Chapter 8: The King's First Claim
The chieftains filed out slowly, dragging their feet, their eyes lingering on Candice and Morgana with naked hunger. One of them—a hulking brute with a shattered tusk and a fresh scar across his throat—paused at the threshold, his tongue running across cracked lips.
"Master," he grunted. "When you're done with them. If you're done with them—"
"No they are mine, and mine only." Thresh said.
The chieftain bowed, his face twisted with disappointment, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the throne room.
The iron door slammed shut behind him.
Thresh rose from his throne, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed both women. He didn't speak—didn't need to. He simply turned and walked toward a corridor carved into the far wall, his heavy footsteps echoing off the stone.
"Follow," he said without looking back.
Candice's legs moved before her mind caught up. Behind her, Morgana fell into step, her hand brushing against Candice's lower back—a small gesture, meant to steady her. Candice flinched at the contact but didn't pull away.
The corridor wound downward, the torchlight thinning as they descended. The air grew warmer, thicker. The scent of old blood faded, replaced by something earthy and ancient, like the inside of a tomb that had been sealed for centuries.
Thresh stopped at a door made of blackened iron, its surface etched with symbols Candice didn't recognize. Some glowed faintly, pulsing with residual power. Others were cracked and faded, like old scars.
"This is my sanctum," he said, pushing the door open. "No one enters without my permission. Not my chieftains. Not my generals. Not even my gods."
The chamber beyond was massive—far larger than it had any right to be, carved deep into the mountain's heart. The walls were lined with obsidian, smooth and black as glass, their surfaces reflecting the torchlight in fractured, shifting patterns. Sigils covered every inch of stone, some carved so deep they cast shadows, others barely visible, worn away by time.
The air hummed. Not with sound, exactly, but with weight—the pressure of ancient magic pressing against her skin, her lungs, her pounding heart. It smelled of incense and damp earth, and underneath it all, the faintest musk of something alive. Something that breathed.
In the center of the chamber, a massive bed dominated the space. Furs were piled high on a stone platform, thick and rough, the hides of beasts Candice couldn't name. Candles flickered on every surface, their flames low and steady, casting the room in amber and shadow.
Thresh crossed to the bed and turned to face them.
"Strip," he said.
The word hung in the air like a command from a god—absolute, unquestionable. Candice's fingers found the hem of her shirt, still damp with sweat and spit, and pulled it over her head. Her smallclothes followed. Morgana moved beside her, shedding her robe with practiced ease, her body luminous in the candlelight.
They stood naked before him, shivering despite the warmth. Candice's mark glowed faintly, the golden sigil pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Morgana's smaller, duskier mark answered in kind, responding to the proximity of true succubus power.
Thresh's eyes traveled over them slowly. He didn't rush. He examined every inch—the curve of their hips, the swell of their breasts, the way Candice's thighs pressed together, the way Morgana's nipples stiffened in the cool air. He was cataloging them, memorizing them, claiming them with nothing more than a look.
"Morgana," he said. "On the bed. On your back. Legs spread."
Morgana obeyed without hesitation—without shame. She climbed onto the furs and lay back, her purple hair fanning out beneath her, her legs falling open to expose the slick glistening evidence of her arousal. The candles caught the wetness on her thighs, made it shine.
Candice's throat tightened.
She remembered a time—years ago, before the village had turned its back on Morgana, before the word "whore" had become a brand—when she'd watched Morgana from across the village square and felt something she couldn't name. Something she'd buried deep and never looked at again.
Thresh noticed her hesitation. His hand closed around her wrist, firm but not painful.
"You watch," he said. "You learn. You wait your turn."
He released her and climbed onto the bed. The furs sank beneath his weight, the platform groaning. He positioned himself between Morgana's legs, his massive cock already fully hard, the head dark and slick. He didn't tease. Didn't prepare her.
He drove into her in one brutal thrust.
Morgana screamed.
The sound was raw—half pain, half pleasure, all of it echoing off the obsidian walls. Her back arched off the furs, her hands fisting in the pelts, her mouth open in a silent cry as Thresh began to move.
