Chapter 70: First Royal Tribute
The last of the twenty stumbled back, his seed dripping from me to be absorbed by the hungry moss. A profound silence descended, broken only by the ragged breaths of the spent men and the low, contented hum of the throne beneath me. The air itself felt different—thicker, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. The torches flickered not with mere flame, but with a faint, internal luminescence.
Gena stretched, a languid, feline movement beside her own conquest. "I feel... full," she murmured, running a hand over her stomach.
"It's not us," I said, my voice hushed with awe. I pressed my palms flat against the obsidian. "It's the throne. The realm. It's sated. For now." The roots I felt through the stone were no longer thin, desperate tendrils; they were thick, pulsing cords of power, sunk deep into the mountain's heart.
Lysander, who had watched the entire spectacle with the detached focus of a strategist, finally stepped forward. The kneeling warriors parted for him, their heads bowed low. He didn't even glance at them.
"The border fortifications have stabilized," he reported, his voice cutting through the heavy air. "The fissures in the earth have closed. The scouts report the blight has receded a full league from the western pass." He stopped at the base of the dais, his eyes, that sharp, assessing grey, meeting mine. "Your reign begins with a victory, my queens."
A victory. The word echoed, so different from the solitary triumphs of my past—a difficult summit reached, a treacherous river forded. This was a victory of flesh and essence, a conquest of will. A slow, deep thrum of power resonated from the throne, up my spine, settling in my core. It was a darker, more potent satisfaction than I had ever known.
"Good," I said, the single word laced with a newfound authority that felt as natural as breathing.
Lysander’s gaze flickered to the remnants of the company, men struggling to their feet, their armor in disarray. "They will need to be replaced. The outer defenses require a permanent garrison. The energy you have channeled is immense, but it is not infinite. It must be... maintained."
Gena came to my side, her hip leaning against the arm of my throne. "So find more," she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. She picked up a lock of my short, sweaty hair and twirled it around her finger. "They'll come. They can feel it. They want to be part of this."
She was right. I could feel it too—a distant, gathering pull of desire, of submission, drawing toward our seat of power like iron shavings to a magnet.
"See to it, Lysander," I commanded.
He bowed, a crisp, efficient motion, and turned to leave. But he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "There is... another matter. The source of the blight. It was not a natural decay. It was an attack. A deliberate withering." His eyes held mine. "And it may not be over."
The warmth of the throne beneath me suddenly felt like a shield. "Let them come," I heard myself say, and Gena's fingers tightened on my shoulder in agreement. "They will find us waiting."
As Lysander's footsteps faded, the great doors sealing shut behind him, the atmosphere in the throne room shifted again. The formal tension broke, leaving behind the raw, spent energy of the recent hours. The warriors who remained looked at us not just with fear or duty, but with a dazed, proprietary awe. They had fed us. They were part of us now.
One of them, a younger man with dark, curly hair and a bruise blooming on his jaw, approached the dais. He didn't speak. He simply looked at my breasts, where a trickle of milk had escaped a swollen nipple and traced a silvery path down my skin.
Gena laughed, a low, rich sound. "Still hungry, little one?"
He nodded, his throat working.
"Then come and eat," I said.
He didn't need a second invitation. He climbed the dais and knelt before me, his hands trembling as he cupped my breast. His mouth was hot and desperate as it closed over my nipple, his tongue working to draw out the rich, sustaining fluid. A deep, pulling sensation radiated from my core, a pleasant, draining ache. I tangled my hand in his curls, holding him to me, watching his throat work as he swallowed. This was different from the fucking. This was sustenance, a gentle, continuous flow of power from my body to his, a reward for his service.
Another warrior, emboldened, moved to Gena. He didn't wait for an invitation, simply burying his face between her legs, his tongue lapping at the mixed spend that gleamed there. She gasped, her head falling back, a moan of pure pleasure escaping her lips. "Yes, clean your queen," she purred, grinding herself against his face.
Soon, the dais was surrounded. Men jostled gently for position, not in competition, but in shared devotion. Mouths found my breasts, my cunt, my thighs. Tongues and lips worshiped every inch of my skin, lapping up the sweat, the milk, the slick evidence of our power. Hands, reverent and rough, stroked my legs, my arms, the sharp curve of my hips. I was the center of a living, breathing altar, and their hunger was my sacrament.
I looked over at Gena. She had two men attending her, one at each breast, their strong hands supporting her back as she arched, feeding from her. Her eyes met mine, glazed with a narcotic bliss. This was more than sex. It was symbiosis. We gave them purpose, a taste of divine power, and in return, they fed the very land with their adoration.
The curly-haired man at my breast finally pulled away, his lips glistening, a look of satiated peace on his face. He gently kissed the inside of my thigh before moving back to make room for another.
I leaned my head back against the cool obsidian, closing my eyes, letting the sensations wash over me. The relentless, demanding energy of the initial fucking had subsided into this deep, throbbing hum of connection. The throne drank it all in, the gentle transfers, the worshipful touches, the soft, wet sounds of their devotion.
Lysander's warning echoed, but it felt distant, a problem for another day. Let the blight come. Let the attackers try. We were no longer just two women on a mountain. We were the heart of this place. And we were surrounded by those who would kill, and die, and live, to keep us beating.