Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

Chapter 387: Nothing like a Governor’s Party

"YOU KNOW WHAT I REALLY want for being such a good help?"

Inaia had said this with a playful chortle but a serious heart, she’d finally gotten some alone time with her Lord [Host] and intended to make the most of it—sexually. It wasn’t that she was green she had to share – it’d been already established and crystal from the start that Eotigan was not the kind of man...sorry, devil, that had one woman.

His freaking genes demanded a harem. Not to mention his near Nephilim physique and [arcane] coin account. Her [Host] was fine and had money. Of course he’d need multiple bitches.

Nonetheless she just wanted him ALONE, sometimes, not every time. Sometimes.

—like now.

The truth was the invitation from Merriam Torres, sitting governor of Colony had arrived one and half hours before, at 5th strike of the clock’s shorthand, so they had roughly thirty minutes to be at the Governor’s party. And Inaia knew her Lord loved being punctual. Plus they’d need to make a good first impression on Merriam. That being said, she could make him come in ten minutes.

So Inaia didn’t tell him her RSVP was good for 29.5 minutes—and counting down. Rather when he asked what she wanted, growling in her neck, she answered back with zero hindrance, "I want you to pound this pussy...please."

Eotigan’s mouth had frozen on her warm shoulder. He was a sex giant behind her as his eyes, golden as ringed [Etheria] slid up to meet hers in the dark mirror of the penthouse’s glass walls.

"You want dick?"

"Mm-hmm." Her quiet moan was enough answer for him. He deftly became the neanderthal she needed.

With another answering growl he pushed her forward, bending her harshly; her face touched the cool glass and he spanked her, lifting her big shirt—his shirt on her. "Let me see this shit—" He slid her little provocative panties to the side and looked down at her warm slit for a bit. "That’s my girl." His baritone echoed in her head for long after he’d spoken. "Here, little whore. Here’s what you need," he pushed his robust girth inside of her. "Oouuum." Inaia stretched. She couldn’t even tell when his briefs had come down.

Eotigan didn’t last ten minutes. He couldn’t. At best he’d say four.

If he counted by minutes then he’d look real bad for a man packing his kind of heat. He counted by strokes. How lucky he was that he had a satisfyingly large penis for his women—and he knew how to use it.

To an outsider it’d seem he was a stingy lover but Inaia had crumbled in his arms in half of the time he did over her. She’d lasted two minutes—his voluptuous, foul-tongued baddie. If anything he saw her sudden orgasm as his own cue. No sooner had she bent her back more, hitting her telltale shivers than he had mounted her more.

—fiercely. Manly. Proudly.

He’d pressed her tempting body down, near flattening her into the luxury glass as he drove her deep. He knew she loved how he filled her because she gyrated her fat ass on him, rubbing into his abs and groin. Eotigan’s lean hips pulsed as he released strongly inside of her.

She was wicked with her curves, knowing how much he loved their quick fuck. All their previous talk about Merriam and her rose card had been foreplay really.

Inaia kept rubbing on the huge demon behind her as he sank several warm inches of prime dick in her, pumping her womb full of hot seed. Her punani was greedy like that and milked him for every silver spurt till he was drained. His great chest heaved in her hair—that’s how tall he stood over her. She loved his smell: earth and rain, and a bit of sanguine. She loved his own grunts and telltale jerking.

The fifth minute hit and Eotigan fell back breathing heavily. Inaia pulled straight her panties and dropped the shirt. She turned back to meet his beautiful colored iris dazzled in awe. He couldn’t believe she had made him keg out in four minutes.

The gold rings of his demonic stare were shocked. He’d felt like he’d run miles in a split, like that one time Old man Nimrod had dared him to fly up to Hel’s black moon and back in hundredth of a second. He’d been fourteen then. Yet another line in his litany of sorrows and family trauma. If demons needed rap sheets, his would be ten miles long. But at this moment, Hel and her bright scourges were far from his mind. It was a scantily clad Rasta woman that rather consumed his every sense and soul.

Inaia stepped to him with a pleased and proud smile both. He was reclined down on the spooky, chess-like chroma floors, on his elbows. "...the Governor’s party is in 21 minutes, my Lord," she said, her smile as radiant as the sun that didn’t shine over Colony, "and don’t sell yourself short, MY PRINCE, you actually lasted six minutes, eight seconds. The big thing is you made me come in that time."

Eotigan’s mouth was ajar. He did not even know which part of her words to rebut first. She had intentionally kept from him the timeframe of party, and now she had just complimented his sex drive. Inaia was really his [subservient]. Eotigan mumbled within him. ’Well, darn my horns to Hel. She got a fat ass and a fast mouth, but by the Martyr, do I love this shit?’

Inaia was still in his big shirt, looking so fucking cute. He almost changed his RSVP.

