Chapter 3: The Morning After
Thistlewood drifted awake to a profound, lingering fullness. A heavy, thick heat was still buried deep inside him. Gortha’s immense cock, semi-soft but still dauntingly present, pulsed gently with her slow, sleeping breaths. Her arm was a dead weight across his chest, her face buried in his hair. She snored—a wet, rumbling sound that vibrated through his very bones.
The air was cold on his skin except where her massive body smothered him, a furnace of sweat-damp muscle and fur. He could smell last night on them both: sex, her musk, the faint sourness of dried mead. He blinked in the grey pre-dawn light filtering through smoke holes in the ceiling. At the foot of the furs, Bryn and Helga were a tangled heap of limbs and relaxed, flaccid cocks, one’s face nestled in the other’s armpit, both snoring lightly.
He was stuck. Pinned. And a strange, quiet sense of… belonging settled over the panic.
Gortha stirred. A grunt. Her hips gave a lazy, unconscious grind forward, seating herself just that fraction deeper. Thistlewood gasped. Her eyes fluttered open.
A slow, sleep-softened grin spread across her face. “Mornin’, hubby,” she slurred, her voice gravelly. She nuzzled his neck, breathing him in. “You’re still here. Good. Thought I might’ve dreamed your perfect little ass.”
She kissed his shoulder, a sloppy, affectionate smack. “Gotta pee like a racehorse,” she announced, then, without withdrawing, she simply rolled onto her back, pulling him with her so he was splayed across her chest. The movement made him whimper, the shifting invasion intense. She didn’t seem to notice, scratching her stomach with her free hand. “But first, cuddles.”
They lay like that for long minutes, her fingers idly tracing the curve of his bottom, which was still on full display. Bryn woke, yawned, and let out a fart that cracked like a whip in the quiet chamber. She giggled. “Oops. Morning, your majesty. Morning, pretty prince.”
“He’s so cute when he’s full of you, Gor,” Helga mumbled, not opening her eyes, groping blindly until her hand landed on Thistlewood’s foot, giving it a squeeze.
Finally, with a groan of genuine effort, Gortha sat up, lifting Thistlewood with her. He felt the slick, slow slide of her finally leaving him, followed by an immediate, empty chill and a trickle of fluids down his thigh. She stood, stretching, her towering form blocking the light. Morning erection bobbing, she scratched her rear with vigor.
“Bath time!” she declared, her enthusiasm childlike. “Gotta show off my prize.”
He was too sore, too bewildered to protest as she scooped him up again, not bothering with clothes for either of them. She carried him naked through the throne room, past a few early-rising warriors who were already gnawing on cold bones or sparring lazily, their cocks swinging. They whistled and called out greetings.
“Lookin’ well-used, princeling!”
“Queen’s got a spring in her step!”
“Save some for us, Gor!”
Gortha beamed, pride radiating from her. “He’s the best! So tight!”
The communal bathing pit was a steaming, murky hole in the ground near the back of the cavern complex, fed by a sluggish, hot spring. The water was cloudy with minerals and what Thistlewood tried very hard not to identify. A dozen Amazons were already there, soaking, scrubbing, and openly fondling each other. The air was thick with steam and the scent of wet skin, strong soap, and underlying body odor.
Gortha waded in, the hot water sloshing around her thighs, and sat on a submerged stone ledge, settling Thistlewood in her lap so his back was to her chest. The water was surprisingly, comfortingly hot. It soothed his aching muscles even as it accentuated the smell of their combined releases.
“Alright, you louts, get over here and make my husband sparkle,” Gortha commanded, though her tone was playful.
They came eagerly. Bryn and Helga splashed over, joining others. Rough, calloused but gentle hands found Thistlewood’s body. A porous, abrasive stone scoured his back. Fingers lathered soap into his hair, massaging his scalp. Another warrior cupped water and rinsed his chest, her thumb circling his nipple until it peaked. He was a doll, being meticulously, possessively cleaned.
All the while, Gortha held him, her chin on his shoulder, her own massive cock stirring against the small of his back as the warriors’ attention drifted to her. Bryn soaped up Gortha’s shoulders, while Helga took it upon herself to lovingly, thoroughly wash Gortha’s cock and heavy balls, eliciting contented sighs from the queen.
“Look at his little thing,” cooed a warrior with a scar across her nose, her hand sliding through the water to cradle Thistlewood’s softness. “It’s like a little acorn. Adorable.”
“I love his ass the most,” Gortha mumbled into his ear, one of her own hands disappearing below the water to grope the mentioned cheek underwater. “It’s my favorite thing in the whole world. Even more than my favorite axe.”
“So,” Gortha announced, her voice echoing in the steamy cavern. “Wedding.”
The scrubbing hands paused for a moment. All the warriors looked at her, faces eager.
“Gonna be huge,” Gortha continued, her eyes dreamy. “Right here. We’ll drag that stupid bone throne down to the shore of the stink-lake. Invite his pointy-eared kin. They can stand there all prim while I claim him proper.”
Her hand moved from his rear to splay possessively over his lower belly. “Big ceremony. I’ll say the words. He’ll say… whatever he can manage, he’s so shy.” She squeezed him, making him squeak. “Then, in front of everyone, I’m gonna bend him over the throne and fuck him ‘til he can’t remember his own name. So everyone knows. So he knows.”
The warriors cheered, splashing the water.
“And then,” Gortha said, as if bestowing a great gift, “after I’ve popped his wedding cherry proper-like in public, the party starts. And all my sisters… all of you… can have a turn with him. A little wedding gift from me to you. A proper clan sharing.”
The cheer was deafening. Thistlewood’s heart hammered against his ribs. The idea was terrifying. It was lewd beyond imagining. A public claiming. Then a line of these massive, adoring warriors… His tiny cock, trapped against Gortha’s thigh under the water, twitched violently.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my little rabbit?” Gortha whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, lovesick murmur only he could hear. “All of us loving you. Filling you up. Making you feel so good.”
He couldn’t speak. He could only lean back into her, his head resting against her collarbone, a silent surrender. The warriors took this as assent, their excitement renewed. They resumed washing, their hands more celebratory now, cupping water over the pair of them, scrubbing Gortha’s back with vigorous joy.
As Thistlewood sat there, being cleaned and fondled by a dozen women, steeping in the musky water and the promise of a grotesque, public wedding, he realized the true depth of his corruption. The fear was still there, a bright, sharp thread. But woven through it now was a dark, thrilling anticipation. He was theirs. He was hers. And the ceremony would simply make it official for the world to see.
Gortha nuzzled his cheek, her lips smearing a wet kiss. “My beautiful prince,” she sighed, utterly content. “Just wait. It’s gonna be so perfect. And so, so filthy.”