He fucked her with savage, punishing strokes. Each thrust drove her deeper into the furs, her breasts bouncing with the force of it, her nails raking red lines down his scarred forearms. She was tight—Candice could see it, the way her cunt stretched around his girth, the way her lips gripped him with every pull, slick and swollen and obscene.
"Fuck," Morgana gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
"Say it again," Thresh growled. "Say my name."
"Thresh—"
"Louder."
"THRESH!"
He laughed, low and cruel, and drove deeper. His balls slapped against her ass with every stroke, wet and heavy. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, pulling her onto him, impaling her with that massive cock like she was nothing more than a sheath for his pleasure.
The mark on Candice's stomach burned.
It wasn't pain—not exactly. It was heat, spreading through her body like wildfire, settling in her cunt until she felt slick and swollen and desperate. Her nipples ached. Her clit throbbed. She could smell Morgana's arousal now, thick and sweet, and something darker underneath—Lust Mana, bleeding off her in waves.
Thresh smelled it too. His eyes found Candice across the room, glowing in the candlelight.
"You feel it," he said, not a question. "The power. The hunger."
Candice said nothing. Her hands were trembling.
"Morgana's mark is imperfect. Artificial. It feeds her, but it doesn't satisfy." He punctuated the words with thrusts, each one hitting deep enough to make Morgana sob. "But yours—yours is real. The true mark of a succubus. I can feel it from here. It's clawing at you, isn't it? Begging to be used."
Candice's nails dug into her palms. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to run. But her feet wouldn't move, and her mouth wouldn't form the lie.
"Come here," Thresh commanded.
She walked toward the bed. Each step felt like wading through water. The Lust Mana was rising in her now, thick and hungry, and by the time she reached the edge of the platform, she could barely think past the ache between her legs.
"On your knees," he said. "Between us."
Candice obeyed.
She knelt between Thresh's legs and Morgana's, the furs rough against her bare knees. From here, she could see everything—the way Thresh's cock split Morgana open, the way her cunt gripped him, the thick white cream building at the base of his shaft. The smell was overwhelming. Sex and sweat and something ancient, something that made her mouth water.
"Lick her," Thresh said.
Candice stared at him.
"Lick. Her. Clean." He pulled out slowly, his cock sliding free with a wet, obscene sound, leaving Morgana's hole gaping and dripping. "You wanted to be a good queen? Show me. Show me you're worth the protection I'm offering."
The mark burned.
Candice bent her head.
The first taste of Morgana's cunt was electric—salt and musk and Lust Mana, straight to the back of her skull. She moaned without meaning to, her tongue diving into that slick heat, lapping at the mingled fluids, the evidence of what Thresh had done. Morgana cried out, her hips bucking, her fingers tangling in Candice's short black hair.
"That's it," Thresh murmured. He was stroking himself, slow and lazy, watching them with hooded eyes. "Clean her. Worship her. You'll learn to love the taste of your sisters. You'll learn to crave it."
Candice couldn't respond. Her tongue was buried in Morgana's folds, flicking her clit, drinking her down. The Lust Mana flooded into her with every swallow, filling her up, making the mark on her belly pulse until she could feel it in her teeth.
She heard Morgana come—a keening wail that echoed through the chamber, her thighs clamping around Candice's head, her cunt gushing slick and sweet. Candice kept licking, cleaning every drop, until Morgana's hands pushed weakly at her skull.
"Enough," Thresh said, pulling her up by the hair. "My turn."
He bent Candice over the fur-covered slab, her face pressed into the pelts, her ass raised high. The furs smelled of Morgana now, of both of them, and she inhaled deeply without meaning to.
Thresh's hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pinning her down. Behind her, she heard him stroke himself once, twice. Felt the blunt head of his cock nudging against her entrance.
"Tell me what you are," he growled.
Candice's throat locked.
"Tell me."
"I'm—" The word broke. She swallowed. "I'm your whore."
"Louder."
"I'm your whore."
"Good girl."
He drove into her.
The pain was incredible—sharp and bright, stretching her wider than she'd ever been stretched, filling her so completely that she forgot how to breathe. Her inner walls clenched around him, fighting the intrusion, but he didn't stop. He pushed deeper, relentless, until his hips pressed flush against her ass.
