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You glance up from a sheaf of papers in your hand and sigh, glancing out the window. The castle’s construction is still coming along nicely, and as you watch a rat scurries – they always seem to – across the wide lawn dotted with piles of material and worked stone with a brass cap for God-knows-what on his head, a pile of timber in his arms.

“Is anything the matter, Your Highness?” Britta asks, looking at your face.

“No, Britta,” you answer, “Nothing in particular. It’s just that I feel rather cooped-up.”

The weeks following your wedding have been eventful. Royalty does not get a week to themselves after marriage; the kingdom must run and you along with it. With your nights demanded of you by Hazel’s by-proxy libido, your days quickly filled with deputations, declarations and communications of all sorts. Before you at this moment rest the commendations of four different beast-men under consideration for the post of Chief Liaison to your father, a bevy of questions regarding your personal quarters in the new castle, (since you are to be the only human habitant for some time your input has been requested), and a bill under consideration which would implement stricter tax regulations on international trade, to prevent competition between pricing on goods produced in your old home and your new one, in particular: carriages, which are more cheaply produced in the Beast-Kingdom and therefore outselling those at home. His Majesty the King had also requested that you form an honor guard, using your knowledge as a Royal Dragoon Guard to train them, which had you pounding your head on the desk last night considering the logistics of forming an entire company from scratch.

That, and it is bothering you that a rumor is circulating among the lower staff that you are even more sexually voracious than previously thought. The theory is that you will need new maidservants every few months, as you will impregnate each new pair as fast as they are assigned to you.

“That’s the last time I agree to anything Crown Prince Irilum says.”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness?”

“The Prince – oh, I shouldn’t – well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. His Highness Prince Irilum asked me if I liked the look of one of the squirrels gardening beside us as we spoke on the pathway in the garden. You know the one, with all the hyacinths.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Hmph.” You shift in your chair. “Well, he asks me if I liked the look of this girl, and I said I did, and that night I find her waiting by my bed, saying that His Highness had relayed my request by way of the Chief Steward! Now everyone thinks I’m rotating through the entire staff! It’s ridiculous! I’m no more sexually active than any other man!”

“No, Your Highness,” Britta replies faithfully.

Margarita, under your desk, pops her mouth off your length and begins massaging it with a paw. “I wouldn’t know, Your Highness, but I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you,” you reply and shift again. Margarita wasn’t a liar; this really was making you feel better about the paperwork. She moves her hand down to your sack and drops her head onto you again, enveloping you in the warmth of her mouth, swirling her tongue over your tip and down as she forces more than seemed possible down her throat, continuing her pursuit in trying to hilt you.

You glance down. Your legs stretch into the dark recesses of the desk on either side of Margarita, who fits underneath with enough space to possibly turn around and take you from the other end; you are almost convinced to ask her to, but refrain. She’s doing an admirable job of coaxing pleasure out of your enveteraned cock as it is.

“I only wish there were some way to get away for a little while,” you muse.

“Would you like to visit the hot-baths, Your Highness? They are most likely empty at this time of day, and we could pleasure you there.”

“No, Britta. But thank you for the suggestion.”

“Your Highness could,” your retainer, heretofore recused from the conversation, speaks from his own mound of papers, “ask Her Highness if she intends to go on any hunting expeditions in the near future. I am told that Her Highness is frequently in the habit.”

“A capital idea,” you declare with a smile. “I shall ask her at the financial meeting today.”

En route to the meeting, you cannot help but notice that an unusual number of female aides and servants seem to cross your path; you frequently find them stopping just short of you at crossings and standing, heads bowed slightly in the proper style. A suspicion grows within you, and the next to stop short with a bundle of laundry in her arms you deign to address, offering your hand for her to curtsy over.

“Good morning,” you say.

“Good morning, Your Royal Highness.” The deer hurriedly places her laundry to one side and curtsies over your knuckles, holding her lips to them for an excessive length of time. You draw your hand back.

“Pray tell me your name.”

“Oh! Yes, Your Highness, Merideth, Your Highness. I am so grateful – I anticipate with pleasure -” The deer stammers into silence and bows her head once more.

“Thank you. Good day.” Your suspicions confirmed, you continue on your way.

You are early to the meeting, and find Hazel already waiting. The two of you greet each other as has become your habit: she proffers her hands to you, and you take them and kiss them, as is polite. She then turns her hands over to kiss yours, which you find too adorable to warn her against; as it is only appropriate for lower class women to kiss the hands of male royalty. For Hazel, the action seems to hold some other special signification as well, and she hardly ever lets go immediately.

