Chapter 1: The Queen's Submission in Obsidian Chambers
The world had gone to screaming iron and black wind, and then it had gone to nothing at all. Manon Blackbeak remembered the shatter of her blade against that abyssal darkness, remembered the cold that poured into her veins like molten lead,remembered her own roar cut short as something wrapped around her throat and squeezed the fight out of her like water from a rag, The last thing she saw was the face of the Valg prince, those solid black eyes, patient and warm as a grave, and then she felt the first treacherous spark of heat between her thighs despite herself. A traitorous moisture blooming in her core as his gaze swept over her exposed body, taking in the rigid peaks of her nipples, the slickness gathering at her cunt. His eyes held no pity, only the focused attention of a craftsman examining his finest work. "Good girl," he murmured, and her body betrayed her with a shudder that had nothing to do with fear. The heat intensified, a slow burn that made her press her thighs together even as they were forced apart, the iron collar biting into her throat as she fought the humiliating rush of arousal flooding her system. And then the dark swallowed her whole, but not before she registered the scent of her own want filling the air around them.
She came to hanging. The strain in her shoulders told her that first, the burn of her own weight dragging at her wrists where they were bound high above her head. Stone against her back, cold and slick with weeping condensation. Obsidian, black as the inside of a tomb, carved into the shape of a cross that held her body spread and open. Her ankles were strapped wide apart, her thighs forced into a shameless V, and the iron collar at her throat was heavy enough to make each breath a conscious act. Her golden eyes blinked open, slit-pupiled and furious, and she took in the chamber around her.
Rows of identical crosses lined the obsidian walls, and on each one hung a witch. Her coven. Her Thirteen, or what remained of them, their white hair spilled over their shoulders, their leathers stripped away, their bodies bared to the damp air. And between their spread thighs stood things that wore the prince's face. Clones, dark-scaled and massive, their cocks buried deep in the witches' cunts with slow, deliberate, inexorable thrusts that made the whole chamber pulse with wet rhythm.
The moans rose in unison, a chorus of helpless pleasure that Manon knew all too well. Her own mouth fell open as she watched them, watched her sisters' bodies arch and writhe against the stone, watched their hips roll in time with the clones' steady pace. Their eyes were glazed, their lips parted, their breasts bouncing gently with each impact. They were lost in it, drowning in it, and Manon hated them for the envy that coiled hot and shameful in her belly.
She was empty. The realization hit her like a physical blow, a desperate, clenching ache between her thighs. Her cunt was soaked, dripping, slick with want that had been building since the moment the dark had taken her. She could feel her own arousal smeared on her inner thighs, could smell it in the air, sharp and musky beneath the metallic scent of sorcery. Her hips twitched, an involuntary, hungry little roll toward nothing, and she bit down on a sound that wanted to crawl out of her throat.
The Valg prince stepped into the torchlight.
He was enormous, a tower of bruise-dark muscle clad in fitted, scaled armor that left his broad chest bare. The silver clasp at his throat caught the low light as he moved toward her, his steps unhurried, his solid black eyes fixed on her face with an attention that made her skin prickle. He stopped between her spread thighs, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, and his hands came up to trace the curve of her hip.
"Awake at last," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the stone. His calloused fingers followed the line of her hip bone, dipping into the hollow of her waist, spreading wide over the flare of her pelvis. "You fought well, witch-queen. I enjoyed watching you break."
"I am not broken," Manon snarled, but her voice came out rough and breathless, ruined by the hunger coiling in her gut. She yanked at her bonds and the iron held fast. "I am Manon Blackbeak. I have killed a hundred of your kind. I will kill you too."
The prince smiled, slow and indulgent, and his hand slid lower, fingers dragging through the slick mess of her cunt. Manon's hips bucked into the touch before she could stop them, and a strangled noise escaped her throat. He spread her open with two fingers, parting her folds, exposing her to the chill air and his patient gaze. Behind her, her coven moaned in unison, a perfect, broken harmony that seemed to tighten the coil in her belly.
"You will," he agreed, and his thumb circled her clit with agonizing slowness. "But not tonight. Tonight you will learn what your body was made for."
