having almost entirely interacted with him within static environments, and she certainly had not seen him move with such purpose, such... unquenchable fury since his awakening, and it was no longer the mindless hordes of Khornate Berserkers he was marching toward, but her.
His hand, massive even within the context of Roboute's own superhuman proportions, came at her, applying a gentle but firm downward force upon her chest, his entire hand reaching from one side of her ribcage to the other. She made no attempt to resist him, and her arousal intensified. Her eldar mind, crafted though the template originally was for the singular purpose of war by the Great Old Ones so many eons ago, had seen unknown levels of genetic drift as generation upon generation of Elven obscenities had run through the neurons of her ancestors.
She was not in control anymore, teasing and prodding Guilliman into getting the reaction she craved. She had the exact outcome she'd wanted, yet now she was no longer a biological, sapient, psyker superweapon, designed to kill gods composed of undead metal. No, she was a terrified prey animal looking up into the distant, desperate eyes of a recently uncaged apex predator catching its first meal in months, burning with a primitive hunger. Any higher thought she should have been experiencing was being drowned out in a tidal wave of sexual thirst and overwhelming, animalistic exhilaration. Her breathing intensified as Roboute's cock began to rise, filling with the wrathful virility of human perfection.
Guilliman’s hand was not so much pressing down on Yvraine as much as it was caging her. His fingers reached around her waist and the pads were flat against the wooden table she was laying upon. Yvraine was squirming under his grip, her skin slick with sweat, as the heat between her thighs began to feel unbearable. Her hands were running up and down his muscular forearm, her adamantium reinforced nails carving deep into his thick, rough skin. She was beginning to pant as the intense pheromones given off by Guilliman’s genehanced biochemistry overwhelmed and all but shut down her capacity for reason, planning, and civility.
Her voice, once so noble and haughty, had broken somewhat, cracking with lust and insatiable desire, “P-please, by Ynnead, Robu… I… I need you...” Guilliman tilted his head slightly, his own mind equally fogged over with lust, centuries of sexual frustration built up to hurricane force winds within his thoughts, preventing any but the most base of impulses from coming to the forefront of his consciousness.
Guilliman’s tight lips, but a moment ago sealed in anger, broke into a shallow, hungry smile. His free hand reached down between her legs, and his fingers pressed at the soaked entrance to her womanhood, its tightness offering up a strong resistance to his thick fingers. Yvraine rolled her torso in frustration, casting out a line of warpstuff from her hands that wrapped itself around the back of Guilliman's head, pulling him down, a suggestion he wholeheartedly complied with, burying his face between the Eldar’s strong, soft thighs. His tongue, broad though it was, performed excellently, running along the entirety of her labia as his index finger penetrated her. Yvraine let out a loud, almost shouted moan of surprise, pleasure, and a touch of pain. Guilliman continued his advance, pressing against her within while flanking her from above, his tongue focusing its aggression on her stiff clitoris.
It was not long until Yvraine’s soft, incomprehensible moans of pleasure loudened, culminating in an intense climax, her vocalizations almost song like in nature. She shouted his pet name, “ROBU!” at the top of her lungs as Roboute was sprayed with fluid. She threw her hands down toward his head, cradling the back of it as she sat up halfway, her legs tightly wrapped around his head for leverage. Her body was shaking, and she suffered spasms each time his tongue stroked her clit. She felt a shock of energy run through her body as his free hand reached up from behind, supporting her now elevated position.
Yvraine began swivelling her hips, assisting Roboute in his pleasure crusade against her labia. It was not long until a second orgasm hit her, penetrating through her very skin, then detonating just under her diaphragm, hitting her like a mass reactive bolt shell. Again she squirted, and the Blade of Unity’s face was drenched. Yet still Robu pressed on, even as she put small scratches in the back and side of his head and neck.
Right as she was nearing her third climax, the Ruler of Hosts began to pull his head back. The Herald of the Ynnead tried to resist his retreat by moving to tighten the grip her thighs had on his neck, even as her hips kept gyrating, attempting to finish the work with his tongue on her own. The Eldar witch was no match for the might of the Son of the Emperor, and he broke her hold with ease, only to roll her hips and legs back, such that the soaking, pulsing entrance to her womanhood was facing directly up. Guilliman held her legs up with one hand, and gripped his immense majesty of manhood, dripping with a substantial amount of his own pre-cum, in the other, stroking the upper portion of the shaft along her clit. After a moment of sexually induced idiocy, Yvraine recognized what the primarch was about to do to her. Though she knew he was likely to injure her in this act, she would have had it no other way, and instead of trying to prevent the immense, exterminatus-level fucking she was about to receive, she braced herself, digging her nails deep into the wood of the Primarch’s prodigious work bench.