It is a small ritual, which brings you a similar joy to the one you share every morning. Awakening in each others’ arms, one will say “Good Morning, My Love.” The other then responds, staring into the other’s face, “By the light in your eyes,” an idiom particular to the beast-men which Hazel delighted in teaching you.

On this day, Hazel looks at you over your knuckles. “My senses tell me that you have already been active this morning, My Dearest.”

“Oh, is it that obvious to you?”

“Yes,” she says simply.

“I hope it does not trouble you?”

“No; you would not know this, as you have not long been in my country which is now yours, but since the war has ended it has become admirable for men, now in some demand, to father many children. To be married to such a man, who is assisting in the population regrowth, is a prideful thing for a woman in these days. It is also thought that a woman who is not endeavoring to create more laborers for the common good -”

Here she bites off her words, looking troubled.

“Now now,” you comfort her, a hand on her shoulder which she nuzzles with the side of her face. “You shall soon join them, I swear it.”

She places a hand on yours. “It is not the first time that I wished I had more conscious control over my body or the flow of time. If I could have but sped your journey to me by a week, or delayed my time until the night whereupon we truly met for the first time, my happiness at this moment might have been complete.”

“Happiness delayed is no worse for the waiting, My Darling,” you say. “I wonder, in the meantime, if we might share in each others’ delights in a different sense. I have been told that you go on hunting expeditions on occasion, and wondered if I might be permitted to join you on one of these.”

Hazel’s answer was slow in coming, and frosty when it did. She stands erect by the window, and you can see in the light that her hackles have risen, which pricks up the small hairs on the back of your own neck. You have never so far in your marriage seen Hazel demonstrate anything less than perfect equanimity, except in the throes of passion, and do not know what to expect.

“Is there any reason you wish to do so?”

“No, aha, that is, I don’t have any particular reason. I just feel a touch in need of fresh air and exercise beyond riding or walking the grounds.”

Hazel’s eyes are firm, almost glowering. “Are you certain?”

“Yes…Have I done something to offend you, My Dearest One?”

“That,” she says with a small growl, “Is a question meant for my lips.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I don’t know what I have said to offend, but please know I didn’t mean it as such.” You give her hand a gentle bob, emphasizing your words.

Slowly, Hazel softens. “You mean this? You wish to go on a hunt purely for sport?”

“Yes.”

“I must remember that you are new to our ways, so may often say which you mean, but I hear what you do not. Joining in the hunt is a thing not done by males. It is the place of the females to hunt and provide; my heart rebels against the notion of a male along. I feel as if my father or my brother would be breathing down my neck, inspecting my work. That is the role of the male on the hunt, should he ever be present. He does not participate unless – unless he has a reason.”

“I am sorry, I did not mean to imply that your work was insufficient.”

Hazel looks away, out upon the gardens trampled by workmen. “I would not have thought as much if it were not already on my mind. My mother hunted for my father every day, or so I seem to remember, and we never needed to question it by her scent on the kill. I feel that my duties,” here she snaps to herself, clicking her mouth closed in an irritated little way peculiar to her race, “which I do not mean to deride, My Darling, for I know they are after the fashion of your people; restrictive. I cannot provide for you all of your meals as I ought, and the feeling grates on me.”

You comfort Hazel, pointing out that in her various duties as your wife she provided well for you in love and affection, but with little effect. You have an idea, recalling your Mother’s complaints in your earlier days of a duty which she disposed of out of her daily docket some years before.

As the king is delayed in attending, you send for the chief steward and have a quiet word with him, asking that he in future direct all questions regarding the menu to Hazel, and beg that she select the options for meals when possible.

If fiction is real life with all the boring bits cut out, the following meeting demonstrates that your life is completely real. The concerns over the exporting of carriages is met with respectful disagreement from the king’s Head Financier and Chief Treasurer, who regard the export as a specialty of the region, and a levee on them to match the price of your kingdom’s exports would cause the economy to suffer. The human representative, one of your father’s financiers in evidently poor standing to be sent on this assignment, counters that the human exports of carriages can not match the quality or price of the beast-men variants, and were therefore causing hardship in certain towns which also specialize.

