Chapter 9: The Royal Morning Routine
The Grand Dining Hall hummed like a filthy beehive. The enchantment that once kept the chandeliers perpetually bright had fizzled, leaving the vast space to the mercy of guttering torches that painted everything in shuddering orange and deep shadow. The air was a soup—thick with the smell of roast meat gone cold, the vinegary tang of spilled wine, and the unmistakable, salty musk of Amazonian sweat and sex.
Thistlewood shuffled through the arched entrance, his delicate slippers sticking to the floor with every other step. He had managed to find a fresh under-tunic of thin, lavender silk, but it did little to hide the fresh bruises on his thighs or the way he walked, slightly bow-legged and careful. His wide eyes scanned the chaos.
Amazons were everywhere. One swung lazily from a silver chandelier by one arm, her other hand stroking her cock as she surveyed the room like a gleeful, pendulous bird of prey. Two others were arm-wrestling on the high table, their muscles corded, sweat dripping from their chins onto a platter of congealed gravy. A chorus of raucous laughter erupted from a corner where a group was teaching several elven courtiers a drinking game that involved spitting mead into each other's mouths.
Then he saw the main table.
His mother, Queen Elowen, was splayed on her back across the polished mahogany, her glittering gown rucked up around her waist. Her platinum hair was a fan beneath her, stained with wine and other things. Anna and Sigrid flanked her, their hands pinning her slender wrists. Elowen wasn’t struggling. Her starry eyes were fixed on the vaulted ceiling, her tiny mouth slightly open.
“There’s my blushing boy!”
A massive hand closed around Thistlewood’s waist, and he was effortlessly plucked from the floor. The world tilted, and he found himself cradled sideways in Gortha’s lap as she settled into the massive, throne-like chair at the head of the table. The scent of her—leather, yesterday’s battle, and that familiar, heady precum—enveloped him. She nuzzled his neck with a wet, noisy sniff.
“Was just gettin’ started. You gotta see this, it’s gonna be so good,” she cooed, her voice a girlish whisper in his ear. One of her hands slid beneath his tunic, her rough palm settling possessively on the curve of his bottom.
On the table, Anna lined herself up. With a grunt and a slick, squelching pop, she sheathed herself inside the queen. Elowen’s body jerked, a shudder running through her enhanced breasts. A breathy, meaningless sigh escaped her lips. “Oh… the treaty…”
“Yeah, the treaty,” Anna snorted, beginning a slow, powerful rhythm. The table creaked.
Sigrid leaned down, capturing Elowen’s pouty mouth with her own, swallowing whatever vapid thought tried to follow. Thistlewood watched, mesmerized. His mother, the vain, untouchable queen, was being… used. And she was accepting it. A warm, helpless tingling started in his own tiny, soft penis, which began to stiffen against Gortha’s muscular thigh.
“See?” Gortha whispered, her own thick cock swelling against his hip. “She gets it. Politics.” She kissed his temple sloppily.
Anna finished with a roaring groan, pumping her release deep. She pulled out, a glistening mess following her, and staggered back, making room. Sigrid took her place, not even bothering with the queen’s mouth anymore. She entered the already overflowing passage with a squelch that echoed in the sudden quiet of their immediate vicinity.
But it didn’t end. Brenna stepped up, guiding herself into Elowen’s other available entrance with a businesslike efficiency. The queen’s eyes flew wide for a second, a true shock of sensation breaking through her daze. A third Amazon, Lyra, shoved Sigrid aside playfully. “My turn up front, hog.”
For a moment, both were hilted inside her, moving in a clumsy, competing rhythm. Elowen’s body was a tense bow, her back arching off the table.
“Two’s cozy,” Gortha commented, munching on a chicken leg she’d snatched from a passing platter. “But a real treaty needs… what’s bigger? A committee.”
At her nod, two more warriors clambered onto the table. One pushed Lyra’s thigh aside, her thick cockhead nudging at the already-stretched entrance, trying to find space alongside the other. The other Amazon spat into her palm, slicked herself, and began pressing against the tight, forbidden pucker beneath the queen’s tailbone.
Elowen screamed. It was a high, reedy, genuinely panicked sound.
Thistlewood flinched. Gortha’s arm tightened around him.
“Shh, hubby. It’s just diplomacy. Look, she’s signing it.”
The scream dissolved into a choked gurgle as, with a brutal, simultaneous push, the fourth and fifth Amazon breached her. Elowen’s body was utterly impaled, a five-pointed star of shuddering, muscular flesh buried inside her. Her vacant eyes rolled back, showing the whites. Her enhanced breasts quivered with the violent, jarring impacts from all sides. The sound was wet, rhythmic, and deafeningly obscene.
Thistlewood’s tiny erection leaked a transparent bead onto Gortha’s leather. He couldn’t look away. His mother was gone, replaced by a gasping, bloated receptacle being packed beyond reason. It was terrifying. It was the most mesmerizing thing he’d ever seen.
The Amazons grunted, laughed, slapped each other’s hands away for better purchase. “Easy, you’re crowding me!” “She’s got room, just push!” Elowen’s stomach, once flat beneath her tiny waist, began to distend in a soft, rounded bulge with each collective thrust.
Gortha sighed happily, resting her chin on Thistlewood’s head. “See how they share? It’s so sweet. Really builds sisterhood.” Her hand slipped from his bottom to between his legs, her thick fingers encircling his pathetic, twitching shaft. “You’re all excited for Momma. That’s nice.”
The climax, when it came, was not a single event but a rolling, voluminous cascade. One after another, the five warriors roared, their bodies stiffening. From where he sat, Thistlewood could see the visible pulses deep in Elowen’s abused middle, the way her distended belly jumped and swelled further with each fresh deposit. A torrent of mixed seed eventually overflowed, spilling out around the knotted mess of their members and pooling in a rich, creamy lake on the mahogany beneath her.
They pulled out with a series of succulent, parting pops.
Elowen did not move. She lay in the center of the table, in the center of the pool, her body utterly wrecked and defiled, her eyes still wide and unseeing. Her stomach was noticeably rounded, taut with the volume inside. A slow, continuous trickle leaked from her.
One of the Amazons, Brenna, patted the queen’s bloated belly affectionately. “Good sport.”
Gortha shifted underneath Thistlewood, her own need becoming insistent. She lifted him easily, turning him to face her, his legs straddling her enormous thighs. The ruined banquet, his insensate mother, the cheering, stinking crowd—all of it faded behind the frame of Gortha’s stunning, sweaty face.
“All this politics,” she whispered, her breath hot and smelling of chicken, as she fumbled between them, “makes a queen hungry for her hubby.” Her huge, leaking tip found his tiny, sore entrance. “Gotta seal our part of the deal.”
He didn’t resist. He leaned forward, burying his face in the sweaty column of her neck, as she lowered him onto her, stretching him with a familiar, brutal fullness that made his mind go white and blank. As she began to buck upwards into him, rocking the heavy chair, his eyes drifted over her shoulder.
On the table, his mother twitched. A sixth Amazon was already climbing up, her expression one of casual curiosity, glancing at the overflowing queen as if deciding where to begin.