Chapter 6: Take Her
The smell of rain on burnt earth seeped into the war room, a drafted space within the shell of a granite watchtower. Alaric stood before Kragor, his hands clasped, a strange fervor lighting his eyes. Behind him, partially hidden in shadow, stood a woman. Lara. She was willow-thin, with eyes the color of a winter sky and hands knotted tightly in the wool of her skirt.
“My king,” Alaric began, the title still new on his tongue. “A proposal. For legacy.”
Kragor, hunched over a map carved into the stone table, didn’t look up. His finger, thick as a sausage, traced a path toward a coastal city. “Speak.”
“My wife. Lara. She is strong-hipped, clean of blood. She could bear a successor. It would be an honor for her. For us both.”
Finally, Kragor lifted his head. His eyes, chips of obsidian, moved from Alaric to the woman. She flinched under the weight of that gaze. He sniffed the air, a quick, animal twitch of his nostrils. “The Witch’s blessing sterilized me for women,” he stated, his voice flat. “My seed is potent, but it will not quicken in a womb. It is meant for… deeper planting. I told you this.”
Alaric stepped forward, insistent. “The act itself, then. The symbol. For her to know the touch of a god. For me to witness it.” His breathing had become shallow. “Please.”
Kragor leaned back, the great chair creaking. He understood now. It wasn’t about heirs. It was about consumption. About a different kind of breaking. A slow smile peeled his lips back. “You want to watch me ruin her.”
Alaric’s composure shattered into a desperate, eager nod. “Yes.”
Kragor’s gaze returned to Lara. “Woman. Is this your honor? Or his?”
Lara’s voice was a thread. “My husband’s will is mine, my lord.”
“Good.” Kragor stood, his shadow engulfing the room. “Strip her. On the table.”
Alaric moved with frantic efficiency, his fingers fumbling at the laces of Lara’s dress. She was passive, a doll, her eyes fixed on the rough-hewn ceiling as the wool and linen pooled at her feet. The cool air pebbled her skin. She lay back on the cold stone map, the raised ridges of mountains and rivers pressing into her spine.
Kragor unlaced his breeches, his cock already a heavy, semi-hard weight in his hand. It wasn’t the full, terrifying erection he’d used on Adrian, but it was immense, veined, and ruddy. He stroked it slowly as he approached the table, his eyes on Alaric. “Watch your god work, little planner.”
He didn’t touch Lara first. He just guided the broad, blunt head of his cock through her dryness. She gasped, a sharp, pained intake of breath, her body tensing.
“Relax,” Kragor grunted, not with kindness, but with annoyance. He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and tried again.
This time, he pushed.
Lara cried out, a short, chopped sound. Her fingers scrambled against the stone. Kragor sheathed himself inside her in one relentless, inward shove. Her body stretched to accommodate him, a tight, trembling vise around his girth. He let out a satisfied groan, his head tipping back. “Fuck. Even a cold cunt feels good around a real cock.”
He began to move. There was no rhythm, no grace. It was a brutal, piston-driven fuck. His hips hammered against her pale thighs, the slap of flesh on flesh echoing off the stone walls. His balls, heavy and taut, swung and smacked against her ass with each driving thrust.
“Look at her take it,” Kragor snarled at Alaric, who stood frozen, his hand creeping toward the front of his own trousers. “Look at her fucking face.”
Lara’s face was turned to the side, tears cutting clean paths through the dust on her cheeks. Her mouth was open in a silent, sustained scream, her body jolted by each impact. The sounds were wet, obscene, a squelching rhythm of forced entry.
Alaric watched, mesmerized. He pulled his own cock out, began stroking himself in time with Kragor’s thrusts, his mouth slack with awe. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “So beautiful, my king. Fuck her. Ruin her for me.”
Kragor’s pace increased, becoming a frenzied, animal rut. The stone table scraped across the floor with each drive. He fucked her like he was trying to reach her spine, his own pleasure a growling, building storm. “Gonna fill this useless cunt,” he promised, the words guttural. “Gonna pump you so full of my seed it leaks out for days.”
His orgasm hit him like a seizure. He slammed deep, buried to the hilt, and roared. His body locked, every corded muscle in his abdomen and back standing in stark relief. He pulsed inside her, jet after hot jet of his cum flooding her channel, spilling out around the brutal stretch of his cock where they were joined.
He collapsed forward for a moment, braced on his hands over her, sweat dripping from his forehead onto her chest. Then he pulled out with a slick, sucking pop.
Lara whimpered, a river of white already leaking from her ravished pussy onto the carved map below.
Kragor stepped back, his cock, glistening with her fluids and his own spend, still thick and arrogant. He looked at Alaric, whose hand was a blur on his own prick. “You like the mess I made of your wife?”
“I love it,” Alaric panted, approaching the table. He didn’t look at Lara’s face. His eyes were fixed on the dripping confluence between her legs. He fell to his knees, his own need forgotten. “Let me… let me clean it. The honor. Please.”
Kragor nodded, a bored king granting a favor.
Alaric buried his face between his wife’s thighs. He licked and sucked, desperately cleaning her, swallowing the bitter mix of their juices. His moans were of pure, abject worship. Then, his eyes flicked up to Kragor’s softening cock, a fat, spent king resting in a nest of coarse hair, dripping with remnants.
Driven by a curiosity that crossed into madness, Alaric leaned forward. He tentatively licked the underside of Kragor’s shaft, cleaning a bead of cum. The taste was stronger, more primal. He took the heavy balls into his hand, lowering his mouth to suckle one, then the other, cleansing them with a reverent tongue.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, his lips slick. “Thank you for spilling your superior seed in her. For letting me taste it.”