Taking a page from the story of your own life, you suggest that a trade be proposed, after much arguing, and that some human workmen and beast-men workmen trade places for a year to share knowledge and enable both communities to benefit from the advanced techniques. This suggestion was considered an excellent one, requiring inquiries into the concerns of the parties afflicted, and would be adopted or discarded at the next meeting on this subject in one month (for the trip back to get word from your father would require that length of time).

Then, after a lunch of roast suckling pig with grain mash, (you smile to see the steward approach Hazel with some whispered question she seems pleased to answer), comes a meeting on the status of the castle. You have been invited to these, in theory, because you will be the only resident human for some time, but with every expectation of future visitors and heirs, provided everything goes well between Hazel and yourself. In reality, you become convinced that the king wished to have the ability to surreptitiously bounce questions off of someone who has lived in a castle before.

“What determines the supreme angle of the arched windows?”

Beyond some vague memory of the sharper, more tapered windows belonging to the older portions of the castle you really can’t say.

“Why ought the windows be narrow on the lower floors of the keeps but not the higher ones?”

To repel intruders, of course, with arrows and pikes, while those outside could not crawl in.

What you desperately wish to tell the king is that castles are quickly being outmoded by grand palaces with very little defensive capabilities. As the recent war showed clearly, once an enemy force was at your gates the war was all but lost. However, His Royal Majesty was not to be discouraged. You privately feel that the king was dead-set in aping his conquerors in every respect possible in the hope of replicating their success.

As the meeting drags on you muse at the nature of a king’s duties: in the morning, determine how to collect money, in the afternoon, decide how to spend it.

You also reflect on Merideth, the maid. She had seemed genuine in her delighted reaction to asking her name. Would it be wrong to give in to your mounting desire to mount her? Or would it be rude to withhold from her what she so clearly wanted? You had all but invited her already, you reflect, in her mind.

You put the question to Hazel.

“I do not mind whom you invite to our bed, My Dear, for it is all grist to my mill. They are prey; playthings which we may use for our pleasure. Which one lies beneath you is not my concern, so long as none lie beneath you when I desire you myself.”

You swallow down your nerves to see the possessive hunger in her eyes. That night, Merideth joins you and Hazel in bed, and you enjoy the way in which she seems to worship you with her large eyes. You drape one of her legs on your chest and take her from the side, as she lies on the bed, with Hazel’s neck under your teeth and her side under one arm.

The next day you dictate a letter to your father, asking with the proper ceremony that he send one of his master stonemasons to the beast-men before this castle-to-be comes crumbling down around your collective ears.

In the future weeks you see Hazel brighten with every deliberate compliment you pay to the meals she (from her perspective secretly) had a hand in choosing. You have almost forgotten your request when Hazel declares that in a few days she will have a hunt with her party; members of her old regiment, and you will join them.

The day arrives, and you present yourself in a workaday uniform, opting partially due to nerves to wear your old military gear and service sword. Both had seen days in the field, and therefore you would not be reluctant to get them dirty.

You meet Hazel outside the stables, where you find that you were the only one to request a horse. Not even Hazel would be mounted, though she had previously admitted that horses disliked her and, adorably, they made her nervous. A horse had killed your great-uncle, but they also tended to like you.

The rest of Hazel’s old regiment are standing, wearing dark leather clothing, all tall strong lionesses and mountain lions who regard you with unabashed interest before ducking their heads at a glare from Hazel beside you during your presentation. You feel frightened; the situation reminds you too much of nightmares you used to have of being caught by one of these beast-men units, alone with their sharp teeth and deprivation-honed appetites. The feeling is made worse by the fact that you wear not only your old field uniform but also your regimental sword, which you hope with a shudder no longer reeks of the blood of these women’s compatriots.

The eighteen or so beast-women greet you, luminous eyes aglow with interest, with small bows as Hazel introduces them by name, which you will not remember but pretend to try to. They hold spears in their hands but you see no dogs to chase your quarry.

When you ask, Hazel explains that they need neither horses nor dogs to assist in driving or finding the boar; it would go against their pride to use either. You are not so foolish as to attempt to run with them, though evidently you are foolish enough to place yourself in the center of a lion hunting ground, and so mount your horse. You hold the spear they give you, which is suspiciously ornamental and fragile-looking. You suspect that, in line with Hazel’s expectations regarding males hunting in general, you are not expected to participate in any meaningful way.

