Like A Flood
Disclaimer: This story is for fantasy purposes only. This is in no way a realistic depiction of sexuality and the behavior herein is not condoned.
The stench of defeat hung over the court. King Othe shook his head. "That won't do," he said to the assembled nobles, courtiers, functionaries, and hangers-on. "Chins up. We are civilized folk. We will meet these events with dignity and majesty."
He looked next to his queen, who was hovering in her usual spot, a step behind him and to his right. "Come, darling."
Michelle took his arm without complaint and walked beside him. Fifteen years of training to be a noble's wife had given her admirable grace. Practically as soon as she could talk she'd been groomed to be a diplomatic asset. She'd long since resigned herself to it.
She had no complaints for herself, really. She liked Othe well enough. Their marriage had been advantageous for both families. She was well taken care of, and comfortable, and once in a while Othe gave her a trinket or something to show that he remembered her. And if that meant her life was devoid of affection or passion or male companionship, well, you couldn't have everything.
She heard whispers from the crowd. That brought a rise out of her and earned a sharp look into the crowd. So many vipers! Othe was a decent person, a well-meaning person. He wanted to leave most people well enough alone. It certainly hadn't been his idea to withhold tribute from the savages and raise an army instead. No, it was all the nobles complaining about taxes being too high. And now that the battle was lost, the army was ash, and the barbarians were rampaging, those same nobles were sniping at Othe in hushed voices.
Michelle despised them. She longed for Othe to say or do something to bring them to heel. Characteristically, he did nothing of the sort. He just seemed, if anything, a little more put-upon, a little more consciously elegant. He sat down in his throne. Michelle took her usual position.
"Milord," called an out-of-breath courier, "they're coming... they're here!"
Othe sucked in a breath. Michelle offered him her hand, but if he noticed he made no sign.
Boom. Boom. Bang. The hall's grand doors flew open, and there they were. The barbarians. The furs. They were exotic, and alien, and they smelled. There were five of them, no two much alike. They were all armed, in a conspicuous but casual way. Intimidation was a lifestyle for them, so they didn't have to work at it much. Right in the middle was the lynx they'd all heard about, the infamous ruler of the northern wastes...
"K-khan F-faros," called out the herald.
The invaders chuckled at the herald's obvious discomfort. The lynx was more controlled. He gave the whole room a smile that was all teeth. He walked over to the visibly shaking herald and whispered in his ear. The herald nodded vigorously, then called out again.
"Ahem... presenting the one and only Khan Faros..." whisper, whisper, "...Grand Alpha of the Furs..." whisper, whisper, "...Master of the Third Wave..." whisper, whisper, "...Scourge of the North..." whisper, whisper, "...the one who made me shit my pants..."
The barbarians erupted in roars of laughter. Faros remarked, "Wow, he really will repeat anything you tell him." He patted the herald on the head, like he would a puppy, then stepped towards the front of the room. Shining, predator's teeth were on full display in what could barely be called a smile. The animal strutted down the length of the hall, bold as brass. His minions followed at a respectful distance.
There seemed like there was a little less air in the room with him in it. He had an intensity Michelle could feel even at a distance. It was like he was more alive than anyone around him.
Faros' eyes wandered over everything in the room. Michelle could see him measuring and valuing everything his eyes touched. His gaze fell on Michelle for a beat. Her heart stopped--it was like he was looking right through her, piercing her with those eyes. Then he was looking elsewhere, leaving a void in Michelle. She sucked in a breath she hadn't even known she was holding.
Hate rushed in to fill the emptiness. Oh, yes, she loathed him.
Faros stopped as he passed a painting. He spent long seconds looking at it--as if a cretin like himself could ever appreciate it. "I like it," he said eventually. "Take it."
One of his henchman eagerly rushed forward and began to lift the painting off the wall. "No, no," said Faros. "Not like that. I don't want the whole painting. Just the middle part with the naked femme."
