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They were sitting in the dining room with the great windows to the rose garden in full bloom, when the messenger came, bearing the terrible news they’d all been dreading to hear.
King Sirgud the Fair was seated at the end of the long table, dressed in the modest grays and black that he preferred. His sister’s son, a promising young man of great intelligence, was seated to his right and his latest playmate in intellectual games, a handsome poet and philosopher, to his left. They were eating their meager meal of pastry and pickles in unsettled silence.
A knock then, the door swung open at the king’s quick behest and stumbling in came the messenger, barely older than the king’s nephew. One of the boy’s striped hosen had come undone from its belt and rolled down his thigh, baring the skin of his leg, unsightly, improper — understandable given the news already so clearly written across his face.
“Sit down, boy,” the king said warmly, pointing at one of the many empty chairs at the table with a graceful gesture of the hand.
The messenger stood unmoving. “Your majesty, the sixth has been wiped out, the fifth is scattered, the horde is at the gates,” he said, his words punctuated by gulps for air.
The king’s nephew dropped his fork and it fell on his porcelain plate, the clatter cutting through the heavy silence filling the room like smoke from a clogged chimney. Somewhere behind the messenger in the hallway an eavesdropping maid cried out and quickly hastened past the open door, her heavy skirts shuffling over the carpet.
The king carefully put down his cutlery, placing them at a perfect right angle to the edge of the table. He pulled up his shoulders, his ever elegant posture growing stiffer, took a deep breath and said, “Let them in.”
The philosopher turned to him, eyes wide open in disbelief. “Your majesty,” he cried, “what madness is this? The city walls have never fallen, the swords are sharpened, the oil is bubbling in the cauldrons. We must hold on to the last man or else—”
“How many of my people must still die to delay the inevitable?” The king had turned to him, a faint and tragic smile on his lips. “Did you not tell me the parable of the willow tree, my friend? He who bends with the wind, may rise again. The stubborn and steadfast break in the storm. We’ll just have to bend a bit.”
The philosopher lowered his eyes, shamed by his own cowardice.
“This weather too will pass,” the king said as he rose, passing his hand over the buttons of his long tunic to straighten it out . “Now if you’ll excuse me. I’ll have to welcome our guests. We’re not animals, are we?”
So the king welcomed his conqueror in the great hall, welcoming them like he’d welcome guests of honor, travelers from faraway lands seeking shelter or friends from nearby countries yet undefeated. His guard stood ready, one soldier positioned at each column that held the high ceiling of the room, swords sheathed but hands resting on the pommel. And he was seated high upon the throne of burgundy and gold, which was a great shiny thing older than he or his rules, older than his forefathers who swore themselves to reason and progress, a relict from times when they still fought wars over personal slights, and great riches in gold. Times had caught up with the king.
The throne stood tall above the solemn and otherwise barren room and today, despite his best efforts to project dignity, the king looked small in it, like a mere puppet in his kingdom’s oiled machinery.
His guests announced their approach with songs, boisterous calls and loud laughter that came bellowing ahead of them like the howls and barking of a pack of wild dogs prowling the streets. The great doors swung open and in they came, the warlord and her entourage, clad in leather and furs, still painted with the blood of his subjects, and looking around like children at the fair, curious to see what they would get to play with next.
He’d heard about her. Tales, whispers, hearsay, slander, spine-chilling stories for children that he could not help but listen to with the same quivering awe as their intended audience. And there she was in flesh and blood: Attla, the warrior queen, conqueror of the known world, the mad horse, the merciless, the ceaseless hunger.
She did not stand out from her warriors neither by height nor broadness, but by pure fierce spirit. Her smile was wide and toothy, her eyes full of fire, her gait a smooth and confident swagger. And at last the helmet on her head, radiant gold and in the shape of a horse’s head, gave it away. When she raised her palm, her following fell silent instantly. It was suddenly all quiet again in the great room, each man’s breath was audible as she crossed the great hall on her own leaving her colorful ragtag of warriors behind at the doors. She came to halt at the foot of his throne below him, yet the look in her eyes made him feel as though he was being looked down upon.
Standing thus, no word yet exchanged, a gloomy silence sinking in, she took off her helmet. Her hair fell free, long dark locks, thick like a horse’s mane with the same oily shine, and loose and free except for the occasional braid and trinket woven in.
Something clogged his throat, stopping any carefully poised greeting from leaving his mouth and so it was she, who made the first move. “A pleasure to meet you, King Sirgud” she said. To his surprise she spoke his language and her choice of words was impeccable, but her accent was heavy, giving the sentence something of the rough edge of her own language. She smiled the kind of smile one would grant an ignorant child. “Why don’t you come down and greet your conqueror?”
