Page 63 of Nine Inch Nasty
Delaney's Journal
Holy fuck.
Hey, journal. You were looking a little lumpy, so I ironed you out a bit. Hope it didn’t hurt too bad.
I’m sorry about those lewd pictures one of my mates drew on your back page— I made them go down on me for like an hour straight for the transgression. It was a really rough punishment to dole out.
Today marks our first anniversary of being officially mated before our family and the goddess, and let me tell you, that woman that thought she was ready on her mating day has become even stronger.
I’ll be getting my degree in a few months, and even though I’ve had to put a lot of late nights into homework that I often times loathed with the fire of a thousand suns, I fucking did it. I have not only completed a successful year as queen, but I haven’t murdered any of my 11 mates out of frustration, so I checked off my biggest goal. I’ll let you figure out which of those two line items did it.
Hemlock is pretty damn giddy to have the current queen graduate from there, and they’ve gotten a lot of funding from private foundations because of it, which I think will help a lot of people get an education.
We’ve eradicated most of the men in our population, and women are now in control of everything. Don’t worry, we keep the men in petting zoos for funsies.
Oh my gods, I’m obviously kidding.
I would never…be able to accomplish that in only a year.
Ha! Got you again.
I was told, by multiple sources, that I wasn’t allowed to move in that direction, or whatever that means, so I still have to work with men on a regular basis, unfortunately.
My mates are an exception, and they’ve continued to be incredible partners, but like I wouldn’t hate it if they had were forced to go to a men’s camp a few times a week so I could have the house to myself, you know?
Girl power.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Delaney's Journal
Damnit.
They finally did it, Journal. They caught me off guard during my heat cycle and fucking put a godsdamned baby in my belly.
That’s right, my eggo is preggo.
Don’t worry, I’m actively smacking my head against the wall for writing such stupid shit down in your pages.
You’re welcome for the new spine glue job, by the way. I noticed you were looking a bit loose. Don’t worry, it happens to the best of us. That’s what the creams are for.
Journal, I’ve been queen for a few years now, and I thought that it was hard, but how the hell am I supposed to keep actual, real live babies alive?
I think my men need to be knocked down a peg or two, because they fucked me so good that I’m apparently not only pregnant with one baby, but three of them, because why the fuck wouldn’t I have to do something obscene?
I’m going to be the size of a damn bus by the time these kids are ready to come, and I can’t wait. I’m only a few months in right now, but the guys already have our entire nursery planned out and have picked out all the furniture and ordered it and everything.
I’m writing to you from one of the three rocking chairs they built, and even though my stomach is only slightly rounder than normal right now, there are babies in there that are going to get big and then shove their way out of my vagina and just be so fucking cute I won’t be able to stand it.
I have no idea which of my bastard mates had the super sperm, but I’m sure they’re making it some sort of contest to see who was the one that made it past everything that was supposed to keep me unpregnant.
I’m not mad, though. I’m really happy, Journal. The realm is doing so damn well, Shelly went and bartered her soul to Lucifer in a plea deal, and I’ve been assured that she’s having an incredible time down there.
All of our parents take turns visiting, and I really do feel like I’m living a dream life. Wil’s parents tried to contact him to congratulate him on the babies, thinking they’d get to grandparent them, but he’s been no contact since the whole dildo at church incident. We’ve got so many grandparents around though, and Wil has been adopted by practically all of them, so we’re good.
Damnit. I just ran out of peanut butter for my cheese cubes. I’ve got to go, Journal. Take care of yourself, you hear?
Chapter Twenty-Six
