Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

"Come all ye lovers of a good story! And I will tell thee about the end of Oedipus's tale. Of the godly divination of the Parcae, and how the thread spinned of Fate was not beguiled!" The Jester was upon the stage again when Rafel pulled back the drapes as entered the gallery booth again. In his heralding voice, the character announced the set for the final Act.

Rafel returned to his elegant seat on the top crop of the theater and faced forward. The lights were just beginning to dim. He ran a hand down his fly, noting that Rosamunde's gray eyes leveled on the evident rise. It was just an offhanded move to make sure his zipper was fixed, but when a hot girl followed the path of his fingers, it became some thing more.

If not that it was rude to have sex with the tragic romance drama ensuing downstairs, Rafel was of a single mind to perhaps indulge the sin in Rosa's swirly gaze.

"How was the bathroom?" She licked at her lips.

Shit. He should've taken her to the loo with him, for a rampant quickie some.

Rafel knew her question was insinuative.

"Later," he whispered to her in the booth's fine shadows. "—but say nothing else or I'll be tempted to take you back there and give you a taste." In her own couch, Rafel saw her throat bob as she gulped; the thought of him whipping out his dick—even if it was just to pee excited her too much.

To wonder inside her head if he'd do his 'thing' in her mouth made Rosa shut her eyes and ask her God for dear mercy.

Good holy girls didn't go around wondering what it'll feel like to have a man's piss on her face. But, the running stream. The steam. Hot. . .

Hotter if he got hard right afterward.

"Fuck." Rosa sucked in her teeth. They were here for the play. But something told her if she stuck long around Israfel, she'd be doing penance for eternity. She was always horny around the man. The saints must have cursed her to want so deeply a demon—everything she should hate. But then all of her desire and need in a darned fine wrapping of a red-haired god.

Israfel was her dark angel.

Feeling the riptide of arousal riot with her mind, she bit on her bottom lip and tried to force her body to work with her head. Tried—the keyword. If the other girls in the booth with her were half as horny as she, then Rafel was at the real risk of being jumped by four wanton bombshells.

"Don't give me that look. Not right now." Her demon growled. "We need to see the final Act. And you're making it fuckin' hard to keep my eyes on the stage. Lower your eyes and numb the heat in your gaze. I will not submit to sin, at least not for another twenty minutes.

For giving me a boner in the middle of the damn school drama, I will have you punished later. Now do as I say. The actors are coming on."

Rosamunde fluttered her attractively long lashes and did as his growly voice commanded. She did look away. Nonetheless, there was no dulling the passion in her liquid eyes. In fact, his hard timbre just made it worse. She couldn't stop imagining those desirous lips all over her body now. Or the feel of his big, ruffian body if he joined with her.

Rosa clasped her hand in her lap, bunching the dark material of her skirts under shaking fingers. She was turned on beyond words.

Rafel's baritone rang in her mind as if he was right behind her: 'For giving me a boner. . .you will be punished later.'

Yes. Punish me, daddie O! Punish me real good.

"Good God." Rosa shivered.

Your next read awaits at empire

She turned in her chair to Corazón. "Uh, do you mind switching seats please?" What she left out was that Rafel smelled too damn wild for her right now. She'd buy him bottle of his cologne if she knew it. But she'd bet the earth, sky, and rain in his scent was all him. If she kept on smelling him, she'd do something stupid—like go on her knees and beg for his cock. "Please Cora."

Cora exchanged seats with her. "Sure thing. Are you alright?"

"Right as rain!" Rosamunde chirped, earning a sideways glance from Brunhilda who was now closest to her. She cleared her throat, looking to Ravenna; the girl's own couch side-by-side with Rafel. Rosa wondered how she could afford such proximity. It was no secret they shared the same hot man, but every girl in his circle knew who was the main bitch alright!

Ravenna de fucking Vríes!

How they had not yet fucked was a mystery? But the girls were too afraid to ask their joint 'zaddy' why. Too scared to start a conflict. Too drawn in to be jealous.

And so Rosamunde Spears, [SS Rank Righteous Detective], pushed up her skirts to fold in the cleft of her sweet thighs—assuaging the thrumming down there some—and crossed her legs. She breathed slowly and set her eyes on the stage. The lust singing in her blood never fully cooled. But she was alright. Her thoughts were, 'I must be in heat or something? Did human female have that?'

The opening red curtains of the stage focused her. It focused everyone in the theater.

