Chapter 3: The Royal Feast
The word, "Open," hung in the air like a physical command.
Queen Lyra didn't hesitate. Her gigantic, bee-stung lips parted in a wet, slack-jawed 'O', her eyes wide and unblinking as she stared up the length of that impossible shaft. A string of drool, thick and glossy, descended from her lower lip to the marble.
The Warlord didn't bend. He simply stepped forward, the blunt, dripping head nudging against her mouth. It was too big. It was laughably, horrifyingly too big. It should have been impossible.
Lyra's lips stretched. They strained, pink flesh turning white at the corners, thin like parchment as they deformed around the invading circumference. A wet, sucking pop echoed as the head forced its way past her teeth. Her cheeks bulged instantly, distended like a snake that had swallowed a goat. Guttural, choking sounds vibrated in her throat.
He held her head in one massive hand, fingers tangling in her elaborate hair, and began to move. It wasn't a rhythm. It was a brutal, piston-like drive, using her face as a sheath. Her nose smashed into his lower abdomen with each inward thrust, her throat convulsing around the intrusion. The sounds were obscene: wet gagging, sloppy suction, the slap of flesh against her face.
Kael, pinned under his sisters, could only watch over Anya’s shoulder. His mother’s eyes streamed tears, but they weren't tears of pain. They were tears of overwhelming, mindless ecstasy. Her body shuddered, another small jet of her release spotting the marble between her legs as she was used.
The other orcs, a dozen of them, moved now. They were not gentle. They surrounded the dais, their own considerable cocks out and heavy. Two of them grabbed the twins by their hair, yanking them off of Kael.
"Hey! Fuck, that's mine!" Elara shrieked, but it turned into a giggle as she was dragged towards the thick, veined member of a scarred brute. She didn't fight. Her tongue lolled out, dripping saliva, as she was pulled face-first into his groin.
Anya got two. One behind her, pushing her head towards a cock, another in front, shoving his into her waiting mouth. The throne room became a chorus of grunts, slurps, and high-pitched, muffled moans.
The Warlord pulled out of Lyra’s mouth with a slick, gagging cough from her. Her lips were bruised, swollen even larger, glistening with spit and pre-cum. He looked down at her heaving chest, at the monumental breasts now fully free, swaying with her ragged breaths.
He grunted, a command. Understanding dawned in her dumb, blissful eyes. She scrambled forward on her knees, her tits swinging like pendulums, and squeezed them together around his shaft. The flesh enveloped him, a hot, soft valley of overwhelming cleavage. He began to fuck them, the head of his cock emerging each time to slap against her chin, her throat, before disappearing again into the milky-white prison.
"Kael… Kael, sweetie?" Lyra gasped between thrusts, her voice a ruined, bubbly thing.
Kael flinched. He was forgotten, lying in his damp clothes, watching the grotesque ballet.
"Look, baby," she moaned, her eyes rolling as the Warlord’s pace increased. "Look how… how full mommy is. He’s gonna… he’s gonna make me so full for you."
The words were like poison in his ears. Sick, sweet poison.
The Warlord’s grunts grew sharper. He pulled his cock from between her tits, the skin flushed and steaming, and shoved it back into her waiting mouth. He held it there, deep, and his body went rigid.
Lyra’s eyes shot wide. A muffled, urgent hum escaped her. Her throat worked furiously, swallowing, but it was a floodgate breaking. Kael watched, horrified and fascinated, as her slender neck distended, a visible bulge traveling down it. Then her stomach, normally flat above the dramatic curve of her hips, began to swell. It rounded, pushing out against her silk gown, growing taut and full as if she’d swallowed a melon. A second pulse from the Warlord, and it grew larger, a pregnant dome of cum-filled belly.
He pulled out. The final spurts painted her face, her hair, her swollen breasts in thick, ropy strands that gleamed in the lantern light. Her belly, huge and sloshing lightly, dominated her frame.
She fell back on her hands, gasping, cum dripping from her nostrils. "So… much," she slurred, a delirious smile on her wrecked lips. "For you, Kael. All for you."
The twins were in a world of their own. Elara had taken two orcs at once, one in her mouth, doing a sloppy, noisy job, while another mounted her from behind, her petite body jolting forward with each thrust. She was screaming, but it was muffled, joyous.
"Fuck! Yeah, fill the tiny slut! Gonna drink it all!" she managed around her mouthful, before choking and giggling.
Anya was on her back, an orc kneeling over her face, fucking her mouth with abandon while another was between her legs, her short legs hooked over his thick arms. She was being hammered into the marble, her bubble butt slapping against the stone with a rhythmic smack. Her eyes were crossed in bliss.
Kael tried to crawl away, a pathetic, backward scramble. The heel of his hand slipped in a puddle of something wet and sticky. He looked down. It wasn’t wine.
A shadow fell over him. It was the Warlord, still semi-hard, monstrous, dripping. He looked from Kael to the debauchery around them, then back to Kael. He pointed a thick finger at the prince, then jerked his thumb towards the nearest pillar.
The meaning was clear.
Kael’s heart hammered against his ribs. Humiliation burned through him, hot and sharp. But beneath it, coiling in the pit of his own sore stomach, was something else. A treacherous, cold fascination. The raw power. The sheer, undeniable magnitude.
He crawled to the pillar and, trembling, pulled himself up to lean against it. His job, he understood with a clarity that shattered his last illusion, was to watch. To be part of the audience for his family’s defilement.
Lyra, cradling her huge, cum-inflated belly, blew him a kiss with her busted lips. "Isn't it beautiful, sweetie?" she sighed, her voice dreamy. "They’re giving us so much peace."
The Warlord turned and walked towards the twins, his interest shifting. Kael’s eyes, against his will, followed the swing of that impossible flesh. The disgust was still there, a hard kernel in his throat.
But his body, traitorously, was stirring. A strange, hot tension built in his own wide hips, a mirror to the pounding rhythm shaking the room. He pressed himself back against the cold pillar, trying to hide it, as the symphony of grunts and slaps and slutty, joyous cries washed over him. He didn't look away.