Roboute pulled his hips back, running the entire length of his rod of lordly might along her engorged clitoris, bringing her so near to orgasm that her entire existence was filled with an anguished longing. Robu did not want to leave such a valued ally as her suffering in such a state, and so he plunged his cock directly downward into her impossibly tight cunt, the girth and velocity of his entrance carrying such power as to nearly break the Elf in half. She screamed, not an elegant or beautiful noise, but one composed entirely of carnality and base, unfiltered sensation. Robu was bent almost entirely over her, like some performance art representation of the Ultima that adorned the pauldron of every son he had.
Yvraine’s head was so close to his, with his face buried in her neck and chest, his powerful, firm lips kissing her collarbone, jaw, and breasts incessantly. Yvraine, having almost recovered from her fourth orgasm, managed to get out a jab at Guilliman, saying, “To… to see the L-Lord Commander of Ultramar, Regent of the 500 Worlds, Genesire of the Ultramarines b-brought so low, turned into s-such a sav-avage beast… I am truly a-amazing, aren’t I?” She laughed, a pure manifestation of her all-encompassing pleasure that only intensified as Roboute’s speed and depth increased, until he hammered away at her with the power and efficiency of a thermal drill, burrowing deep inside her. Her fleeting moment of intelligent lucidity quickly passed, and Guilliman did not notice it all, so enthralled was he in the softness and sweet smell of her skin and the unforgiving tightness of womanhood, his cock facing considerable resistance on every outstroke, as though she was doing her best to pull him back inside herself every time he tried to escape.
Yvraine did not know for how long they made love like this, though she did vaguely notice the sun pass a considerable distance across the sky visible overhead, and on occasion an alert for an unanswered voxcall would sound somewhere in the distance, but she hardly cared, and it did not seem like leaving the caller on the other end unanswered bothered Robu, either. Her hips had begun to hurt, but it did not bother her, because she had never felt so… overpowered, consumed, possessed in her life. She felt as though she was just another treasure of Ultramar, a marvel of nature within some great catalogue of his, a tool for him, and him alone, to use for his own private whims.
Yvraine did not want, for once in her existence, anything but this, and from the way Guilliman growled, she doubted he did either. For once, he seemed not just unperturbed by his existence, but joyful, pleased, alive with passion and energy. His movements were beginning to get faster and more erratic, and Roboute whispered, “I… am close. I should withdraw…” but Yvraine only tightened her grip on his hips with her legs. This time, however, Roboute made no attempt to escape. He let his pleasure over take him, pressing the entire titanic length of his manhood deep within her womanhood, and an almost explosive orgasm shot heavy strings of geneseed inside Yvraine, and with each pulse of his godly cock she felt more of her presence of mind melt away, until there was nothing but the throbbing of his measure, and the slick weight of fluids he left within her.
His emissions were voluminous, so much so that they had been simply torrential, a fact that Yvraine did not fully appreciate during the extended time that guilliman and her laid there, lips interlocking, sharing a kiss that burned with the passion of the stars above them, his still-hard cock buried to the hilt in her depths. She ran her hands along the ceramite-like musculature of his neck, back, chest, and upper arms, feeling the peak of human biology in all its glory holding her in place, ready to be used as his personal masturbatory aid. Yet she did not feel endangered, nor was there some other task she’d rather perform. I swore to assist the mon’keigh in his tasks, and this seems to be the precise kind of assistance he has needed for a very, very long time, she thought, his lips pressed against the base of her neck, her breasts covered in his bite marks and hickies.
Eventually though, Robu did pull out, despite her anger and protests, and when he did, a not insubstantial portion of emissions poured out of her, and only then did Yvraine appreciate the true virility of the Son of the Emperor. It was thick, glossy, and pearlescent, flowing from her pussy like a tipped over wine jug. Yvraine felt… almost embarrassed, a feeling she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Roboute cleared his throat with a slight cough, and asked, “Is there… any risk of pregnancy?” There was only a slight look of concern on his face, but she knew he was more anxious than he seemed. “No,” she replied, “If I do not have any further encounters over the next few months, I will not bear your child.” Roboute breathed a short sigh of relief. “Excellent,” he said, “though an heir may be necessary one day, I do not feel it best for me to father a.... Womb-heir quite yet.” He smiled sheepishly.
“It will be a shame, though, that we will not be able to do this again soon,” he sighed, his cock still fully erect, her lubrication mixed with his seed to create an enticing sheen of wetness. Yvraine’s smile broadened, and she said, “Well, no, Robu, we may well be able to. I am only fertile to seed sown within my womb, but I do have other avenues you could take.” Yvraine rolled over onto her belly, her hips tilted up to expose her even tighter anus to the Son of the Emperor, and her heart rate began to climb. The last penetration had been so intense, and that was with an entrance designed for such accommodations. Too late now, she thought, swallowing hard as the Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion wrapped his enormous hands around her waist and brought his cock to bear. She reached down between her spread legs to grip and guide his shaft to its target, like she was a self-destructive cogitator-guided targeting system for a planet busting vortex torpedo.
