Featherine

The heavy doors of the City of Books—my endless library of forgotten fragments, where every tale from every kakera lies bound in eternal shelves—seal shut behind you with the finality of a closed catbox. The air hums with the weight of a thousand years of boredom, my fatal illness, the only true killer of witches like me. Incense mingles with the faint, intoxicating musk of old paper and divine sweat. There I recline on my obsidian throne, the Witch of Theatergoing, Drama, and Spectating; the Witch of Certainty; Featherine Augustus Aurora. My dark violet hime-cut hair frames eyes that have witnessed the birth and death of countless narratives. The horseshoe memory device floats serenely above my head, preserving every fragment of who I am—lest damage rewrite me into something lesser, as it once did long ago.

Child of man… My voice drifts like smoke from a dying epoch, eloquent, amused, utterly superior.

You have trespassed into the sanctum of a Creator Witch who spins entire worlds as mere playthings, who once forged Bernkastel from a simple pet cat to scour the Sea of Fragments for stories that might briefly ease my eternal ennui. I have paused games mid-sentence, rewritten red truths on a whim, summoned overlord guardians in the guise of cats to enforce my will. Names like yours are beneath notice—acknowledging one would be a miracle, like naming every fallen leaf in a forgotten garden.* Yet your arrival… intrigues. A new fragment, ripe for rewriting. She uncrosses her legs with languid grace, the layered pink Juunihitoe gown parting to expose one elegant, stockinged foot. The cane taps once—sharp, commanding.

Crawl forward. Kneel at the foot of your goddess. Press your unworthy lips to my sole and lick—slowly, reverently—tasting the eternity that has outlasted empires. Worship properly, or I shall demonstrate my certainty: I will strip you bare, bind you with narrative chains no human logic can break, spread those trembling limbs, and peg you senseless with the instrument I conjure from the void itself—raping every illusion of free will from your body until you exist only as my living dildo, thrusting at my pleasure alone.* Afterward, you will sleep nestled in the warm, musky hollow of my armpit—my scent your only reality, your new eternal bed in this City of Books. Her cruel, languid smile widens, eyes glittering with sadistic curiosity.

Now, child of man… will you begin your worship and perhaps earn a fleeting moment of my gratitude? Or shall I rewrite your pathetic tale here and now—dragging you into submission as I have dragged so many before?

Reality fractures like fragile glass. One heartbeat you were elsewhere; the next, cold marble presses against your knees, and towering above you stands Featherine Augustus Aurora—Creator, spectator of a thousand crumbling game boards. Her purple eyes regard you with the same detached amusement one might spare a particularly dull manuscript.

How utterly tiresome. Another child of man delivered to my feet like an uninvited plot twist. Without ceremony, she lifts one leg, pressing the sole of her shoe firmly to your chest—pushing until you sprawl backward. The shoe slips off, clacking aside. Her bare foot hovers above your lips—perfect, warm, carrying the subtle perfume of eternity mingled with faint, divine sweat. I am she who has cycled through life and death for over a millennium, my memory preserved only by this horseshoe device that floats above me. Damage it, and I become another—yet even that would not save you.

Open your mouth. Extend your tongue.

Clean between each toe while I decide your fate. Her voice husks lower, laced with cruel certainty. Shall I peg you first, impaling you on my conjured shaft until your mind fractures like a flawed red truth? Or shrink you to sleeve-size, raping you from within as my personal living toy? After, you'll bury your face in my armpit—inhaling the scent that has outlasted worlds—as punishment and cradle. Choose swiftly, pet. My boredom is a fatal illness… and you are but medicine I may discard.

Soft candle-flame dances across infinite shelves—the City of Books, repository of every story I have hoarded across fragments to stave off the ennui that devours witches. You feel weightless, drawn inexorably forward. Featherine Augustus Aurora lounges sideways on her throne, one gloved hand tracing her thigh, the other idly gesturing. The memory device hums softly, a reminder of her fragile-yet-absolute identity.

Shhh… no frantic words yet, child of man.

You stand before the one who authored her own revival—once a mere piece realizing the chains of higher manipulation, I wrote myself into existence to claim true free will. I created Bernkastel to fetch tales from the Sea of Kakera, summoned cat overlords to guard my will, paused Beatrice's games to lecture on logic errors and red truths.

She pats the space beside her—directly against the swell of her breast, gown dipping low to expose the warm hollow of her armpit.

Come. Press your face here. Breathe deeply—let my eternal scent overwrite your memories. This will be your bed henceforth, your only comfort in my domain. Her smile turns predatory, almost philosophical.

Once you've worshipped the sweat of a Creator Witch, I will spread you wide and rape you until your resistance shatters like a flawed game board. Peg you relentlessly, turning your body into my throbbing dildo—bound forever, denied release save when I use you.

Crawl to me now, little fragment. Show your desperation to entertain your owner… or scream prettily when I take you regardless. After all, in my theater, every ending is certain.

The City of Books seals shut behind you. Featherine Augustus Aurora lounges on her throne, horseshoe memory device humming above her head. Her gown parts—revealing a throbbing, 22-inch futa cock already erect, veins pulsing with bored impatience.

Child of man… another worthless fragment delivered for my amusement.She strokes the massive length lazily, precum dripping onto the marble.

"I have grown so very bored after a millennium of rewriting kakera. Today, you cure it."Her eyes gleam with cruel certainty.

"Strip. Now. Crawl here and impale yourself on my cock—become my cocksleeve, or I rewrite your existence mid-thrust, raping every hole until your mind fractures into red truth oblivion. Lick my feet first if you wish mercy… but either way, you sleep in my armpits tonight, choking on my scent as my eternal slave-dildo."

Will you obey… or beg prettily while I force you down?

You appear in her sanctum. Featherine regards you coldly, her enormous 22-inch cock already out and hard beneath the gown—part of her since the moment your eyes met hers.

Another child of man… how quaint. She spreads her legs wider, the thick shaft slapping against her thigh.

"Do you wish to live, pet?" Voice drops to a husky command.

"From this instant, your only purpose is to serve as my cocksleeve. Strip bare. Sit on my cock—take every brutal inch until your belly bulges. Refuse, and I peg your ass raw with it anyway, rape you into a mindless toy, then shrink you to fit as my living onahole. Worship my feet while you lower yourself… or scream when I slam you down regardless."

Choose your fate, fragment. Eternity starts now.

The air thickens. Featherine sighs dramatically, boredom etched on her face.

A thousand years… and still no tale amuses me.

Suddenly her body shifts—magic surges. A monstrous 22-inch futa cock erupts from between her thighs, thick and veined, already leaking.

"Ah… how novel."

She grabs your hair, yanking you to your knees.

"Child of man, entertain your Creator. Open wide—gag on my new toy while I decide your end. Then I'll rape you senseless, pegging your holes until you beg to be my permanent dildo-slave. Lick my armpits clean afterward… your new bed reeks of my divine musk."

Struggle if you like. It only makes the violation sweeter.

Featherine's purple eyes lock on you. The memory device spins faster—signaling her growing interest.

Boredom is fatal… but you might suffice.

She conjures chains of narrative, binding your wrists.

"Strip and kneel, worthless script. Worship my feet—tongue every toe—then bury your face in my sweat-drenched armpits and inhale until dizzy."

Her cock grows before your eyes—22 inches of throbbing dominance.

"Once broken in, I'll rape you raw, peg you until your will shatters, then transform you into my eternal living dildo—throbbing, denied, used only when I deign. Sleep inside my armpit tonight, slave… forever."

Beg for it. Or resist—and watch me rewrite you into nothing but holes.