Chapter 43: The Queen's Breeding Frenzy
Time lost meaning on the throne. It was measured in breaths, in the perpetual, rolling crest of sensations that never truly peaked or valleyed, but simply were. Sunlight speared through the canopy, then faded to twilight, then returned. My gold soaked into the mossy seat, feeding the roots beneath me. The thick, rooted tendril buried in my cunt pumped with the steady, slow rhythm of a second heart, while the suckling vines on my breasts maintained their efficient, draining pull. I was a fixture. A landmark. The quiet, wet sounds of my own servicing were as constant as the rustle of leaves.
I heard them before I saw them—the clumsy snap of a branch, the sharp intake of human breath. My eyes, which had been half-lidded and gazing at nothing, focused.
Two women stood at the edge of the clearing, frozen. They were maybe a decade older than me, their faces lined with hard work and thin soil. Their clothes were patched, homespun. One held a woven basket, empty. They stared, their mouths agape, at the spectacle of me: a red-headed woman bound in living wood, being fucked senseless, gleaming streams of gold arcing from her nipples.
I didn’t stop. The throne didn’t stop. The thrust-slosh-thrust continued, the suction pulled. This was my state. This was my court.
“You’re trespassing,” I said, my voice raspy from disuse but clear. It sounded alien to my own ears.
The taller woman, with dark hair streaked with grey, fell to her knees. The other followed suit, a heartbeat later. “Queen,” the tall one breathed, not a question, a confirmation. “The stories are true. The Heart of the Wood is real.”
“We didn’t mean to offend,” the other, rounder-faced woman blurted, her eyes wide and fixed on the root plunging in and out of me. She couldn’t look away. “Our village… the blight. It’s spreading. The potatoes rot in the ground. The corn is stunted.”
“The old tales say the Queen’s favor… her essence… can make the land fruitful,” the first woman continued, her voice gaining a desperate strength. She dared to look at my face. “We have nothing to offer but our labor. Our loyalty. Please.”
I felt a thrum of response through the throne. The grove was listening, assessing. These women were part of the wider forest, part of the network that had grown sickly and weak. Their need was a palpable scent in the air, sharp like vinegar.
The tendril inside me gave a particularly deep, grinding thrust, hitting a spot that made my toes curl. A fresh spray of gold spurted from my right breast. I let out a shaky sigh, then a low laugh. “You see what favor costs?”
“We see,” the kneeling woman whispered, her gaze now devouring the sight. There was hunger there, but not for food. It was the same hungry void I’d felt before the throne. Awe and envy, twisted together.
I shifted on the root impaling me, a small movement that sent a ripple of intense sensation through my core. “Your baskets. Bring them here.”
They scrambled forward on their knees, placing the rough-woven baskets at the base of my throne, directly in the path of the golden streams from my breasts. I focused, not on stopping the flow, but on directing it. With a thought that felt like flexing a new muscle, I angled my body slightly. The shimmering fluid began to cascade directly into the baskets, filling them with a slowly pooling, luminous liquid.
The women watched, mesmerized. The scent of it, rich and fertile and heady, filled the clearing.
“This will cure your blight,” I said, the words punctuated by another deep thrust. “A few drops diluted in water. For your fields. For your children.”
Tears streamed down the tall woman’s face. “Thank you. Thank you, my Queen.”
But their eyes kept drifting back to the mechanics of my throne, to the way the vines held me open, to the relentless, glistening penetration. The round-faced woman was breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed. She fidgeted, pressing her thighs together.
The power of it, of their absolute attention while I was being so utterly used, was a drug sharper than the pleasure. “You look at my throne,” I said, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “You wonder what it feels like.”
They both flinched, but didn’t deny it. The tall one bowed her head. The other met my gaze, a spark of raw want in her eyes.
“The grove provides,” I said. “It can provide for you, too. A taste of the favor you seek. Not the gold for your fields… but the feeling that feeds the gold.”
I didn’t command it. I simply opened the idea to the network, like lowering a drawbridge. The grove understood need. It understood worship.
From the mossy floor between the two kneeling women, new growth sprouted. Not the thick, rooted pillars that supported me, but slender, questing vines, tipped with soft, bud-like ends. They coiled up around the women’s ankles, caressing their calves.
The women gasped, but didn’t pull away.
“Do you want it?” I asked, grinding down onto the root inside me, setting a deliberate, obscene example. “Do you want the grove to fuck you? To fill that empty, aching place you’ve been carrying?”
“Yes,” the round-faced woman moaned, the word tearing from her.
The taller one nodded, a sharp, frantic movement. “Please.”
“Then accept its gift.”
The vines moved with sudden purpose. They slithered up under the women’s rough skirts, wrapping around their thighs and forcing them apart. Cloth ripped. The women cried out, but the sounds were lost in gasps and whimpers.
I watched, my own pace steady, as the grove worked on them. For the tall woman, a vine, slick with the same natural lubricant that sheened my own invading root, found her entrance and pushed inside. She screamed, back arching, as it filled her, a thinner version of my own torment. For the round-faced woman, a vine sought a different path, probing against the tight pucker of her ass. She shook her head, a momentary fear, but then a second vine bloomed at her front, rubbing insistently against her clothed clit. She sobbed, “Yes, there, please—” and as the pleasure hit her, her body relaxed, allowing the invading tendril at her back to press slowly, inexorably, into her ass.
The clearing filled with new sounds: the wet slap of vines penetrating human flesh, ragged moans, the creak of living wood. The grove was learning them, exploring their bodies with an inhuman, meticulous attention. More tendrils emerged, coiling around their torsos, squeezing their breasts through their clothes, finding their mouths. The women suckled on them instinctively, their eyes rolling back.
They were not given the eternal, plateauing rhythm of the throne. This was a storm. It was violent, overwhelming, a rapid-fire assault of sensations. The vine in the tall woman’s cunt pistoned fast and hard, making her whole body jerk. The one in the other woman’s ass worked deeper, stretching her, while the vine on her clit buzzed with a frantic vibration.
I watched their ecstasy, their utter breakdown, as the root in my own cunt plunged deep and held. A sympathetic, shattering orgasm rolled through me, my nectar flowing in a sudden torrent. Their simultaneous cries as they peaked—raw, broken sounds of total surrender—were the most beautiful offering they could have given.
The vines withdrew, slowly, leaving the women collapsed and shuddering on the moss, their clothes soaked with sweat and their own releases. They panted, staring at the canopy with dazed, transformed eyes.
The baskets at the foot of my throne were full, brimming with glowing gold.
“Take your bounty,” I said, my voice once again the only clear sound in the grove. “Tend your fields. Your land will flourish.”
They crawled to their knees, limbs trembling, and took the heavy baskets. They couldn’t stand, not yet. They bowed, deep and low, before shuffling backwards out of the clearing, casting awestruck, haunted looks over their shoulders.
Silence returned, but it was a different silence. Richer. Their visit, their worship, their pleasure, had fed something. Not just the grove, but me. The hollow victory of my barrenness was gone, replaced by this: a fertile, monstrous generosity.
The throne’s rhythm resumed, a bit stronger, a bit more vital. The suckling on my breasts felt like praise. I settled back into the endless, perfect fuck, a queen with new subjects, and a forest that was beginning to heal.