At this thought, you clear your throat and make a short announcement. You make it clear to the party that, although you are a male and Hazel’s mate, you are not endeavoring to audit her abilities or criticize her work. You are incredibly happy with Hazel in all respects and simply wish to enjoy a day of hunting, which in your land and among the gentry of your species is enjoyed by both sexes, in particular by men, in stark contrast to their expectations. Hazel smiles prettily, though some of the women there give each other dubious looks. Ah well, at least you tried.

The hunting begins with a great deal more stealth than you are used to; ordinarily the forester would lead the dog-master to a likely spot for picking up the scent, where he had noticed droppings the day before, and then the dogs would lead the way until the sighting, then came the chase, the baying, and the kill, performed by whomever got there first, or whomever was most important among the party.

In this case, you suppose that would be Hazel, seeing her peculiar feelings on the matter. You attempt to forget this as the forester meets the party after they leave the gates (you are brought bread, the others seem to prefer hunting while hungry), and leads you to the edge of the forest. After this, he simply mentions a general area (in a half-hour and left) where he suspects there to be boar, and wishes you good luck. The women then take over, and you rest your spear across your lap to watch them at their work, until a young sapling nearly ejects you and you hastily hold it upright, hoping no one noticed. After all, you typically hunt with bow or sword at home, and never in this fashion.

The women spread through the trees, with Hazel remaining close to you as a sort of guardian or commander in the center, stalking along, endeavoring with subtle step to move without noise or excessive motion, padding the earth beneath the sparse trees of the King’s Wood, reserved for his hunting and defensive territory.

After two hours, one of the outer beast-women raises a hand, and silently all the others move toward her, catching the scent she has discovered and orienting the party toward it.

Your horse, well accustomed to the scent of predator beast-men by this point and reassured by your presence, follows with plodding steps which make you wince, though the normal calling of birds and the rustling of the breeze cover the hoof-falls for the most part.

Abruptly, the boar is sighted, but somehow the party is also perceived. Before you’d even glimpsed the beast or had the time to observe to yourself that nothing ever went right on a hunting party, you grab the reigns of your horse and kick him into a gallop, following on the heels of the sprinting women with their glinting spears. You let out a whoop, the fighting blood rising in you as the chase begins, plunging quarry and pursuers deep into the forest.

The boar is wily and he is quick; he ducks under low brushes and takes hairpin turns around bends and rock outcroppings which your horse struggles to dart around or follow along. You and the others chase him for minutes on end, waiting for him to tire enough to get caught. How long it lasts you can’t say, only that you’re panting and the spear in your hand is jolting your shoulder as you ride, hitched up in the saddle to remain poised.

The boar is eventually tired out to the point of turning, at bay and mad with terror and fury. You see from afar how the lionesses form a circle around the creature, careful to place themselves between trees with space to jump to one side or the other without allowing the boar to pin them and gore them with his tusks. They jab at him with their spears, keeping him from running any of them in particular, nicking him with the points as he tries to charge each in turn, wheeling and plunging in his madness.

Hazel steps forward as your horse catches up with the females, leveling her spear and attempting to skewer the animal with a practiced lunge. However, you see in a moment how she slips, stumbles and falls – how the boar in triumph charges his prey and his exit from the circle and how Hazel scrabbles for purchase on the slippery ground.

Instantly, you chuck the spear to the side as worthless and give your horse a kick which sends him directly at the boar, which swerves momentarily from the larger animal. You heave yourself off the horse and land, sword raised, in a heavy crouch on the ground behind the boar, which is bringing itself to a halt before the new obstacle, tusks just grazing the knees of your stallion which gives a kick in self-defense.

You leap forward, boots finding one foothold after another on the slight slope before you leap atop the boar, arms reaching around and blade seeking the creature’s sensitive throat.

For a moment, all is wiry hair and screams and chaos. You grip the boar’s hair with one hand, knowing that if he gets you on the ground you’ll be dead in a moment. You slash with your sword: once, twice, you feel it connect with flesh and dig deeper, towards yourself with the beast as your shield from the blade. Blood spurts over the sword and mists the air around you as the boar bucks you from his back, but you hurl yourself into the nearest tree, dropping your sword, and clamber a couple of handholds, knowing that you’ve done your work.

When you look down, breathing hard, the boar has fallen to the earth before reaching your tree. The pool forming about his head on the grass leaves no doubt that he is finished.

You clamber down with a chuckle, giddy with the adrenaline which sent you atop the boar and saw you safely off of it again, a feat your father would have spoken of for years.

