Her ass was up.
Presented. Offered. The thick, round, heavy cheeks. The deep crack. The anal — puckered, tight, the ring visible. The pussy — below the anal, the lips glistening, the juice dripping.
He grabbed her hips.
His hands on her waist. His fingers on the flesh. He held. He positioned.
He slammed.
PAAH—
"AAAAHH—!!"
The cock went in. Deep. To the hilt. The head against the cervix. The shaft stretching the walls. The balls against the clit.
Her ass clapped back.
The thick, heavy flesh — the cheeks — rippled. The wave traveled. From the point of impact — his hips on her ass — through the cheeks, through the thighs, through the lower back. The sound — the clap, the thick, meaty, heavy sound of flesh on flesh — echoed.
PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH—
"AAAAHH—!! HNNNGHH—!! KYAAANGH—!! HAAAAANGHH—!!"
She cried.
The tears fell. Down her cheeks. Onto the stone. Onto the throne. The tears of a woman who is being fucked and who is trying to warn the man who is fucking her.
"They will—! HAAH—!! They will be able to sense—! That you have killed—! One of their descendants—! AAANGH—!! P-Please—! They will hurt you—!"
He chuckled.
The sound was low. Deep. From his chest. The sound of genuine amusement. The sound of a man who has been told that a powerful family will come for him and who finds the idea funny.
PAAH—
"AAAAAAHH—!!"
"Does it not matter," he said. His voice was steady. Unhurried. The voice of a man who is fucking and who is philosophizing. "That I am hurting you? You could have just taken revenge. For your husband."
"H-He was not—!" Revaone screamed. Her voice was raw. The fury — the old, deep, decade-old fury — surged. Through the pleasure. Through the cock. Through the orgasm. "Do not say it like that! He was not mine!"
PAAH PAAH PAAH—
"Then whose are you?" he said.
The words. The claim. The question that was not a question. The statement that was a statement. ’Whose are you.’ The words that placed her. That categorized her. That defined her. Not as a queen. Not as a widow. Not as a woman. As a possession. As a thing that belonged to someone. To him.
She tightened.
Her pussy — the walls, the muscles — clamped. The grip on his cock intensified. The response of her body to the words. The biological, instinctive, animal response to being claimed.
"Yours," she whispered. Her voice broke. "Yours and yours."
The memories came.
The king. The bedposts. The rope. The wine bottle. The maids watching. The years of being treated like a whore. The years of being tied and fucked and used and discarded.
And then.
His cock. This cock. The cock that was inside her now. The cock that was big and thick and hard and that filled her and that hit the spot and that made her scream and that made her come and that made her feel — for the first time, for the only time — like a woman. Not a bitch. Not a whore. A woman whose body was craved.
The king was nothing.
In front of this cock. In front of this man. The king — the tyrant, the abuser, the monster who had tied her and whipped her and pushed bottles inside her — was nothing. A shadow. A memory. A thing that had happened to someone who no longer existed.
This man was not a man.
He was something else. Something that fucked like a man and thought like a devil and looked like a god. Something that had given her one night and then had taken a kingdom and then had sat on a throne and then had fucked every woman in the room and was now fucking her.
’He is... not a perverted bastard... not like the king... he is... a real man... a man who... who claims... who takes... who makes you want to be taken...’
Her eyes rolled.
The corruption. The dark, spreading, beautiful corruption that filled her mind and her body and her soul. The thing that replaced reason with need. That replaced dignity with desire. That replaced the queen with the bitch.
’Enjoy me... I am yours...’
The thought was not spoken. It was felt. In the clench of her pussy. In the arch of her back. In the roll of her eyes. In the submission of her body.
Raven chuckled.
He felt it. The clench. The submission. The surrender. The moment when the woman — the queen, the proud, the furious — broke. When the last wall fell. When the last resistance crumbled.
His hands went to the other women.
While his cock was inside Revaone. While her ass was in the air. While her pussy was clenching. His hands went — left and right — to the women who had approached. Selia on one side. Nara on the other. He grabbed their breasts. His large hands found the mounds. He squeezed. Selia’s small, firm breast in his left hand. Nara’s medium, round breast in his right. He groped. He kneaded.
The two women leaned in.
Their mouths found his chest. His shoulders. His neck. They kissed. They licked. They sucked. Selia’s mouth on his collarbone. Nara’s mouth on his jaw.
"My king..." Selia murmured. Her lips on his skin.
"My king..." Nara whispered. Her tongue on his ear.
The throne room was filled.
With the sounds. The PAH PAH PAH— of Raven fucking Revaone. The wet SCHLUK— of the cock in the pussy. The soft, wet sounds of Selia and Nara kissing his body. The moans — Revaone’s deep, guttural moans. Selia’s high, sharp moans. Nara’s breathy, whispered moans. The fog — the visible breath, the heat, the mana — hanging in the air.
"AAAAHH—!! HNNNGHH—!! KYAAANGH—!! HAAAAANGHH—!! NNGHH—!!"
The claiming of the nobility.
The first queen — bent over the throne, her ass in the air, her pussy full of cock. The new queen — on her knees, her mouth on his shaft, her tears on the skin. The fighters — naked, their bodies displayed, their hands on his body. The dragon — scaled, yellow-eyed, watching.
The man.
On the throne. In the throne. Behind the throne. His cock inside a queen. His hands on two fighters. His mouth on a dragon’s nipple. His eyes — violet, glowing, calm — watching everything.
The king.