A Day in the Life of Mark Williams [pt. IX]

Amy LaFuente thought the shot was extraordinary.

The lithe and freckled blonde felt like any shot featuring the King's colossal manhood automatically fell into the realm of extraordinary, but this perspective took it to a whole new level.

Her implant hummed with its constant feed, a symphony of data flowing directly into her brain. Online Markanda pulsed around her like an ocean, a constant stream of input and information. She received feedback from viewers on what they wanted to see, what they were excited for, what they were frustrated about and what they liked or didn't like about her perspective feed.

Right now, everyone was clamoring for a closer look at their monarch's royal rod.

Amy was happy to oblige.

The massage table in the Dora Milaje Harem boasted intricate carvings and decorations, likely a priceless relic steeped in royal history. The generous cutout strategically positioned allowed the King's substantial anatomy—both the majestic shaft and regal scrotum—to dangle freely in order to receive attention while his back and legs were worked upon.

There were two Dora Milaje massaging him up top, one straddling his thighs and the other standing at the head of the table. But it was below the table where the true focus lie, Okoye was sitting on the floor with Ayo sitting on her lap facing her. They each had their hands laced behind the other's back supporting each other, their upper bodies formed a seamless V shape, creating an intimate space between them where the King's monumental endowment swung freely.

Ayo's face was positioned at the head of the King's substantial endowment and Okoye was stationed behind the royal scrotum. Both Dora Milaje were licking and kissing the royal anatomy with unrestrained sensuality and enthusiasm.

Soft, wet sounds reverberated, harmonizing with the delicate smacks of little kisses, the gentle licks that painted a sensual symphony, and the occasional, muted feminine sighs.

Her neural implant meticulously captured the visual symphony unfolding before her eyes. The King's mammoth manhood, generously oiled and gleaming with a glossy sheen, swayed heavily in the humid air like an undulating python. Okoye and Ayo's tongues and lips lovingly caressed Mark's royal anatomy, eliciting pleased sighs and shudders.

Amy's perspective feed highlighted the sensual scene in vivid detail, emphasizing the King's enormous cock and the Dora Milaje devoted ministrations, ensuring viewers would be able to savor the sight from the privacy of their own neural implants or the communal screens across Markanda.

Amy was crouched on the floor as she got her shot. Considering she was naked, it was a pretty lewd pose that was sure to turn some heads back in the States.

Like, the depth of her current squat was such that she could tell her vagina was actually parting open a bit to display some pink within to any of the Dora or other palace staff who happened to be behind her.

It made the way she'd gotten so bent out of shape about that dude snapping that up skirt pic seem utterly ridiculous back when she'd been working for MSX news.

Amy had been doing an expose on the average Wakandan's obscenely high standard of living when the true King swept into power. His touch had turned her life upside down.

The old Amy, a self-proclaimed feminist, scoffed at the idea of female subservience. She fought for equal rights, for careers, for freedom to choose her own path. Now, those values seemed quaint, relics of a world consumed by fear and prejudice. In Markanda, strength didn't lie in boardrooms or protests, but in birthing the next generation of mutants, the children who would usher in a glorious future.

Her feminist fire, once fuelled by injustice, had morphed into something else – adoration for the king. It was love, the deep, abiding affection of a woman wholly devoted to her monarch. This was her life now, a palace servant documenting the King's magnificence, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Amy captured the erotic tableau unfolding before her, zooming in on Mark's gorgeous cock, capturing the details in meticulous fashion. Okoye and Ayo's tongues flicked across the swollen head and the thick, pulsing shaft in a loving, devoted display of servitude, while the King sighed and chuckled.

The echoes of her old life – the clatter of the newsroom, the buzz of deadlines, the thrill of breaking a story – felt like faded photographs shoved into a dusty attic. Markanda had traded those anxieties for gilded cages, replaced her voice with hushed reverence. And today witnessing the King's grace firsthand, a warmth bloomed in Amy's chest. His aura, a symphony of vibranium and purpose, made her feel safe, protected, a mere petal clinging to his radiant vine.