When you reach the boar, picking up your sword along the way, you face several of the lionesses, who wear sour expressions which make your heart sink. Evidently you have once again made some hunting faux pas.

“My Husband,” Hazel says, dropping to one knee before you, at which all the other females follow her lead, “You have struck the final blow.”

“Yes,” you say, “I did not wish to see you in danger. Otherwise I would not have interfered.”

Hazel’s eyes regard you with puzzlement, as if she were regarding a sculpture of some ancient sect with meaning unknown.

“It matters not. You have put us as huntresses to shame, requiring a male to assert himself.”

From the crowd, one of the other lionesses mutters something with a glance at your horse, which stands blowing great gasps of air nearby.

Hazel jumps to her feet and stalks to the grumbler, then without a word strikes her hard across the face. She glowers at the lioness, who glares back.

“You will not demean my husband’s efforts! His reliance on another does not depreciate his efforts any more than my reliance on you, and I will see you punished for implying so. He has put you to shame. He has put me to shame, and he has displayed his worthiness in the Hunt as per the custom of one in question, which he was not obliged to do. These are great qualities.” She glances over at you. You are still short of breath, and must have looked a state, with forest mud spattering your front and a gory sword dripping on the grass. You stare blankly back into a face which displays peculiar, inhuman emotions you cannot name. Shame and pride should not possibly be displayed at once, but every day of your life was an adventure with new possibilities.

“My husband is excited with the blood-lust. Elanza, you are fertile this week. You will serve him as pennance. Now.”

The lioness growls low.

“Now! On the ground!”

After a moment’s stare-down, the lioness parts her tunic at the shoulder and hip and drops it, revealing a torso crossed with scars.

“Please, My Dearest,” Hazel crosses to you and whispers in your ear, “Do not give her cubs. I wish to make an example of her. She will fall in pleasure to you, but please resist until she does, and even after. It is the highest shame to be used by a male without being pleasurable enough to him for him to finish, and she shall be made respectful of your will by the exercise, and the others thereby.”

You turn to find the lioness in question naked, sitting on her knees in the grass, glowering at you. You carefully wipe your sword on the grass before stowing it in its sheath, then removing your harness, neck-cloth and tie, coat, boots and pants. All the while you mull over how exactly these situations continue to happen to you and whether to be upset or ecstatic about the fact that they do.

You sit down on the grass, legs splayed out, and Hazel points to you.

“Serve him.”

Slowly, the lioness moves to you and crouches above you, a sneer on her lip as you work yourself hard – it isn’t difficult with your blood up and a pair of breasts nearly enveloping your face – and slot yourself into her.

She slams her hips down with all her might, and you barely withhold a gasp of pain. Your first experience with lioness pussy is not going as you had expected. She rises once more then plunges again, huffing as she grinds down. Your hips explode in agony, feeling as if someone had taken a battering ram to them. This woman is trying to shatter your bones, you just know it!

Enough is enough, and you take the situation into your own hands.

“Alright,” you mutter, and topple the lioness over onto her back. She gives an alarmed and undignified squawk, but you’re already on top of her and press yourself into her slit before she can do more.

Without regard for anyone’s pleasure but your own, you begin slapping your legs against her thighs, splaying her legs in the grass and forcing the maximum contact between your two groins, pushing deep within her from the moment you get fully inside. She’s a full-bodied woman, larger than Hazel, and her breasts seem to indicate that she’s had children; they’re as large as melons and roll with the pounding you put her body through.

Elanza’s breathing is becoming less controlled as her instincts rob her of her righteous anger. You feel her walls relaxing, allowing you easier passage. You pull a trick you’ve learned with Hazel and reach around her neck, scratching at the point where her neck became the back of her head, and Elanza bucks her head back, arms reaching out to clasp you as you awaken her grappling instinct. This draws you in closer and gives you better access; your knees are immediately behind Elanza’s backside and you drop your hips onto hers with loud slaps that echo around the quiet grove.

Around the two of you, the other lionesses feign disinterest or openly stare, while the two mountain lionesses, which Hazel obviously regards with less favor, are sent dragging the boar away to field-dress. You are glad that they aren’t going to rip the skin from the hide or splay the innards within feet of your ongoing coitus, but seize on to the imagery and smells from other dressings you’d been a part of as a way of distracting you from the pleasure which is quickly gathering in your nethers.

