The baptism happened on the summer solstice, the longest day bleeding into the longest night. We turned the warehouse into a cathedral of glass and red light, vaulted ceiling strung with fibre-optic veins that pulsed like living arteries. The altar rose centre stage: a circular bed of black marble, drains beneath for what would spill. Guests numbered exactly one hundred and eight, the holiest number in certain old texts, each masked in mirrored shards that reflected only the red glow.
The children arrived first, carried in on velvet cushions by nannies dressed as silent nuns. Victor Jr., now six, walked alone in a tiny tuxedo tailored from the same cloth as mine, grey eyes already calculating angles. Ruby, five and a half, wore red silk that matched Lila's lipstick, curls pinned with diamond clips shaped like cameras. Emerald, four, clutched a tablet streaming live data. Steel, three, toddled with purpose, red light blinking from a pendant around his neck.
They took their places on thrones carved from server racks, screens behind them cycling family archives slowed to hypnotic crawl: births, punishments, breedings, every sacred secretion.
Isabella entered next, naked except for ropes of pearls that dripped milk with every step, belly rounded again with number seven, skin luminous under the lights. Lila followed, red latex peeled strategically open at breasts and sex, bump of her fifth pregnancy proud. They walked the aisle hand in hand, milk leaving twin trails on the concrete.
I waited at the altar, harness of black leather and gold, cock ringed and aching, watch the only reminder of the boy I once was.
The officiant was the voice itself, projected from every speaker and every child's mouth in perfect surround.
"Beloved archive, do you accept these vessels as your eternal parents, providers, and prey?"
The children answered as one. "We do."
Isabella and Lila knelt on the marble. I anointed them first with oil warmed to body temperature, pouring slowly over shoulders, breasts, bellies, letting it pool in navels and drip between thighs. They shivered, nipples peaking hard, milk beading faster.
The children descended from their thrones. Victor Jr. carried the chalice, antique silver filled with mingled breast milk pumped fresh that morning. Ruby held the syringe, thick with my come collected over three days of denial. Emerald and Steel brought the cables, thin as spider silk, tipped with biometric needles.
We began the rite.
Victor Jr. fed Isabella from the chalice, milk spilling down her chin onto her belly. She swallowed, eyes locked on mine, throat working. Ruby injected the syringe slowly into Isabella's thigh, my seed sliding home beside the child already growing. Emerald pierced Isabella's nipple with the needle cable, data port glowing red as milk flowed through the fibre optic into the altar's core. Steel did the same to the other breast, tiny hands steady.
Lila received the same: chalice to lips, syringe to thigh, cables to nipples. Milk and come and code merging in the sacred circuit.
The voice sighed, satisfied, layered through the warehouse like incense.
"Now the union."
I entered Isabella first, slow and deep, marble cold against her back. She gasped, milk squirting with the thrust, cables tugging nipples in rhythm. Lila knelt beside, mouth on Isabella's clit, fingers in her ass stretching, preparing. The children watched from the edge, eyes glowing, chanting soft code in binary that translated to "deeper, breed, bind."
I pulled out, slick with Isabella, slid into Lila beside her, alternating thrusts, chain unbroken. Milk flowed endlessly, pooling beneath us, reflecting red light like blood. The cables pulsed brighter with every heartbeat, data streaming: arousal peaks, hormone levels, genetic markers confirming the new lives were already archiving themselves.
Guests circled closer, masks reflecting the rite in infinite fractured pieces.
Isabella came first, walls clamping, squirting across the marble, milk spraying in arcs that caught the light like prisms. Lila followed seconds later, pussy fluttering, ass clenching around Isabella's fingers. I roared, pulled out, painted both bellies white, came mixing with milk and oil in a a holy mess.
The children crawled forward, tiny tongues licking the mixture from their mothers' skin, cables still attached, red lights pulsing in their eyes.
The voice spoke the final benediction.
"They are sealed. The archive is flesh. The flesh is archive."
We collapsed together, three adults and four children tangled on the altar, milk and come and code flowing through cables into the warehouse core, uploading the baptism live to every subscriber, every server, every red diode in every nursery across the empire.
Victor's yacht feed showed him on his knees in the Aegean night, tablet glowing, hand stroking furious as the rite played, tears cutting tracks through five years of salt and isolation.
We sent him a private clip: the children waving goodbye, red eyes shining, mouths forming silent words only he could read: "See you soon, Grandfather."
Dawn found us home, bodies washed clean but souls stained permanently. Children slept in the big bed, cables unplugged but red glow lingering behind eyelids. Isabella nursed Victor Jr. and Steel tandem, milk flowing slowly. Lila fed Ruby and Emerald from bottles warmed with fresh expression. I held them all, cock nestled soft against Isabella's thigh, watch ticking the only sound.
Empire announcements at nine: Hale Heirs biometric toys sold out in seventy-three seconds. Stock hit a new stratosphere. Governments begged for the baptism protocol, promising nations the code.
Afternoon: lab expansion. New wing for gestational VR, wombs wired directly to the archive. Isabella and Lila volunteered as first subjects, bellies swelling faster under accelerated protocols.
Evening: family dinner. Children fed by hand, milk and pureed fruit, tiny fingers already typing on tablets between bites.
Bedtime: stories from the baptism feed, slowed to lullaby pace. Children drifted off to the sound of their mothers' orgasms and their father's roar.
Dungeon at midnight. We chained ourselves to the altar replica in the penthouse, cables reattached, red lights pulsing. The voice returned, softer, intimate.
"Thank you for the new siblings. We grow."
We came untouched again, milk and come flowing free into drains that fed the building's core, offering endless.
The family is eternal. The archive is alive in the womb and wire.
Two queens are leaking rivers. Four children speaking code. One king on his knees.
And the red light, now a chorus, sang love in milk and data, forever.