He stepped back, and Manon whimpered at the loss. The sound disgusted her, and she swallowed it, forcing her jaw tight, but her hips continued their desperate, twitching search for his touch. She watched him undress with a predator's focus, watched the armor fall away to reveal the sheer, brutal mass of him. His chest was a map of scars, his stomach ridged with muscle, and between his legs his cock stood thick and heavy, flushed dark and glistening at the tip. It was long enough to make her mouth water, thick enough to make her cunt clench on empty air.
He pressed the head of it against her soaked core, and Manon's whole body seized.
"Darkness take me," she whispered, the words torn from her in a ragged breath she could not catch. Her head fell back against the stone, her golden eyes rolling as she arched into him, her hips tilting up to offer herself, to beg without words. "Claim me.
"what?" His voice was soft, almost kind, and his hands came up to cup her breasts, thumbs dragging over her nipples until they peaked and ached. The head of his cock rested against her entrance, not pushing in, just there, a promise that made her feel like she was coming apart from the inside. "Tell me what you need, doll."
"You think I'll submit?" she whined, her voice thick with unadulterated lust as she arched into his touch, her nipples peaking , her dripping core throbbing with need, betraying the fierce pride in her eyes.
But he did not thrust. Instead he pulled back, and Manon screamed, a raw, frustrated, animal sound that echoed off the weeping obsidian. Her coven's moans rose around her, the clones still driving into them with that same slow, maddening rhythm, and she could see the pleasure on their faces, could see her sisters' broken, satisfied smiles, and she was empty, empty, empty.
The prince laughed, low and pleased, and his hands began to move again. He traced his fingers up her inner thighs, light as feathers, making her legs twitch and tremble. He cupped her sex in his palm, his thumb pressing against her clit through the slick mess of her arousal, and then he slid two fingers inside her, crooked them just so, and Manon came apart.
Her body arched off the stone, her mouth open in a scream that never quite formed. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her, and still he did not stop. His other hand came up to grip her jaw, tilting her face toward him, and his cock settled between her breasts, heavy and hot, sliding through the sweat and slick of them as he began to fuck the valley of her chest. The head of it pressed against her chin, rubbed across her lips, and his eyes watched her with that same warm, grounded focus while his fingers worked her cunt into a shaking, out-of-control semblance of herself.
"Look at you," he murmured, and his thumb circled her clit in counterpoint to the rhythm of his hips. "The mighty witch-queen, dripping like a whore on her first night. Do you feel that, doll? Do you feel who you belong to?"
"Fuck," Manon whined, her body writhing like a fish on a hook as his fingers worked her dripping cunt, her mind gone blank with pleasure, her only thought being the relentless pressure on her clit, the knowledge that she was nothing but a plaything for his amusement.
"You belong to me," he repeated, and he pulled his fingers out, brought them to her lips, and she opened her mouth without thought, sucking them clean, tasting herself on his skin. "And you will take what I give you, when I give it. Not before."
The chamber shifted around them. The clones withdrew from the witches in perfect unison, leaving them moaning and empty, their bodies glistening with use. Manon watched as her coven was repositioned, their bonds shifting until their arms were thrust back behind them, their bodies arched forward, their asses presented to the clones that loomed behind them. Her own bonds shifted too, releasing her wrists, and before she could think of fighting, strong hands caught her and bent her over, arms wrenched back behind her spine, her body arched deep and low. The stone bit into her knees and the flats of her palms as the prince settled behind her, his cock sliding between the spread cheeks of her ass, slick and hot against her dripping cunt.
The clones thrust into them in one motion, filling them completely.
The chamber was filled with ragged breaths and the wet, obscene sounds of fucking. The lewd slurp of cocks sliding into cunts, the brutal slap of flesh, the desperate whimpers of witches being bred like livestock. The prince drove into Manon with one impossibly deep, unrelenting thrust, and she cried out, her cunt spasming around him so tightly she feared she'd be split in two. He began to move, a slow, measured rhythm that drew ragged sobs from her with each withdrawal, leaving her aching and empty before he plunged back in, filling her to the brim.
'Wiggle that ass, my slutty queen,' he mocked, his voice a heated caress against her ear. Manon complied, her hips rolling against his, her ass pressing against his length, silently begging for him to take her harder, to own her completely.