Then he started to move.
Candice's world narrowed to sensation. His cock, thick and hot and impossibly deep, punching the air from her lungs with every thrust. His hands gripping her hips, his nails cutting crescents into her skin. His breath on her neck, hot and rank, grunting with every stroke.
"You feel that?" he snarled. "That's power. That's what you've been hiding from. That hunger inside you—I can feel it. The way your cunt squeezes me. The way you need this."
"No," she gasped. But her body was betraying her. Her hips were pushing back to meet him, taking him deeper, her cunt dripping slick around his cock.
"Yes." He fucked her harder. The platform groaned. The candles flickered. "You're not a hero anymore. You're not a protector. You're a slut with a mark on her belly, and you're mine. My whore. My queen. My fucktoy."
The words should have shattered her. Instead, they ignited something—a dark, hungry thing that had been sleeping inside her for years. She felt it wake and stretch and snarl.
"Say it," Thresh growled.
"I'm yours," she heard herself say.
"Say it again."
"I'm your whore. I'm your fucktoy. I'm—" She choked, her cunt clenching around him. "I'm yours."
Thresh roared.
His hips slammed into her, brutal and fast, each thrust a declaration. He was claiming her, marking her from the inside, and she was taking it. Taking all of it. Her orgasm was building now, a wave that kept growing, fed by the Lust Mana flooding through her veins.
"Come for me," Thresh demanded. "Come on my cock like the slut you are."
She came.
The world went white. Her body convulsed around him, her cunt milking his cock in waves, her mouth open in a scream that had no sound. She was floating, falling, burning. The mark on her belly blazed like a second sun.
Behind her, Thresh roared again—not a roar of triumph this time, but one of surrender. His hips stuttered, drove once more, and then he was coming, pumping hot seed deep inside her, filling her so completely that it leaked out around his cock, dripping down her thighs.
They collapsed together onto the furs.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The candles guttered. The sigils on the walls pulsed with fading light. Thresh's heartbeat thundered against Candice's back, slowing with every breath.
Morgana crawled toward them, curling against Candice's side, her hand finding the mark on Candice's stomach.
"You okay?" she whispered.
Candice stared at the obsidian ceiling, at the ancient sigils flickering in the darkness. She could taste Morgana on her tongue and Thresh in her cunt. Her body was raw, used, sweat-slicked and exhausted.
And for the first time in years, she felt something other than shame.
"I don't know," she said.
Thresh laughed, a low rumble in his chest. He pulled them both closer, his massive arms wrapping around them like iron bands. "You'll learn," he said. "You'll both learn. By the time I'm done with you, you won't remember who you used to be."
Candice closed her eyes.
She remembered the statue of Lilith, crumbling in the woods beyond Succi. She remembered the goddess's dying smile, the warmth of her fading power. She remembered the words: You will revive the succubus race.
She had spent three weeks running from those words. From the mark. From herself.
But lying here, pressed between a goblin king and a witch, her body still trembling with orgasm, she wondered if running had ever been an option.
She wondered if she even wanted it to be.
Morgana's fingers traced lazy circles on her stomach, touching the mark with something like reverence.
"Beautiful," she murmured. "You're beautiful."
The word hit Candice somewhere unexpected—somewhere soft, somewhere vulnerable. She turned her head, met Morgana's eyes, and saw understanding there. And beneath that, something that looked dangerously like love.
"I'm scared," Candice admitted.
Morgana kissed her forehead. "Me too. But we're scared together."
Thresh's hand tightened around them both, possessive and grounding. "Rest now," he said.
Candice closed her eyes.
She didn't sleep—not really. But she floated, drifting in the warm darkness, her body heavy and sated. The mark on her stomach hummed with quiet power, and somewhere deep inside her, something new was growing. Something hungry. Something she didn't recognize but didn't quite hate.
Outside, the mountain pressed down around them, sealing them in. Beyond the stone, beyond the barrier, the world thought she was dead—or wished she was dead.
But here, in the king's bed, she was alive.