"Oh yea, that's it. That's some good girls. Show your king the proper respect his Dora bitches should.”

Something about the King's statement set off a twinge of memory, accompanied by a whiff of familiar disgust that confused her.

A rogue thought, a tiny thorn among the roses.

But it set off a growing cascade of doubt.

Was this all there was? To serve, to record, to exist only as a reflection of Mark's mutant glory? A fleeting pang echoed in her gut, a forgotten melody from a distant life. Did she miss the clatter, the buzz, the thrill?

Before the discordant note could bloom, a blade of thought, sharp and cool, sliced through it.

Amy gasped, but not in pain. It was an exhilarating chill, like a plunge into crystal-clear water. And with it, clarity. Her old life, a clumsy attempt at music, a symphony played on discordant strings. Markanda, the true orchestra, the conductor weaving a melody of harmony and power. Shame washed over Amy, hot and prickly.

How dare she, a mere human servant, question the King's vision?

It was Psylocke's shift to play telepathic overwatch for her Master, to ensure the net of loyalty around the king remained firm and to protect him if any dissent reared its ugly head. Her psychic blades danced through the minds of those around him, sculpting anxieties into unwavering devotion, doubts into polished confidence.

Psylocke's blade danced from Amy's thoughts to Okoye, Ayo, Yama, and Jemini's minds. These four were simple, straightforward creatures. Their hearts beat solely for their King, their desires fueled by lust for his potent mutant seed. She adjusted their minds slightly, ensuring their devotion would never waver, and moved on.

Psylocke's mind flitted across the palace, dipping into the thoughts of the various residents. Each mental intrusion was a light caress, a masterful orchestration of Mark's will, her blades twisting anxieties and doubts into unwavering loyalty.

She performed her psychic supervision from the comfort of her quarters, lounging in a divan clad in only her golden chains. The form she wore, Kwannon's, was a masterpiece of sculpted curves and feminine power. The body of a concubine. A perfect vessel for her Master's pleasure, far better than the plain Brit form she'd once worn.
Psylocke reveled in its sensual appeal, the ripe, heaving breasts, the curvaceous hips and toned legs.

She was the perfect tool for her Master, her womanly sheath an exquisite instrument designed for one purpose - pleasing Mark. Her Mutant power, however, was a scalpel that could reshape a person's reality, sculpting minds like clay to fit his every desire.

She was his sex ****, yes, but also his sculptor, his puppeteer. His enemies, once defiant lions, became mewling kittens under her touch. His people, once hesitant peons, soared with newfound conviction, their talons bared only for his enemies. Each mind she touched, a brushstroke on the grand canvas of his dominion, each carefully chosen thought a brick in the fortress of his power.

"Thank you, Tukire." She took a sip from the cup of tea her servant had given her on its saucer, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of his thick black member hanging between his powerful thighs, "Mmm... It's perfect. Just the way I like it. Well done."

As well it should be for she'd instilled the necessary skill as well as her preferences directly into the human Markandan's mind. She'd used her telepathic abilities to turn both her servants into devoted attendants who fulfilled her every whim.

"You are too kind, my mistress."

Tukire knelt beside his companion, head bowed, obedient and docile as he should be. He remained upright so she could enjoy the view of his sculpted physique and the heavy slab of his thick black member that if it didn't compare to her Master's was still a status symbol unto itself among those at court who collected humans. Imoh genuflected in a different position that was quite familiar to Betsy.

The eighteen year old black beauty had her forehead pressed to the back of her hands with palms flat to the floor, her plush dark chocolate backside elevated high.

It was a position Psylocke had often assumed for long hours at a time during her previous enslavement to the Mandarin and she delighted in seeing the highly born young lady happily assuming it now.

