Chapter 2: The Furs and the First Night
The feast was a blur of gnawed bones, spilled mead, and roaring laughter that made the candle flames shiver. Thistlewood sat rigid on Gortha’s lap, a delicate ornament perched on a mountain of muscle. She fed him chunks of greasy venison with her fingers, wiping the juice from his chin with a thumb she then sucked clean. He chewed mechanically, every sense overwhelmed. The sounds were the worst—or the best. The wet, rhythmic slapping from a shadowy corner where two warriors moved together, one pinning the other against a tent pole. The low, contented groans. The giggles.
“You eat like a bird,” Gortha cooed into his ear, her breath hot with ale. Her free hand was a constant, possessive weight on his thigh, fingers dangerously close to the curve of his silk-clad rear. “A little, pretty bird. I’ll get some meat on those jiggly bones.”
When a warrior across the table let out a ripping fart that echoed like a war drum, Gortha just threw her head back and laughed, giving Thistlewood’s thigh a affectionate squeeze. “By the gods, Helga! Warn a queen!” Thistlewood flinched, his delicate nose wrinkling at the new, pungent layer in the already thick air.
Eventually, the chaos reached a simmering, post-feast haze. Gortha stood, Thistlewood cradled against her chest like a prize. “Enough! The rest of you rut like beasts. I’m taking my husband to bed.”
A chorus of good-natured whoops and one loud, drawn-out moan followed them as she carried him through a hanging pelt into her private chamber. It was, if possible, even more of a den. A huge mound of furs—some glossy, some moth-eaten, all smelling profoundly of sweat and sex—served as a bed. More candles, their wax dripped into bizarre, layered sculptures, cast a dancing light over discarded armor and a distinct, unnoticed pile of animal dung in one corner.
Gortha set him on his feet. He swayed, the world tilting. The sounds from the main chamber were muffled but unmistakable.
“Look at you,” she breathed, her starry-eyed gaze utterly at odds with the surroundings. She traced the lace at his collar. “All wrapped up in pretty things.” Her big fingers, surprisingly deft, found the clasps of his delicate tunic. Each pop of a fastener made him jerk. The silk whispered away from his shoulders, pooling at his feet. The cool, thick air hit his hairless chest, puckering his nipples.
She stared. Her own breathing grew heavier. “Gods. So smooth.” She pushed the silk trousers down over his hips, her hands lingering on the exaggerated swell of his buttocks. The fabric caught on the full curve, and she gave a gentle tug, letting them fall completely. He stood naked, shivering, his tiny cock a soft, pink curl against his thigh, his enormous rear pale and round in the candlelight.
A low, animal groan rumbled from Gortha’s chest. “That ass,” she whispered, reverent. “I knew it was big. But seeing it… it’s a fucking masterpiece.” She dropped to her knees behind him, the impact a soft thud. Her massive hands engulfed each globe, squeezing, testing the give. He cried out, a high, thin sound, as she pulled the cheeks apart.
The first touch of her tongue was a blazing, wet stripe from his perineum right up to the base of his spine.
Thistlewood jolted as if speared. A strangled sob caught in his throat. She wasn’t delicate. She feasted. Burying her face between his spread cheeks, she licked broad, slobbering strokes over his tight hole, then focused on it with a relentless, pointed pressure. The sounds were obscenely wet, her hungry grunts vibrating through his very core. His knees buckled. He braced his hands on the furs in front of him, presenting himself further, a wanton angle he’d never imagined.
“Tastes like… heaven,” she mumbled into his flesh, her words distorted. “Like sweet cream and shame. My perfect little rabbit. This big, beautiful ass is mine. All mine.” She plunged her tongue inside, and his vision whited out. Pleasure, sharp and terrifying, shot up his spine. He was babbling, a stream of “no, please, stop, don’t stop,” his own neglected cock stiffening against his belly, a tiny bead of precum welling at the tip.
She pulled back, leaving him gaping and wet. She manhandled him onto the furs, rolling him onto his back. Her face glistened with his spit and her own saliva. She loomed over him, her massive cock, now fully erect and throbbing, jutted out from her leather harness, the head swollen and leaking profusely onto his stomach.