The lackey gamely drew a blade. In that moment, everyone knew what was about to happen. There was a great intake of breath, like everyone wanted to shout 'no' at once. The lynx's head whipped around. "I dare you," he said, red eyes full of fire. "I dare one of you to try and stop me. I dare all of you to try and stop me."
No one did. No one stepped forward. No one spoke. The only sounds were the thunking of the blade into the wood and the ripping of canvass. All around Michelle, something withered and died. Her hatred grew. That painting was 200 years old, made by a grandmaster when there hadn't been even a master in these lands in over fifty years. Faros was doing this just to piss them off, and, curse him, it wasn't working on anyone except her.
"You can't of course," he said. He turned towards the court and the throne, arms spread wide like a showman. "That's the whole point. You can do nothing to stop me from getting what I want. You might as well try to stop an avalanche.
"I don't ask for much. An annual tribute of gold isn't a high price to pay for peace and security. And yet you didn't believe. You didn't take me seriously. You thought--ha! Too generous. You imagined, against all evidence, that you could stand against me."
He stepped forward. The nobles shrank away from him. His jovial aspect was long gone. "So now I will make it perfectly clear," he said in deadly tones. "You can't stop me. I will take the things that are precious to you--riches, artifacts, femmes--and you will watch me do it." He walked until he was almost in sword range of the king.
"You'll watch me, and you'll sit there, powerless, doing fuck-all. And every time you see the space of something I've taken, every time you miss something that now belongs to me... that pain will remind you just how impotent you are compared to me."
Michelle couldn't take it any more. She stepped forward and jabbed a finger at the animal. "You will show the king the respect he's due, you filthy animal!"
For the first time Faros showed evidence of surprise--though the evident amusement was almost as strong. He looked around Michelle to Othe, who seemed to be shrinking into his throne even more. "How did you reel in such a fine bitch, 'king'?" he mocked.
Temper flaring, Michelle swung a hand at the invader's face. He caught the hand before it got close. He gave her only a moment to be shocked by this before he twisted her around. In a flash he had her fist between her shoulder blades, putting pressure against her shoulder. Involuntarily, she bent forward at the waist, trying to relieve the pressure a little. It was enough to jut her rump backwards. He took the opportunity to grind his crotch against her.
She instantly felt and recognized the hot, thick thing prodding against her. It was surprising, out of place--arrogant and deviant as the male it belonged to. "You can't resist me, either," he said more quietly, almost privately. His hot breath washed over the back of her neck. His malehood throbbed even through the clothes they wore.
If there was one thing Michelle was sure of, it was that she was born and bred to be the wife of nobility. She had a lifetime's worth of training in etiquette, courtly arts, intrigue, heraldry, and a dozen other genteel subjects. She'd learned very clearly from her studies that queens were not to be roughly handled by filthy savages. Queens very definitely weren't to be prodded by vulgar, unwashed genitals.
Didn't everyone else know that, too?
Her eyes whipped around the room. A few people were looking away in shame, but most were staring at her, wide-eyed and frozen in place. Even her husband was just sitting there as if glued to his throne. She grit her teeth. Fine, then--it was up to her to preserve her dignity. Maybe if she could twist around and away...
He was having none of it. First he raised her arm more, pushing more pain into her shoulder. When that didn't work, he bit her.
Sharp teeth closed on the back of her neck, scrunching up the skin without scraping the bone. She went instantly still--knowing, on a level below thought, that any movement would make those teeth break skin. Her body knew what the gesture meant.
A thrill of fear shot through her, made her want to shake. He really could do anything he wanted, couldn't he? Resistance was danger. The gesture communicated that thought directly to her genes.
Othe had begun to rise from his seat, but he'd stopped before really clearing it. His face was wracked with confusion and hesitance. Such a contrast he made to the male behind her. There was no confusion in the teeth that held her neck. No hesitance in the cock prodding her ass, angry and rampant.
