Chapter 4: The Day Arrives.
The Elven Chapel was a symphony of delicate silver filigree and shimmering magic-light, a place of soft hymns and whispered prayers. Today, it reeked of sweat, leather, and the distinct, pungent aroma of a dozen unwashed Amazon cocks.
The elves stood in stunned, pastel-clad rows, their perfect noses wrinkled. The Amazons, having “dressed up” by wearing their least-bloodstained pelts and polishing their horned helmets, crowded the pews, their massive thighs spilling over the sides, their casual belches echoing in the sacred space. One warrior, Helga, was quietly but audibly farting in time with the organ’s processional.
At the altar, Prince Thistlewood trembled. His mother, Queen Elowen, stood beside him, a vision in a gossamer gown that strategically showcased her enormous, perfectly spherical breasts. She dabbed at her starry eyes with a lace handkerchief. “Oh, my sweet leaf,” she breathed, her voice a vacant whisper. “You look so… fertile. This alliance will do wonders for our trade routes. And her pectorals are simply divine. I must ask her trainer’s name.”
Thistlewood could only stare at the back of the chapel, where the doors had just flown open.
Queen Gortha stood framed in the sunlight, which gleamed off the oil she’d rubbed into her muscles. She wore a “dress” fashioned from what appeared to be a giant, recently-skinned bear, the head lolling over her shoulder. Her hair was braided with fresh bones. Her cock, semi-hard as always, strained against a loincloth of dubious cleanliness. She was beaming, a blushing, nervous grin on her face that looked absurd on her fearsome features.
She thudded down the aisle, ignoring the elven priest who flinched with every step. She stopped before Thistlewood, her eyes wide with adoration.
The priest, voice shaky, began the ancient elven rites of binding. Gortha fidgeted, her attention solely on Thistlewood’s face. When it came time for vows, the priest gestured to her.
Gortha cleared her throat, suddenly shy. “Uh. Hi. So. I’m Gortha.” She scuffed a boot on the marble floor. “I’m really good at killing things. And lifting heavy stuff. But the best thing I ever lifted is probably… your butt.”
A horrified titter ran through the elven crowd. Bryn, in the front pew, nodded in vigorous agreement.
“I mean it,” Gortha continued, gaining confidence. “It’s the hottest butt I ever saw. It’s like… two perfect moons. And you’re all shy and you blush and your little peeper is so cute.” She was full-on rambling now, a lovesick giant. “I promise to, like, protect you from monsters and also to fuck you a whole lot. Every day. And share you with my sisters because they love you too and it’s only fair. I’ll try not to break your fancy elf furniture. I love your butt. The end.”
Silence. The priest looked like he might faint.
Elowen clapped gleefully. “How authentic!”
Gortha, taking the silence as approval, let out a whoop. She reached forward, her hands finding their home on Thistlewood’s lacy-covered rear, and lifted him clean off his feet, holding him aloft by his buttocks like a trophy. His tiny shoes dangled in the air. “He’s mine!” she roared to the congregation.
Then she crushed her lips to his in a wet, sloppy, profoundly possessive kiss. He could taste yesterday’s mead and a hint of something gamey on her tongue. His arms flailed before winding around her neck, surrendering to the sheer, overwhelming force of her.
The Amazons erupted. They pounded their pews, roared approval, and a friendly fistfight broke out in the back over who would get to congratulate the queen first. The elves stood in appalled, frozen silence.
The Great Feasting Hall was a study in chaotic fusion. Elven delicacies—crystallized fruits and luminescent jellies—sat untouched next to massive, greasy haunches of boar the Amazons tore into with their hands. The air, already thick with the scent of roasted meat and ancient stone, was now layered with elf perfume and the ever-present musk of Amazonian arousal.
Honey wine flowed. Lots of it.
The initial elven stiffness began to thaw, lubricated by alcohol. A young elven lord, his eyes glazed, was tentatively feeling the bicep of a grinning Amazon who had just arm-wrestled three of his friends into oblivion. “Incredible vascularity,” he slurred.
Thistlewood was at the center of a storm of feminine might. He sat on Gortha’s lap at the head table, but she was busy gnawing a bone, one arm around him like a possessive strap. This left him accessible.
Bryn leaned in, her breath hot and sour with wine. “Can’t wait for my turn, pretty prince,” she murmured, a rough hand sneaking under the table to palm his thigh. Helga, on his other side, was nuzzling his neck, whispering how she was going to lick him clean later. A dozen other warriors found reasons to approach, to touch his hair, to pinch his cheek, to run a finger along the lace collar at his throat. He was enveloped in a cloud of their scent—sweat, leather, iron, and that deep, primal feminine odor that made his head swim and his tiny cock ache uselessly against his silken trousers.
He was a jewel in a setting of rough, adoring hands.
Gortha tossed her bone over her shoulder, where it clattered off a tapestry. She belched, then nuzzled his hair. “You’re so popular,” she sighed happily. Then her eyes lit up. “Hey. Wanna go see your old room? For, uh, sentimental reasons?”
Before he could whisper a reply, she was standing, him in her arms again. “We’re gonna go consummate!” she announced to the hall. “Carry on!”
A cheer followed them. Elowen, engaged in a deep, confusing conversation with two massive Amazons about skincare routines, waved a dismissive hand. “Have fun, darling! Mind the drapery, it’s Serican silk!”
The two Amazons, their names lost to wine and interest, watched the queen’s astonishing cleavage heave as she spoke. They glanced at each other, then back at Elowen. One, a redhead with a jaw that could crack stone, leaned in. “You know, for a skinny elf, you got some impressive… diplomacy.”
The other, her nose crinkled with a smile, nodded. “Yeah. We could… discuss the alliance further. In private. Help you, uh, relax.”
Elowen blinked her vast, empty eyes. “A private audience? How thrilling! My chambers are just up the spiral stair. I have this marvelous oil that makes my skin sparkle…”
She led them away, chattering vapidly, unaware of the hungry, shared look passing between the two warriors who followed her, their intentions as plain as the massive erections tenting their leathers.