Chapter 201: ‘Cleaning’ the White House. Albedo’s +18th.

You lean back in your chair, drink in your hand, and open a private channel on the Telepathy Web. Just Tatsumaki.

"You know, when you're sitting there with that furrowed brow like you're trying to solve calculus in your head, you're actually very pretty. The anger thing rarely works for you, but the quiet contemplation? That's the real look."

Tatsumaki's spoon freezes halfway to her mouth. Her green hair falls across her face as her head snaps up, her eyes darting around the galley before she realizes it's telepathic. Her cheeks flush crimson.

"Shut UP," she fires back, her mental voice shrill with embarrassment. "I'm not- I wasn't- what are you even-"

"And stop comparing yourself to your sister's figure. You've got your own appeal. Different doesn't mean less."

Her spoon clatters against the bowl. She stands abruptly, muttering something about needing air, and storms out of the galley. Kurumu watches her go with a knowing smile.

You push back from the table. "I've got ships to enchant. A lot of them. I'll be on the flight deck for at least a couple hours."

Albedo catches your eye across the room, her golden gaze warm with understanding. She knows what comes after.

You head to the bridge first, then take the Teleportation Circle over to the Icon's bridge where Nami sits in the captain's chair, orange hair swept back, charts spread before her. She glances up.

"Master. What brings you to my ship?"

"Need to open a Gate from here. Just passing through."

You send the Telepathy Web message to your cleanup crew: "Portal will be near the Icon's bridge. Nami, you're included if you want to help coordinate. I'll clear corpses once the ships are done."

Nami's response is immediate. "Included in what? What corpses?."

"In a hurry, ask Robin, C.C. and Kurumi." You step to the nearest open section of deck near the bridge access and cast Gate. The shimmering oval tears open between the Icon's railing and the West Wing's colonnade entrance, the famous white columns visible through the distortion. The contrast is jarring - pristine cruise ship deck versus blood-stained marble steps.

You turn back to the Anchorage's flight deck via Teleportation Circles and begin, leaving a confused Nami behind.

The flight deck, nothing but ocean, horizon, wind and clouds in all directions.

The White House comes first. You teleport the Spectral Hand, targeting the entire property boundary. Cleanliness and Repair for 6 hours, nothing fancy. The mana flows out in a steady stream, and you feel the spell take hold - dried blood dissolving, bullet holes knitting closed, shattered window glass disappearing from the ground, overturned furniture righting cleaned but still misplaced, warped iron gates straightening. The corpses remain an issue; you'll handle those with Telekinesis later.

Then the ships.

Sixty-three vessels across eight navies. You've done this too many times now: locate via Scrying, Teleport the Spectral hand, establish the Connection, lay the list for the advanced package, verify Interface confirmation, move to the next. British carriers HMS Queen Elizabeth and HMS Prince of Wales first, their massive hulls glowing with the morning sun. French Charles de Gaulle next, nuclear-powered, the energy conversion enchantment giving a surprising surplus. Japanese destroyers, Indian frigates, Australian landing ships, Canadian coastal patrol vessels, Brazilian corvettes.

Two hours dissolve into focused concentration. Your mana pool dips and recovers in waves as the network sustains you. Ship after ship lights up in your map, Interfaces pinging confirmation.

The last vessel -a Brazilian corvette, the Barroso- completes its enchantment cycle at 12:47pm. You exhale, stretching your shoulders, and check your mental tally. Sixty-three ships. Done.

The White House property should be nearly ready by now, Repair and Cleanliness working through the accumulated damage of a month of apocalypse. You'll need to handle the corpses manually.

You head for the bridge. The Teleportation Circle flashes beneath your feet as you step through, emerging onto the Icon's bridge where Nami sits in the captain's chair with an particular brand of smug satisfaction.

"Hey," she says without looking up from a manifest she's scribbling. "I've been busy."

You step to the viewport overlooking the main deck and stop dead.

A large group of mind-controlled women are moving in organized lines through the Gate, carrying everything from oil paintings to antique furniture. They work with mechanical efficiency, passing items hand-to-hand like bucket brigades, depositing historical artifacts into neat stacks on the Icon's pool deck. Carla Medina stands at the Gate entrance with a clipboard, directing traffic.

"Nami," you say slowly. "What exactly is happening?"

"Resource acquisition." She taps her pen against the manifest. "Robin identified the high-value items. C.C. located the library, first editions, some signed documents from the 1800s. I provided labor." She gestures at the procession. "They needed something to do anyway."

Through the Telepathy Web, Robin's presence carries barely contained pride. "Brad, the library is extraordinary. A complete set of historical agreements and settlements. A Jefferson Bible. I've cataloged forty-three items of incalculable historical value already."