Elanza distracts you: “Do you have any idea how easily I could kill you, man?” she hisses. “How many of your kind I have slain in the war?” Her claws prick at your skin with more than the usual pressure Hazel exerts without being able to help it. “I could rip your throat out this moment.”

You lean in close, pressing yourself deep into her crevice and bringing your face within whispering distance of Elanza’s nose. “I doubt Hazel would even have your fur for a mat if you did. Never forget who’s the most important at the feast. Also, I believe you are not of sufficient rank to drop my honorifics.”

You grind into her, and Elanza turns her face to the side, biting her lip in an effort to remain focused.

“I don’t know how many men you killed,” you continue, “but I will have you, and you will bear me children until you have replaced your count twice over.”

At the mention of children, Elanza glances somewhere else, but you don’t care to follow her gaze. Instead you latch onto one of her breasts with your mouth as you resume humping her, Elanza’s juices sliding down your legs, her huffing breath growing in volume. Her breast is an easy target, and you fondle the tip of the other as you bite at the one between your lips, stretching and squeezing each, your hand barely able to cup the bulbous mound as you feel Elanza’s legs beginning to quiver around you.

Pressing your advantage, you cruelly compress the breast in your hand while your other reaches between Elanza’s thighs and rubs at the pinnacle of her opening. You angle your hips and thrust as near her stomach as you can, hoping that your recently-gained understanding of female anatomy will not fail you.

You glance at Elanza’s face and note that she is flushed, and her eyes are on your face with pupils wide, drinking you in with them. Her sneer is gone, and her tongue lolls loose from her sharp front teeth.

You reach up with one hand and place it along her neck, under her chin, and watch her face bump against your forearm with amusement. You scratch under her chin and rub behind her cheekbone, exploring all the spots Hazel squirmed to feel you touch.

On your back, you feel the touch of Elanza’s heels, her legs arching behind you in capture, her arms pulling you near as her legs prevented you from any escape. You feel the bulk of her muscles, gained from years of exercise, flex around you. She lifts her face and in a moment, before you can jerk back, licks your cheek and neck. She continues grooming you in short bursts as she presses you against her chest, shuddering as she accepts you.

You think about miserable nights spent in the rain and cold; meals rotten with worms on the trail, corpses bloated in a stream, and your mind remains relatively cool, though with enough of this flexing and pressing your dick is having other ideas. Enough of this and you’d blow inside her and ruin Hazel’s demonstration of what you assume is her power over her huntresses and your sexual prowess. You are midway through wondering whether this demonstration was for her hunting prowess in your sexual ability of her finding you as a partner, and all the micro-societal implications that implied, when Elanza’s legs slammed against you and held you inside her, quivering along her entire length as she cried out, shivering her way through orgasm.

Victory, you think, but your retreat was not assured. Elanza still held you inside her and you felt heat boiling in your crotch.

Desperately you reach around Elanza’s clasping arms, up along her spine to where it began. You dig in with all your fingers, gripping hard at the nerves just beneath her skull. Elanza, instantly a cub in her mother’s mouth, relaxes completely, her arms and legs falling to the ground with a thud.

You pull out in time to allow the air to calm you, your cock twitching.

Looking to Hazel, you attempt to improvise according to her strange, halting version of formality.

“This one has not satisfied me. I demand another.”

From the assembled lionesses comes a chorus of small noises of dismay and sympathy, looking askance at Elanza, who brings herself up on her elbows with her ears back. She does not look hateful this time, rather she glances at you with obvious shame.

“Who will volunteer to satiate my husband?” Hazel demands of the group, her eyes glinting with peculiar pride and happiness at the success of her scheme.

With the limited pool of candidates, you are surprised when another lioness shakily raises her hand.

“Elodor!” cries Elanza with pain in her voice.

“Yes, Elodor,” Hazel nods. “It is proper that you should volunteer to overcome your mother’s insufficiency.”

The lioness who emerges from the crowd is young and slim, with a new-looking leather harness which makes it plain she at least did not have a part in the recently concluded war. She is almost boyish, and her eyes peek at you with a curiosity tinged with fear. After all, you have shamed her mother, and may be about to shame her in turn. You feel slightly queasy at the idea of sleeping with mother and daughter in turn, but attempt to overcome the instinct with the thought that you are an actor on stage, performing your role for the sake of the audience around you. This is Hazel’s show, you think with some irony; she the circus-leader and you the lion, in a perversion of the usual state of affairs.

