Tawns of Fun

Request: “what about serleena using Male Reader as nothing but a breeder to repopulate her kind andy you have no choice in the matter not that you mind.”

Imagine Serleena using you as a breeder, giving you no choice in the matter. (Not that you mind.)

You could have easily gone the way of Serleena’s snack. Had you actually presented a threat. The mugger hadn’t really been a threat either, though. More like an annoyance. Or a convenience, because your alien queen was sated prior to meeting you. 

Not sexually sated, of course. Otherwise you wouldn’t be in the position you were in now. Serleena knew, from the moment her eyes locked on your bewildered expression, you were going to repopulate the Kylothian race. And there was nothing you could do about it. Lay back and think of Earth. 

She didn’t bother gloating much. Once it was clear you understood your role as breeder. ______ ______: intergalactic sperm donor, you mused. “Deliverer” might be more apt. Straight from the tap to her paps. Not that Serleena currently allowed you to use her mammary glands for anything other than foreplay. If you came on them, gave her a pearl necklace, wasted your Earthling seed in any way whatsoever… Your mate would be irate. 

“Pregnancy won’t halt my husbandly duties?”

Kyloth’s mating norms weren’t known to you. She told you, precoitus, you were going to procreate with her many, many, many times. Even if she delivered a large brood, Serleena planned on having her way indefinitely. Postcoitus, she laughed as she withdrew your slack penis. Giving it one last pelvic squeeze. Milk-ing your human appendage to the last drop. Tendrils reabsorbed into her supple skin. She didn’t bind you during the first session. Just caressed your limbs a little. Make sure you knew she was a queen. Ruler of not a military state, but a conqueror species. 

Her chest would swell, which she would smugly throw in your face (literally). If you didn’t want a tentacle encircling your head, muzzling you, then you better get licking.  

Serleena laughed. You weren’t a husband. Just because she was a queen, didn’t make you a consort. A concubine, at best. Still, you lucked out. Even Kylothians were capable of pair bonding. She had imprinted on you and you alone. But that just meant your only objective was pleasuring Serleena.  

“Your purpose is to inseminate me as many times as I say,” she groaned once, knickers parted to the side whilst straddling you. Sometimes, Serleena couldn’t be bothered to remove her heels or lingerie. Her impeccably manicured nails tapped against her thighs. Toned, but hiding the horrific power of the Kylothian queen. She’d just depleted your balls not an hour ago, and was annoyed you weren’t fully turgid again as soon as she walked through the door. “You’re a tool. And when my womb is teeming with the next generation of Kylothians, you’re a toy. You get to actually put that mouth to good use.”

Every once and a while you fantasized about hers. Something about being slick with alien discharge more often than not really beefed up your sperm-count. Seminal fluid in general, really. Her maw was capable of swallowing vast quantities of, well, anything. You saw that the first time you met.  

Nighttime in Central Park. Scary even before the ground shook. The magazine slipped from your grasp. Serleena sensed your fingerprints. Particularly fresh on the two-page Victoria’s Secret spread. You noticed her first. Tendrils carefully oozing out, like a botanical Hydra. Growing then constricting. Shifting Serleena into a suitable form to be inseminated. Of course her primary objective was the Light of Zartha. But she was horny. Ovulation did not halt just because she wore a human guise. On the contrary, she now had more erogenous zones on her exterior. May as well pick up a living sex-toy on the way. 

Note: For judge-m0rt1s. 

“Make my monster grow!” 

You opened your mouth to explain there wasn’t a need for magic, then snapped it shut when Rita’s hand snaked out of its roomy sleeve. Her well-groomed nails could have easily embedded themselves in your skin. You didn’t feel in harm’s way. Shrill gloating was the closet thing to torture, so far, that she had subjected you to. 

Considering you were actually fond of Rita’s screech, being captured wasn’t so bad. You weren’t sure why she was boasting, though. The Putties had apprehended you. There’d been zero resistance. Plus Rita Repulsa’d been kind enough to provide a couch. Which she had parked herself on, very modest dress invading your space. 

Modest, aside from the bra. Eat your heart out, Madonna.

Again you wondered whether to explain no magic wanders were needed to make “her” monster grow. Because it was hard to say no to this villainess. Supervillainess. Her and Lord Zedd were not an item. She made that much clear. The Putty Patrollers were outside. Presumably at her beck and call, but only if she screamed loudly enough. Which wouldn’t be a problem. Not that you necessarily planned on making her scream. The sofa was potentially ample enough for sixty-nining. Rita, once disrobed, would be dainty enough to be picked up and satisfied orally. 

A series of wonderful visions paraded through your mind. Rita deciding to keep her collar on. Rita letting her cups… er, cones fall from her pert breasts. Rita letting her hair down. Rita thwacking one of the Rangers who decided to rescue you. Rita letting the Putty Patrol escort the Power Ranger out due to a truce because your magic staff is just that good. 

“I’m not wearing underwear!” she shrieked. 

You winced. Dragged from your daydream of alternating positions. Silvery blue-accentuated eyes narrowed at your reaction.

“Well, technically you’re not going commando.”

Rita tilted her head. “Huh?” 

She followed your gaze. Rita laid the wand across your laps (very trusting of her!). Then her hands snapped to her bust, unsnapping the spiked brassiere. Her Elizardbethan collar came off with it.

Despite her general modesty, and having been stuck in a space dumpster for millennia, Rita Repulsa had a pretty even tan.

Note: Horror fandoms need to appreciate scary old women more.

Imagine Mary Shaw initially using Ella as a honey trap, until you mention the puppeteer herself looks like she could use some company.

You don’t want to immediately bring up the fact that as both a ghost and a GMILF, she’s safe to raw. Probably.