The teeth pulled away. "He values you highly," Faros whispered. "But not highly enough."
Michelle wanted to say 'Of course he does', but it stuck in her throat--partly because she didn't feel it, had never felt it, and partly because there was no telling how Faros would react.
"And you're worth valuing," he continued, light and husky. "Beautiful, strong-willed... soft, but that can be fixed... you deserve better than this."
He inhaled deeply, then, and rolled his hips. His lust was overpowering; his raw sensuality was pouring over her. Michelle was repulsed by it. And at the same time, it was the most sincere compliment she'd ever gotten. Oh, plenty of people had called her beautiful, but it was always obligatory, a poisoned word hiding a more poisonous dagger. The cock, at least, was honest.
"When you're mine..." Faros whispered, more quietly than ever, like a mouse in a confessional. He licked the back of her neck where his teeth had just been. She shivered. "When you're mine, it will break him."
A spark inside her flared up. "You can take me, but I won't be yours." It was a courtly whisper--she'd been well-trained in how to inject hatred into a voice that didn't carry.
He huffed in amusement. "Don't lie to yourself." His next words were directed at Othe. "Up."
Othe looked stunned, startled, frozen like a fallen goat. "Huh?"
"Up. I need your throne. It isn't really yours, anyway, not if I want it. Up!"
Othe rose and moved away without resistance. Faros forced Michelle forward, step by shuffling step--she couldn't get too far away from him, not with her arm still pinned. It was slowly going numb beneath the pressure, while her shoulder was beginning to ache.
To her surprise, he didn't direct her towards the seat. Instead he pushed her against the side of it until her thighs were pressed against the arm. Pain--he was lifting her arm more, forcing her down. She bent at the waist, down, down, until her buttocks were taut and her head was just above the opposite arm of the throne. She put her free hand on the arm to support herself. The animal behind her thrust with his hips again, sliding between the flexed cheeks of her ass. His earlier humps had been concealed behind her body, but the whole court could see this. His intentions were crystal clear now to everyone.
He announced at large, "I told you already that I can take anything I want. Now, I'll demonstrate exactly what I mean."
Michelle went still with disbelief. No, he couldn't mean--
Without releasing his grip on her arm, he started to bunch up the back of her skirt. Unwelcome cold air hit her legs. It jolted her into action. She tried to rise up and away, but he raised her arm and the pain forced her back down. She tried to move her legs away, but he had her pinned against the throne; she had no leverage. "Don't do this," she hissed.
He actually paused just as the dress cleared the curve of her ass. He released her arm, which she brought back in front of her tenderly. One of his hands encircled her waist, the other her shoulders. He raised her up until she was hard against his chest. He enveloped her.
"Why not?" he whispered as if genuinely curious.
She fought--she returned to the notion that he was repulsive and this embrace was a prelude to violent, unwanted sex. She kept herself tense, resisting. Gods, there was so much warmth--a deceitful warmth, suffocating rather than comforting. "I'm a queen."
"I'm a khan who emasculates kings. I'm a trade-up from that trash."
"I'm married."
"And your husband stands there, dickless. He won't fight for you. He can't. His vows are worthless. Yours should be, too."
So hot. Grind, grind--slow, insistent.
"I won't be your sex slave."
"Who said you would be? You can't enslave the willing."
That made her face twist in a sneer. "I hate you."
"Even so, you'll come to me."
"Why would I?"
"Because I'm the strongest. The smartest. The fittest."
"The cruelest. The most vicious."
"The most virile and capable. The alpha."
"The most savage. The most primal."
"Oh, yes," he gloated. "Compliment me more!"
"I hate you!" she said again, and her voice rose enough for everyone to hear.
"Then why are you so aroused?"
The words were like a thunderclap in the room--louder than what had come before, leaving silence in their wake. Michelle was suddenly aware that every set of eyes was focused on her. She flushed with sudden, overwhelming embarrassment. "I'm not," she protested in whisper.
