~ The Throne Room — Athoria Palace
The voice came from the doorway.
Not loud. Not announced. Not preceded by guards or heralds or the trumpeting that accompanied royalty. Just a voice. A woman’s voice. The kind of voice that carried not because it was raised but because the room went quiet to hear it.
"You..."
One word. Two letters. Spoken on an exhale. The breath of a woman who has just walked into a room and found something she did not expect.
Queen Revaone stood in the doorway of the throne room.
Her body was thick. Not fat. Thick. The kind of thick that came from years of good food and good wine and the kind of leisure that royalty afforded. Her hips were wide. Her ass was round and heavy. Her thighs were full. Her waist was narrow but soft. Her breasts were large and pendulous, straining against the bodice of her dark blue gown. The neckline was square, cut low, the cleavage deep and shadowed. Her dark hair was piled on her head. Pins held it. A few strands had escaped and framed her face. Her face was oval. Her lips were full. Her eyes were dark brown. Her skin was olive.
She had been the first queen.
The first wife of the King of Athoria. The woman who had been married to the man who sat on the throne before the princess. Before Vivian. Before the coup. Before the fire. She had been the queen. The highest woman in the kingdom. The one who sat beside the king. The one who wore the crown.
The king who had fucked her like a bitch.
The memory was there. Always there. The king — her husband — had not been gentle. Had not been kind. Had not been a lover. He had been a user. A taker. A man who viewed his queen the way he viewed his horses — as property. As something to ride. As something to whip. As something to break.
She had been broken.
The bed. The bedposts. The rope. The way he tied her wrists. The way he tied her ankles. The way he tied her breasts — the rope around the base, the flesh bulging, the skin purple, the nipples crushed. The way he fucked her in front of the maids. The way the maids watched. The way the maids did not look away. The way the king made sure they watched. The way he said "look at your queen" while he pounded her from behind. The way the maids looked. The way some of them smirked.
The wine bottle.
The night he pushed the wine bottle inside her. Not the neck. The base. The thick, glass base. Pushed into her pussy. Her body stretching. Her screams. His laughter. The wine — red, deep, the glass cold — inside her. The way it burned. The way she bled. The way he fucked her after. With the bottle still inside. The way the glass shifted. The way her insides tore.
She had survived.
The king was dead now. Overthrown by his own daughter. The princess — Vivian — the girl Revaone had watched grow up. The girl who had been a child. A quiet child. A child who did not smile. A child who looked at the king with eyes that held something. Something that Revaone recognized. Because she had the same something in her own eyes.
Hate.
The king was dead and Revaone had not wept. She had stood in her chambers and she had heard the news and she had felt— nothing. Not joy. Not grief. Not relief. Nothing. The man who had used her body for a decade was gone and she felt nothing because there was nothing left to feel. He had used it all.
She had come to the throne room because she had heard. Not the news of the king’s death — that was old. The other news. The news that a man sat on the throne. Not the princess. A man. She had come to see.
She saw.
Her eyes went wide.
The throne. The stone throne. The one with the gold veins. The one that glowed. The one that had not been there before — that had been built. That had been created. By him.
Him.
The man on the throne.
His hair was black. His eyes were violet. His coat was dark. His body was— she knew that body. She knew those shoulders. She knew those arms. She knew those hands. She knew them because they had been on her. Not the way the king’s hands had been on her. Not rough. Not cruel. Not breaking.
Loving.
The massage. The night. The night she had been brought to a room. The night she had been lying on a table. The night a man had put his hands on her. The hands — large, warm, the fingers strong but gentle. The oil. The scent. The way his hands had moved. Up her back. Down her spine. Over her hips. The way his thumbs had worked the knots. The way her body had responded — not with pain. With warmth. With melting. With the slow, gradual, overwhelming sensation of being touched by someone who knew how to touch.
And then.
The way he had fucked her.
Not like the king. Not like a bitch. Not like a piece of meat. The way his cock had entered her. The way her body had opened. The way the walls — the scarred, damaged, torn walls that the king had ruined — had healed. Had stretched. Had accommodated. Not because they were forced. Because they wanted to. Because the body recognized the cock the way a lock recognizes a key. The way the pleasure had built. The way the orgasm had come — not from the clit, not from the g-spot, from everywhere. From the inside. From the place where the cock pressed. From the womb. From the soul.
She had been made to feel like a woman.
Not a bitch. Not a whore. Not a thing. A woman. A woman whose body was craved. Whose flesh was wanted. Whose pleasure mattered. The way he had kissed her. The way his mouth had found her nipples. The way his tongue had traced the curves. The way his hands had held her hips. The way his fingers had spread her. The way his cock had filled her. The way she had come. The way she had screamed. The way the scream had not been pain. The way the scream had been release.
And now he was here.
On the throne. The throne of the kingdom that had been her husband’s. The throne of the kingdom that was now— someone else’s. The princess’s. The daughter’s. And the man — the man who had fucked her, who had loved her body, who had made her feel — was sitting on it.
She saw the women.
Around the throne. On the floor. On the stone. Vivian — the new queen, the princess, the daughter — on her knees. Her emerald hair loose. Her mouth on his cock. Licking. Sucking. Her tears on the shaft. Other women. Selia. Nara. Fatima. Gia. Ada — the dragon woman, the scaled one, the one whose aura filled the room. All of them. Naked. Serving. Their bodies displayed. Their mouths working. Their hands rubbing.
Revaone stood.