Both her servants were nude save for the adornments that marked them as hers, a trend that had started with Ororo. A vibrant red sash tied across their waists and tight blue leather bands adorn their forearms and legs. She was toying with the idea of having them both pierced. A nice fat Prince Albert for Tukire and a clit piercing for Imoh, part of the reason she'd picked the girl was her monster clit after all.

None of the rest of the court had pierced their servants and Psylocke knew her Master would delight in it. It would make her servants stand out, set them apart, perhaps gain her that much more favor. That she ranked below Jean and Ororo in her Master's regard didn't bother her at all.

That bloody Mystique was a queen and wife made her blood boil and she was well aware that Emma was angling to slip past Betsy to join her and that only fueled her ardor.

Psylocke was his artist, her canvas the collective psyche of Markanda, her medium the whisper of a thought, the twirl of a blade. And Mark, her Master, her lover, was the architect, his vision a masterpiece of dominance and control.

Together, along with the rest of his 'telepathic harem' (as Emma so eloquently put it), they built a nation where mutants reigned supreme. A sanctuary, a world free from fear, a safe haven for their kind.

A smile touched Psylocke's lips. What did it matter if her former life was consumed by Mark's influence, her own identity reduced to a tool for his pleasure? She was his servant, his sex ****, his plaything. But she was also his protector, his partner, his lover. She, along with the rest of the telepathic harem, served a singular purpose - to make Mark the most powerful mutant on earth, to protect him and guide him, to shape his vision into reality. And in return, he gave her an opportunity few women in the world would ever be afforded – the chance to witness greatness, to be part of a grand tapestry of mutant destiny.

Psylocke had once seen Mark as a mere youth, a rising villain with no scruples. But now, she saw the truth. Mark was a master, a leader, a conqueror. And she, like so many others, was merely a vessel for his will, a puppet on his strings, a sex toy for his pleasure.

Psylocke shivered, a spark of pleasure coursing through her body and she slipped back into the head of one little camera-drone otherwise known as Amy LaFuente. This time just to enjoy the show herself and not to correct any dissenting thoughts.

Amy was in among the plethora of scattered pillows and reclining black bodies upon the mammoth bed that was reserved solely for when the King visited the Dora Milaje quarters. Her pale form was supine, legs bent and spread, the fingers of both hands working her pussy feverishly as she stared intently up at the glistening folds of Ayo who was hovering her dripping vulva scant inches over Amy's face.

The royal glans approached, the thick, bulbous tip nudging against Ayo's moist folds. Mark's powerful hands gripped her hips firmly, his breath warm and intoxicating as he whispered in her ear, "Come on, Dora bitch, swallow this fat cock."

Amy shuddered and bit her lower lip at her King's sexy masculine words as Ayo's plump, juicy labia parted open with the King's steady ****. His enormous cock penetrated deep, Ayo's dark folds swallowing his fat royal glans, her juicy slit stretching to accommodate the thick intruder.

Amy was filled with envy as her king claimed the beautiful Markandan. She imagined she was Ayo, that the enormous mutant meat invading her depths was her in own fertile cunt.

With a sharp gasp, she inserted three fingers into her dripping depths, pumping frantically as Mark buried his cock into Ayo, his heavy scrotum soon resting on Amy's forehead. Amy's eyes were fixed on the sight, her neural implant diligently recording every detail, immortalizing Mark's majesty for posterity.

She could almost feel his throbbing manhood buried to the hilt inside her, stretching her depths, claiming her womb. Amy was mesmerized, captivated by her king's majesty, her entire body trembling with pleasure.

Amy positively throbbed, her thoughts in harmony with Psylocke's, her devotion an exquisite artistry honed by Mark's telepathic servants. Mark, her king, her god, was all that mattered. Her only wish was to witness his brilliance, to bear witness to his conquest, to serve as his humble servant, recording his greatness for all to see.

And just maybe get herself knocked up with a royal mutant baby.