His voice was not a whisper. "You can't lie to me. Your whole body is flushed. Your nipples are hard." He dropped a hand and ran a thumb, softly, teasingly, over her breast. She sucked in a breath as her treasonous, erect nipple was stimulated. "And your smell..." He drew in a deep, long breath. "Aroused woman," he pronounced. "Delicious."
He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her forward again, bending her again, exposing her to him again. She didn't push back. Her eyes were half-lidded as his cock scraped over her panty-clad rump. She caught herself by putting both hands on the far arm of the chair. Her hanging breasts heaved like she'd just been running. Not as if a lady ran, or did anything so vigorous...
She felt his fingers slide inside the hem of her panties. "No," she protested. "You mustn't..."
He didn't quite pause. He drew his fingers to the front and pulled, molding the cloth around her nethers. It wasn't a good feeling, exactly, but it did focus all of her attention on her crotch--and the wet, aromatic evidence of her treason. "Why not?" he asked jovially. Grind, grind.
She dropped her head in shame. "They'll see..."
He laughed in triumph. "So you do want this," he crowed, and she could not gainsay him. She was on fire, but from shame or arousal or fear or whatever she couldn't tell. Something was happening that she was helpless to understand, let alone stop.
He intertwined his fingers in her hair and pulled--slowly, so it didn't hurt, but irresistibly. He pulled her head back until she was looking at the members of the court. "Look at all of those limp-dick fucks," he said, carryingly. "Do you really care what they think? Put all of their opinions together and it doesn't amount to shit."
He leaned in closer to her ear, tugging her up to meet him. "But I'm the most powerful male in the north, and I want to fuck you. Oh, yessss," he hissed as he continued to saw at her buttocks. "I knew I was going to have to claim you or kill you--such a fine spirit you have. You belong with me, not with these gray, half-dead harpies."
With that he snaked a finger inside her waistband, extended a claw, and slashed apart one leg of her panties. She sucked in a breath as she felt herself start to be exposed. She tried to shift from one leg to the other--but was that to keep the ruined panties on, or help them slide off?
He backed off just enough to let him slit the other side of her panties. He pulled the ruined garment away, but he didn't stop there. To her horror, he lifted them up in full view of the court, until the messy underpants were hanging next to her face. The evidence of her body's betrayal was there for all to see.
She didn't understand.
She loathed him--despised the way he was publicly doing this to her, stealing away every shred of royal dignity and treating it like it was a gift. She hated this slow torture. It wasn't supposed to make her wet.
The truth was right there, though, indisputable. No one could mistake the stain of her arousal for anything else. She dropped her head down in shame. He let her, though his hand stayed in her hair, a silent reminder of his control.
"You won't be needing these," he said, and theatrically threw the panties away. He'd spoken to her, as if she was the only person who could hear, but his voice was loud and his gestures broad. He was performing, damn him. All of this was to break the king and the kingdom to his will, ensure they would never resist again.
At the same time, though, the throbbing need of his that she felt against her now-naked ass... that was no act. No performance. That was real and savage and urgent. The sensation went away--she heard a rustle--and then she felt him again, hot as a branding iron. Stark reality crashed down on her now that the last piece of cloth, the last defense, was gone.
He was really going to do this!
He was going to publicly claim her as everyone she knew looked on. That bastard!
"Last chance," he said at large. "In a few moments she'll belong to me. Stop me now, or else..."
She raised her head on her own, looking around. A few courtiers were looking away. Others couldn't look away. Not a one of them moved. She looked, desperately, at her husband, her king. His eyes were pleading. "Please," he said. "Please, don't do this..."
He was talking to her, she realized. Not to the implacable fiend behind her, but to her, as if she could somehow stop this. What were her options, with her pinned in place and unable to resist?