C.C.'s lazy voice follows. "Found the wine cellar too. Some of it's still drinkable. You're welcome."

You cross through the Gate into the West Wing. The Repair and Cleanliness enchantments have done remarkable work, marble floors gleam, wallpaper hangs fresh, windows are either empty or whole. The bloodstains are gone. Bullet holes sealed. It looks like a museum rather than a charnel house.

Except for the corpses.

You find Hinata and Kurumi in the Oval Office itself, the famous Resolute Desk already wiped clean, its surface gleaming beneath afternoon light streaming through repaired windows. Hinata kneels with a cloth, dusting the desk's top with meticulous care.

"Goshujin-sama," she says, her lavender eyes bright. "We saved this room for last, as you requested."

Kurumu flutters her wings, perched on the windowsill. "A few others will want the same treatment. Something about the symbolism."

You nod, then step outside onto the South Lawn where the dead still litter the grass. Six zombies drag themselves across the corpse-strewn ground, their clouded eyes fixed on nothing.

Time to work.

You cast Telekinesis, wrapping invisible force around the nearest corpse, a bloated man in military fatigues. You lift him experimentally, then flick your wrist. The body sails over the White House roof in a lazy arc, disappearing beyond the north wall with a distant thud.

"Over the building works," you mutter.

The next corpse you grab by the torso and fling sideways, clearing the iron fence entirely. It arcs over Pennsylvania Avenue and crashes somewhere out of sight. Efficient.

The third method proves most satisfying. A zombie dragging itself across the lawn toward you gets introduced to a flying corpse at roughly forty miles per hour. The impact is gruesome yet impressive, both bodies crush into each other that you toss over the fence.

Nova's psionic presence flickers from the roof. "Show-off."

Sinon's quieter: "Perimeter's clear. No raiders in sight. You've got time."

You spend the next twenty minutes clearing every corpse from the Oval Office's sightlines, piling them beyond the walls where they won't be visible from the famous windows. The six zombies meet similar fates - launched, crushed, or simply hurled into the distance. By the time you finish, the South Lawn is pristine, the Rose Garden visible through cleaned hedges, and the view from the Oval Office windows shows nothing but manicured grass and the Washington Monument in the distance.

You return to the office, surveying your work. The Resolute Desk gleams. The carpet is fresh. Afternoon sunlight paints golden rectangles across the floor.

Perfect.

You open the Telepathy Web. "Stay clear of the Office. I'm starting something."

Nova's response carries amusement. "Something? Or a certain succubus in a white gown?"

Kurumu's giggle follows. "Albedo's going to be so thrilled she might actually squeal."

Nami's dry voice cuts in. "She's been checking the Gate regularly since she found it. I've seen her from the bridge."

You can't retort. They're right.

You step through the Gate back to the Icon, then passing a smirking Nami, take the Teleportation Circle to the Anchorage and down to the command center. The command center is quiet, Rika at her post with tactical displays glowing.

"Rika. Report to Webbs and Reeves that the international enchantments are complete. Where's Albedo?"

Rika glances up from her screens. "Crew quarters. Maria's been helping her with something for the last hour." A knowing smirk crosses her face. "Something involving fabric and hair pins."

You find Albedo in the small officer's quarters she's claimed, standing before a mirror. Maria adjusts the last pin in her white evening gown, the sweetheart neckline framing her collarbone, off-the-shoulder swags exposing pale skin. The gold spiderweb necklace catches light. Her horns curve elegantly above silver-white hair that falls in a controlled cascade. Wings folded tight against her back beneath the gown's open back.

She sees your reflection and her breath catches.

You step into her reach. Your hands find her waist through the gown's fitted fabric, pulling her back against your chest. Your lips press to her bare shoulder, tasting clean skin, feeling her shiver.

"My Albedo has earned another reward," you murmur against her shoulder. "And a punishment. Are you ready to accept both?"

Her wings twitch. Her voice comes steady despite the tremor running through her frame. "I am. What did I do?"

"I'll answer that in a minute."

You don't take the long route. No hallways, no Teleportation Circle, no Gate walk. You cast Teleport directly, pulling her against you as the world dissolves and reforms.

The Oval Office materializes around you both. Afternoon sun slants golden through tall windows, painting the Resolute Desk in warm light. The Washington Monument stands sentinel in the distance. The carpet is pristine. The room smells of nothing but clean wood and fresh air.

Albedo gasps, her hands gripping your forearms. Her golden eyes widen as she takes in the office, the desk, the windows, the sunset beginning to paint the sky amber and rose.

"You didn't," she whispers.

You press your lips to her neck, slowly, possessively. Trailing from her jaw down to the hollow of her throat, then back up along the other side. She tilts her head, offering more, her breathing shallow.