Sirgud swallowed and rose. Each step down from his throne felt like sinking into soil, like the closing of a casket. When he stood before her, an arm’s length away, he realized that she was the same height as he, but only on account also of his heeled shoes. Her people were big and strong, fed on horse milk and meat, so he had heard. Although hardly taller than him, she seemed to be scaled differently. Broad hands and broad limbs, broad shoulders, broad hips. Everything drew the eyes, was vibrant, gaudy and virile.
Modesty was not known to these people, nor pudency. While the heavy fur cloak, held together by golden brooches, hid some of her shape, the low cut of the neck of her shirt seemed only designed to draw attention to her large breasts and the many pendants, carved horseheads, fists and phalluses, which hung low between them. And then there was the codpiece. That metal cone strapped to her crotch, arguably armor, but mostly it seemed to serve as an abstract imitation of an erect member. He had imagined it more abstract and not quite so big. It took great willpower not to stare at the obscene thing.
“Queen Attla, the pleasure is mine,” said the king in her own language, his eyes fixed on a spot just below her dark eyes. “Welcome to Elasshem.” He lowered his head in the same fashion as his subjects lowered their heads to him. It felt odd and wrong and dangerous as though offering the back of his neck to some hungry lioness.
When he looked up at her again, she stood unmoving, legs wide apart and her hands on her hips, only something was different in her eyes, something he did not know nor wanted to ever come to understand.
“Let’s get to the fucking point, I hate formalities,” she said brusquely. “So you surrender, swear allegiance to me and all that it entails and you’ll get to keep sitting up in that throne and play pretend as long as you don’t get in the way. And I won’t burn your little theater house to the ground.”
“Yes, that was the idea,” he concurred with a stiff smile, which would not reach his eyes. “I shall send for the contract makers and then we can agree on the—”
“I don’t care for your paper. It’s torn up quicker than it’s written. Words mean nothing to me. The tongue lies, but the body does not.” She looked him up and down and a lopsided smile appeared on her face, an amused twinkle in her eyes, oh so utterly condescending.
“Kneel,” she said.
Blood rose to his cheeks. He’d have liked to slap her across the face then. But to what end? The death of him and his people. It was merely a gesture. How many men had kneeled before him and risen again with her heads held high and their spirits unscathed? He swallowed his pride and swallowed hard, there was a lot of it to force down, a heavy lump of pride was throttling his words. His body seemed to fight his command, he observed not unaware of the irony. He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and at last fell to his knees before Queen Attla.
It was unbearable. He could not bring himself to look at her and lose the last shreds of his dignity. Staring at the tips of her leather boots, he heard her draw in breath, deep and heavy like a dog taking scent. It made his heart sink to his stomach.
“Look at me,” she said and he obeyed.
He did not like what he saw. The thing that was different in her eyes, the thing he did not know nor ever wanted to know, was all of a sudden crystal clear to him. It was lust; raw and animal.
“You’re the virgin king, aren’t you?” she said, each word lecherous, each word seeking to strip him bare. He simply could not respond.
A movement in the blink of an eye, and suddenly she was right in front of him, her codpiece almost shoved in his face, and her hand grabbing a fistful of the hair at the back of his head. In the same instance his guards had drawn their swords and each already hastened a long step toward him.
“Halt,” King Sigurd said with a thin voice and raised his palm, and each knight of his guard froze in place. “Stand down,” he added, gaining control of his voice again and they sheathed their swords and returned to their posts. A dozen watchful eyes were still on him.
Meanwhile Queen Attla had not moved an inch, unphased by the guards, and only followed the spectacle with growing amusement.
“Good boy,” she said and he winced under it like a slap to the face, humiliation and something else, something he had no words for, twisting and turning in his loins.
Her hand was still tangled in his long hair, now she yanked him up to his feet and pulled him to her, close enough to feel the heat of her body, enough to bury her nose in the crook of his neck, sniffing. She smelled like blood, hay and sweat. Her breath was unbearably hot on the thin line of bared skin between his collar and jawline, wandering over his neck to his earlobe. He shuddered.
“Never bore a child?” she whispered in his ear.
“I have my duties,” he replied.
“Never been — ah, what’s the word — fucked ?”
“That is none of your business,” he spat out, trying to pull away from her now to no avail, only hurting himself.
