She trembled.
Her body — the lean, muscular body, the fighter’s body — shook. Not from cold. From — everything. From the teleportation. From the room. From the bed. From the cock. From the order. From the — situation.
"I..." she stammered. "I cannot... I am a knight. I am a soldier. I am not... I have never..."
"You have never been fucked?" he said.
The question. Direct. Blunt. The question that a man asks when he does not care about the answer because the answer does not matter.
"I... I have trained... I have fought... I have killed... but I have never... I was saving myself for..." She trailed off. The sentence — the incomplete sentence, the abandoned thought — was the thought of a woman who had a plan for her virginity and who was now in a room where that plan did not matter.
"For what?" he said.
"For... marriage. For... love. For..."
"There is no marriage here," he said. "There is no love here. There is only me. And you. And my cock."
She looked at him.
Her brown eyes — wet, the tears forming, the emotion building — found his violet ones. The gaze — the last attempt at resistance, the last attempt at defiance, the last attempt at — self — was brief. The violet eyes held hers. The gaze that had broken an Empress. That had broken a dragon. That had broken — everyone.
She looked down.
"I... I will do it," she whispered. The words were barely audible. The words of a woman who is surrendering. Who is — giving up. Who is — accepting.
She undressed.
Her hands — the fighter’s hands, the calloused, sword-worn hands — went to her armor. The leather. The straps. The buckles. She unfastened. The armor came off. Piece by piece. The chest plate. The shoulder guards. The bracers. The greaves. The leather fell. On the silk. On the floor.
Her body was revealed.
Lean. Athletic. The muscles — the defined, visible muscles of a woman who trains daily — were there. The abs. The obliques. The V of the hips. The arms — toned, the biceps visible, the forearms corded. The legs — strong, the thighs thick with muscle, the calves defined.
Her breasts were small. Not large. Not the massive mounds of the Empress. Small. Firm. The mounds — barely a handful — were tight. The nipples — pink, small, stiff from the cold air — were pointed. The areolas — narrow, the pink skin contrasting with her tan — were there.
Her pussy was visible.
Beneath the last garment — the underwear, the cotton, the practical, military underwear — that she pulled down. The fabric fell. Her pussy — bare, hairless, the slit tight and closed — was exposed. The lips — thin, the inner flesh hidden — were closed. The clit — small, peeking — was visible. The opening — small, tight, the entrance narrow — was there.
She climbed.
Onto the bed. Onto him. Her legs — the muscular legs — went on either side. She straddled. His cock — the twelve-inch, dark, hard cock — was beneath her. The head — the swollen, wet head — was against her pussy. Against the closed slit.
She spread.
Her fingers — two fingers, the calloused fingers — went to her pussy. She parted. The lips — thin, tight — opened. The inner flesh — pink, wet, the arousal beginning despite her resistance — was visible. The opening — small, narrow — was there.
She trembled.
Her body — the muscular, athletic body — shook. The legs — the strong legs — trembled. The arms — the toned arms — shook. The fighter. The knight. The swordswoman. Trembling. Not from battle. From — this.
She pushed.
Her hips went down. The cock head — the dark, swollen head — pressed against her opening. The entrance. The small, tight, virgin entrance. The head pushed. The opening resisted. The muscles — the pelvic muscles, the muscles that had never been stretched — clenched. Resisted.
"Ah..." she gasped. The pain. The pressure. The stretching. The cock head was too big. The opening was too small. The mismatch — the human cock and the virgin pussy — was there.
She pushed harder.
The head went in.
"AAAH—!!"
The scream. The sharp, piercing scream of a virgin whose opening has been breached. The cock head — the thick, swollen head — was inside. The entrance — stretched, the lips parted, the inner flesh exposed — was around the head. The grip — the tight, virgin grip — was intense.
She trembled.
Her whole body. The muscular body. The fighter’s body. Shaking. The cock was inside her. The head. Just the head. And she was — full. Already. The head alone filled her. The walls — the virgin walls, the untrained, narrow walls — were stretched. The muscles — the vaginal muscles, the muscles that had never been used — gripped.
He slammed.
His hands went to her waist. His large, strong hands on her lean, muscular hips. He grabbed. He pulled. Down.
PAAH—
"AAAAAHH—!!"
The cock went deep. Not all the way. Half. Six inches. The shaft — the thick, veined shaft — stretched the walls. The muscles — the virgin muscles — tore. Not the walls. The muscles. The hymen — already partially torn from the head — broke fully. The blood came. Thin. Red. From the torn membrane. Down the shaft. Onto the silk.
Her boobs swung.
The small, firm mounds — the tight, barely-a-handful breasts — moved. Up. With the impact. The nipples — pink, stiff — pointed at the ceiling. The flesh — firm, dense, the kind that does not move much but that moves when the force is sufficient — shifted.
"Hahh... ahh... i-it... h-hurts... i-it is... t-too... b-big..." she gasped. Her voice was broken. The fighter’s voice. The voice that had shouted battle cries was now — whimpering. The voice of a virgin on a cock.
He lifted her.
Up. By the waist. His hands on her hips. He pulled her up. The cock — wet, bloody, the virgin blood on the shaft — slid out. Halfway. The walls — gripping, the muscles clenching — held. The suction. The friction.
He slammed her down.
PAAH—
"AAAAHH—!!"
The thrust. The cock went deep. Deeper. Eight inches. The head pressed against the cervix. The virgin cervix. The gate that had never been touched. The impact — the head on the cervix, the pressure, the force — sent a shockwave through her body.
He humped.
His hips. Up. Down. The rhythm — fast, hard, the rhythm of a man who is not patient, who is not gentle, who is taking what he wants — was relentless. Her body — the muscular, athletic body — went up. And down. And up. And down. The double thrust — his hips and her body, both moving, both meeting — doubled the impact. Double the force. Double the penetration.
PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH—
"AAAAHH—!! HNNNGHH—!! KYAAANGH—!! HAAAAANGHH—!! NNGHH—!!"
Her cervix was getting hammered.
Again. And again. And again. The head — the thick, swollen head — hit the cervix with each thrust. The impact — the repeated, relentless, devastating impact — was destroying her. The cervix — the sensitive, virgin, untouched cervix — was being battered. The pain — the sharp, intense, overwhelming pain — was there. And with the pain — the pleasure. The pleasure that she did not expect. That she did not want. That came anyway. From the cock. From the friction. From the head on the cervix. From the stretching. From the — fullness.
’So deep... he is so deep... I can feel him in my stomach... my womb... he is hitting my womb... every thrust... I cannot... I cannot fight this... I cannot fight him... he is too strong... too big... too...’
Her internal thoughts. Shattered. The mind of a knight. The mind that had strategized in battle. Reduced to — cock. To the thrust. To the pain and the pleasure.
"M-My lord... p-please... s-slow... d-down... I... I cannot... t-take... AAANGH—!!"