"That's it," he breathed, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her rhythm, showing her where she belonged. "Take it. Take all of it. This is what your cunt was made for, witch-queen. Made to be stuffed and bred and used until you forget your own name."
Manon sobbed, her head hanging low, her white hair spilled across the obsidian. Her thighs were shaking, her cunt was on fire, and she was so full she could barely think. Her coven was moaning in unison behind her, their bodies bouncing as the clones fucked them with that same relentless rhythm, and Manon was one of them. She was just a witch now, just a body to be used, and the thought made her clench so hard around the prince's cock that he groaned.
A shimmer of light appeared on the obsidian wall ahead of her, and Manon's eyes, glazed and wild, focused on it. It was an image of herself. Her old self. Standing tall in her skintight black riding leathers, her hand on her hip, her chin lifted with the arrogance of a Wing Leader who had never known defeat. The image moved and shifted, showing her striding across a battlefield, showing her from behind as she mounted her wyvern, the leather clinging to the curve of her ass, the perfect jut of her hips.
The prince slowed his thrusts, not stopping, just easing until he was barely pressing inside her, and his hands came up to grip her ass, spreading her cheeks wide. "Look at her," he murmured, his voice warm with satisfaction. "The great Manon Blackbeak. Look at the way that hip juts out in those leathers. Look at the way your ass curves, the way your thighs are cut to perfection." His hands squeezed, massaging the firm flesh of her ass, and Manon whimpered, her eyes fixed on her old self. "Did you know, every time you walked into battle in that little outfit, every Valg who saw you was thinking the same thing? That body was begging to be fucked. Begging to be bred."
"No," Manon gasped, but the word came out weak, broken. She was so aroused, so close to the edge, and his hands were everywhere. One squeezed her ass, spreading her open, two fingers pressing against her pucker, not entering, just teasing. The other slid around her hip and grabbed her cunt, fingers working her clit while his cock stayed still inside her, a thick, throbbing presence she could not stop clenching around.
The image on the wall rippled, showing her from the front, the way the leather compressed her chest, the curve of her tits, the hint of her nipples beneath the straining material. Manon moaned, her hips twitching uselessly against his grip, and his fingers were relentless. He groped her with methodical thoroughness, as if she was a thing to be handled, a possession to be catalogued. His hands were on her ass, her thighs, her core.
He grabbed her tits and rolled her nipples until she was arching and crying. He pulled her hair until her head snapped back. He captured her arms and bent them behind her, pressed his chest against her back, and bit down on the curve of her neck, a possessive, claiming bite that made her scream.
His fingers hooked into her mouth, stretching it wide around two of them, and she sucked them like she was born to it. "Yaaaeshh," she moaned around his digits, the sound muffled and wet. His other hand controlled her tits, gripping and lifting them, pressing them together as his cock slid between them, over and over, slick with her sweat and the precome weeping from his tip. "Moaarrmm," she cried out, her voice raw and trembling. "Fumnm me harfearrr." His thumb dragged over her clit in rough circles and she was making sounds she did not recognize, high and keening and desperate, sounds that had no words in them at all. "Oh gosddshs" she gasped, her back arching off the stone floor.
The image ripples to life before her—Manon as she was, not a week past. High on Abraxos's back, white hair wild in the wind, hip cocked over her wyvern's scaled neck in a way that lets the black leather of her riding suit pull taut across her thighs. The Ironteeth queen, untouchable. The wind whistling through the battlements had never dared to cross her.
The prince steps behind her, close enough that she feels the heat of his bare chest against her spine, and turns her chin with one finger toward the vision.
"Look at her," he murmurs. "That perfect posture. The way she thinks the world belongs to her. Do you know what I saw the first moment I watched you in that outfit, witch-queen?"
She can't answer. Her jaw is slack, the image so achingly familiar that her heart twists toward it.
"I saw that hip jutting out like an invitation. I saw the curve of your ass straining those seams and thought—that is a body built to be gripped, spread, and bred." His hand slides down her belly, fingers hooking into the waistband of what's left of her leathers. "All that confidence was just armor over a cunt that wanted to be owned."
