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

The opulent conference room within the administrative wing of the palace thrummed with a low hum of conversation as Mark's most trusted and capable servants deliberated on how best to account for both SHIELD and the more globally active nations' reactions to the abduction and conversion of the X-Men along with the entire student body of the Xavier Institute.

It had only been a week and Wakanda's traditional aura of supreme technological dominance was still keeping most organizations from taking an aggressive approach to dealing with their growing threat.

Jean Grey's gaze swept across the richly patterned conference table, taking in the tableau of her fellow 'ministers'.

The royal siblings, T'Challa and Shuri, were completely naked, unclothed like proper pets, but they were sitting in chairs like everyone else as they play acted at being humans when Mark wasn't present. They were simply too intelligent and capable to waste on being simple playthings at all times after all.

Across from them, Wanda Maximoff, her ample cleavage completely -and thoroughly on purpose- overflowing the confines of a flimsy top listened intently. Natasha Romanoff decked out in a Wakandan style lingerie set with a tremendous amount of clinking beads, whispered something into the ear of a mind-controlled Maria Hill, who sat stiffly in her chair, her face pale and drawn. The quite enormously breasted SHIELD agent's only clothing consisted of a black g-string with her organization's bird-like logo emblazoned across the crotch, which given her thick powerful thighs was rarely seen.

Her fellow wife and queen, Mystique, was draped languidly across her own chair, chin cupped in her hand. Her dark blue skin was fully exposed in her preferred inhuman nakedness and her scale-patterned breasts were, pointedly, just a tad bit larger than Maria's while having a good deal more bounce and lift to them without seeming the least bit artificial in their appearance. Her yellow eyes gleamed with amusement as she took in the scene before her: stuffy heroes formerly dedicated to thwarting her and Magneto's attempts to place mutantkind above the human insects, now doing their best to make that solution happen underneath Mark Williams' oh so benevolent banner.

Her dear Scott, was a stark contrast to the erotic display of Mark's veritable harem of beautiful sexy powerful women. He sat stiffly ram-rod straight in his seat, his gaze imprisoned within his visor and his completely beefcake body encased in his full vibranium armor, remaining impervious to the suggestive atmosphere without his king and master present to urge him on to sexual excess.

Jean's telepathic senses stretched thin across the palace, picked up a flicker of distress emanating from Mark's quarters. A furrow creased her brow as she sifted through the jumble of emotions – a tremor of doubt, a surprising surge of guilt.

While understandable given the position he'd thrust himself into and that they had urged him to every step of the way, it was still unsettling.

If they were to ultimately succeed, Mark, her king, her husband, her soulmate, would have to be an unyielding pillar of conviction, not a young man wrestling with conscience.

Spending his days spilling his seed in willing -exceptionally willing- women and staging elaborate endless orgies was fine. Potentially not letting his servants take the actions necessary to protect him and secure his rule due to unnecessary sympathy for people who no longer existed was absolutely not.

Jean knew she had to act. Mark, for all his power, was still susceptible to moments of weakness, of doubt. And with the weight of reshaping a nation on his shoulders, even a flicker of uncertainty could prove disastrous.

This meeting of Mark's braintrust was at a critical juncture, their decisions held the potential to shape the very foundation of his nascent mutant kingdom.

Without their correct decisions and offered solutions, there would be no King Mark Williams. There would be no Markanda, the shining mutant utopia that Mark envisioned, his bold vision to free mutants from their persecution. And certainly no African playground for his limitless sexuality, his unquenchable lusts, a secure haven of a nation composed of an all-you-can-fuck buffet of naked black beauties, to say nothing of the mutant women.

But Mark's well-being always took precedence. He was the linchpin, the nexus upon which Markanda itself was built.

She would never use her powers on Mark without his express permission, but she would certainly use them for him.

Jean reached out with her telepathy. A subtle mental nudge alerted Ororo, currently engaged in quite the lively cultural adjustment of some former Wakandan elites...

A spacious lounge space that looked out onto a balcony overlooking the city only a floor below beneath the royal apartments in the main tower of the palace contained a sight that defied easy description. A gaggle of shamans, tribal leaders, and even a lone, bewildered former Catholic priest along with a host of prominent upper-class Markandan women sat enthralled, their faces contorted in a mixture of awe and religious zeal as they watched the mutant Nightcrawler preach to them about the manifest destiny of their glorious King Mark.
"Open your hearts, open your wombs, and embrace the glorious destiny that awaits!"

He was a dynamic speaker, his voice booming with the fervor of a true believer. The evening light, streaming in through the ornate windows, cast dramatic shadows across his face, giving him an ethereal presence, making him appear closer to a mythical creature sprung from a forgotten legend than a flesh-and-blood mutant.

