The Evening and Climax of Mark Williams' Really REALLY Long Day [pt. I]

Nestled within the apex of the imposing splendor of the royal palace was the royal bedchambers of King Mark Williams of Markanda.

From the expansive windows of this multi-roomed space that was easily twice the size of Mark's entire suburban home back in Pennsylvania, the panoramic view stretched out across the city of Birnin Zana, bathed in the warm glow of twilight. The skyline was a mesmerizing tapestry of gleaming spires and towering skyscrapers, their surfaces aglow with the last vestiges of daylight. Below, the streets pulsed with life, as the people of Markanda went about their evening rituals, their laughter and chatter carried on the gentle breeze.

Incongruously, the sole occupant of these quarters was the eighteen-year old American boy with tousled brown hair and pale white skin who'd managed to fuck his way into becoming king. An athletic build, if generally undeveloped, he was casually naked as he sank into a plush couch. The only real anomaly on his otherwise average-looking frame was the undeniable presence of his mutation's physical expression: an utterly enormous set of cock and balls.

Even in its currently unaroused state, it was a formidable sight.

Thick and meaty, it resembled a prize-winning loaf of some exotic, phallic baguette, its bulbous head a brazen declaration of mutant masculinity as it dangled off the front of the couch on the end of the thick shaft curving over the impressive bulk of his bulging scrotum.

A satisfied sigh escaped Mark's lips as he sank deeper into the plush cushions of his royal couch. It had been a day of pure, unadulterated hedonism, a testament to the absolute power he wielded over his mutant court and his subjugated brainwashed Wakanda. From the echoing slap of the stoic SHIELD Agent Maria Hill's fat tits against his chest as he plundered her cunt, to the wide-eyed petite Kitty Pryde stretched around his cock in the hall, to the thrill of piloting the berzerker ferocious strength of THE WOLVERINE as he pounded Rogue's busty ass while a shamefaced Gambit relieved himself with his hand at a giggling Jubilee's behest, Mark had explored every perverse avenue his imagination could conjure.

And that was to say nothing of treating Chall's illustrious Dora Milaje warrior bodyguards as the harem of lusty black sluts they were. Okoye's blowjobs were second to none, and Mark had been surprised at how easily Ayo took his girth as he rammed her from behind, their royal oilsmooth black bodies merging together in the royal baths as he repeatedly plunged into their juicy dark heat.

Fucking that little random blonde reporter lady from the States hadn't been half bad either.

But this was not the thing that was bringing him contentment in this moment.

What was causing his previously chaotic mind to finally feel calm, grounded and centered was something so mundane, something that seemed almost trivial at this point: a video game.

Specifically: Chrono Trigger.

Above him hung the enormous holographic protection of his old favorite SNES RPG. Paused in the midst of a battle, it was the exact same game, save for the graphics being vastly upgraded to the point of nearly being indistinguishable from reality. A bit uncanny valley though, seeing Toriyama's Dragon Ball Z-isc iconic art style rendered like this. Still, awesome as hell seeing Princess Marle's ample backside filling out those loose harem pants of hers as she patiently waited for him to restart or buxom cavewoman Ayla in all her fur-wrapped bikini glory.

Mark stared at Ayla's huge tits practically bursting out of her primitive fur wrap that was somehow managing to cling to those jugs like a bikini top as her buxom frame writhed in midair, waiting for him to resume play.

His gaze drifted down to her thick, meaty thighs, admiring the way her muscular legs were spread wide, offering a tantalizing glimpse of her womanhood. He felt his manhood swelling with arousal, his lust growing as he imagined what lay beneath Ayla's-

Mark snorted with self-deprecating amusement. Was he really lusting after a video-game anime character when he literally had an entire country of sexy black women brainwashed into considering themselves his harem-girls? To say nothing of his absolute banging hotties like Ororo, Jean, Nakia, and co?

God! Had it really only been six weeks?

Six short weeks. That's all it had been since he'd left the stifling confines of his American high school, a nobody drowning in insecurities – insecurities punctuated by the monstrous appendage currently resting atop his thighs. Back then, flunking English and hiding his mutant schlong in gym class were his biggest concerns. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Now, here he was, a king, a god-king worshipped by an entire nation. The irony of it all wasn't lost on him. He smirked, remembering the first time some jock had called him a "mutant freak." Little did that idiot know just how accurate the label was.