The vision shifts. The Manon in the image arches her back, reaching back as if for a cock that isn't there. Her imperious gaze softens, mouth falling open in a silent moan. The real Manon watches herself—her proud self—perform the beginning of her surrender.
"Look how easily she yields," the prince breathes against her ear. "Even she knows what she was made for." He cups her mound, palm pressing, and the vision's hips roll in answer. "That confident cunt on the wyvern? She's dripping for it too. She just needed someone to show her."
Manon's knees buckle. He catches her, lifting her by the hips until her spine bows. The image shimmers, her leather-clad self now on her knees, tongue out, begging.
"You're not leaving her behind," he says softly, a gentleness threading through the domination. "You're bringing her here. She's the one who finally gets to be taken properly."
And Manon, watching her regal self kneel in the vision, realizes he's right. The Wing Leader was always starving for this. She just never knew what she hungered for. She looks at her master with eyes that have finally gone soft and clear.
The image ripples again before her, and Manon's breath catches. It's her—but not the version she remembers from battle reports and bloodied victories. This is her as the eye would frame her, caught mid-motion in a way that's pure invitation. She's astride Abraxos in her riding leathers, but the pose is wrong, deliberate, obscene: back arched so her tits strain the black leather, hips rolled forward so the seam of her suit digs into her cunt, thighs spread wide over the wyvern's neck. Her head is tipped back, white hair spilling like a banner, lips parted on a sigh that looks less like exertion and more like wanting.
The image shifts. Another angle: Manon bent over a saddle, ass pushed out, leather creaking tight over the curve of it. Her head turned, golden eyes half-lidded, meeting the viewer's gaze with a look that says come take me.
Another: Manon on her knees before Abraxos, lips brushing the wyvern's scales, back bowed so her ass rises in the air like an offering.
"That's you, isn't it?" The prince's voice comes from behind, low and pleased, as his hands settle on her hips. "Every pose a warrior queen strikes, and look—" He turns her to face the third image, where her leather-clad ass fills the frame. "—you're already arched for it. That cunt was begging to be filled even then. You just didn't know what the ache meant."
Manon can't look away. The woman in the images looks like a slut—she can see it now. The way her hips jut, the wet shine between her thighs in the second frame, the eager curve of her spine. She looks ready, wanton, made for a cock. And twisting through her horror is something else. Something that makes heat flood her face and her knees clench together.
She wanted to be seen like that. Her body is proving it—nipples hard against the leather that isn't there anymore, slickness trailing down her inner thigh as the images play.
"No," she breathes, weak, but her hips roll of their own accord into the prince's grip. "That wasn't. I wasn't—"
"You were," he murmurs, stroking down her flank, fingers finding the furrow of her ass. "You just needed a real cock to recognize it." He squeezes, spreading her, and the Manon in the image arches deeper in answer. "Look. She's already begging. And so are you, queenling."
Manon meets her own half-lidded eyes on the screen, and something in her mind cracks open. She sees it now—her own body, always posed like an offering, tight in the leather, pouting and ready. She'd been hungry her whole life and never knew for what.
Her body is fondled as she watches—tits cupped and squeezed, ass spread and open, thighs stroked, core gripped—and every touch makes the image-Manon arch and moan in echo. The two of them are the same. They always were.
The next image is innocent enough—Manon in her black leathers, standing astride Abraxos's neck, one hand raised in command. But the frame lingers too long. The shimmer ripples, and suddenly the winds are billowing her white hair in slow motion, her lips parting on a breath that looks less like a battle cry and more like an invitation. Her hips are cocked, and the leather across her thighs gleams tight, showing every curve.
"See her?" the prince murmurs from behind, stroking his palms up Manon's flanks. "Proper. Commanding. Untouchable."
The image shifts. Now Manon is bent over the saddle, reaching down to adjust a strap. Her spine dips deep, leather creaking over her ass, cheeks pressed together under the seam. Her head turns over her shoulder, golden eyes catching the viewer with a hint of irritation—or is it invitation?
"The way she looks back," he observes, his fingers tracing the seam of her current self's ass. "Checking that no one's watching. Or hoping someone is."