But was she truly unwilling, with her juices trickling down her thigh and her hips rocking back to meet her male? He was treating her as a sexual being, and a sexual being within her was awake for the first time, now, and ravenous.
She didn't understand how she could hate this male so much and yet crave his touch. He was so... so... Irresistible, was the word, he'd used. Yes. Like a flood, or an avalanche.
She looked at Othe, her husband, like he was half a world away. She knew to her core that he could not--would not--fight for her. In that fleeting moment, she felt contempt for him.
That's when Faros pierced her.
Her world shattered around her. It all fell away--the palace gossip, her distant family, her place in the peerage, her marriage vows... it all turned gray and faded. Her world shrank, and shrank, until there was nothing in it outside her own burning body. And further, even, smaller still--no arms, no legs--like her whole existence was nothing but her pussy, and the angry cock that was pushing into it ever-so-slowly. Endless penetration, deeper, fuller than she thought possible. She couldn't bear it. She wasn't built for this. It was unreal. She couldn't take him.
Yet he was irresistible even now, and on he went. He willed it, and she felt herself yield to him. When, at last, he bottomed out, with her buttocks snug against his thighs as if designed for just this moment, with his maleness snug inside her like she'd been built just to receive him... only then did she gasp for air and open her eyes.
"This is where you belong," he said, and the words echoed in her soul.
He held still as she rippled around him, adjusting to something she'd never thought possible. She'd had sex, of course--a queen and king having sex was a matter of state security. A perverse chaperonage had attended them on their wedding night to ensure the deed was done, and the bloody sheets of her marriage bed had been hung out to dry--publicly--like a victory banner.
Just another part of her duties, she'd been told.
This could not be more different. Not mechanical, obligatory, appropriate. Not a duty--this was the opposite of that. Primal. Lustful. Defiant. Shameless. He wasn't fucking just her, but everything about the world she'd lived in.
She opened her eyes and took in the courtiers once more. None of them knew-- gods, none of them could imagine how she felt right now. How it could feel, even. She almost pitied them.
"Fuck," growled Faros from behind her, and she laughed for some reason. Delirium, it had to be--this act, this cock, had driven her out of her right mind. It flared and twitched inside her, and its every motion stole her attention. She closed her eyes so she could focus her senses on it. Her body was molding itself to him. It was...
...right.
Slowly he began to move, but there was no way to move more deeply inside her; he could only withdraw. His absence made her ache. She almost whimpered in disappointment. No good! She'd been so stretched, she couldn't possibly go back to her old dimensions. She needed to be filled again. She bucked backwards to try and reclaim that sweet, hot flesh.
He didn't let her. Claws dug into the skin of her hip, while his other hand tightened its grip on her hair. She couldn't move, not if he wouldn't let her. But she needed it...
A pout escaped her, a soft complaint. It carried in the room's silence. "Needy already?" said Faros, more pleased than anything.
"Yesss..." she said, quiet as she could.
He pulled all the way out, and she moaned demurely, even though that small amount was still more than any proper lady would have made. The lack was agonizing. She felt him teasing her with his cockhead--felt it stirring up her lips, playing against her clit, rubbing against her. It was already so wet that every motion he made smeared her juices over her flesh.
Why wouldn't he just fuck her already?
It's not like there was a line he hadn't already crossed--if he was going to disgrace her, get it over with, and then...
There was no 'then', she realized. She couldn't think beyond getting that cock back inside of her. She strained against him, not that it did any good; and when that didn't work, she gave a quiet, bashful plea.
"What was that?" he asked.
She bit her lip. She was aware that other people were looking at her. She didn't want to be seen, not when she was about to be so wanton. But where could she go? What choice did she have, if she wanted to be full again? If she wanted to feel alive again? Already she could feel herself falling back into her old, cold, passionless existence, and she couldn't bear it.
She closed her eyes and whispered, "Please."
Hoping the word would be enough, hoping it was a worthy offering to get him to move, come back, give her that sweet feeling again...
