The capital city— the sprawling, noisy, chaotic metropolis of a hundred thousand people— woke to a different world. The sky was different. The air was different. The smell was different. The smoke— the black, oily smoke from the palace— still rose. The fire was out. The flames were dead. But the smoke remained. The evidence. The scar.
The noble houses were burned.
Not all. Not every house. The ones that mattered. The Duke family mansion— the eastern wing burned, the western wing scorched. The Marquis estate— the gate destroyed, the garden ruined, the main building blackened. The Royal Faction compound— leveled. The stones scattered. The walls crumbled.
The extreme level of the massacre was visible.
In the streets. In the plazas. In the markets. The bodies. Not many— the killing had been targeted. But the ones that were there— the knights, the guards, the soldiers— lay where they had fallen. On the cobblestones. In the gutters. Against the walls. The blood— dried, brown— stained the stone.
The talk of the town.
Like fire spreading in a forest. From mouth to mouth. From ear to ear. From house to house. From street to street. The words— whispered, shouted, screamed, cried.
"The palace fell!"
"The King is dead!"
"The Crown Prince is— they say he was— the dragon woman—"
"The Duke’s mansion— the fire—"
"The knights— all of them— dead—"
"Who did this? WHO DID THIS?!"
The noble houses— the ones that remained, the ones that had not been targeted— were ready to wage war. Or at least they should have been. The martial families. The military houses. The ones with private armies and fortified mansions and generations of warriors.
They should have marched.
They should have rallied. Should have assembled. Should have ridden to the palace with swords drawn and banners flying and the fury of a hundred noble families behind them.
They did not.
Because the realization hit— like a wall. Like a wave. Like the fist of a dragon.
The Duke was dead. The Marquis was dead. The Royal Faction was eradicated. The commanders. The generals. The leaders. The men who would have led the charge. Gone. Burned. Killed. In a single night.
The noble houses— the ones that remained— looked at the smoke. Looked at the bodies. Looked at the empty mansions. Looked at the palace— the blackened, smoldering ruin.
And they did not march.
They locked their doors. They gathered their families. They waited.
~ The Duchess’s Mansion
The mansion was in the western district.
The western wing was burned. The eastern wing was intact. The servants— the ones who had survived— moved through the corridors with white faces and trembling hands. The smell of smoke was in the walls. The smell of blood was in the stone.
The bedroom.
The same bedroom where, a decade ago, the Duchess had been— used. By the King. All night. In the same position. The same bed. The same silk sheets.
The bed was different now.
The maids were lined around the room. Against the walls. Their heads lowered. Their hands clasped. Their eyes on the floor. Their uniforms— black and white, the crisp, formal attire of a duchess’s household— were clean. Pressed. The only clean things in the room.
On the bed.
The Duchess.
She was on her knees. On the silk. Her ass was lifted. High. Her face was in the pillow. Her gown was tightened— the silk riding up, the fabric stretched over her hips, her ass bare. Her back was arched. Her spine was curved. The position— the exact position that the King had used. The position that she had been fucked in. For years. Every time the King visited.
Her breathing was heavy.
"Hahh... hahh... hahh..."
The sound of a woman who is crying. Who is trembling. Who is— offering.
Her smile was visible.
Through the tears. Through the trembling. The smile— the broken, grateful, tearful smile of a woman who has been freed.
"We have done it," she whispered. Her voice was muffled. By the pillow. By the tears. "We have taken revenge upon them."
Her body shook.
"Please," she said. Her voice broke. "Please accept the payment."
Raven stood.
Before the bed. Completely naked. His coat— discarded. His trousers— discarded. His boots— discarded. His body— bare. The muscles. The ridges. The V of the hips. The cock— twelve inches, hard, erect, the head dark, the shaft veined.
His body was full. Complete. The body of a man who has just overthrown a kingdom and who is now standing in a bedroom receiving payment.
The Duchess was not alone.
On their knees. Before him. On the floor. Three women. All naked. All collared.
The Duchess— the thick one. The one whose ass was in the air. The one whose body told the story of a decade of the King’s use.
The Countess— the one in the center. Her body was different. Slimmer. Taller. Her breasts were medium. Her nipples were pink. Her stomach was flat. Her pussy was bare— shaved. Her collar was black. Leather. The metal ring at the front.
The Baroness— the one on the right. Her body was soft. Round. Not fat— soft. The body of a woman who has borne children. Her breasts were large. Heavy. The nipples were dark. The stretch marks on her belly. The wide hips. Her collar was red. Leather. The metal ring.
All three.
On their knees. Naked. Collared. Their hands at their sides. Their heads raised. Their eyes— wet. Crying.
"Thank you," the Countess whispered. Her voice was trembling. The voice of a noblewoman who has been reduced to a collared servant and who is grateful. "Thank you for saving me from my husband."
"Thank you," the Baroness sobbed. Her voice was broken. "He— he was going to— he was going to kill me— thank you—"
Their mouths were on him.
The Countess— on the left. Her lips found his shaft. She licked. Up. Down. Her tongue traced the veins. Her mouth was warm. Wet.
The Baroness— on the right. Her lips found his balls. She sucked. One. Then the other. Her tongue worked the sack. Her mouth was soft. Gentle.
The Duchess— on the bed. Her ass in the air. Waiting.
Raven grabbed.
The Countess. His hand went to her hair. He grabbed. The brown strands. He pulled. Her head came back. Her neck arched. Her mouth opened.
He bent her.
Over the table. The dressing table. The mirror. The Countess’s face was in the mirror. Her eyes— wet, red— met her own reflection. She saw herself. Naked. Collared. Bent over a table. Her ass in the air.
His cock went to her pussy.
Not inside. Against. The strip of fabric— her panty, pulled aside, the cotton thin. His cock head pressed against the fabric. Against the lips. Against the entrance.
He pushed.
"AAAH—!"
The Countess screamed. The push was not gentle. Not slow. The cock went in. Past the panty. Past the lips. Past the entrance. Into the vagina. The walls stretched. The muscles resisted. The cock— twelve inches, thick— filled her.
He pushed intensely.
Her body trembled. Her hands went to the table— gripping, the fingers white, the knuckles showing. Her back arched. Her ass lifted. Her legs spread.
PAH—
He slammed.
"AAAAHH—!!"