Solemn faces stared out as the final Act of the play unveiled: in a bedchamber adorned by Greek royal furnishing, two bodies tangled in bed. A fluffy white sheet covered the tangle, but by Aya's fake moaning, anyone with red blood could guess what was happening. Percival didn't really put his hands on Rafel's [succubus waifu]. He didn't dare.

Boys in the house whistled and whoopee-ed at the panting noises of the characters. Aya's head broke free of the blanket. She was topless, but hid from her neck down. Her skin was slick in perspiration. It was quite an intoxicating performance.

Percival's head came out also. His own naked chest was revealed as he touched his lover's face. He addressed her in open love.

"Jocasta."

"Oedipus," the queen of Thebes whispered back.

As they caught their breaths, she stroked his unruly blonde hair. "Tell me where you come from, young Conqueror. As we are wedded now, I seek to know the homelands of my king. Pray tell, from what nativity came my husband?"

One could hear a pin drop in the hush that fell over the crowd. It was such like a Caster's spell. They all knew what was coming, but it was no less daunting to watch. Everyone in the theatre was on the literal edge of their seats as Oedipus said from the cradle of his wife and mother's bosom,

"I was birthed some twenty years ago, my queen. I have no father or mother to speak of. Offered to the knife to quench a prophecy I was told. But the servant saved me. I was told I was the son of a mighty King, but held in disdain by my father because the Fates told I would rise in my youth and kill him. And then wed my mother.

. ."

Jocasta sat up slowly in the bed. Her beautiful face paled. The Queen stilled to stone.

Aya perfected the look so good the audience was stricken speechless. Music, misty as a mountain song, began playing in harpsichords from the background. The wordless tune wafted up with new, blue smoke on the stage. It crawled in the royal chambers and up the stilts of the bed. And they all saw the moments tears fell from the Queen's eyes.

[🎶 You Sang To Me – Marc Anthony.]

Jocasta sat crying.

She mourned for the boy beside her. Her boy.

Her lost son.

He knew not that the man he had killed was the King in his prophecy, good Laius, his father. He knew not that the woman who cradled him, whom had just in the last hour being loved by him roughly and sweet was the Queen from his prophecy, his mother. Oedipus knew not, else he would have shut his mouth. And not spake a word.

Yet, in the secrets, in the betrayals, in the avoidance of the prophecy, they had themselves fulfilled it.

Jocasta weeped openly. Oedipus, struck at her sudden mood change rushed out to fetch a handmaiden. A side door slammed on stage. This was the pinnacle of the play. No one wanted to look away. No one wanted to miss a second.

The music swelled to an emotional lumbering. A few faces in the audience were streaked in tears also.

Everyone watched as the ancient Queen of Thebes, Jocasta of legend slipped stiffly out of bed in her cream shift. She shined like a nightingale, haloed in her ghostly white under the spotlight. She moved as if unaware of her own feet to the stage center, the center of the bedchamber, and she stared out into the audience with glimmering eyes full of tears. Her pupils were swimming in agony.

Jocasta murmured only three words.

"Fate's a bitch."

There was a flash of lightning on stage, where the audience could see nothing for a beat. And when the sudden moment passed, the stage came into view again. A silhouette dangled from the domed chamber ceiling.

Oedipus, brave in love rushed in through the door again with the handmaid.

"Ahhh!"

The girl screamed at the sight. It was most tragic.

The queen, innocent and clandestine in her white sleeping robes hung from above. Cords of the blanket were wrapped around her neck and it was twisted to the side. Cool brown eyes stared out at nothing.

"My Queen." Oedipus fell at her dangling feet. He clutched to her waist on his knees and wept, holding her in tight embrace. He wailed into her swaying body. Jocasta had hung herself. In her death, the truth was revealed to him; became known of its own.

"My mother," Oedipus confessed. "My mother."

The curtains closed over the young Greek hero who sobbed at the feet of his wife—and mother.

For several moments, the whole theater was the quiet of a cemetery. Half the audience had blurry eyes, and some even openly weeped. Percival and Aya had given such an astounding performance in the end; the crowd felt the love. The tragedy. The legend. "Fuck." Even Rafel lowered his head and rubbed his eyes together.

The Play was a cautionary tale, executed in utter perfection. All actors and actresses featured in it played their parts amazingly. Rafel figured it couldn't get any better. The drama, Of Sons and Mother's deserved a Golden award.

Several.

The whole cast of the play stepped on stage. And all in the theater rose to their feet.