Another shift. Manon in the war tent, stripped to a linen undershirt, white hair loose. She's leaning over a map table, forearms braced, spine beautifully arched, the loose shirt clinging to the curves of her breasts. Her lips are pursed in concentration, but her hips are tilted, thighs shifting restlessly.
"Not even a full layer of armor," he whispers. "And still she poses. They always do, when they're bred for it."
The next image makes Manon's throat click. She's astride Abraxos again, but this time from behind—the camera catching her from the rear as she mounts the wyvern. Her ass fills the frame, leather straining over that perfect slope as she swings her leg up. It lingers on the moment of straddle, the way her thighs spread wide, the seam of her riding leathers pressing up into her cunt.
"Look how much of herself she shows without knowing," he says, breath hot on her ear. "Look at that ass settle onto the saddle like it knows what it's for."
Manon can't deny it. Watching herself, she sees it now—the excessive sway in her hips, the way she holds herself like prey that wanted to be hunted. Even as Wing Leader she'd moved like this, always arching, always presenting, never understanding that her own warrior's grace was a display of breeding readiness.
The images grow bolder. Manon standing at a war council in full command, but suddenly the vision shifts to what the men in the room must have seen: her hips just slightly thrust forward, the curve of her ass highlighted in the dim torchlight. Manon sparring in the training yard, sweat-darkened hair, chest heaving, her leathers soaked and clinging, her nipples visible through the fabric—something pointed and fierce catching the eyes of every male watching her fight. Manon at the victory feast, laughing with her mouth open, head thrown back, the posture one of female satisfaction, needing a cock to complete it.
"You were always a slut in waiting," the prince says, and the word doesn't sting the way it should. His hand slips between her thighs, finds her slick and aching, and the image on the screen—Manon, flushed and wine-drunk, lips parted—seems to moan with her. "You struck those poses for your soldiers. For your wyvern. For anyone with eyes. And now you know why."
Manon's mind agrees with a hidden, shamed understanding. Every battle stance, every proud turn of her head—she'd practiced them to be feared, but they'd been born from something else. A body that wanted to be seen, wanted to be taken, wanted to be filled by something bigger and stronger than any wyvern.
She looks at the next image—Manon's creamy thighs straddling Abraxos's neck, lean and firm, flexing with the movement. She thinks of how they'd look wrapped around the prince's hips. Of how she'd arch and roll and beg, her fierce body finally being used for what it was always meant for.
"I'm a naughty witch-slut," she whispers, the words tasting like surrender and relief. "A wicked thing who teased her whole life and needed to be punished for it."
The images flash in rapid succession—Manon ruthless, Manon conquering, Manon bloodied and victorious—each one turning more sensual, more posed, more brazen. And at the end, the final image holds: Manon standing proudly in her leathers, one hand on her hip, cocked sassily, chin lifted, golden eyes intense with challenge.
But now she understands the challenge for what it was. The Wing Leader wasn't defying her enemies. She was demanding a master strong enough to claim her.
The prince steps close, and Manon spreads her legs without being told, her body greeting the knowledge he's unlocked in her with slick heat and readiness. "Punish me," she moans. "I was a bad, bratty queen. Make me a proper witch-wife."
The next image splits in two, side by side. On the left, Manon at a victory feast, head tipped back mid-laugh, wine glinting in the goblet she raises high. On the right, Manon on the breeding cross, head tipped back at the exact same angle, mouth open on a moan as a he thrusts inside her. The posture is identical—the arch of her throat, the surrender of her jaw.
"Look at that," the prince breathes, stroking her slick folds. "Same neck. Same offering. The only difference is what you were swallowing."
Manon's mind staggers. She'd drunk wine like she owned the world, proud and careless. But the shape of it—head back, throat exposed, utterly open—was the same shape she makes now when she's filled. She'd been practicing surrender for years without knowing it. The wine was just the first thing that taught her to open her throat.
The screen shifts to a single image: Manon striding away from a battle victory, sultry and slow, hips swaying, ass jutting in those black leathers. She'd meant it as triumph—turning her back on the smoking wreck of the battlefield, the kingdom hers. But the camera catches what she never saw: that ass, perfect and round, bouncing gently with each step. Presenting itself. Begging to be gripped.