Elodor unhooks the shoulder-straps of her armor and allows it, and the undergarments which protect her sensitive parts, to fall to the forest floor. She is boyish still; her breasts are not nearly as developed as Elanza’s, and her belly fur is unmarked by any scars which might not be explained by rough play.

She is, in fact, a perfect specimen of youth and beauty, and your qualms about the morality of Hazel’s ends die away in the face of their means.

You cup Elodor’s face with one hand, feeling her cheek beneath your palm and her fur burning. Burning with shame? Anticipation? Embarrassment?

You lean forward and kiss her, hoping to relieve some of the tension in her. She leans against you, shorter than you by a hand-length, and you feel her fur slide against your sensitive sex, smearing against it in a way which makes you shudder with pleasure.

“It is your time as well?”

She looks up at you. “Your Highness, I sleep in the same room as Mother. It is not uncommon in this case.”

You nod, as if you were expecting this answer, and massage one of her arms gently, then try to bring to mind the character which you are playing.

“First, wash off your mother’s scent.” You push down on her shoulder, and Elodor crouches, obviously confused, facing your rod. Understanding quickly dawns, and her broad tongue rasps along it, lapping away until it’s cleaned off. This is partially a delaying maneuver on your part, since it will require more cooldown time before you’re ready to take the plunge once more, but you also appreciate the strength and dexterity of the tongue which runs along your length from each side, feeling the wide paws gripping the back of your legs to position her best.

“On all fours.”

Elodor maneuvers herself, and you behold the beautiful sight of her behind, presented for you in all its glory, artfully curved without a trace of surplus fat and partially hidden by her dangling tail.

“Wait!” Elanza cries out.

“Mother, please, do not make this worse for yourself!”

“You must let me guide her, this is her first time.” Elanza is on her knees, gesturing at you. You drag your eyes away to stare her down coolly.

“Your Royal Highness,” Elanza amends, “Please let me help her.”

You contemplate this request, considering refusal. But Elanza seems desperate, and to push any punishment too far is to make an enemy of a subordinate. You give a nod, and allow Elanza to lie on the grass, facing upward, and Elodor to plant herself on top, ears back with her arms trembling. As you kneel behind Elodor, you hear Elanza whispering to Elodor, quiet and quick, and patting her face with one paw.

You glance over at Hazel, who simply gives you a nod. Not for the first time you wonder at the peculiarity of your relationship, with her being second in line for her throne and you being third for yours, but her belonging to a nation subservient to your own. In this context, there was no question who was calling the shots.

Elodor’s fur is smooth under your hands as you grip her sides, leaning forward until your tip traces along her entrance. She shudders beneath you, then you rock yourself inside without further preamble.

Damn! Elodor felt a size too small for you, and whatever her mother was whispering wasn’t helping. Your cock barely goes in halfway before Elodor shrieks and seizes her fingers into fists in the grass. Her tail lashes and catches you in the face, making you sputter in a most undignified way. As if anyone could see that minor defect of character among the general shambles of your royal aplomb lying among your scattered clothing.

“Relax, Elodor,” you try to reassure her. “This will be much better if you can relax.”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I can’t.” You can hear that her teeth are clenched, so you run your hands up and down her sides, pulling out of her until you think the timing will be better. You lean over and kiss her neck, breathing in the distinctive musk that lions give off. You must smell of it too, seeing how much time you spend with Hazel, and that probably doesn’t help. You slide a hand along your shaft, gathering the precum which had begun to excrete from the tip, then place it in front of Elodor’s nose. Male scent, is all you can think. Maybe it’ll put her in the right mindset.

Elodor breathes in the smell, and you can feel the puff of air from Elanza as she smells it too. You nip at Elodor’s neck, and you feel your hand nudged against her chest as Elanza moves closer to her daughter. You peer around, and see Elanza licking at Elodor’s collar, grooming her, probably comforting her. Elodor’s breast is beneath your hand, and you grip it, in the same way a pan lid may cover a saucer. That is to say: completely.

Undeterred, you massage it and continue to nuzzle at the nape of Elodor’s neck. You feel her heart rate slowing from a frantic galop to a rapid canter before a paw grips your shaft, dangling between Elodor’s legs. You start, but know that of course this must be Elanza, as Elodor is still supporting herself on both hands.

Elodor’s interior is fevery-warm and smooth; you feel it shake with the hiccuping gasps Elodor lets loose as Elanza guides you inside. The two of you are linked as Elanza purrs reassurance.

