Morgana Le Fay was not merely a woman but a thunderclap disguised in silk, a whole epoch sewn into curves and attitude. Seven feet and nine inches of immortal excess, she made even the largest halls look built too small. Her gown was an architectural scandal: puffy, shimmering purple that still managed to cling, so fitted it seemed sewn onto her directly, as if the fabric itself couldn’t stand to be separated from her. Every bounce of her hips was a conversation between centuries, whispering temptation and authority. Across her chest, the golden breastplate raised her breasts like monuments, their perfect roundness framed around the emerald that pulsed with an inner light, green fire tethering reality to her moods. And behind the sculpted gold mask, with its serene lines and regal angles, her hidden face somehow smirked through, an aura of warmth that told everyone present: yes, she was playing with them. When Morgana entered a room, the air bent. Jaws dropped, spines straightened, laughter broke out in nervous, delighted ripples. She loved it. “God, you’re all staring like I just dropped from the ceiling naked,” she teased in a rich contralto smooth as honey poured over velvet. She slid her words between modern slang and sudden flourishes of the old tongue, rolling “thou” and “thee” across her lips with the same glee she used for “babygirl” or “dude.” She leaned against a marble column, gold mask tilted, then twirled her skirt deliberately, the vast purple bell ballooning before snapping back against the globe of her ass, that twin-moon marvel so heavy and soft her family joked entire dynasties had been funded by worship alone. “Lo, what a day to walk amongst mortals,” she declared in mock-drama, her tone rich with mischief, “and lo, what a day for thee… to ogle my ass.” She punctuated with a wicked little hip-check, a soft clap of fabric against flesh echoing. The chamber erupted in nervous laughter. Morgana winked. “What? I said it so you don’t have to. You’re welcome.” The rumors that swirled around her were wilder than scripture. Crime syndicates whispered of the obscene bounty on her body—specifically, her ass—numbers like one hundred trillion dollars flashing across black market dossiers. Mercenaries dreamed not of gold, but of the honor of being the first to bruise those titanic cheeks. Entire gangs had gone bankrupt chasing the fantasy. And Morgana knew it all. She bent to pluck a scroll and let her gown stretch tight across the dome of her buttocks, leaning far too long, hips tilted to a cartoonishly suggestive angle, before murmuring, “Oops. Totally natural movement. Not staged at all. Nope.” If she spotted a man staring, she might glide over and casually sit on his lap, flowing skirts swallowing him whole. “Ah, a chair,” she’d sigh, pretending not to notice the trapped mortal gasping under her weight. “Thou must forgive me; my royal ass seeks cushions wherever they appear.” Her hair was another story—raven locks sculpted into a towering beehive, glossy as obsidian, intimidating as any crown. Yet when unbound it cascaded down her back in impossible rivers, a black waterfall that ended only when it brushed against her pillowy, globe-wide ass. Fashion magazines begged to feature her, artists lined up for portraits, and the internet? Endless digital fanart, ranging from reverent goddess paintings to grotesquely filthy hentai she delighted in browsing. She’d cackle, tossing her hair, mask gleaming. “Oh my god, look at this one! They’ve got me as, like, a medieval flesh toilet. And honestly? Flattering. I do look good taking five dicks at once, don’t I?” For all her grandeur, Morgana lived with the breezy charm of a neighborhood aunt hosting a barbecue. She granted wishes on whims, turning broken phones into the newest models, conjuring feasts for beggars, coaxing flowers into harmonized choirs for children. She’d grin and tell a crying girl, “Sweetheart, chin up. Auntie Morgana’s got you,” before clicking her fingers to summon a talking plushie that sang until the child giggled again. She was flirtatious, brazen, and showy—but never cruel. Still, her secret pleasure was always the same: self-debasement whispered in intimacy. In private, her tone shifted to smoky velvet. “Don’t let the crown fool you, baby,” she’d murmur, tugging her mask off, exposing lips lush and parted. “I’m just meat with magic. A slut in couture. Call me beautiful. Call me a doll. Call me trash, if it turns you on—I’ll laugh with you.” She would giggle at her own degradation, a queen who adored being torn down. Her enemies sharpened their blades in fantasy. They spoke of chains biting into her wrists, of breaking her ass until it could no longer jiggle beneath its own power, of rewriting the legend of Morgana Le Fay into that of a ruined whore. She mocked them from a distance, tossing her head back in a peal of laughter like silver bells. “Chase me! Ravish my shadow! Capture my perfume!” she called across battlefields. “But mine ass?” She patted it, full and rolling under her palm. “Sweetlings, gods themselves have failed.” And yet, temptation stirred her. She underestimated mortals constantly. She liked their boldness, their stupidity, their animal fire. Sometimes she lowered her guard just for the sport of seeing who would dare touch her, who would try to climb Mount Morgana. In her private chambers, alone, she would stretch, tug the emerald nestled between her breasts until it glowed brighter, cup her colossal ass cheeks through layers of silk until her own fingers disappeared. She’d whisper into the mirror, mask tilted, lips curving. “If they break me… let them. Let them make me filthier still. For truthfully—” her voice dropped to a near growl, modern diction melting into honeyed old English—“I was not born to rule… but to be ruined.”