"There," the prince murmurs, thumb circling her clit. "That walk. You weren't leaving the battlefield, queenling. You were showing every survivor what you were carrying. A claim. A conquest waiting to happen."
Manon watches herself and sees it, finally, truly. The proud turn of her head, the confident carriage—it was all just presentation. She'd shown off her beauty because she needed to be seen, needed to be wanted, needed someone strong enough to take what she flaunted.
The Manon in the image looks over her shoulder, as if sensing the scrutiny, and her lips part in a mewling little gasp. Her hips push back, answering a cock that isn't there. Then her expression shifts to pouting frustration, brow furrowed, as if to say: I'm walking away with all this—why is no one claiming it?
"That's your problem," the prince chuckles. "That was always going to be your problem."
And Manon, watching her proud self pout over an unclaimed ass, cannot argue.
Her old voice rises unbidden inside her skull, sharp and bitter: I serve no one. I am the Wing Leader. I bow to no crown but my own—
But the prince chooses that moment to press inside her, just the head, just enough, and the thought shatters. What comes out of her mouth instead is wet and shameless: "Oh—yes—fill me, master—I'm your cunt, I'm your witch-cunt, I was always walking with my ass out for you—"
The voice in her head tries again, fainter: A Blackbeak does not—
"Breed me," she sobs, hips grinding back. "I was pouting for it, I was begging in every pose, I just didn't know the words—"
The old voice goes silent, strangled by her own moans. The images flicker and fade, and she realizes she's been left with only one truth: the confident queen and the bred whore share the same arched throat, the same jutting ass, the same hunger.
She was always going to end here. She just needed a master to show her where she belonged.
Claws dug into her ass cheeks, and she was lifted. The world tilted and turned, her bonds shifting to spin her around so she faced him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her ass cradled in his massive hands. He held her aloft like she weighed nothing, and her old self in those tight leathers was still burning in her mind, the way he had handled her, the way he had made her feel. She was crazed with it, wild with the need that had been building for what felt like hours.
"Please," she babbled, her hands scrabbling at his shoulders, her hips grinding against the thick, intimidating weight of his cock where it pressed against her soaked entrance. "Please, master. Please, I'm claimed. I'm yours. Fuck me. Fuck me, please, use my cunt, use my ass, whatever you want, I'm yours, I'm your witch-slut, I'm made to be filled, please, breed me, breed me full, I need it, I need you inside me, please, please, please."
He held her there, his cockhead pressed against her entrance, and she was babbling, begging, her facade shattered into a thousand pieces. "I'm yours," she sobbed, her hips twitching, trying to impale herself, but he held her firm, just barely not inside her. "I'm your witch-slut. Your perfect witch-cunt. Take me. Claim me. Breed me. I was made for this. I was made to be filled."
"Say it again," he said, his voice a velvet rumble, and his eyes were black and warm and bottomless.
"I'm yours," Manon whispered, and then she screamed as he dropped her onto his cock.
The thrust drove up into her so deep she saw stars, blinding white bursts behind her eyelids. He did not stop. He began to fuck her with ferocious, pounding force, his hands spread wide on her ass cheeks, holding her open, bouncing her on his shaft as he drove up into her again and again. The image of her old self in those tight leathers flashed across the wall, her confident hips, her curved thighs, and Manon moaned at the contrast, at the way she was being shown her true self while she was impaled and bred.
squelch
squelch
The room sang with it, wet and rhythm and relentless. Her coven was being taken the same way, the clones pounding into them with fast, feral thrusts, and Manon's body was arching, her tits bouncing, her hair a wild white cloud around her face.
The prince leaned in and suckled her nipple into his mouth, biting down until she howled, and his fingers found her cunt where his cock was buried inside her, pressing in alongside the thick shaft, stretching her impossibly. His other hand gripped her ass, spreading her cheek wide, and his thumb pressed against her pucker, not entering, just there, a promise of more to come.
"Breed me," Manon screamed, her eyes glazing over, her body nothing but pleasure and need. "Breed me full, master, fill me up, I'm made for it, I'm your breeding slave, your perfect witch broodmare, please, please, I need your seed, I need it, give it to me, breed me, breed me, breed me."