Thankfully, none of those idiots had reported him to the Department of Mutant Affairs. Squeamishness had probably paused any inclinations that way as no proper dude wanted to admit that he was intimidated by another dude's junk.

Mark knew that if any of them had seen his full erection, they would have known he was a mutant. There were the biggest outliers of human porn-stars and then there was Mark who could literally put horses to shame. Given his unruly libido, he'd often worried about some asshole taking a pic but looking back at it now, even if they had it would have been hard not to believe it was simply photo-shop or CGI.

A chuckle escaped his lips as his mind drifted to the intricate web of power he'd woven. Charles Xavier, the once-mighty telepath, was now a mere extension of his will, a powerful psychic relay at his disposal. He marveled at Jean's solution – the mental construct of a doorway within his own mind. A flick of a thought, and he could access Xavier's vast telepathic abilities, a gateway to the very thoughts and experiences of his entire kingdom. It was intoxicating, a mental playground he had to tread carefully. Getting lost in that swirling sea of consciousness was far too easy.

The heavy weight of responsibility tugged at him. Was this… real? He dipped his consciousness into the psychic relay, flitting from mind to mind like a spectral butterfly. The palace baker, his heart overflowing with loyalty, the glint of reverence in the eyes of a groundskeeper tending the royal gardens, the tram driver's silent prayer of gratitude as he navigated the bustling city streets. Each mind he touched echoed a fervent adoration for their mutant king, a cocktail of fear and desire directed at him and his ever-expanding harem.
Mark shuddered with pleasure.

Their worship, their total submission – it was a heady ****.

It was real.

It was so fucking real.

His resolve hardened as he envisioned an entire world of mutants united under his benevolent rule. His lips curled into a faint smile. The thought of mutant babies flooding the planet with the next step in human evolution warmed his heart.

Still-

A pang of something… unexpected… pierced the haze of his satisfaction. Did any of it mean anything? These women, their feverish devotion, was it real or just a byproduct of the mental manipulation he, through Jean, had unleashed on the entire nation? Were they mere playthings, their personalities warped to fit the narrative he'd so meticulously crafted? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. Were they all just NPCs in his own twisted video game?

He'd left it all behind. His Mom. Only a month and a half ago, he'd been violating her on the living room rug while his Dad watched, a horrified puppet in his own right. He flinched at the memory, the raw power both exhilarating and unsettling. And then, Wakanda. Jean's telepathic seduction, the promise of a kingdom, a crown. A mutant paradise.

A paradise built on lies, a nagging voice whispered in his mind. He was no hero, no savior. He was a conqueror, a puppet master. Charles Xavier, once a powerful telepath, was now nothing more than a conduit, his mind a twisted relay station for Mark's own desires, all meticulously filtered to seem like Xavier's own. A mental leash, Jean had called it, a brilliant stroke of manipulation.

An itch, a familiar one, bloomed in his mind. The urge to escape, to lose himself in the endless sea of Wakandan minds. He resisted, remembering the mental door Jean had installed. A single thought, a key turned in a lock, and the psychic torrent would engulf him. He could skim the surface, observe their unwavering loyalty, their feverish lust for him and his mutant harem. Each mind, a mirror reflecting back a distorted image of his own distorted power.

He opened the door again and flowed out into the sea of consciousness.

Flitted from mind to mind, reveling in the euphoric rush, basking in their worship.

So, so tempting to just drift away.

The powerful bloom of Psylocke's mind glowed like a miniature sun out in the hinterland of Markanda, on the outskirts of a city called Necropolis. She led a platoon of Mark's Royal Guards, their big muscular bodies encased fully in their Vibranium armor, a stark contrast with Betsy Braddock, herself, whose athletic and buxom physique was nearly entirely revealed by her sleek and form-fitting shinobi leotard. The black-blue garment was a thong between the firm, shelf-like protrusion of her buttocks.

But it was perhaps Psylocke's upper attire that truly mesmerized, the fabric hugging her ample bosom with a snugness that seemed almost sculpted to perfection. Her large breasts, their shape reminiscent of the most exquisite porcelain, strained against the confines of her costume, their curves accentuated by the gentle caress of the fabric. Like twin works of art, they commanded attention with their breathtaking symmetry and voluptuous allure, leaving an indelible impression on all who beheld them.