"My Albedo earned a reward," you say between kisses, "when she didn't pry into my errands this morning. When she trusted me without demanding explanation."

Your mouth finds the sensitive spot behind her ear. She whimpers.

"My Albedo earned a punishment when she was greedy for her eighteenth. When she couldn't wait one more day."

"I-" she starts, but your teeth graze her earlobe and the words dissolve.

"As punishment," you continue, your hands sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her tighter, "I'm going to lay My Albedo down submissively on this desk and savor My Albedo's virginity one last time for as long as I want."

Her wings flare involuntarily, spreading wide before folding back. Her thighs press together.

"And when I'm finally satisfied with My Albedo's punishment, I'll reward My Albedo for as long as she wants. This once. In any and every position she wants." Your hand slides up her spine to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into perfect-black long hair. "On the most important desk this world had to offer."

You feel her pulse hammering beneath your lips.

"Is she ready to begin her punishment?"

Albedo turns in your arms. Her golden eyes are luminous, pupils blown wide, lips parted. The composed strategist, the governance architect, the woman who calculates every angle - stripped bare by three sentences and a dozen kisses.

"Yes," she breathes. "Please. Begin."

Your fingers find the zipper at her back, drawing it down slowly, tooth by tooth. The white evening gown loosens around her frame, the sweetheart neckline falling away from her collarbone. You peel the fabric forward over her shoulders, letting it slide down her arms, past the swell of her breasts barely contained by sheer white lingerie, down the curve of her waist and hips, until it pools at her ankles.

Albedo steps out of the gown, standing before you in nothing but sheer white panties, the gold spiderweb necklace, and her long white gloves. Her wings fold tight against her bare back. Her horns catch the dying sunset light streaming through the Oval Office windows, painting amber streaks across her pale skin.

You guide her backward until her thighs meet the Resolute Desk. She sits, then lies back as you press her down, her black hair fanning across polished oak. Her golden eyes track your every movement as you hook your fingers into the waistband of her panties and draw them down her legs, revealing the neat strip of black hair between her thighs.

"Punishment begins," you murmur.

Your mouth descends.

You kiss her inner thigh first, then higher, then your tongue parts her labia and finds her clit. Albedo's back arches off the desk immediately, her gloved hands gripping its edges. You work her slowly, deliberately, building her toward the edge with patient strokes of your tongue, circling, sucking, flattening against her swollen bud, then pulling back just as her thighs begin to tremble.

"No-" she gasps.

You wait three seconds. Then resume.

The second edge comes faster. Her hips buck against your mouth, her wings spreading involuntarily, knocking a pen holder off the desk. You stop again. Her frustrated moan echoes through the office.

"Please-"

"Not yet."

The third edge makes her cry out as you run your fingers through her feathers, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer even as you withdraw. The fourth turns her voice raw. By the fifth, the sun has dropped below the horizon and the office glows in twilight purple, and Albedo is a trembling, sweat-sheened mess on the presidential desk, her massive breasts heaving, nipples stiff, thighs slick with her arousal.

"I'm enjoying this a little too much," you tell her, licking your lips. "I might not want to finish your punishment at all."

Her golden eyes snap to yours. Conflict wars across her face, she wants to beg you to take her, wants to surrender completely, but some part of her also wants to give you whatever you desire, even if that means more torment. Her lips part. No words come.

You stand and undress slowly. Shirt first. Then pants. Her eyes track every inch of revealed skin, lingering on your chest, your abdomen, then dropping lower as your boxers come off.

Your cock stands fully erect. You step between her spread thighs and lay the shaft against her stomach, the head reaching past her navel. You tap it lightly against her skin, once, twice, watching her eyes widen as she measures the distance.

"That's how deep I'll be inside you," you say, poking her stomach next to your tip.

Your fingers slide between her legs, rubbing her slick labia, parting them, feeling the heat and wetness pooling there. She shudders.

"Congratulations on your eighteenth. It's time, My Albedo. How should I enter you?" You meet her eyes. "One tiny thrust at a time, slowly claiming deeper? All the way in with one push, then waiting for you to adjust? Or do you want me to slowly stir my way down your insides for your first time?"

Her chest heaves. Her wings lie flat against the desk. The gold spiderweb necklace rises and falls with each breath.

"I'm not going to just ride you," you clarify. "That comes later. Plenty of it. This is the first. You choose your special moment."

Albedo's voice comes barely above a whisper, wrecked and raw from repeated edging and climaxes.

"Stir me," she breathes. "Slowly. I want to feel every... every inch of you claiming me. I want to know exactly where you are inside me at every moment." Her gloved hands reach for your hips. "Please, Master. Stir me open."