Just like Varden Zedar's skull, the scalp came with a somewhat ominous presentation and, naturally enough, Lilia was not present for it. In the same way that the skull's gifting had unfolded, that of the scalp went more or less the same way; and the presence of human remains hindered nothing.
Annah? Excused early.
Lilia? With her "night nurse". Perhaps not the night nurse she usually stayed with but is that not the advantage of having a secret grandmother? And Leia was only too happy to oblige for some overnight spoiling.
Lucilla?
Oh… Lucilla.
"You know… I've been doing some reading." The Empress, eyes closed and barely clutching her glass of wine as it dangled over the side of the sofa, regulated her breath stolen by the sensation radiating from between her legs; she just about tuned into the perpetrator of said sensation. Two leather-wrapped fingers broaching her cunt always had the ability to render her absolutely useless… To begin with, at least.
"Oh…?"
The Grand Marshal, in all his still-uniformed glory, no longer protested taking a knee before his Empress; instead, like in instances such as this one, he relished it. On his knees, he maintained the perfect height to both claim his little dove's lips and gift her a third finger at the same time; bonus points for the bump of his promise ring beneath the glove against her walls.
"I read that there are certain breeding practices observed among some of the more… primitive… peoples of the Outer Rim." Savouring the restraint prized by an Imperial and military man, the tightness growing in his uniform slacks tested his resolve though for how much longer he could hold such restraint would depend on his darling wife. Watching her now, sighing and keening on the sofa, delighting in the insistence of his digits, it would not be long.
"Tell me more…"
Orion indulged his wife's somewhat degrading fetish (spurred by something she dearly craved anyway) with all the support expected from a loving spouse. His sentiments had been neither lie nor playing along when he declared that he had been doing some reading; it was true, he had. For her benefit, and hers alone; even if Orion did get a lay out of it.
She wanted to be bred? He'd breed her. Maker, would he breed her.
On her knees, spread just enough to accommodate her husband, Lucilla made for a terribly unregal sight. Torso (therefore womb and cervix) at a gravity-submissive slant propped up by pillows stacked beneath her groin to make absolutely sure, her sating came from the edge of the bed where Orion had barely undressed at all. Not only did their chosen position cater to their ultimate goal of conception, but it also assured Lucilla had a view of her rather gruesome alter; the scalp sitting atop the skull like some sort of ghastly, straw-coloured wig. Beside it, a sealed glass container encapsulating none other than her own blood-logged handkerchief; Mitaka had held it to the deep slit in Damten's throat on that fateful night for his beloved Empress, siphoning the lifeforce from its very source.
"What I've discovered, Your Whoreness…" He began in a composed pant, his voice barely rising above the blatant, unapologetic slapping of skin on skin and Lucilla's own aural illustrations of hedonistic enjoyment. The bare meat of the Empress' arse cheeks and the backs of her thighs had scarcely regained their colour (or lack of it) after her brief and regrettable encounter with Kylo Ren but the Grand Marshal would unknowingly fix that. In fact, he was already in the throes of it; driving his thrusts to the hot, wet target between his wife's spread legs. Orion decided to bow to her strange curiosity and share what he had learned.
"Is that when an enemy is slain and a trophy taken, the women among them believe themselves to be more… fertile… when exposed to such macabre keepsakes during attempted conception. As if the very womb itself knows that with this nemesis gone, it is automatically safer and more beneficial to procreate." The little Empress had gathered another pillow to her chest and buried her face in it, where it became a landing for the sobs and whines of pure pleasure; stoked and fuelled by them, Orion went on in an impassioned growl. "To breed at that time ensures they and their tribe grows and spreads into the void left by the fallen opposition, extending their influence in that manner."
"They go to their men and present themselves, like you did tonight, in positions best proven to conceive." He imparted, pacing himself, unwilling to succumb to the heat and weight of his uniform; in perfect polarization of his wife without a stitch on her sweating, aching body. "They will do this, night after night, exhausted and sore, until they are positive they are with child. Naturally, I suppose, these practices lead to a lot of unnecessary and unwarranted skirmishes when a tribe feels their numbers are declining."
