Chapter 5: The Consummation
The door to the prince’s bedchamber didn’t so much open as surrender. Gortha’s bootheel connected with the ancient, lacquered wood near the handle, and the thing exploded inward with a splintering shriek, ricocheting off the inner wall and shedding a cloud of dust from the tapestries.
She carried Thistlewood over the threshold like a prize stag, her footsteps heavy on the worn velvet rug. The room was exactly as he’d left it, and exactly as described: a decaying monument to elven decadence. A tapestry directly opposite the bed depicted his great-great-grandfather in nothing but a strategic wreath of vines, receiving what looked like a foot massage from three dryads. The air was thick with the ghost of his mother’s cloying perfume, undercut by the sharper, older smell of mildew and forgotten desire.
“It’s so… you,” Gortha sighed, her voice full of genuine, sappy awe. She took two more strides and dumped him onto the mountainous, silk-canopied bed. It emitted a tortured groan, the sound of a hundred strained ropes and brittle wood.
Thistlewood bounced once, the ruffles of his lace shirt settling around him like the petals of a trampled flower. He stared up at the canopy, at the embroidered scene of moonlit unicorns, and tried to breathe. The sound of more footsteps, thunderous and numerous, filled the chamber.
They piled in after her. Bryn, Helga, and a half-dozen others, their armored bulk making the spacious room feel like a cramped war tent. They smelled of the feast—boar grease, honey wine, and the potent, humid scent of their own excitement. Leather creaked as they jostled for position, leaning against bureaus, crouching on the floor, their collective body heat raising the temperature instantly.
Gortha stood at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips. “Okay, rules,” she announced, her tone one of solemn importance. “I found him. I married him. I get first claim.” She looked at her sisters, her expression softening into giddy generosity. “But you can watch. And, you know, if he’s still cute and conscious after, we can talk.”
A rumble of agreeable laughter moved through them. Bryn grinned, popping the knuckles of one massive hand. “We’ll be good, Gorth. Promise.”
With a grunt of effort, Gortha untied the thong holding her loincloth. It fell away. Her cock, fully hard now and freed from constraint, sprang up to slap wetly against the dense muscle of her lower abdomen. It was a thick, veined thing, ruddy and gleaming at the tip with a steady bead of precum. She sighed in relief, scratching at the base. “Gods, that’s better. Was chafing like a bastard during the vows.”
Thistlewood made a tiny, mouse-like sound. His eyes were saucers, fixed on the obscene, pulsating reality of her. All his secret yearnings curdled into pure, trembling terror. And beneath that, a hot, shameful drip of want.
She crawled onto the bed. It screamed in protest, tilting dangerously. Her shadow engulfed him. The scent of her—a deep, salty musk of unwashed skin, sun on leather, and something uniquely, powerfully female—flooded his senses. It was overwhelming. It was alive.
She didn’t kiss him. Instead, she grabbed his hips with hands that nearly encircled his slender waist and flipped him onto his stomach with startling ease. The lace of his trousers strained over the exaggerated curve of his backside.
“Told you,” Gortha whispered, her voice husky with reverence. “The hottest butt. Ever.”
She buried her face between his cheeks.
Her tongue was broad, wet, and brutally thorough. It lashed against the delicate silk, soaking it through instantly, before she hooked her thumbs in the waistband and tore the fragile garment apart with a sound like ripping parchment. Cool air hit his exposed skin, followed immediately by the scorching, humid flat of her tongue.
She licked a broad, slobbering stripe from his taint to the base of his spine. He jerked, a muffled sob catching in the silk sheets. She groaned into his flesh, the vibration making his thighs shake. Then she spread him open, her thumbs pressing his cheeks apart, and dove in deeper. The intimacy was obscene, animalistic. Her nose was pressed against him, her tongue probing and circling and tasting with a grunting, voracious hunger. She was worshiping him with the same fervor she’d use to clean a prize-winning weapon.
“Tastes like flowers and fear,” she mumbled, her words hot against his skin. “Fucking perfect.”
Thistlewood’s body arched. A high, keening whine escaped him. His own tiny, soft cock was trapped beneath him, leaking a pathetic smear of moisture onto the ruined silk. Every nerve was on fire, shame and pleasure fused into one unbearable current.
Behind them, the audience was getting invested. “Get in there, Gortha!” someone yelled.
“Look at it jiggle when she licks!”
“Think he’s crying? Aw, cute.”
Gortha finally came up for air, her chin glistening. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes glazed. “Okay,” she panted. “Okay. Gotta be inside now. Sorry. Can’t wait.”
She spat into her palm, a thick globule that she slicked over the length of her cock. It wasn’t enough. She reached for the flagon of honey wine Bryn had thoughtfully carried in, took a swig, and poured the rest over her shaft and his exposed entrance. The sticky liquid ran in warm rivulets down his perineum.
She positioned the broad, leaking head against him. He was tight, a clutching, silken ring of resistance.
“Shhh, pretty prince,” she cooed, her maturity vanishing into a hushed, excited whisper meant only for him. “Just gonna make you mine. Really, really mine.”
She pushed.
The groan from the bed was matched by Thistlewood’s sharp, broken cry. It was a burning, stretching, undeniable fullness, a invasion that recalibrated his entire sense of self. She sank deeper with a relentless, steady pressure, her massive hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise the delicate bone beneath. When she was fully sheathed, her sweaty abdomen pressed against his ravaged buttocks, she let out a shuddering, emotional sigh.
“Oh, fuck,” she breathed, tears actually welling in her eyes. “You feel so good. You’re so little. And hot inside.”
She began to move. It was not a rhythm of love, but of claiming. Withdrawing almost entirely, then slamming back in with a wet, meaty slap of flesh. The bed took up a frantic, screeching counterpoint to the sounds: her guttural grunts, his choked whimpers, the slick, rhythmic drive of her cock spearing him open. Each thrust shook his whole body, rattling his teeth, forcing little punched-out gasps from his lungs.
The other Amazons cheered, groaned, offered advice. One of them, inspired, started unlacing her own leathers.
Thistlewood’s world dissolved into sensation: the splitting fullness, the coarse texture of the sheets against his cheek, the brutal, almost tender weight of her upon him. The fear didn’t vanish; it transformed. It became the engine of his arousal. His tiny penis, trapped and ignored, twitched and leaked in helpless sympathy with each deep, devastating stroke.
Gortha leaned over, blanketing him completely, her sweat dripping onto his back. Her lips found his ear. “You’re my husband,” she grunted, the words hot and broken between thrusts. “My cute, blushing husband. Gonna keep you. Gonna fuck you like this every day. My sisters too. You’ll always be full of us. Okay?”
In that moment, amidst the ruin of his childhood bed and the jeers and scent of a dozen warriors, Prince Thistlewood felt a terrifying sense of completion. He gave a tiny, shaky nod into the silk.
“Okay,” he whispered back.
The word was lost in the roar of the Amazons as Gortha, overcome, threw her head back and roared her release, pounding him into the mattress with a final, possessive fury. The bed gave one last, monumental shriek of protest.
And down the hall, through the stone and velvet, the faint, vapid laughter of Queen Elowen tangled with two much deeper, hungrier sounds.