“Kiss me,” she demanded, and it was soft, a plea.
He did. He tasted himself on her tongue—musky, intimate—and mead and her. It was filthy. It was everything. Her hand slid between their bodies, her calloused fingers wrapping around his tiny, trembling length. He gasped into her mouth.
“Look at this cute thing,” she giggled, a girly, delighted sound. She pumped him slowly, her grip overwhelming. “So little. I love it.”
Movement to the side. One of her sisters, a warrior with braided red hair and a cock nearly as impressive as Gortha’s, knelt beside them. “He’s precious, Gor. Can I?” she asked, already leaning down to lick a stripe up Thistlewood’s inner thigh.
“Be gentle, Bryn,” Gortha whispered, nuzzling Thistlewood’s neck. “He’s delicate.”
Another Amazon appeared on his other side, her hands cupping his face, kissing him deeply while Bryn took his tiny cock into her mouth. The sensation of that wet, talented heat around him, while Gortha sucked bruises into his throat and the other warrior explored his mouth, shattered his last coherent thought. He was a vessel, filled and worshipped from all sides.
Bryn worshipped Gortha too, turning her head to lavish attention on her queen’s leaking crown, slurping the precum with a loud, appreciative moan. The redhead kissed Gortha passionately, sharing the taste.
“Love you,” Gortha mumbled against Thistlewood’s lips, her eyes unfocused with rapture. “My husband. My pretty prince. Gonna fill this perfect ass now. Gonna make you scream.”
She positioned herself, her bulk settling between his slender, spread legs. The broad, slick head of her cock pressed against him where her tongue had been. He was open, wet, but still impossibly tight. He looked up at her, at the sweat-sheened, stunning wildness of her, at the raw, sapphic love in her eyes, and felt his own resistance melt into a pool of desperate need.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
She pushed.
The stretch was immense, a burning, full feeling that stole the air from his lungs. He clawed at the furs beneath him, a long, ragged cry tearing from his throat. She sunk deeper, and deeper, a relentless, inevitable invasion, until their hips met, his round bottom pressed flat against her muscular thighs. She was fully sheathed inside him, a throbbing, living weight.
She stilled, panting, her face a mask of pained ecstasy. “Oh, fuck. Oh, little rabbit. You’re so tight. You’re taking all of me.” She bent to kiss him, swallowing his sobs. Then she began to move.
It was a slow, deep, rolling grind at first, each withdrawal and thrust lighting up his nerves in ways he didn’t know existed. The other Amazons watched, touched themselves, kissed each other, their hands roaming over Thistlewood’s chest and thighs, a chorus of murmured praise.
“Look at him take our queen.”
“So good for her.”
“Beautiful.”
Gortha’s pace quickened. The furs beneath them shifted. The wet, slapping rhythm of their union joined the symphony from the next room. She was grunting now, soft, sweet filth pouring from her lips. “That’s it, take it, my love, my prince, your ass is so good, so perfect for my cock…”
Thistlewood was unraveling. The pressure, the fullness, the utter possession, it coiled a spring in his gut tighter and tighter. His tiny cock, ignored and bouncing against his stomach, was a throbbing thread of sensation connected directly to the massive member pistoning inside him. He felt owned. He felt ruined. He felt, for the first time, completely and perfectly himself.
He came with a silent, breathless shudder, a tiny, pearly fountain spilling over his stomach. The clenching of his channel around her buried length sent Gortha over the edge.
She roared, a sound of pure, triumphant joy, and drove into him one last, searing time. He felt the hot, surging flood of her release filling him, an impossible internal warmth that seemed to have no end. She collapsed atop him, a smothering, sweaty, wonderful weight, peppering his face with kisses as she pulsed inside him.
In the haze, he heard Bryn sigh happily. “Aww. They’re so in love.”
Gortha nuzzled into the crook of his neck, her giant body wracked with aftershocks. She didn’t pull out. “Mine,” she sighed, a contented, sleepy whisper against his skin. “Always.”