“Now it is.” She grabbed him by the crotch, covering the small bulge of his genitals with her hand, and squeezed. He gasped at the sudden jolt of pain-tinged pleasure, cheeks red and hot with shame. Her voice was low, tickling his ear, driving goosebumps down his neck, when she went on, “I’m going to have a good time now with my comrades. I will go to your garden and I will pluck your roses. I will go to your dining hall and I will drink and spill your best wines. I will enjoy your hospitality and later then when I have had my fill of your precious things, I will come to your bedroom and I will fuck you. And if I find your door locked, I will kick it in and I will call my guards and they will fuck you and there are two hundred of them. Understood?”
He understood. He understood the full extent of the sacrifice he’d have to make. He would bend, his people would live.
Queen Attla opens the brooches that hold her cloak loosely together. The long fur slides off her shoulders and falls to the ground around her boots. Her shirt is discarded somewhere downstairs in the dining hall, her chest is already nude under it except for the golden necklaces holding heavy pendants. High-waisted leather trousers cling to her wide hips. The huge codpiece fixed to the front stands erect in mockery of the prissy king on his bed. She is in a good mood, cheeks flushed red with wine and laughter.
“It’s a small price to pay for the safety of your people, don’t you think?” she says and cracks a smile that hits him like a bolt.
The virgin king watches her undress, lying on his back where she’s thrown him, right in the middle of his lavish bed. He is not a small man nor slight and with the right schooling he would make a capable warrior, but the bed is so large and his nerves so raw that it makes him look fragile. Nude he’s beautiful like a stillborn foal. His limbs seem just a little too long and he lies awkward in his nudity, legs fetally folded, arms crossed like a slave bound to the pillar, as exposed as only a man can be who always wears his collar buttoned up to his chin. With his clothing torn off, civilization shred to bits, he is a sorry little man. But pretty, yes. Pretty, firm, shapely.
Maybe these solemn people dance on occasion, so she has heard. That might explain the enticing curve of his calves, the solid weight of his thighs. She must ask him about it one of these days, teach him to dance their dances; they’d make a lovely pair. But not now.
Now he’s trying to hide the flush of his cheeks and of his throat. A scarlet fever blooms between the swirls of hair that darken his sternum and chest like childish scribbles drawn with charcoal, hair that sprouts all around his nipples, one line scratched down over his soft stomach, down to his limp cock. Cute .
Trying to hide his face, he inadvertently exposes his ass to her, legs opening up as lily petals under the full moon. Pink flashes between his white legs, between the dark, glistening hair. For all of his shyness he’s not entirely unaroused although fear and lust come with similar symptoms, Attla knows this all too well. Wetness is already coating the downy inside of his thighs, wetness is gleaming at the juncture of them, slick oozing out of his — Goddess, his perfect little hole.
Hard to believe that no one has ever had him. Not a lecherous old teacher taking advantage of the young prince in his boyhood. Not a good friend in his adolescence exchanging kisses in the stables, lying in the prickly hay, curious fingers probing too deep. Not a trusted servant placed in chains to be ridden at his king’s leisure. What a waste, what a terrible waste! And for what? For what the perfume, the silly haircuts, the rigorous shaving, the lace, the silk, the flowers, the porcelain, the laws, the manners? For what all this when under it he’s still only flesh and blood, just as any other man she’s ever known and any other man she’s ever had?
Sniffing, drawing in his delicious scent, she comes crawling over the bed from the far end, low like the cougar stalking in the grass, digging her fingers into the good cushion like sharp claws. The cool silk tickles the hard nipples of her bare breasts that sway between her bulging biceps. Already her loins are growing heavy, she’s heady with the smell of him, the wet shine, the rose color of his hole and taint and balls, but mostly she wants a taste of the sickly sweet smell of his skin and slick. It’s growing stronger, overpowering the smell of the clean sheets and the perfume on his neck, of his soaped hands and the sad flowers lying trampled on the floor in a bed of shards (a gesture, a message that he quickly understood).
He startles when she first pushes her face between his legs, into the very source of that delicious smell, forcing her open lips to his ass, seeking his wet hole. He tries to close his legs and only clamps down on her broad shoulders, pulling her in closer that way, her nose pressed to his taint, his balls flattening against her forehead. She holds on hard, hands like vices around his thighs, nails sinking in, while she laps at him like a dog, drawing her tongue again and again over the sensitive skin of his ass. He tastes salty, meaty, like game and fertile soil, like the bitter forest honey of her home. His hole twitches at each lap, more slick running from it onto her tongue. It’s unbearable, she can’t even relish this moment, so quickly she already wants nothing more than to bury herself in him.
