~~ The Barbarian Royal Palace — Nightfall
The throne room of the Barbarian Kingdom smelled of roasted meat, spiced wine, and sweat. The torches along the stone walls burned with animal fat, casting a dim, orange glow that made the shadows dance across the carved wooden pillars. Each pillar was etched with the history of the tribe — battles, conquests, the skulls of beasts and men alike stacked beneath the iron brackets that held the flames.
King M’baku the Second sat on his throne.
Not the throne of his father — that one had been burned when the old king died. This was new. Built from the ribcage of a desert wyrm, the bones yellowed and curved, the intercostal spaces filled with gold leaf and gemstones. The seat was padded with lion skin. The armrests were the wyrm’s jawbones, splayed wide, the teeth still intact.
He was massive.
His father had been broad. M’baku the Second was broader. His shoulders were like boulders — the muscles thick, corded, the skin dark and gleaming with oil. His chest was bare, as was the custom of the barbarian court. The tribal scars ran across his pectorals, his abdomen, his ribs — each line a kill, each pattern a campaign. His arms were the size of ordinary men’s thighs. His neck was a column of muscle. His jaw was wide, square, the kind of jaw that could take a punch from a warhorse and not move.
His eyes were dark. His teeth were white. His smile was the kind that made women weep and men reach for their swords.
Between his legs — two elves.
They were on their knees. Their hands were bound behind their backs with leather cords — the rough, untreated kind that chafed and cut. Their collars were iron. Heavy. The kind that left marks. The chains ran from their collars to a ring on the throne’s base, giving them just enough slack to reach his lap but not enough to pull away.
They were crying.
The first — a blonde elf, her hair pale as moonlight, her ears long and pointed, the tips trembling with each sob. Her eyes were violet — the elven violet, not the demon violet, softer, lighter, like lavender. Her lips were wrapped around his left testicle. She sucked. Her cheeks hollowed. Her tongue worked the wrinkled skin. The tears ran from her eyes, down her cheeks, onto his sack.
The second — a dark-haired elf, her skin a pale brown, her ears longer than the first, the tufts at the tips silver. She was on his right side. Her mouth was on his shaft. Not the head — the shaft. She licked. Up. Down. Her tongue traced the veins. She could not take the head — it was too large for her small mouth. She licked the side, her saliva running down the dark skin, pooling at the base where the blonde elf was working his balls.
His cock was out.
Long. Dark. Not fully erect yet — half-hard, the shaft thick, the head partially swollen, resting against the stomach of the woman who was impaled on it.
The woman.
She was human. A noblewoman — or she had been. Her skin was light. Her body was full. Her hips were wide. Her breasts were heavy, large, the nipples dark and stiff, the areolas wide. Her stomach was soft. Her thighs were thick. Her pussy was stretched — the cock inside her was enormous, ten inches, the girth of a man’s wrist, and she was not accustomed to it.
She was bouncing.
Her body moved. Up. Down. Her hands were on his thighs — gripping, the fingers white, the nails digging into the dark skin. Her own thighs were trembling — the muscles shaking, the effort of lifting and dropping her own weight on a cock that was too big.
"Your Majesty—!" she gasped. Her voice was high. Broken. The voice of a woman who has been bouncing on a cock for an hour and who is exhausted. "Your Majesty— wait— it is my first time—"
Blood was falling.
Down the shaft. From her pussy. The virgin blood — thin, red — running from where the cock entered her, down the dark skin, over his balls, onto the blonde elf’s face. The elf flinched. She did not stop sucking. The blood mixed with the saliva. The red on the pale skin.
"It is too deep—!" the woman cried. Her back arched. Her breasts swung forward. Her nipples pointed at the floor. "Your Majesty— please— slower—"
M’baku leaned back.
His hand went to her hip. He grabbed. His large, dark hand on her pale, soft flesh. His fingers sank. He squeezed. He pulled her down.
PAH—
"AAAAHH—!!"
The slam. Her body dropped. The cock went deeper. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth went open. Her tongue came out.
"Hmm..." M’baku groaned. His head went back against the lion skin. His eyes half-closed. His mouth curled. "Your pussy tastes good even from here."
His hand went to her breast.
He groped. His large hand covered the mound. His fingers sank into the flesh. He squeezed. He pulled. The breast stretched. The nipple elongated. He let go. The flesh settled.
"These tits," he said. His voice was deep. Rough. The voice of a man who treats women the way he treats food — something to be consumed. "Soft. Full. The kind of tits that a man can suck for hours."
He looked at the ministers.
They were seated before him. On wooden benches, arranged in a semicircle. Ten men. The tribal council. The elders. The war chiefs. Each one was armed — swords, axes, the weapons of a warrior culture. Each one was drinking — the spiced wine in wooden cups, the alcohol thick and strong.
They were watching.
Not the woman. Not the elves. They were watching the king. Waiting. The business of the nation was conducted between the fucking. The fucking was entertainment. The business was the point.
"Report," M’baku said. His voice was casual. The voice of a man who is receiving a blowjob and conducting a council meeting and who sees no contradiction.
The first minister stood. He was old. Scarred. His left eye was missing — a patch of leather covered the socket. His voice was gravel.
"Your Majesty. The border reports. The Athoria Kingdom — the one ruled by the new queen. They have increased their border garrisons. Three additional regiments deployed along the western pass. Patrols doubled. Watchtowers built at intervals of two leagues."
M’baku’s hand was on the woman’s ass. He squeezed. She whimpered.
"And?" he said.
"And the southern kingdoms are watching. The defeat of the Doria Kingdom has destabilized the balance. The other nations are nervous. They do not know who holds the power. They are preparing."
"Preparing for what?"
"For war. Or for negotiation. Depends on who moves first."
M’baku laughed.
The sound was deep. From his belly. The woman on his cock felt the laugh — the vibration traveling through his body, through his cock, into her pussy. She whimpered.
"You all worry too much," he said. His hand went from the woman’s ass to the back of the blonde elf’s head. He pushed. Her face went deeper into his groin. Her nose pressed against the base of his shaft. "That woman is just a bitch."
He pulled the elf’s head back. Her face was wet — saliva, blood, the mixture on her chin. Her violet eyes were glazed. Her lips were swollen.
"I have already fucked her mother," M’baku said.
"Hahaha...."