Gazes were inevitably drawn to the centerpiece of this unorthodox sermon: his mutant manhood.

For Nightcrawler was entirely nude, standing out for his divergent appearance rather than for his lack of attire. As even his high-status congregation generally wore nothing but the occasional symbol of rank or jewelry, what clothing they had on was more ornate than concealing of their black bodies no matter their level of fitness or attractiveness. Anything else would have been distinctly out of place here in the palace, where Mark's rule and his divine right to revel in the sexual pleasures of his fertile subjects reigned supreme.

Forget the measly appendages of lesser men. Here, a king-sized monument to Markandan faith stood proudly erect, a glistening pink-and-blue beacon of raw mutant power.

Imagine a stallion's mighty member, for that is what Nightcrawler's penis resembled though shaded in blue and bright pink. The shaft, thick as a man's forearm, pulsed with a life of its own, thrust out from a sheath of thick blue hide. The sac, a canvas of taut blue flesh, housed a pair of orbs that would shame any earthly stallion.
The glans departed from the human norm, it resembled simply the end of a cylinder, circled with a pronounced ridge. Soft, blue flesh, generously mottled with pink, puffed outwards from within the ridge, culminating in a tip that was almost comical in its exaggerated size, the glans swelling in every direction from the consistent girth of the rest of the shaft like a caricature artist's exaggerated rendering. At the very center, a gaping meatus yawned open, leaking a steady stream of mutant precum, thick as syrup, a substance that had become revered amongst the devout Markandan faithful as holy waters.

Once Kurt Wagner had feared the ridicule and stigma this part of his anatomy would bring him. Now he presented it to the world like a holy relic, the ultimate badge of mutant superiority, proof positive that his Lord God, King Mark Williams had chosen him as one of his heralds.

The sight was compelling beyond measure. Many a tongue lolled at the erotic display, and many pairs of plump dark lips parted to draw in heated breaths at the sheer audacity of that towering cock.

A young woman, the very embodiment of Markandan womanhood, lay sprawled at Nightcrawler's feet. Her ebony skin gleamed with a sheen of sweat as she twerked with an almost ritualistic fervour, her perfectly rounded backside a silent offering to the embodiment of King Mark's divine will. The rhythmic clapping of her buttocks resonated through the chamber, a primal counterpoint to Nightcrawler's booming voice as he preached of the glorious destiny that awaited Markanda under King Mark's reign.

Ripples of arousal spread throughout the crowd as a many well-formed black breasts heaved and twitched in response to his stirring words.

"Brothers and Sisters of Markanda! Gazeth upon the bounty our Lord, King Mark, has bestowed upon us! Witness the very effigy of his divine power, a symbol that would make the angels themselves weep with envy!"

He gestured at his exposed loins in dramatic fashion before continuing. "Pledge yourselves to his glory! Offer your bodies as vessels for his seed! Look upon me now and see how I have been blessed by His holy touch!"
Loud murmurs broke out in the audience as he spoke. Men and women alike openly displayed their enthusiasm for his message. Kurt felt the fervor of his audience rise to feverish levels as he spoke about the fruits of mutant lust, and how their worship was to be expressed physically.

He sauntered over to his partner in this sermon, the curvaceous First Wife of God, Queen Storm, his longtime friend and comrade who he now worshiped as one would an ascended deity. Ororo was a goddess of fertility as always, a living embodiment of Markanda's burgeoning mutant future. Her costume, a scandalous symphony of black and gold, clung to her curves like a second skin, a loose cape hanging behind her billowing gently in a light wind that her powers conjured.

The bikini top, a mere whisper of fabric, offered a breathtaking panorama of her ample bosom and her wide hips were barely concealed by a strip of cloth that descended into a thong which highlighted her majestic ass.

Her impressive white-haired head contrasting sharply with the ebony tones of her exposed flesh. Her gorgeous face shone with confidence as she faced the gathered crowd, her azure eyes sparkling with pure benevolence as she spoke: "The divine heat of our lord's holy touch can be yours to experience directly! Let Him bless you with the potential to produce powerful mutant children and bear sons and daughters destined for greatness! In exchange, offer your bodies to the service of His lust! Let Him ravish you and leave you breathless in the throes of ecstasy!"

Her words were greeted by excited murmurs from the crowd. Several women squirmed in their seats, eager for her words to be fulfilled. Others looked around uncertainly, as if unsure whether to join their fellow ladies in voicing their desire to be claimed.