"Shall I wake them?" she asked him, her vine eyes on Thyra and Kambili. Her voice was easy, but her stare was conspiratorial. The other two girls had slept through the entire glass-wall ordeal.

Inaia didn’t think he would tell—by the fury with which he’d jizzed in her. She for sure wouldn’t. It was just between her and her [Host].

Eotigan shook his his head in response to her question, still weary at her simplistic reaction to literally just having a shaking orgasm. He was just starting to feel his legs again. "I shall lay out your best tunic," she told him. Her voice granted a hush to the luxury suite that made the scene even more goth. Inaia vanished to the bathroom after that.

She came back out with an all-set look that prompted him to rise, and when he did step in to that bathroom—posh and everything, she already had the tub full of scented, steaming blood.

Tonight was not a night to bathe with water.

Once again Inaia was proving herself as the main ’bitch’ in his harem. Of course she’d had nearly infallible predecessors to learn from. Pity they were dead, but learn she had. Inaia had correctly predicted her [Host], Lord Eotigan would be more charmed for the occasion if he rinsed in a full pool of blood. The old gods had done it all the time – everybody knew a good sanguine swim let off certain useless auras when it came to beautiful creatures such as her Lord. "Blood is the 1st liquid talisman of a Caster." This was the favorite preaching of dark magic 101.

Inaia had just torn a page of the Grimoire for her Lord’s use. The Maester of Coin had just turned out to be a 200-yr old GAY vampire. Who the fuck knew what the fuck kind of fucking oddity the Governor might be?

Inaia meant to armor her [Host]. The last villains Eotigan had fought were the queen of night and her mad, wrist-slashing, she-bitch proselyte. Merriam Torres—if that was her real name was not going to get the slip on them. Eotigan let his head fall back in the tub of warm blood; this would cost 30K gold easy. It wasn’t about the money though. Inaia was a real one.

He could hear her tinkering about in the walk-in closet that was literally probably built to house a hoary mammoth and not a rack of designer trenchcoats. They had not the time to unpack so he was guessing Inaia was rummaging through his [Helpocket]—a dimension behind the hangers.

Funny, but not untrue.

Eotigan found the sounds of his subservíena as she made arrangements to his wardrobe for the party a copacetic touch on the otherwise grim weather of Colony and the Mayflower. He relaxed in the still, non-coagulating blood, staring at the crimson steam form over translucent bathroom glass. He’d no idea how but ten fresh minutes later and he was standing in pressed ceremonial blues – gold cords shimmering at his waist and breastplate. A naval regalia.

"You look wicked, m’lord. Wicked, I tell ya." This was Inaia as she did the big buttons of real gold on his jacket overall. Wicked, in Inaia vocabulary meant stupidly sexy and beautiful. She’d picked the colors of the Empyrean’s navy because everyone at the docks had heard when Thyra yelled to the rude imp that Eotigan was an OFFICER.

Gossip spread like spiritfire on the islands, so now he had into play the role. They didn’t need the Governor spooked by any overlooked nuance.

"You must act stout, m’lord." She polished him up, cleaning at invisible lint on his ensemble. He looked so hot she wanted to wake up the other girls just to see. "—you are always the man in the room, my prince, always respectable. But you must be respectful tonight."

Eotigan was listening alright but most of his attention was on Inaia—and her filthily corrupt red dress. She wasn’t showing much skin, but them curves in it?

"Whew!" Eotigan whistled.

Inaia dragged firm on his lapels. "I mean it...you must be respectful."

"When am I not?" He gave her his panty-dropper—a smile lopsided as it was hot. Even as he said this, his hand was on her ass.

Inaia let him grope all he wanted now. At the party, there’d be no playing about. She’d be there to pave the way for him into the success of [Mission II]. Her eyebrows still raised, and he nodded in agreement. "I’ll be good. I swear on the pentagram." Eotigan didn’t need to but he wanted to see her laugh. She did, and she turned to walk—in her glittering Liebrechere diamond heels—for the elevators, he smacked her ass one sweet, final time.

Eotigan desired to be back before his fair Thyra or beloved Kambili awakened but if not the hotel was a planet of goodness. May the Eighth had his specific instructions as she waved them into the lit garage to get his sleeping beauties whatever they wanted. Food and service. "My favorite fellow!" Eotigan clapped the waiting chauffeur on his back. He made the man smile. And Inaia further admired him for how much other men reacted to his energy.

In seconds their private [shuttle wagon] zoomed from the garage section thousands of feet high up on the Mayflower. They were cruising in the tenebrous skies when the chauffeur pointed to a long tower splashed in a frenzy of rainbow lights. One hand on the planar steering shaped like a beanstalk, he told them, "the Governor hosts her party yonder."

[To be continued.]