Kragor watched, a dark amusement flickering in his eyes. The degradation was complete, and it had taken minutes. He felt a fresh, relentless stir in his groin. The sight of this broken man servicing him, the feel of that tongue, it was igniting him again.
By the time Alaric sat back on his heels, weeping with gratitude, Kragor was fully hard again, thicker than before, the veins throbbing.
“Round two,” Kragor announced, his voice like grinding stone.
He didn’t move toward Lara. He wrapped a massive hand around Alaric’s skull. “You want to serve? Serve this.”
He guided Alaric’s mouth onto his cock. Alaric gagged instantly, his jaw stretched painfully wide, but he did not resist. He tried to suck, tears streaming down his face as he choked.
Kragor fucked his mouth for a minute, shallow, brutal thrusts. Then he pulled free, saliva strings breaking. “Her face. Now.”
Understanding, Alaric scrambled onto the table, straddling Lara’s head. He pulled her face up by her hair. She was limp, barely conscious. Kragor stood at the edge of the table, fisting his cock.
He didn’t aim for her mouth, or Alaric’s. He aimed for them both.
The first thick rope of cum hit Lara across the eyes and bridge of her nose. She sputtered, blinking blindly. The next pulse splashed across Alaric’s cheek and open, waiting mouth. He licked his lips eagerly. Kragor grunted, his body jerking, painting them. Stripes of white across Lara’s forehead, over Alaric’s chin, in their hair. He doused them, marking them as his territory, his utterly debased devotees.
When he was spent, he tapped his softening cock against Alaric’s cum-smeared lips. “Clean it.”
Alaric did, with a whimper of pleasure.
Kragor laced his breeches, looking down at the ruined woman and the weeping, ecstatic man glued to her side. The stink of sex and submission was thick in the room.
“The coastal city,” Kragor said, as if commenting on the weather. “We march at dawn. I can smell the next one from here. He’ll put up more of a fight.” He turned and left, the echo of his footsteps fading down the tower stairs, leaving them in the silent, filthy dark.
The silence he left behind was absolute, broken only by Lara’s shallow, hitched breathing and the slow drip of fluid from the table’s edge. Alaric remained on his knees beside the stone slab, the taste of Kragor’s seed and his wife’s violated flesh a sacred incense on his tongue. He trembled, not with disgust, but with a euphoric completion that vibrated in his marrow.
He looked at Lara’s cum-glazed face, the whites of her eyes peering through the drying streaks. He felt a surge of possessiveness. “Mine,” he whispered, stroking her matted hair. “He marked us. We’re his now.” She didn’t blink.
The tower room grew colder. The geothermal warmth from the caverns below didn't reach this high. A shiver that had nothing to do with temperature racked Alaric’s spine. The euphoria began to curdle, replaced by a hollow, gnawing ache in his gut. The stone was painfully hard under his knees.
He tried to stand, but his legs were water. He clutched the table edge, his fingers slipping in the mess. The carved map felt alien under his palm, just cold rock. He looked at Lara again. Her winter-blue eyes were fixed on him, but they held no recognition, only a flat, empty horror that reflected the chamber’s gloom—and his own face, smeared and pathetic.
“Lara?” he said. His voice echoed, small and foolish.
She didn’t answer. A single, clean tear broke free, cutting a path through the filth on her cheek. It was a purity that condemned him. The scene, which moments before had been a pageant of dark worship, now felt absurd, grotesque. The smell, so intoxicating before, now reeked of bile and weakness. Kragor’s departing words about the coastal city seemed distant, a rumbling dream.
“No,” Alaric muttered, pushing himself away from the table. “This is… this is honor.”
But the stone floor felt unreal. The torchlight flickered in a nauseating rhythm. He stumbled toward the doorway, needing air, needing to escape the physical proof of his fantasy. The tower stairs spiraled downward into blackness, but as he reached the first step, the world tilted.
Alaric jolted upright, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. He was tangled in a thin, sweat-soaked blanket on his own pallet in the low-ranking officers’ barracks. The air was cool and still, smelling of old hay and unwashed men. Pale dawn light filtered through a high, narrow window.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. His jaw ached with a phantom soreness. He could still taste it—the bitter salt, the metallic tang. He frantically wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but it was dry.
He looked around, panting. Snoring soldiers surrounded him. No stone table. No carved map. No Lara.
A dream. It was merely a dream.
The relief was instantaneous, a flood of cool water through his veins. He slumped back, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars. “Gods,” he breathed into the quiet dark.
But as his pulse slowed, a colder realization seeped in, more chilling than the sweat on his skin. The details had been hyper-real: the grain of the stone, the weight of Kragor’s gaze, the specific slap of flesh. And the desire. That voracious, worshipful hunger he had felt in the dream—it hadn’t dissipated with the dawn. It clung to him, a secret second skin, hot with shame and terrifying potency.
He had offered his wife in the dream. He had cleaned Kragor’s cock with a zealot’s tongue. And part of him, the part now fully awake in the quiet barracks, was bitterly disappointed to find it wasn’t real.
Outside, a horn blared, low and urgent. The march to the coastal city. Kragor could smell the next one, he’d said.
Alaric swung his legs off the pallet, his body feeling both heavy and empty. He dressed mechanically, his mind echoing with the dream-king’s final promise. He pulled on his boots, the routine action grounding him. The man in the cot next to him grumbled and turned over.
As Alaric stepped out into the grey morning, joining the stream of men assembling for the march, he scanned the growing camp for a glimpse of Kragor’s colossal form. A familiar, coiling excitement began to push aside the residue of horror. It had been a dream.