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

Mentally, Betsy was all psychic knight, her thoughts focused and disciplined, honed into an efficient razor's edge that cut through the night air like a scalpel. Physically, she looked like an escaped porn-star, big teardrop tits drooped out in front of her like a pair of ripe water balloons and a waist that flared out into the perfectly heart-shaped globes of her bubble butt. It seemed ludicrous that any woman of her lithe build would be gifted with such a colossal rear end, but Mark had had ample opportunity to explore the reality of Psylocke's perfect Asian ass.

The squad of soldiers, the Wakandan version of SWAT, had encircled the barn-like building deep within the jungle that surrounded the city. Their weapons, powerful Vibranium rifles, were trained on the wooden structure as they awaited Psylocke's command.

Betsy felt Mark's presence, his curious voyeurism. She welcomed the intrusion, his excitement rippling across her own aroused emotions as she planned her next move. She would not disappoint her king.

Curious, Mark skipped across her prominent mind to the most luminous of the rebels. These were Wakandans who had yet to feel his touch. They had gathered in this remote location deep within the Wakandan jungle about Necropolis, trying to escape detection from his agents but not to much success.

He watched through Xavier's eyes as Betsy's telepathic **** unfolded, a wave of mental domination washing over the resistance. One by one, their defiance crumbled, replaced by a dull acceptance of their fate.
But before the mental takeover was complete, Mark, on a whim, decided to delve deeper. He focused on one mind in particular, a young woman named Aisha.

She was on her knees, her body rigid with fear and disgust.

She was a mutant, her ability to summon walls of dimensional energy that could be used as shields, portals, or weapons, was a potent gift that the would-be leader of this resistance cell had hoped to utilize in his foolish rebellion.

The experience was a revelation over the past few weeks.

A flood of emotions, memories, and confusion washed over him. He felt Aisha's initial bewilderment as her friends began to openly discuss their newfound desires for mutant men, their casual dismissal of their human husbands. He saw the horror in her eyes as Wakandan media outlets were flooded with images of him, a seemingly random American teenager, being worshiped as their new king. He endured the sickening praise heaped upon him, the public humiliation of the once-respected T'Challa, now relegated to the status of a traitor, a usurper, a royal pet.

But most disturbing of all was the slow erosion of her own moral compass. The insidious whispers, the societal pressure, all pushing her towards the inevitable – offering herself to one of his mutant studs in hopes of bearing a child blessed with mutant genes. He saw her internal struggle, her love for her husband Ndobel warring with the strange new desires burning within her.

He even witnessed, through Aisha's horrified eyes, a state-sanctioned broadcast. Live on their net, he watched himself take not just Nakia, T'Challa's wife, but also his mother, the Queen Ramonda, and even Shuri, his own sister. He saw the look of manic glee on T'Challa's face as he furiously masturbated to the scene, a horrifying parody of the once-noble king.

There was the bewilderment of the past few weeks. One day, everything was normal. The next, her friends were giggling about the 'hot new king' and how they couldn't wait to 'serve' him. Her parents, usually bastions of tradition, were chatting about how she could 'catch the eye' of a 'strong mutant stud' to 'improve the bloodline.' The news was filled with images of the American teenager, declared the new King, cavorting with the former royal family in ways that made Aisha blush. There was T'Challa, the king she had always respected, reduced to a manic mess, eagerly masturbating in the face of his own humiliation. Her co-workers openly discussed the broadcasts, their hushed tones laced with a mixture of arousal and disgust.

Then came the Royal Celebration. Aisha, caught in the tide of social pressure, found herself swept along to the stadium. Thousands of women, stripped bare of their dignity, knelt on the bare floor. Aisha had felt a wave of nausea as the orgy began, a grotesque display of **** pleasure broadcast across the nation.

When her King had came, the spray of his mutant seed coating the cheering crowd, Aisha had experienced such an incredible dramatic climax that she'd involuntarily gripped the ankles of the woman in front of her and pulsed and unleashed an explosive torrent of her own.

A wave of euphoria swept over the crowd, a manufactured sense of unity and rightness as everyone, including the terrified woman, found themselves swept up in a mass orgasm. It was a chilling display of his power, a glimpse into the terrifying potential of his mutant abilities.

As the woman's terror subsided, replaced by a dull resignation, Mark felt a jolt of… something unexpected.

Was it… doubt? A flicker of empathy for the chaos he'd unleashed on this once-proud nation? He quickly tamped it down, attributing it to the rawness of the experience.

Still even as he withdrew from Aisha's mind and memories, he felt unsettled and guilty.

He truly was a mutant supervillain, wasn't he?

The memory snapped shut, leaving Mark reeling. The woman's terror, her confusion, the horrifying glimpses of a world reshaped to fit his desires… it was all so… real. A shard of doubt pierced through his usual self-assurance. Was he… a monster? He glanced down at his erection, a throbbing testament to the arousal he'd felt reliving Aisha's contradictory experiences. Shame. Excitement. Disgust. A tangled knot of emotions that threatened to unravel his carefully constructed bravado.