She gritted her teeth and steeled herself as he pressed the tip of his sceptre against her rear entrance. His hefty rod, though certainly well lubricated by prodigious Eldar emissions and the gene seed of the Avenging Son, was still an appendage that put her own arms to shame, and though her bones and soft tissue alike had the plasticity of the most resilient rubber, she worried that she would be more than a little sore after Robu had finished absolutely ravishing both her holes.
Any worries she had were shattered, along with the rest of her higher cognisense, when her hole finally opened to the absolute enormity of his cock. Where before, she had used Eldar magicks to slowly change the depth and capacity of her womanhood to accommodate Guilliman’s slowly increasing depth of stroke, she had no such time here, and only her biological plasticity kept her together. She felt full to bursting, and it felt… painful, at first, but when she recovered, she managed to alter herself with the biomancy she knew to expand that region of her body’s capacity, and reassign pleasure receptors in her neurology, at which point pain gave way to ecstacy, and her millennia of life, the perfection of Eldar intellect, it all failed her.
“Y-you… com-comple-e-ete m-m-me…” she stuttered out, her voice muffled somewhat by her own forearm, which bled from self-imposed bite marks. Guilliman’s strokes began to accelerate, her sentiment invigorating him even more than he already was. His voice rumbled to life, nothing less than a lion’s roar, “By the W-Will of my Fa-a-ather, I have found the Queen of Ultramar!” His grip around her waist tightened, and he pitched forward, his left hand no longer wrapped around her but instead bracing him against the table. She felt her lower body being lifted up into the air by this change in position, until her knees were off the ground. His thrusts were now made with the greatest leverage he could get, and she truly was nothing more than a self-lubricating cock sleeve for the Uncrowned Monarch. She let her legs go limp, and wrapped her arms around his gargantuan wrist.
“Oh, Ynnead! Y-you… You mon’keigh! You s-s-sa-avage!” She could not think of anything else to call him, and instead began biting and kissing his hand and forearm, for her divine ecstasy had rendered her little better than a beast. Guilliman, for his part, fared little better, his superhuman grip having locked her body in place as his hips pounded away at her, achieving a cyclic rate that would put squad-support automatic weapons systems to shame. His voice, growling with such volume as to be confused with that of a dragon, filled her ears as thoroughly as his cock filled her abdomen. She tensed her entire body, hoping to make him erupt for a second time faster than the first. She wanted his seed. No, she needed it. She wanted it within her womb, and she breathed a silent sigh of despair that his cock was not currently being used to fertilize her.
“Oh, R-Robu…” she murmured, his Primarch’s senses hearing her over even his own brutish grunting. “Please, don’t stop… u-use me t-to produce your h-h-heirssss…” Roboute made a noise that sounded like more of a threat than an affirmation, and pulled his cock out of her ass, sliding the tip down just a touch, and then savagely penetrating her womanhood. Yvraine screamed, a sound of triumph, pleasure, and validation. It was not long until her lover had come close to his second orgasm, his thrusts turning so furious and erratic that she began to think she may have done something to anger him, though her fears were assuaged as another orgasm rolled out from her annexed pussy and barreled through any higher thoughts she wanted to have.
Fifteen... Maybe fourteen? She asked herself, trying to keep count, yet she simply could not. She had been receiving his Imperial Edict for a duration of time the length of which she simply could not know, given how thoroughly his sexual aggression had destroyed their individual and collective higher sapience. She was brought back to her present reality as she felt his cock tense, and the first shot of gene seed blasted into her. He began to withdraw, and whether he wished to simply pull back for another stroke or pull out entirely, she did not care. She pushed her body backwards into him, shoving at the table with her forearms, all the while wrapping her legs around him, awkward to maintain though the position was.
“N-no,” she mumble-shouted, “st-stay iiiiinnnnn!” Her complaint dragged out into a juvenile, selfish whine, as Robu spasmed from his tsunami of absolute pleasure, his voice eeking out only a low growl. He collapsed from the sensation, nearly smothering her with his weight, his cock sliding as deeply as it possibly could inside her, as yet more blasts of cum forced their way into her womb. She could not remember a single distinct moment in her life that was not the present, as all her past experiences blurred together into one memory. She could not really remember a time at all that hadn’t involved Robu inseminating her, as this singular moment was all she had ever wanted, without even knowing it.
For his part, Robu seemed even more devolved by this experience, his legs intertwined with hers, his hand gripping her waist from beneath her belly, his other hand gripping the side of the table, his vocal chords so completely relaxed that he simply did not vocalize anymore, the only sound coming from his mouth being his steady, heavy breathing. All the immeasurable output of his musculature was spent on keeping his still ejaculating manhood buried to the hilt within her. Yvraine did not know when she lost consciousness, only that it was while she was the safest she had ever been.
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