King Krush sees the physical insufficiencies of my form and feels personally insulted by them.
I stay quiet. Making a sound now would be a very bad idea. He might kill me outright just for being pathetic and annoying.
“We can bathe her and make her presentable, my liege. She may yet satisfy you in some way. If not with her death, then perhaps with her flesh.”
Royal silver eyes rake over me. I feel how pathetically wanting I am compared to a beast like this. I am a fraction of his size. I have none of his natural beauty. My skin does not radiate with power and royal glory. I am pale, pasty, and clammy from fear.
The king lifts me up from the floor with his great clawed hands and tosses me over the arm of the throne. I feel the great rounded edge of the thing beneath my hips as he sets about slashing every remnant of clothing from me, tearing away all remaining modesty.
I feel his royal digit, claw retracted, swipe up the seam of my inner lips. He knows my biology. My lower belly clenches with recognition of his likely intent. I might be too pathetic to kill, but I am not too pathetic to fuck.
“Spread your legs," he growls. When I do not immediately comply, he does it for me, opening me up to his gaze. I do not know how many others can see what the king is uncovering because I am covering my eyes. The brutal korabi king has been denied his prey, but he will take something today. He will take me.
He slaps my upturned cheeks with enough force to make me yelp and squirm over his throne. I wonder if any human has ever found herself here before, or if I am the first to be defiled this way.
“She is pleasing from this vantage,” he says to nobody in particular.
His hand returns, this time between my thighs. His fingers rub along my outer lips, taking the slickness generated by his rough handling and spreading it over the petals of my sex. He touches me as if I am merely part of his domain, something he owns and has every right to fondle. I should be grateful that he has not decided to hurt me. I know today was his day for revenge.
A soft moan escapes my lips, surprising me. He has found my clit and is rubbing it between two hot, hard, royal fingers.
“She likes this,” he laughs. Again, I do not know who he is talking to. All I know is that I am shockingly taking pleasure from this sudden erotic absence of control. Eros and death are playing with one another in this room, the king’s murderous intention fading, to be replaced with a carnal one just as powerful.
Do I like this? Or is this my body’s protocol response for when I find myself handled by a masculine beast who has every intention of hurting me. Are the fluids slicking my thighs heralds of my pleasure, or merely my body’s attempt to placate the aggressor? Some might think the latter, but the way my belly is clenching makes me think it might be a case of the former.
I did not wake up this morning thinking I was going to be fucked by a king. I woke up thinking my escape and freedom was finally near. But that was foolish. Megaris is not made for the likes of me. It was built to serve the korabi, and so, it seems, was I.
He plunges his fingers inside me, twists them, and pulls them free.
“Dripping," he growls. “The response of a human bred for captivity.”
My body is reacting of its own accord. This is all a matter of simple biology. I know it. He knows it. He is going to take advantage of it.
His palm comes down across my exposed ass in a hard slap. I am splayed in anticipation of a ravaging which feels inevitable. I can sense the king’s heat. His powerful presence, and his wrathful majesty behind me. I don’t need to see him to imagine very clearly what he must look like looming over me with his powerful thighs, broad shoulders, and massive erection outlined and barely contained by fine silk.
“You’re all that’s left, is that it?” He murmurs the question about me, but not directly to me. He is musing as to what to do with me, even as his finger dips back inside me and swirls with languid consideration. He is using my pussy like a dipping bowl, bringing his finger to his lips occasionally to taste my juices. He must find them pleasing enough to keep repeating the action as I remain there, a personal prisoner of the king.
“You’re getting wetter.”
This time he is speaking to me. He is making sure I know that he notices how I am responding to him. It would be one thing if he were doing this to me against my will, but my will has been twisted to his. I am hanging on his every touch, wanting more. There is no point in modesty anymore. This close to death my instinct is to welcome any little bit of pleasure I can. It doesn't matter where it comes from, or why it is being given.