The commoners listened.
"She is so passionate!"
"Listen to her voice— she is trembling with emotion!"
"She will be a great queen!"
They clapped.
The sound— the clapping, the cheering— filled the hall. The hands hitting each other. The voices shouting. The approval of a hundred people who believed that they were witnessing the birth of a new era.
PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH—
"AAAAHH—!! HNNNGHH—!! KYAAANGH—!!"
Vivian’s moans— her screams— were buried in the applause. The clapping of the hands. The cheering of the voices. The sound of the people— celebrating, rejoicing, praising— drowning the sound of the queen being fucked.
She screamed.
At the end of the speech. The final word. The final thrust. The cock— deep, to the hilt— pressed against her cervix. Her body convulsed. Her mouth opened. The scream— "AAAAAAHH—!!"— tore from her throat.
The people clapped.
The clapping of the hips— PAH PAH PAH— and the clapping of the people— the hands, the cheers— merged. The sound was one. Indistinguishable. The cheers of the commoners hiding the cry of the queen. The celebration concealing the surrender.
Her screams defeated.
The cheers of the commoners— louder, stronger, the collective voice of a hundred people— buried the screaming. The moaning. The sound of a woman being fucked on a throne by a man who owned her.
The curtains fell.
The heavy fabric— the green, the gold— descended. The stage was hidden. The queen was hidden. The podium was hidden. The man was hidden. The audience saw— the curtains. The fabric. The end of the ceremony.
Behind the curtains.
Vivian was on her tiptoes.
Her feet— in the heels, the white heels of the queen— were on the ground. Her body was bent. Her hands were on the podium. Her ass was up. Her back was arched.
Her tears were falling.
Slow. Steady. Running down her cheeks. Down her chin. Onto the podium. The wood. The stain. The tears of a queen who has just given her first speech while being fucked. Who has just been throned on a cock.
Raven held her.
His hands on her hips. His cock inside. His body against her back. He held her firmly. His hands— the large, warm hands— gripping her hips through the gown.
He pulled out.
The cock emerged. Wet. Bloody. The virgin blood and the juice and the pre-cum on the shaft. The head— dark, swollen— dripped. The seed— not yet. He had not come. Not yet.
He pulled her.
Back. Away from the podium. Toward the throne. The stone throne. The one he had built. The one that was connected to his mana.
"Queen," he said. His voice was low. Close. Against her ear. "Is going to be busy for a week now."
Her body twitched.
The mana cord— the contract, the binding— hummed. The words— "busy for a week"— registered. Her body understood. Her pussy— sore, bleeding, stretched— understood.
Her eyes rolled.
The green irises. The whites. The flutter. The response of a woman who has been fucked for the first time and who is being told that she will be fucked for a week.
"W-Wait—" she gasped. "I— I cannot— a week— I—"
He kissed her cheek.
His lips on her skin. The spot. The spot where the tears had run. He kissed. Gently. Softly. The kiss of a man who is about to tell his servant something important.
"How about you," he said. His voice was warm. Conversational. "Someone the Queen Dowager. Of the neighboring country. Of the Barbarian."
The words hit.
Like a blade. Like a fist. Like the stone that had gone through the King’s heart. The words— "Queen Dowager"— "Barbarian"— "neighboring country"— hit.
Everything resurfaced.
The memory. The closet. The dresses. The gap. The three men. The king. The two black men. The bed. The wine. The seed. The choking. The body. The coffin. The white gown. The bruises. The king’s hand on her head. "Your mother provided me with massive gains." "I will send you to the barbarian king."
The face.
The face of the barbarian king. The dark skin. The white teeth. The hard eyes. The hand on her mother’s face. The hand on her mother’s breast. The cock. The seed. The death.
He was calling the mother.
Of that bastard king.
The man who had killed her mother. The man who had strangled her. The man who had said "is she dead?" and laughed. The man who had said "does she not have a daughter?" and "send her to me as a concubine."
The Queen Dowager.
His mother. The woman who had birthed the barbarian king. The woman who was— old. Maybe fifty. Maybe sixty. The woman who was, in the hierarchy of the barbarian tribe, the Queen Mother. The Dowager.
"Where she would be old," Vivian whispered. Her voice was shaking. "Maybe fifty or sixty. How could I—"
"Age is just a number," Raven said. His voice was flat. The voice of a man who is stating a fact. "It is I who decide whom I would choose."
Her pussy fluttered.
The mana cord. The contract. The binding. The words— "whom I would choose"— resonated. The cord hummed. Her body responded. The pussy— sore, bleeding, stretched— clenched. Not from pleasure. From the contract. From the binding. From the surrender.
He pressed her.
Against the throne. The stone. The smooth surface. Her back— the gown, the silk— against the stone. Her ass— bare, the gown bunched— on the seat. Her legs— the stockings, the garters— spread.
Her pussy was dripping.
The blood. The juice. The virgin fluid. Running from her opening. Down her thighs. Onto the stone. The throne— connected to his mana— absorbed it. The fluid— her fluid, her blood, her surrender— seeped into the stone. Into the gold veins. The throne glowed— faintly, briefly, the mana responding to the offering.
He was getting fucked.
No— she was getting fucked. He was fucking her. The distinction— the active and the passive, the taker and the taken— was clear. She was the one being fucked. He was the one fucking.
He held her ass up.
His hands on her cheeks. Lifting. Spreading. The position— her ass in the air, her back on the throne, her legs over his arms— was awkward. Exposed. The kind of position that a woman is put in when the man wants access. Not to the pussy. Not this time.
His thumb.
Went to her anal. The ring. The puckered opening. He pressed. Not hard. Testing. Assessing. The muscle— tight, virgin, untrained— resisted. He pressed. His thumb circled. The pad of his thumb on the ridged skin.
He pulled out his cock.
From her pussy. The shaft emerged— wet, bloody, the juice and the blood on the skin. The head— dark, swollen— dripped. He positioned. Not at her pussy. At her anal. At the ring. At the tight, puckered, virgin opening.
He pressed.
The head against the ring. The pressure. The push. The muscle— the sphincter— resisting. The head— large, swollen— pressing against the opening that was not designed for it.
"I am taking it," he said.
His voice was calm. The voice of a man who is claiming a possession.
She cried.
"Everything of mine is yours," she whispered. Her voice was broken. The tears were falling. "My king."
He slammed.
PAAAH—
"AAAAAAAAAAAHH—!!"