Chapter 71: Feast of Flesh
The last worshipper stumbled back from the dais, his lips shiny with my milk, his eyes glazed with devotion. The heavy doors boomed shut, leaving Gena and me in the sudden, profound silence of the throne room. The air hummed, thick with the scent of sex and spent power. My body felt like a live wire, every nerve ending singing, my cunt still throbbing from the relentless taking. The obsidian throne beneath me was warm, almost feverish, pulsing in a slow, satisfied rhythm that echoed deep in my bones.
Gena stretched like a great, contented cat, her skin sheened with sweat. "God, I'm soaked," she murmured, running a hand through the slick mess between her thighs and bringing her fingers to her mouth.
Before I could answer, the great doors groaned open again. Not for another company of warriors, but for a single figure. Lysander. He moved with that same lethal grace, but his expression was different—sharper, hungrier. The strategist was gone, replaced by something more primal. He’d watched from the shadows, directing the flow of men to us, but he had not partaken. Now, his grey eyes burned with a need he no longer bothered to conceal.
He stopped at the base of the dais, his gaze a physical weight traveling from my swollen breasts, down my stomach, to the glistening, well-used flesh between my legs. "The realm is stable," he said, his voice rough. "The garrisons are set. My duty is done." His eyes lifted to mine. "Now, I claim my reward."
A thrill, dark and sharp, shot through me. This was different. This wasn't a faceless warrior fulfilling a function. This was Lysander.
"Come here," I said, the command leaving no room for refusal.
He took the steps slowly, each footfall deliberate. He didn't kneel. He stood before me, his presence overwhelming. Gena watched, a sly smile playing on her lips, her hand idly stroking her own nipple.
"Your men drank from me," I said, holding his gaze. "They fucked me until I couldn't see straight. What makes you different?"
"I am not them," he stated, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. His hands went to the buckles of his armor. The leather and steel fell away, clattering on the stone, until he stood naked before us. He was all hard planes and corded muscle, and his cock was already thick and erect, jutting out from a thatch of dark hair. It was heavy, veined, the head flushed a deep, angry purple.
Gena let out a low whistle. "Fuck, mother. He's been saving that."
Lysander ignored her, his focus entirely on me. He moved forward, his hands gripping my thighs, pushing them apart without ceremony. The cool air hit my wetness, and I shuddered. He didn't bother with preamble. He leaned down, his mouth not finding mine, but latching onto my breast. His suck was not the desperate pull of the warriors; it was demanding, possessive. He drew deep from my nipple, his tongue working hard, and a guttural moan was torn from my throat. The sensation was so intense it was almost pain, a direct line of pleasure-pain to my core.
While his mouth was on me, his fingers found my cunt. He didn't tease. One thick finger, then two, pushed inside me, stretching me, probing deep. "So wet," he grunted against my breast. "So fucking open for them. But this... this is for me."
He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself. The broad head of his cock pressed against my entrance, a blunt, insistent pressure. He looked me right in the eyes, and I gave a single, sharp nod.
He drove into me in one brutal, perfect thrust.
I cried out, my back arching off the throne. He was so much bigger, so much fuller than the others. He filled me completely, stretching my tender flesh to its limit, the sensation so overwhelming it stole my breath. He didn't wait for me to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm from the start, his hips pistoning, each slam driving a choked gasp from my lips.
"That's it," he growled, his hands moving to my hips, lifting me to meet his thrusts. "Take it. Take all of it. This is what you are for now."
My vision swam. The throne beneath me seemed to amplify every sensation, the pleasure so acute it bordered on agony. I could feel the silver ring on my finger, the one from Gena, pressed cold between our heated bodies. I clawed at his back, my nails leaving red trails on his skin.
Gena moved then. She came up behind him, her body pressed against his back. She reached around, her hands finding my breasts, kneading them, pinching my nipples hard as Lysander fucked into me. "Look at her take you," she whispered in his ear, her voice a filthy caress. "Look at my mother's cunt gripping your perfect cock. You like that, don't you? Fucking your queen like a common whore."
Lysander’s rhythm faltered for a second, a groan ripped from him. "Yes."
"Then fuck her harder," Gena snarled.
He obeyed. His thrusts became animalistic, a raw, driving need. The sound of our bodies slapping together filled the cavernous room, a wet, obscene rhythm. I was completely lost in it, a vessel for his hunger, for the throne's power, for my own rising, terrifying climax. I could feel it building, a coiling tension deep in my belly, ready to shatter.
"Gena," I gasped, my hand reaching for her.
She understood. She moved from behind Lysander, her eyes locked with mine. As he hammered into me, she knelt between my splayed legs, her face inches from where our bodies joined. She leaned in and her tongue darted out, licking along the stretched seam of my flesh where Lysander's cock disappeared inside me.
The touch was electric, the final spark. My orgasm exploded through me, a silent, screaming wave that convulsed my entire body. My cunt clamped down on Lysander's shaft, milking him, and with a roar, he poured his own release deep inside me, his body shuddering violently against mine.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing. He stayed buried within me, his weight heavy and comforting. Slowly, he pulled out, his seed and my fluids trickling down my thigh onto the thirsty stone of the throne.
He finally knelt, his head bowed, not in submission, but in exhausted reverence. "My queen."
Gena stood, licking her lips clean. She looked from Lysander to me, her expression one of fierce possession. "Ours," she corrected softly.
The torches flared, their light burning brighter, whiter. The tapestries on the walls seemed to shift, the woven figures in their mythical battles turning their heads, their stitched eyes now looking directly at us on the throne. The realm was not just sated. It was waking up. And it was watching.