It was. "Good girl," he said, and thrust. This time he was steadier, surer, and more forceful, but she was ready for him now. She accepted him more easily. It was still enough to make her feel stretched and improbably full. When he was buried she was left panting, like there wasn't enough room in her for cock and air at the same time.
She heard a sob. Her eyes opened. More of the courtiers were facing away now, and one of the ladies was crying openly. She was muffling the sound, but still it carried. Which meant Michelle's "Please" had been heard by everyone, too. They all knew she'd changed. They all knew she wanted this, was enjoying this. Some of their expressions had become ones of loathing. As far as many of them were concerned, she was dead.
What was a queen worth, anyway? As a princess she had value--she had a hymen and brought a dowry. As a queen, she was just a womb for carrying on the royal line. Even now that womb was being kissed by an alien's cock. Maybe she was dead, after a fashion.
Maybe... and yet she'd never felt so alive.
Another part of Faros' plan for her slid into place. She didn't care what those courtiers thought. Not one bit. Not compared to...
He was moving steadily inside of her now, a slow, ancient rhythm. She couldn't call it relaxed or leisurely, not with the amount of restrained power behind it. It was... unrushed. That suited her just fine. She was wallowing in the sensations. Any more and there wouldn't be anything left of her.
"Fuck you're tight," he said with a grunt that implied effort and pleasure both. "You haven't been getting your fair share of yiffs. That's bizarre. That ain't right. You deserve more and better sex than that. Being married to this chump must have sucked."
Othe looked at her as pleadingly as ever, begging her to say something in his defense. She couldn't. She couldn't think of a single thing to say, not when that cock was actively screwing the thoughts out of her mind.
What was he expecting? Maybe, "It wasn't that bad." Or, "He's really very nice." "It was pleasant." "I had no complaints." That was the best she could think to do, because that was her reality. How feeble, how pointless it all sounded--how gray and inert and dull compared to the thunderstorm of passion that had roared in and swept her away, like it or not.
She felt awake. She felt alive, like never before, even though this was supposed to be wrong and she hated Faros for doing it and at the same time she wasn't numb anymore and that, somehow, was worth everything. To know that someone thought her attractive, so desirable that he couldn't contain himself and needed to claim her right in front of the unworthy male she'd been attached to...
He was an animal. Somehow, he was making her an animal, too.
It felt so good.
And saying any of that would crush the soul of the decent but small man she called king and husband. She couldn't bear to see that. So she let her head droop to break eye contact with him, and she tried not to groan.
She tried her best, she really did. She must've failed, because soon murmurs started circulating in the room. A decaying part of her wanted to feel shame about it, but a particularly sharp thrust knocked that away.
"I wonder why he didn't stretch you more and better," Faros said casually. He was performing again, damn him--speaking to her in tones everyone heard. "If he was tapping your ass as often as you deserve, he must've been a real needledick. 'Cause if he wasn't fucking you... what a waste of a damn fine femme. What a crime. Good thing I showed up to rescue from a lifetime of needledick, huh?"
She didn't respond, except to bite her lip to keep from replying.
"Or maybe he couldn't get it up," Faros continued, casual in his cruelty. "Maybe he's a limpdick who needs to swallow a bucket of herbs to get it up long enough to cum. Maybe he neglected you because it was too hard to get hard." He laughed. "As if a male who needs help getting hard for you is any male at all!"
Her husband was squirming, she knew, before this abuse he couldn't answer. She, too, was squirming, for wholly different reasons. Her knuckles were white from gripping the throne's arm so tightly. Something was building within her, something new and unknown and frightening. She couldn't escape it any more than she could escape the male possessing her--but she didn't want to. As much as it scared her, she wanted it more than she'd ever wanted anything.