Kurt recognized these women's hesitation as fear. "But fear not, for this power is not meant to intimidate, but to guide! Just as the prophet Samuel spoke of a king who would claim his rightful tribute – his sons for chariots, his daughters for service – so too does King Mark, in his infinite wisdom, call upon you!

He calls upon the men to be his tireless workers, their loins forever dry, their purpose to serve the greater glory! And to the women, oh the glorious women of Markanda, he offers a sacred duty! He offers the chance to become vessels, to open their wombs to the divine seed of mutation!"

Kurt's words rang with a palpable intensity. Many in the audience shivered with emotion. Some smiled in delight while others frowned in consternation. There was an air of confusion among many as they pondered his meaning.

Such hesitations and disconnections with their preacher were almost instantly remedied by the White Queen's gentle mental touch. The assembled audience were carried away on a sea of sensation, their minds soothed by an invisible mental current.

Emma Frost, draped languidly across a chaise lounge in the back, observed the scene with a predatory glint in her diamond eyes. Her telepathic tendrils, unseen yet potent, snaked through the room, subtly amplifying the fervor, the burgeoning arousal that pulsed just beneath the surface of the ceremony.

Emma Frost, the White Queen, had always been a woman of ambition. Now, bathed in the bizarre, mutant-worshipping sunlight of Markanda, that ambition had morphed into something altogether more…depraved. Gone were the days of boardrooms and hostile takeovers. Here, power was measured not in dollars and diamonds, but in the favor of a single, grotesquely endowed teenaged god-king.

Loyalty? Oh, Emma was loyal. Fervently, slavishly so. But within the rigid confines of Markandan devotion, her cunning mind still whirred. She saw the game, the twisted courtly dance for the King's favor. Storm, the stoic weather witch, held a queenly position with quiet dignity. Jean Grey, the Omega telepath, radiated an unassailable position that Emma could not contest. Mystique, the shapeshifter, was a wildcard, a chameleon who played the part of the devoted concubine to perfection.

And then there was Psylocke. Ah, Psylocke. Emma's former teammate, a telepath with a body that could turn heads even in a land obsessed with mutant genitalia. Emma could practically smell Psylocke's ambition, a rival musk in the air-conditioned halls of the palace. The thought of that violet-eyed beauty sharing a marital bed with Mark, of her telepathic whispers swaying the King, was enough to curdle Emma's perfectly coiffed hair.

No. The fourth Queen's position would be hers. She wouldn't just serve Mark, she would guide him. Her telepathic talents, honed through years of manipulating minds far less…divinely endowed…were a perfect tool for subtle influence. These assembled Markandans, steeped in their outdated customs, were ripe for conversion. She would turn them into Mark's most fervent disciples, a testament to her own devotion and a not-so-subtle nudge towards the coveted fourth queenship.

The sermon? A masterpiece. Nightcrawler, bless his blue, furry heart, was a pawn in her elaborate game. His impassioned – if slightly anatomically fixated – delivery would stir the religious fervor, and Emma, with a subtle mental nudge here, a strategically placed thought there, would ensure it all pointed towards Mark's divinity and the necessity of a very specific fourth Queen to shepherd his flock.

This wasn't just about power anymore. It was about proving herself. Emma Frost, the White Queen, the most loyal and resourceful Queen Mark could ever have. And maybe, just maybe, when the time was right, she could subtly steer the King's…ahem…divine member towards a more permanent residence in her own quarters. After all, a little telepathic encouragement never hurt anyone, did it? Especially not a god-king with a…generous…appendage.

Her harem, a carefully curated selection of human men and women, their ebony skin gleaming with sweat, writhed around her, their moans a low, primal counterpoint to the sermon. With a flick of her wrist, she sent a jolt of telepathic energy, a targeted burst of pleasure that ignited a fresh wave of ecstatic shudders. This was her masterpiece, a potent cocktail of religion, sexuality, and blind devotion to Mark, all sculpted by her own formidable mind.

Ororo was casting her arms in the air, sending her buoyant breasts jiggling like a pair of particularly full udders. "Harken unto me, oh loyal subjects! Through Mark's seed and that of his chosen Mutant studs, you will be blessed with greatness! Your children shall be strong and powerful, and their children even more so! They shall conquer the world and lead us all to a new age of peace and prosperity! For our Lord has spoken and this is his message: All merely men and women are created equal under mutantkind's rule!"

Her booming voice carried across the hall with ease, sending shivers through many. Many eyes were wet with tears as they listened raptly. There was something hypnotic about Ororo's tone, something irresistible. There was also the irresistible allure of her curves, the shapely expanse of her breasts and her plump posterior. Even the way she moved was sensual. Her hips swayed as she strode around the platform. Her long hair swished behind her. Her every movement was graceful and seductive.