"Orion… I need… I need you to-"
"And what about you, Your Disgrace?" Came the erotic snarl in her ear from over her shoulder; leaning forward to do so provided the extra depth for purposeful, strategic deposition. Reaching further into the so-far unstimulated depth of his wife's throbbing cunt, the Grand Marshal savoured the near-pained intake of breath; as if attempting to relocate discomfort... or enjoy it. Naturally, in the sensual dark of Lucilla's bedchamber (save for a few essential candles) and their own near-pornographic soundtrack, the redhead got precisely the reactions and responses he craved; one more moan for good measure.
"Do you feel it now? Do you feel your womb throbbing for me? Desperate for my seed? That's what you want, isn't it? For me to use you at your most basic and primal function to give you my son? After all, the dresses, the jewellery, the airs and graces, the dignified politics… they are only a cover; mere packaging." Not quite satisfied he had demeaned his beloved wife enough (or to her demanding taste), Orion fished for more within that brilliant brain of his while his little dove serenaded him in time to the relentless thrusts he so brutally delivered. He knew her well by now: She was close.
"You, oh deceptive one, masquerading behind her title of "Empress", are nothing more than a hole to be clogged full of what I see fit to give you: That is your worth. What I deem necessary for my heir to grow big and strong in that tiny little incubation unit that is you. To be fucked raw until your most natural purpose is fulfilled."
"Darling, please… Please, give it to me…"
"You may beg all you wish, little one." He responded offhandedly, fascinated by the jolts of protective flesh each time his thighs connected mercilessly with the cheeks of her buttocks; cock barrelling for her presented cervix. "But the fact remains: Your pleasure has no bearing on this. It is secondary. Incidental."
"Give me my son, Orion… I need him… I need you…"
"On her hands and knees, with her whore arse in the air, taking it from behind like the ripe, royal bitch that she is." The strain had begun to creep in and while Orion (with ten years on his wife) kept the encroaching exhaustion at bay as best he could, he could only do so for so long. Gradually, his resolve began to wane; light elastic wound so tight, snapping was inevitable. "Howling and keening as her maddening heat is rectified for her, her ingrained worth based solely on what she can push from between her legs."
"Cum in me, Orion… Please…"
Unable to fight it any longer, the fully uniformed Grand Marshal did as his wife begged. With one, final bruising lash and a relieved gasp, Orion (as practice had matured to second nature) ensured depth when he parted with his load at last; depositing it as deep as it would go with his thighs flush against his little dove's cheeks. As if in confirmation of his observances, the silken walls of the Empress (involuntarily, quite naturally) contracted gently and massaged her husband's intruding length; milking him for every last drop while in full view of grotesque relics of their enemies. Pallid complexion corrupted by exertion-driven flush and lungs slaving to replace the effort-stolen oxygen, he allowed himself a moment of weakness and braced himself against Lucilla's back; she, too, in the sudden release, had become boneless and crumpled against the pillows.
"Are you alright, my darling?" Orion inquired in a pant; the nastiness and derision left with the expired endeavour, proven by the shaky kiss to her sweat-damp shoulder. Her wordless response lifted his heart as it always did: Her arm doubling back to stroke the back of his fiery head with her thumb.
"Mmm..."
With a few moments of closeness (and allowing as much cum to be drained away into her depths as possible) elapsed, the redhead finally withdrew himself both from his wife's physical form and the intimacy involved with purposeful conception.
"Try and stay like that for as long as you can, little dove." Disappearing from behind and appearing in front instead, Orion crouched before the blissfully exhausted features that would always jolt his heart with adoration; something he proved with a lengthy peck to her forehead. "I'm going to go and get us some tea. Rest, I shan't be long."
With another pained-parting kiss and an adjustment to his uniform (mainly tucking away a certain appendage), the Grand Marshal departed; leaving his beloved in an undignified but rapturous heap on the bed.