"Or maybe he's just gay," Faros continued with a mean laugh. "That would explain it. That must've been a hell of a wedding night! I can see it now. You're lying there on your marriage bed, waiting for your first yiff, and your so-called husband's getting a bee-jay from his lover to get him hard enough to pop your cherry before he goes soft..."
He laughed again, and the image was so absurd--and Michelle felt so good--that she almost laughed, too.
"So, which is it?"
She tensed up. "Huh?"
"Is your husband a needledick, a limpdick, or a dick-lover?"
"He..." she hesitated. A part of her did still like her husband, even if he'd never made her feel like this. He didn't deserve this, any part of this, she didn't want to...
"Actually," Faros said, twining his fingers in her hair, "tell everyone."
He pulled her head up--the slight edge of pain heightening her pleasure, and the expression of dominance doing the same. "Let everybody know," he went on, "exactly why your husband was so inadequate."
The words stuck in her throat. She dimly remembered being a woman who didn't talk lewdly, especially not about her husband. "I shouldn't," she said.
That's when he did something that horrified her: he stopped. "Do you want to go back to that?" he asked. "Back to a gray, unsatisfying, sexless life, where you'll never feel this--or this--or this?!"
"Oh, god," she groaned.
"That's what I thought," he said smugly. "So tell 'em why."
He was moving only a little faster now, but with strength, so much that the slaps of his body against her ass reverberated in the room. He pointed her head at her husband. Othe looked ready to cry. She understood, then--understood what her role was in this.
Faros was yiffing her to fuck her husband.
He was molding her to his cock to mold Othe to his will. This was a public humiliation Othe would take to his grave, one that would echo in the kingdom for years. By itself it was enough to shake feudal loyalties apart.
And she... was helping Faros do it.
Whatever he felt about her (and his comments on her desirability had burned deep into her mind by now), she was also his tool, his instrument.
And, oh, he made such beautiful music with her.
"Tell them," he said with a jerk of a thrust she swore touched her soul.
She gasped, and blurted aloud, "He's impotent!"
Othe staggered back as if struck; the petty nobles backed away as if his condition was catching.
"Good," purred Faros, and he rewarded her with faster and more vigorous thrusts. "Tell me more."
The walls were gone. She'd given in to this flood of a male. "He... he can't get it up without an aphrodisiac... imported from the east, very expensive... only worked a little..."
"And not often?" he prompted. Somehow his cock seemed to be swelling even more inside of her.
"T-twice... wedding night and anniversary... he said he was saving it for... when I was sure to get pregnant..."
"And all the rest of the time," Faros growled angrily, "he was just letting you go unfucked?"
"Yesssss," Michelle hissed, though she couldn't tell if it was the answer to his question or just an exclamation. Whatever was building inside of her was growing, bigger and stronger and brighter, blotting out everything else and all other thoughts. It was going to consume her--what could possibly remain?
"Dumbass," Faros swore. "I promise you--now that you're mine, I will never let you go unfucked."
And he scruffed her a second time.
The gesture hit her at a level below her understanding, somewhere between the brain stem and the ovaries, and she came and came and came. Not that she understood what was happening or had the words to describe it. All she knew was that her nerves were on fire and he felt so good inside her and her mind was lost, swept away in the feelings he brought to her.
And she moaned as it crested and crashed over her, moaned deeply as she had never moaned before, and she didn't care the slightest bit who heard her.
She was still awash in these feelings when she felt him erupt inside her, filling her to the brim. This she recognized--she'd seen two male orgasms before--but the volume and intensity and force of it was so much more that she could scarcely believe it was the same act. Like everything else about Faros, it was overwhelming.
It was scalding hot, like a branding iron, she thought vaguely. How appropriate--it marked her as owned just as surely.
There could be no going back. Not anymore. The queen was dead. The woman was alive.
At last he let go of her hair and neck. Her head drooped forward--she had no strength to keep it up. "Good girl," he said with a pat on her flank and a flex of his penis. "Good girl." The words made her unreasonably happy. "Now you're well and truly mine. You got that?" he added, not to her.