“Very good, Elodor,” you whisper.

“Thank you, Your Highness. Please don’t speed up.”

“I will try to keep the pace slow for you.”

“I appreciate that, Your Highness.”

True to your word, you don’t succumb to temptation by going whole hog with Elodor; you continue rubbing her smooth underbelly, feeling the heat from Elanza’s body underneath, reassuring her like an animal: slow petting to show her everything was okay.

In and out you go, pressing slightly further each time, bent on top of Elodor. Her tail swipes your stomach, pushed aside to make room for you. The point comes when you sink deep enough in Elodor that you feel confident in speeding up, and you go onto your knees straight up, no longer hugging Elodor but fucking her properly, swinging your hips and bouncing Elodor with the clap of flesh on each thrust.

Elodor is moaning, her purr mingling with her mother’s deeper one as her walls grip you, pulling you in. The slapping of thighs on thighs increases in volume and intensity, you pant as you feel the sweat of your day’s exertions soaking the scraps of clothing you still have on, trickling down your back.

Elodor’s fur is silky, you stroke her back, feeling the ruffle of it passing beneath your fingers.

Elanza has wriggled to a point beneath the pair of you where she is beneath the point where you’re coupling, where Elodor’s juices plop to the forest floor each time you drag yourself from her clenching folds. Elanza grips your globes and massages them as she licks at Elodor’s stomach with the other. What either of these two things are meant to do you can’t imagine, and you don’t have a thought to spare.

At this point you’re only restraining your growing pleasure out of a sense of personal pride; you don’t want to seem too easy to please. As if you haven’t proven that already.

Elodor is saying something beneath you. You lean forward to hear, pressing against her stoic, upright posterior to your full length.

Elodor yelps.

“What did you say?”

“Sorry, Your Highness, it was nothing.”

“Was it something like, ‘please let me have it?’”

Elodor’s ears are swiveling like mad.

“Yes, Your Highness. Please give me your cubs. I swear to raise them well. Please do not find me lacking. I – I wish to bear you children, I mean it.”

Elodor looks up at Hazel. “My Lady, I swear I will give you and His Highness healthy cubs. They will know their place. I will raise them to be strong, and know to whom they owe their lives, as I do. Please.”

This last word is spoken in a whine, as you lean back to glance at Hazel yourself. She is staring at the three of you ravenously, and you see that she’s wearing one of those impossible expressions: envy and pride and joy and fury. You think for a moment she will order you to get dressed at once and leave the pair of lionesses to fallow together. But she gives a firm nod instead.

“Raise them well. May they be healthy and do great deeds.” She gives you a look which says, get on with it.

Letting out a breath, you slam yourself into Elodor: once, twice, three times, as deep and as hard as you can. Her insides are gripping you needfully, her womb waiting, Elodor kneading the ground in anxious anticipation.

You feel the moment arrive, and you grasp Elodor’s hips and bury yourself, spurting into her fertile sanctum with a growl which you hope the lionesses don’t find ridiculous. At least the one beneath you is too busy mewling into her mother’s chest to be judgmental.

“Bear them well,” you pant. “I trust my bloodline to you, Elodor.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Elanza says, surprising you. “She will do well by them, as I have done by her, or I will know why.”

Back in your office chamber, Hazel places a plate before you on your desk which contains nothing more than the bare heart of the boar, steaming slightly.

“Please, My Dearest, it’s tradition.”

“I feel as if one of your traditions is going to get me gravely ill…” you eye the quivering flesh distastefully, but put aside a long request for you to oversee new road construction and toll commissioning. You reach for the heart.

“Thank you, Dearest. And thank you for your help with Elanza. She can get quite above herself, but I’m glad for your aid in putting her in her place.”

“Yes,” you grip the warm flesh and bring it to your mouth with a grimace. “I was surprised at her conduct.”

The flesh is salty and bloody, and some cavern within rains blood down onto the plate as you clamp down, tearing a hunk of heart away.

“She thinks she can treat me as an equal because she’s my cousin.”

The chunk of meat flies across your desk.

“That’s awfully wasteful of you, Darling.”

“She’s your what?”

“The daughter of my father’s brother – the late king – by a mistress. Not in line for the throne any more than Elodor’s brood will be for yours, but she thinks highly of herself because she’s older than I am. Eat your heart, Dearest, before it grows cold.”