Many eyes followed her movements with rapt attention, drinking in every inch of her perfect body. There was an undeniable hunger in their gazes, a mix of adoration and desire.

"Yes! Indeed I speak of child bearing! He calls upon the women of Markanda to serve Him in the most fundamental way – by becoming mothers! Mothers of mutant children! Mothers of the next generation! Mothers of a better future!"

A swell of voices erupted in response. Men and women alike gasped and cried out in amazement. Many looked around in confusion as others expressed their approval. A few were even on the verge of tears as they listened to his words.

Storm was continuing in her own poetic and grandiose way, speaking of their peoples' inevitable enemies, "So let them thunder, for we are lightning! King Mark, in his infinite wisdom, has chosen Markanda as the cradle of a new dawn. A land bathed in the radiance of the X-gene, a beacon of hope for a mutant future! For when the snows of winter descend upon the mountains of Markanda, we shall face them not with fear or dread but with joy and pride!"

We shall greet them not as a flock of sheep awaiting slaughter, but as the alluring sirens of temptation! Let the men of the world cower in their ignorance, let them tremble in their weakness! For here in Markanda we know the true glory of mutant manhood! For here we have seen it with our own eyes! For here we have beheld it with our own hands! Partaken of it with our poor stretched and battered holes!"

A strong cheer erupted from the crowd at Ororo's passionate rhetoric. Many nodded their heads enthusiastically while others clapped their hands excitedly. A few even shouted out words of encouragement to the orator.

Storm spread her arms wide in a welcoming gesture, gesturing to Kurt, her voice taking on a softer tone as she continued.

"And we invite you all, brothers and sisters, to experience the true blessing of our beloved King Mark's divine seed. We invite you to embrace him as we have done, to feel his power coursing through your veins, to gaze upon him with reverence and awe."

Storm paused for effect, allowing her words to sink in before adding, "As I have, and will continue to do so as his loyal consort. It is only through the power of his virility that Markanda exists as it does today, and it is only through our continued devotion that it shall remain the paradise we all strive for."

She raised one hand toward Nightcrawler, beckoning him forward. The blue-furred mutant stepped forward eagerly, his expression filled with fervent zeal.

"Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, in earth, as it is in heaven. This, my friends, is the will of King Mark! His kingdom is Markanda, and his will is the proliferation of the mutant gene! For in the ecstatic union of mutant and human flesh, a holy spark ignites!

Is not prayer a form of self-exploration, a reaching for the divine within? And is not the blessed orgasm, the very release of our earthly tension, a testament to the divine answering our pleas? Each throbbing thrust, each ecstatic gasp, a hymn to the glory of King Mark!

Let the doubters scoff! Let the weak-willed cling to their outdated notions of modesty! We, the chosen people of Markanda, shall embrace our glorious destiny! Let the men become tireless workers, their seed spilled in fertile fields to bring forth the bounty of grain! Let the women become vessels, their wombs swelling with the promise of a new generation, a generation strong, a generation mutant! For in the sacred act of procreation, in the ecstatic release of the divine spark, we find not just pleasure, but purpose! We find communion with King Mark, the embodiment of the divine, the stallion who shall mount Markanda and ride it to glory!

So go forth, my brothers and sisters! Spread the word! Let every fertile field become a temple of procreation! Let every groan of exertion be a prayer to King Mark! Let every mutant child born be a testament to his divine will! For in the glorious tapestry of mutant flesh, we weave the future of Markanda, a future blessed by the mighty member of our King!"

With a practiced ease, Ororo reached out, her hand closing around the bulbous tip. It pulsed beneath her touch, a testament to Kurt's fervor, both religious and decidedly carnal.

"Kurt," she said, her voice a low murmur, "Jean requests my presence. It seems our… King is experiencing a moment of doubt."

Kurt's sermon faltered for a moment, his eyes widening in surprise. "Doubt?" he boomed, his voice tinged with genuine concern. "But the glory of our God, King Mark, is undeniable! Has he not reshaped this very land to his will?"

Ororo squeezed his tool gently, a silent reminder of the persuasive power at her disposal. "Indeed he has," she purred. "But even Gods, it seems, are susceptible to… melancholy. Jean believes my touch… my counsel… might be of assistance."

A slow smile spread across Kurt's face, the implication clear. "By all means, Fraulein," he intoned, his voice regaining its earlier fervor. "Go, soothe the troubled brow of our King. And remind him of the glorious future that awaits, a future sculpted by his very will!"