Oh, she realized--that last was to the king. Not her king anymore--the king. Maybe even 'a' king... if she belonged to Faros, and the khan took tribute from many kings, well, no single king amounted to much. Othe was just one among many. Faros had been right again. She'd traded up.
It was disturbing to her how completely she was molding herself to Faros and his vision of what she should be... or it would have been if her languid afterglow wasn't keeping such thoughts at bay, or warping them into more pleasing shapes. She was part of his reality now, so hers had to change to match.
"Like I told you," said Faros to the king, "I can take anything from you that I want. Which means my vassals can take from yours, if I let them." He gave a whistle. His four companions had been waiting, writhing, for this moment. At the whistle they surged forward. They immediately started grabbing--a ring there, a necklace there--anything a courtier had that the furs fancied. They didn't stop there. When they returned to their original positions, each was holding or carrying a member of the court. Michelle lazily looked them over. One lady-in-waiting, a baron's wife, a maid who'd wandered in by mistake, and... a page? Well, that was different.
"Your followers are... indiscriminate," she said to Faros.
He chuckled. "They're just looking for toys. They'll play with them until they break, then throw them away."
"Not like you?" she asked, hoping not.
He didn't answer directly. She heard some rustling, like something was being pulled from a pocket. The next sensation was around her neck. Smooth--close around her skin, but not tight... oh. This was a collar, wasn't it? Like you'd put on an animal. Was she an animal?
Sort of--half an animal. A bitch. His bitch. She decided that the collar felt right. It matched her station. It wasn't so different from an ornamental queen's crown, apart from implying more and better sex. So, totally different.
"Much better," he said, and eased out of her. She felt empty, emptier than when she started. She hadn't know before he'd shown up what "full" really felt like, and now she did. She wanted that feeling back. With dismay, she realized she'd already been ruined by him.
He pulled her off the throne and wrapped her up in his arms. Warm... so warm. Sight was secondary to feel, but she still saw Othe, broken, looking at her. This fur, this animal, had done things for her that Othe never had, never could. He'd lost as a man to a creature that wasn't even a man.
Faros spoke again--loudly, this time, for the benefit of all. "I think I've delivered my message--and a few other things." (Michelle shivered.) "This will happen again if you resist again. Next year I'll be back. If the tribute isn't there, and isn't to my satisfaction... well, you know what will happen." He gave a sharp smack to Michelle's bottom, causing her to yelp.
A lady of the court gave out a wail at that. Faros didn't seem to notice. He smoothed Michelle's dress back down and put his pants back in place. "There--I think we're done here. Let's go."
With that he turned and started walking towards the door. He hadn't said anything to her; he wasn't holding on to her or dragging her around like he had before. She didn't know what he wanted. He wasn't... leaving her, was he?
She stood, frozen by uncertainty. He must have sensed this. He didn't turn; he just whistled.
Oh. He wanted her to follow on her own. He wanted her to choose to chase him--and for everyone in the court to see her make the choice to pursue her rapist. He wanted her betrayal to be complete. He wanted her to own this fate.
What choice was there? The entire court had just seen her writhing in ecstasy on a cock not her husband's as she laid out his direst secrets. Even now, she wore the invader's collar, and her womb swam with his seed. If she tried to go back, it would be to a wreck of her old life, which had been a pitiful life to begin with.
Compared to that...
As she hiked up her skirts to follow, Othe gave an anguished plea. "Michelle, please... Haven't I been good to you? Hasn't this been everything you wanted? Don't throw it all away for that, that savage!"
She opened her mouth to reply--and with an obscene sound a glob of cum slipped from her well-fucked pussy. It felt wrong, somehow, to waste that precious fluid. The loss of warmth was intolerable. She couldn't put it back, though. All she could do... was get more.
Blushing, she turned and chased after Faros, cum dribbling down her thighs with every step.
End