She trembled.
"Aren’t you going to serve the king," he said. "In a way that he likes?"
Her face flushed.
"H-How?" she whispered. Her voice was barely audible. "What... what do I need to do?"
"I want to fuck you," he said. His voice was the same. Low. Conversational. The voice of a man who is stating a fact. "When you get throned. For this kingdom."
She trembled.
She nodded.
"As you say," she whispered, trembling while clearly setting her eyes as if she did not want to tell him how she wanted his cock inside her now.
~ The Coronation
A week passed.
The kingdom stabilized. Not gently. Not gradually. By force. The brute force of Raven. Personally. Handling everything. The noble houses— the ones that remained— submitted. Not all willingly. But all eventually. The military— the remnants of the royal army— surrendered. The Church— the Holy Church, the institution that had blessed the old king— recognized the new authority. The guilds— the merchants, the craftsmen, the traders— resumed their business. The capital— the city of a hundred thousand— returned to its routines.
The ceremony was organized.
In the Great Hall. The hall that had survived the fire— the stone walls, the vaulted ceiling, the marble floor. The throne— the new throne, the one that Raven had built from earth and stone— was at the head. The banners— new, green, the color of the Emerald bloodline— hung from the walls.
The people came.
The nobles— the ones who had submitted. The knights— the ones who had survived. The merchants. The craftsmen. The commoners. They filled the hall. They stood in the aisles. They crowded the doors.
Princess Vivian was getting throned.
She stood on the stage. Before the throne. Before the people. She was dressed— not in the torn, mud-stained silk of the forest. In a gown. New. White. The gown of a queen. The bodice was fitted. The skirt was long. The train trailed behind her. The crown— new, gold, the emeralds set in the band— was on her head.
Her emerald hair was loose. Combed. Clean. The waves falling past her waist. Her green eyes were bright. Her face was pale. Her lips were pink. She was— beautiful. The kind of beautiful that a queen should be.
The commoners talked.
"The princess— she is giving her speech?"
"She seems... stressed. Look at her face."
"She is pale. She must be nervous. It is her first speech as queen."
"She will do fine. She is the Emerald Princess."
They did not know.
They did not see.
She was bent forward.
On the stage. Behind the podium. The podium— the wooden lectern, the one that concealed her lower body from the audience. Her upper body was visible. Her face. Her shoulders. Her hands— gripping the sides of the podium.
Her lower body was not visible.
Her gown was lifted. From behind. The white fabric bunched at her waist. Her ass was bare. The stockings— white, the garters— were visible. Her panty was— pulled aside. Not removed. The cotton shifted. The fabric between her cheeks.
Raven stood behind her.
Completely naked. His body— bare, muscled, the skin warm— pressed against her back. His cock was— hard. Twelve inches. The head against her entrance. Against the hymen. The thin membrane. The barrier.
He pushed.
"AAA—"
Vivian’s mouth opened. The gasp— the sharp, sudden gasp of a woman whose hymen has just been torn— escaped. Her eyes went wide. Her hands gripped the podium— the wood creaking, her fingers white.
The blood came.
Thin. Red. The virgin blood. Running from the torn hymen. Down the shaft. Down the thighs. Onto the white stockings. The red on the white. The stain spreading.
He pushed deeper.
"AAANGH—!!"
Her back arched. Her body— the small, slim, virginal body— convulsed. The cock was inside. The walls— tight, narrow, untrained— stretched. The muscles— the vaginal muscles, the ones that had never been used— resisted. The cock pushed through. Inch by inch.
"Hahh... ah... h-hahh..." she breathed. The sound was ragged. Broken. The breathing of a woman who is being filled for the first time. Whose body is being opened. Whose insides are being rearranged.
He held her hips.
His hands— large, warm, the fingers rough— on her hips. He held. He positioned. He angled.
He thrust.
PAH—
"AAAAHH—!!"
The sound— the scream— tore through the hall. But the podium— the wood, the angle, the acoustics— muffled it. The audience did not hear a scream. They heard a gasp. A passionate, emotional, overwhelmed gasp. The gasp of a queen who is moved by the weight of the moment.
She spoke.
"C-Citizens... of Doria..." she began. Her voice was shaking. Not from nerves. From the cock. From the thrust. From the twelve inches that were buried in her pussy. "I... I stand before you... today... as your... your queen..."
PAH PAH—
He thrust. Two. Fast. Hard. The cock slid in and out. The walls— wet, tight, bleeding— gripped the shaft.
"AAANGH—!!" Her body jerked. Her hands gripped the podium. Her knuckles were white. "I... I promise... to... to change... this kingdom..."
Her cleavage was visible.
The bodice of the gown— low-cut, the neckline wide— showed her chest. Her breasts— small, firm, the nipples stiff beneath the silk— were visible. The cleavage— the pale skin between the mounds— was swinging. Up and down. With each thrust. The silk shifting. The fabric catching the light.
Zigzagging.
Through the intensity. The thrusts— PAH PAH PAH— were shaking her body. Her whole body. The podium shook. The wood creaked. Her cleavage— the pale skin, the firm mounds— moved. Not up and down. Zigzag. Side to side. The force of the thrusts pushing her left, right, left.
Her saliva was dripping.
From her mouth. From her open lips. The drool— clear, thin— ran from the corner of her mouth. Down her chin. Onto the podium. The wood darkened. The drop spread.
Her eyes were rolling.
The green irises. The whites. The lids. The lashes. Her eyes— bright, intelligent, the eyes of a princess who had been trained in rhetoric and diplomacy— were rolling. Back. The whites showing. The irises vanishing. The lids fluttering.
No one noticed.
The podium. The angle. The gown. The crown. The speech. The audience saw a queen. A queen who was giving her first speech. A queen who was passionate. A queen who was moved. A queen who was— emotional.
They did not see the cock.
They did not see the blood. They did not see the seed. They did not see the man. They did not see the hands on the hips. They did not see the thrusts. They did not see the rolling eyes. They did not see the drool.
They saw a queen.
"I will... I will change... the laws..." Vivian continued. Her voice broke. Not from emotion. From the thrust. "I will... HAAH—!! ...I will ensure... that every... every citizen... is treated... with... with justice..."
PAH PAH PAH PAH—
"HNNNGHH—!! ...and... and equality..."
Her body jerked. The podium shook. The wood creaked. The crown— the gold, the emeralds— shifted on her head. Her emerald hair swung. Her hands— white-knuckled— gripped the wood.
"The... the corruption... of the... the previous... AAANGH—!! ...regime... will be... will be eradicated..."