Ororo and Mark [pt.II]

They hadn't made it to the enormous bed. Not that it mattered, given that the thick duvet cover was already on the floor.

Mark's teenage slovenliness, a stark contrast to his newfound regal status, had played a part in that. He'd barked the order at the palace maids earlier, a dismissive flick of his wrist banishing their eager ministrations. The girls, their dark bodies usually a constant, tempting presence in the background, were conspicuously absent now. These weren't mere servants; they were living offerings, their minds subtly reshaped by Mark's subliminals and his telepathic harem, yearning to serve his every whim.

Usually, one or two maids would linger, strategically positioned to catch his eye. Their uniforms, mere suggestions of cloth, barely contained the ripe curves of their bodies. A strategically placed bend, a suggestive glance – all silent invitations Mark had grown accustomed to indulging. He'd take his pleasure with nonchalant ease, casually mounting them from behind as they eagerly presented their glistening black holes. They were the embodiment of free use their bodies mere vessels to satiate his desires.

Now Mark made use of that discarded blanket to do something similar to Storm.

This powerful Mutant Goddess, the woman who could call down lightning with a flick of her wrist, was reduced to nothing more than a squeeze-box, expertly relieving her King of his momentary anxiety.

Mark, fueled by a potent cocktail of teenage hormones and unchecked power, took her like a conquering bull. His hands found purchase on the floor on either side of Ororo's glorious white hair. He wasn't a gentle lover tonight; he was a **** of nature, mimicking the savage storm that mirrored her mutant essence. His lower body was a piston in a frenzy, his raised white ass a blur as he assaulted her depths with primal intensity.

Her chocolate buttocks, lifted off the floor to meet each thrust, her legs locked around his lower back like a vice. His every incredibly lengthy withdrawal revealed the breathtaking tableau of Ororo's stretched womanhood, his mighty pillar glistening with her copious feminine juices.

"Goddess! Yes!!" Ororo gasped between pants of ecstasy, "Plunder my channel, my love! Fill me with your magnificent mutant seed!"

"Shit, Ororo. Fuck," Mark growled, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You're so fucking hot. I could do this all night."

"Yes! Take me, my king!" Ororo cried out in response, her voice laced with pure lust. "Claim my body as your own!"

Mark increased the intensity of his thrusts, his enormous white gonads, a stark contrast to her smooth, brown skin, draped across the visible half-hemispheres of her butt. With each brutal return, they'd swing wildly, the wet slaps echoing in the vast chamber like lewd punctuation to their carnal symphony.

For Storm, Mark's first penetration this night hadn't been a gentle insertion, but a glorious invasion. Imagine a battering ram slamming through a fortified gate, except this gate, Ororo's ravaged pleasure cavern, welcomed the battering ram with a guttural moan. Six weeks of passionate encounters had sculpted her to accommodate his monumental tool. But unlike the countless men who had come before him, who would meet with cavernous emptiness were they to lay with her now Mark wasn't met with such. Her stretched walls, a testament to their passionate weeks together, embraced him like a second skin.

Many men had graced her bed – T'Challa, a mere sapling compared to this towering oak. Forge, a pleasant diversion at best. Her past encounters, though passionate, had been like child's play compared to the epic saga unfolding between her wide-spread legs now. Even Kurt and Logan, with their foot-long appendages, might provide a fleeting spark, but even they would no doubt find Ororo's Mark-stretched slot a bit too accommodating.

Each return of Mark's white pillar was like a tiny baptism, inundating her womanhood with waves of sheer ecstasy. And his withdrawals were a sweet agony, her channel gripping him like a well-oiled vise desperately.

"Ohhh!! By the Goddess!" Ororo cried out, her voice rising to a fevered pitch as she spiraled towards another orgasm. "Yes! Take me!"

"Ororo... baby..." he grunted. "You feel so fucking good!"

"Oh Mark," Ororo groaned, her eyes rolling back in her head as she gave herself over to the pleasure. "You are a god among men! Take your pleasure from my body, my king!"

Mark grinned down at her, his expression a mixture of adoration and lust as he continued to pound away.

The thunderous rhythm of their lovemaking reverberated out through the open balcony of the royal bedchamber, a pulsing counterpoint to the throbbing bass of the music seeping up from the royal lounge below. Here, bathed in the dim, erotic glow of strategically placed lamps, Nightcrawler's religious service raged on. The air crackled with a primal energy, a cocktail of sweat, sex, and fervent devotion.

This group of Markandan elites, their minds sculpted by Mark's enslaved telepath and wouldbe queen, Emma Frost, writhed in a frenzy of religious fervor. Her psionic touch amplified the effect, twisting their adoration into a grotesquely sexual tapestry.

A woman, large and fleshy, her frame dwarfing Nightcrawler's blue form, clung to him with the desperation of a drowning sailor. Her moans, a guttural chorus of primal need, punctuated the rhythmic thwack of Nightcrawler's powerful equine member slamming into her. Kurt's wiry frame, despite its comparative slightness, displayed a surprising strength, holding the massive woman aloft with effortless ease. The sight, from below, was a grotesque parody of a dance – a churning, fleshy embrace fueled by a warped religious fervor.

His prehensile tail, a swirling blue appendage tipped with its fat spade tip, played a separate but equally erotic role. It writhed through the air, hoisting another woman, younger and slimmer, into the air with an effortless waving. Her legs, flung wide, her eyes locked on Nightcrawler's face with a mixture of pleading and anticipation.

In the floor above, the music filtering up triggered a flicker of memory in Mark's mind – Ororo's teasing description of Kurt's "religious services." That was enough for Chuck's ever present backseat consciousness to reach out and react to his whim.

A pungent whiff of sulfur filled the air, swirling into a vortex of purple smoke before coalescing into the grinning visage of Nightcrawler. He appeared with a flourish atop a pedestal specifically designed for Mark's amusement - a stage where his favored subjects would become living statues for his delight.

"Divine intervention, my frauleins!" Kurt declared with a theatrical flourish, his voice dripping with mock piety. "God has smiled upon our righteous endeavors, sending his divine summons!"

He bowed with an exaggerated flourish, momentarily disrupting his carnal activities. The matriarch, momentarily bewildered, let out a surprised yelp before erupting into giggles, her ample chest jiggling with amusement.

Mark, meanwhile, roared with laughter, the sound reverberating through the chamber. The sight of the happy blue superhero, mid-coitus and holding up two women as if they were mere sextoys, filled him with a perverse sense of satisfaction.

With a wink towards Mark, Nightcrawler seamlessly transitioned from fervent priest to court jester. He continued his passionate **** on the matriarch, but now with an added layer of theatricality. He thrust into her with exaggerated vigor, his three-fingered hands gripping her fleshy buttocks like a vice.

His tail, meanwhile, dipped the younger woman, dangling like a marionette, down towards his face. A playful glint shone in his glowing yellow eyes as he feigned reverence, his tongue darting out in a mock kiss towards her womanhood. She shrieked with delight, her legs automatically wrapping around his head as her hands gripped his blue skull, her own desire soaring.

Nightcrawler, relishing the performance aspect, winked again at Mark, a silent communication that spoke of shared amusement and unquestioning loyalty. He was Mark's, his loyal servant, and tonight, his twisted court jester, entertaining his king with a display of unbridled lust and depravity. The scene above continued, its raw passion echoing with the spectacle unfolding below. The royal chambers had become a twisted theatre of excess, a testament to Mark's unchecked power and the intoxicating blend of sex and religion that now gripped Markanda.