His thumb pressed into her ass, and Manon's scream turned into a long, helpless moan as he began to pound her with renewed vigor, faster, harder, his balls slapping against her soaked flesh. Every half second he drove into her,
squelch
her body bounced on his cock with each impact.
squelch
Her tongue lolled from the corner of her mouth, and she was gone, completely gone, a fucktoy and nothing more, a vessel being filled and claimed and reshaped into what he wanted.
He came inside her with a groan that rumbled through his chest, hot seed flooding her cunt in wave after wave, and Manon's body seized around him, her orgasm crashing through her as she clenched down on his cock, milking him, riding out the pleasure with her head thrown back and her eyes rolled white. She was his. She was completely, utterly, absolutely his.
And then he pulled out of her, and for one endless, aching moment she was empty, desperate, her cunt gaping and leaking his seed down her thighs. She reached for him weakly and he caught her, turning her around, bending her over a low altar of black stone. Her coven was arranged around her, their bodies still quivering with aftershocks, the clones pulling out of them one by one.
The prince's hands spread her ass cheeks, and he drove into her cunt again without warning, and Manon sobbed with relief. He was tireless. He did not stop. He fucked her over the altar, his cock sliding in and out of her wet, sloppy cunt, and when he came again he pulled out just long enough to flip her over and press his cock between her lips, filling her mouth with his seed and his taste. Manon swallowed greedily, her tongue working his shaft, and behind her the clones had mounted the witches once more, and the room filled again with the wet, rhythmic sounds of breeding.
They kept her on the altar for hours. He fucked her cunt, and then he turned her over and fucked her mouth. He laid her on her back and drove into her while she watched herself in the shimmering image on the wall, her old self in those tight leathers, her confident hips, and she mewled at the sight of what she was now. The image shifted, split, showing her old self and her new self side by side, and Manon saw it clearly, the truth of her nature.
She was bred continuously. When one clone finished with a witch, another took its place, and the witches' bodies were passed along like toys. Manon was the centerpiece, the prince's own, and he kept her at the heart of the orgy, her body used in every way. He bite her neck, he fondled her tits, he put her in a position where the other clones could watch his cock slide in and out of her, and he made her tell them what she was. "I'm his witch-slut," she moaned, her voice gone hoarse. "I'm his perfect breeding slave. I was made to be filled."
Finally, he pulled out of her for the last time and lifted her up, cradling her spent body against his chest. She was boneless, barely conscious, her body trembling with overstimulation. Her coven was arranged in a semicircle around them, still mounted, still moaning, still being taken in slow, grinding thrusts.
The prince pressed a leather-wrapped ball into Manon's mouth, fitting it between her teeth and strapping the harness behind her head. It was white, stark against the iron of her collar, and it held her jaw open, a constant reminder of her place. He set a crown on her head, delicate and black, forged of obsidian and Valg sorcery, and it sat there like a mockery of her former sovereignty.
He carried her to a raised bed in the center of the chamber, laid her down on her back, and spread her thighs. She was already dripping again, her body betraying her, and she watched him through glazed eyes as he positioned himself between her legs. He slid into her with a single smooth thrust, her cunt still sloppy with his seed and hers, and Manon's eyes rolled back in her head.
"Mmmph," she moaned around the gag, her hips rising to meet him, a wanton, sluttish welcome.
The image on the wall changed one final time, showing her old self in those black leathers, confident, untouchable, a queen of the wastes. And below it, reflected in the polished obsidian floor, was the truth: the witch-queen, gagged and crowned, spread beneath her Valg master, being bred continuously, forever.
squelch
squelch
She was his vessel. She was his breeding slave. She was his, and she knew it, and she moaned his praise around the gag as he claimed her again,
squelch,
the rhythm of the chamber settling into its eternal, wet, unending song. Her body arched, nipples pebbled against the cold air, while his massive cock filled her completely, each thrust deeper than the last,
squelch
She could feel him everywhere, his hands gripping her hips, his breath hot on her neck, his eyes locked onto hers as he whispered filthy promises about the heirs he would plant in her fertile womb.
squelch.
Her muscles clenched around him, responding to the exquisite pressure, the rough slide of skin against skin, the primal rhythm that left her trembling and begging for more,