Chapter 6: Queen Elowen's Surprise
Queen Elowen’s laughter tinkled like a cracked bell, breathy and insubstantial against the din of the ransacked hall. A half-eaten honey cake was smeared across the bodice of her glittering gown, the sticky gloss catching the light of the guttering chandeliers. She swayed on her feet, more from the potent Amazonian mead than from the hand currently palming her surgically enhanced backside.
“Oh, my,” she giggled, looking up—and up—into the faces of Anna and Sigrid. They were twins in spirit if not in features, both towering, both stunningly beautiful with braided hair and sharp cheekbones, and both with the distinct, musky odor of a long campaign worn like perfume. Their leathers were stained. Their cocks, half-hard and impressive, brushed against the ruined silk of her skirts.
“The Queen Mother,” Anna said, her voice a low, cheerful rumble. She squeezed Elowen’s buttock with scholarly interest. “Firm. For a politician.”
Sigrid leaned down, her nose almost touching Elowen’s spectacular cleavage. She sniffed. “Smells like flowers and poor decisions. I like it.”
“A political marriage is so sensible,” Elowen confided in a whisper, as if sharing a secret. “My Thistlewood… he’s such a good boy. A little… moist. But good.” She patted Sigrid’s braid absently. “Are you enjoying the festivities?”
In answer, Anna simply hooked an arm under Elowen’s knees while Sigrid grabbed her under the shoulders. They lifted her as easily as a sack of grain. Her squeal was one of tipsy delight, not fear. They carried her past a group of Amazons using the ancestral silverware for a belching contest, past a marble column someone had used as a latrine, their heavy boots slipping slightly on the wine-slick floor.
“Where are we going?” Elowen asked, her head lolling against Sigrid’s bicep.
“Gortha’s busy claiming your son,” Anna said, shouldering open the door to the royal wing. “Figured we’d claim you. Keep it in the family.”
“How… diplomatic!” Elowen sighed.
Her bedchamber was a symphony in pink velvet and silver filigree, a stark contrast to her son’s gothic decay. It smelled of rose powder and vanity. They tossed her onto the bed, its mountain of lace pillows swallowing her form. Before she could sit up, Anna was on the bed, knees framing Elowen’s hips, her leathers already undone. Her cock sprang free, thick and already leaking a steady thread of precum that dripped onto Elowen’s glittering bodice.
“Open up, your Majesty,” Anna said, her tone sweet, girlish. She tapped Elowen’s pouty, painted lips with the slick head.
Elowen blinked her starry, vacant eyes. “Oh! Is this a… a traditional greeting?”
“The most traditional,” Sigrid grinned, settling on the edge of the bed to watch, already stroking herself.
Elowen parted her lips. Anna didn’t wait. She fed the head in, the width stretching Elowen’s tiny mouth grotesquely. A line of burgundy lip paint smeared up the shaft. Elowen gagged instantly, a wet, choking sound, her manicured hands fluttering against Anna’s thighs.
“Shhh, just relax your throat,” Anna coached, her voice softening. She pushed forward.
It was a brutal, unskilled invasion. Anna’s hips pistoned with a relentless, happy rhythm. There was no finesse, only depth. Elowen’s throat bulged with each thrust, her nose pressed into the coarse, sweaty hair at Anna’s base. Gagging sounds filled the room, rhythmic and wet. Tears streamed from Elowen’s eyes, cutting trails through her perfect makeup. Drool and precum and smeared lip paint pooled on her chin, soaking the lace of her collar.
Anna groaned, a deep, shuddering sound. “Yeah, that’s it. Tighter than a battlefield suture.” She glanced at her sister. “Watch her eyes roll back. Cute.”
Sigrid laughed, spitting into her palm to slick her own cock.
Elowen’s world narrowed to the smell of sweat and salt, the burning in her throat, the overwhelming, suffocating presence of flesh. A strange, tingling warmth spread through her fuzzy mind. This is happening, she thought distantly. I am a married woman. This is probably… international relationing.
Anna’s rhythm stuttered. “Gonna—get back—” she warned, but didn’t withdraw. She buried herself to the hilt and let go.
The first pulse was a hot, viscous flood directly into Elowen’s stomach. She convulsed, a muffled shriek trapped around the invading girth. Anna kept pumping, grunting, filling her. It overflowed. Thick, salty spend backed up into Elowen’s mouth, leaked from her stretched lips and her nostrils in creamy rivulets.
Anna pulled out with a wet pop, wiping her shaft on Elowen’s platinum hair. “Your turn,” she panted to Sigrid.
Sigrid was already moving. She didn’t bother with the ruined mouth. She grabbed Elowen by the hair, dragging her to the edge of the bed, and shoved herself back in. The flavor changed—musky, slightly bitter. Elowen gagged anew, her throat raw and sensitive. Sigrid fucked her face with a more erratic, joyous intensity, slapping her balls against Elowen’s dripping chin.
“Think she likes it,” Sigrid giggled, sounding for all the world like a maiden discussing a new ribbon. “Her little hands are grabbing the sheets.”
They were. Elowen’s trembling fingers clenched the pink velvet, knuckles white. Her body throbbed with a strange, detached arousal. The mead, the humiliation, the sheer physical overwhelm were blending into a singular, incomprehensible sensation. This is very bad, her mind sang pleasantly. A very, very bad situation.
Sigrid came with a shout, her release another hot inundation. Elowen swallowed reflexively, choking, her throat working.
Before she could cough, they flipped her over. Silk tore. Cool air hit her exposed skin, followed by the calloused, greasy hands of the warriors. Anna guided her cock to Elowen’s other entrance, spit still her only lubricant. She pressed in, and Elowen’s breath hitched. It was a different, deeper fullness, a burning stretch that silenced her gagging.
Anna sheathed herself and moaned. “Oh, that’s the stuff. Warm.”
Sigrid, still dripping, crouched over Elowen’s face. “Keep busy, Majesty.”
They established a ragged, overlapping rhythm. Anna pounded into her from behind, the bed knocking against the wall in time with the slaps of flesh. Sigrid rocked against her mouth, less thrusting now, just enjoying the wet, messy heat. They didn’t speak much. Just grunted. Laughed sometimes. “Her tits jiggle like pudding,” Anna observed.
Elowen lost track of time. Of self. She became a vessel, a warm, slick place for their celebration. Anna came inside her, a gush of heat that made Elowen whimper. She didn’t pull out. Just softened, rested, then began to harden again within her, a slow, insistent resurgence. Sigrid came a second time across her cheeks and closed eyelids.
The cycle repeated. Fill her. Spend in her. Or on her. Restart. The room filled with their scent, with the sour-sweet smell of sex and sweat and mead. Elowen’s giggles had stopped. Her breathing was a shallow, ragged thing. Pink makeup and other fluids were a cracked mask on her face. A profound, weary acceptance settled over her.
As a fourth, lethargic climax from Anna filled her, a warm seep between her thighs, and Sigrid’s weight collapsed beside her, Elowen let her eyes close.
A vague, smiling thought floated through the haze. The castle is so… lively now.
Down the hall, beneath the dying groans of an antique bed, her son wept quietly into a sweaty, muscular shoulder. Upstairs, a chorus of Amazonian cheers echoed as someone finally managed to snap the head off a priceless moon-elf statue. And in her pink, ruined sanctuary, Queen Elowen, the married woman, slipped into unconsciousness with a gentle, contented sigh, marinating in the proof of her daughter-in-law’s diplomatic ties.