When she comes up again, he still tries to resist her, kicking and tossing weakly. A hand to his throat, a single hard squeeze, stills him. Smart eyes look up at her with growing terror.
“Shh…” she says and grabs him by the buttock, placing her free hand on the round curve of his ass. She hoists his ass up, fingers sliding into the moist crevice between the buttocks. He twitches — his long lashes, his thin lips all the way down to where she’s running her fingers over the hot, puckered skin.
His shoulders are wide and bony, he is lean, the rib cage faintly showing under his skin, but down between his legs he’s so very, very soft. She sinks a finger into him, and his eyes go wide, at the new sensation and the ease of the penetration. With one stroke she’s in him. Her hands are big, her fingers thick and long. Her palm alone is big enough to cup around the smooth round outline of his balls, while his little cock lies limp in the tuft of hair on his stomach.
“Goddess,” she says, half groaning and he looks up at her like she’s going to swallow him whole, eyes big and wet in his hard face, his restrained mannerisms slowly melting away into undignified quivering.
“Look at you,” she says, leaning over him, and he all but disappears under her, pressed into his mattress, pinned down by the ass, her long dark hair coming down around his face and pooling on his chest.
“All wet for me,” she says. A pull. “So fucking wet.” A thrust.
With each thrust the slick squelches out of him and his cock begins to stir. The shiny round pearl of his glans under the foreskin is like a gem in its socket, straining to be released as it swells.
He grits his teeth behind tight lips, tries to control his face, to restore his dignity. “It’s merely an automatic physical resp—” he says and then he bites his lips and hides his face in his hands, as she curls her finger and hits the spot in him, pinching that bundle of nerves between thumb and index finger, inside and out, stroking and squeezing and fucking it.
His first moan is a stutter like he’s not yet used to the sound coming from his throat. The precious virgin king, untouched, never before pleasured. Everything must feel so good, like the first taste of sweet wine at the great feast when girls become women and boys become men.
With another moan his legs fall open, inviting her deeper. She grabs his cock, her hand covers it whole. She tugs at it and pulls the foreskin back from the head. Finally he groans deeply, something undone in his throat. He’s just so cute.
“Fine king, you are,” she scoffs and he might hear the smile in her voice if he wasn’t so headless already, “look at your little prick, never been so hard before, has it? Wouldn’t be without something solid up your ass.” She tugs at it again, not too gently, coaxing clear pearls from the tip. “And your cunt all wet for me, begging for my cock like a common knot slut.”
“I’m not—”
He gasps in surprise, when she abruptly pulls out of him again, is staring at the ceiling, open mouth breathing like he’s choking on something. Quickly, she grabs him by the shoulder, fingers slick, leaving a wet line across his back as she flips him over on his stomach so that he lies sprawled out before her, legs spread wide. Between them she sits on her heels and enjoys the view.
The swollen rim of his asshole is quite visible now, an eyesore on his pristine body, like the first signs of syphilis blooming on the young harlot’s rump. The sight makes her groan in a low rumble. Her cock strains against the front of her trousers, already fully filling the codpiece.
“Please don’t,” he says weakly into the cushions.
While she gets herself out of her trousers, carefully undoing the lacing that keeps the codpiece attached, he tries to rise again, slowly, not quite in control of his limbs yet. As he comes up he’s quietly repeating his steady mantra of please, please, please in one language and then another, a lovely little melody.
He’s just made it back onto his hand and knees, when she’s on him again, grabbing him by the narrow hips to pull him back into her. Her cock is fat and hard, red and as enormous as every other part of her, its head glistening in the candlelight like the slick of his innards. She slides it up between his thighs while he tries so hard to keep them pressed together in a pathetic attempt to keep her out. She slides the length over his balls, over his moist perineum, slides until the head catches on the indent of his hole — and he yelps and jumps.
Now he’s scared, the poor man. Desperately trying to get away from her in a headless fright, he rears further so they both end upright on their knees. His hard back is pressed to her soft front, her breasts squished against him, her round stomach rests in the hollow of his arching back. Her cock fits neatly, perfectly between his buttocks. She starts rubbing between them, rubbing and rubbing gasps out of him each time the hard length slides over his tender skin. Another slow thrust and she’s not even trying but the head of her cock slides all by itself past the rim of his hole. She stops short of pushing in, just enjoying the feeling of the puckered skin quivering and clenching around the head of her cock.
“Oh, God,” he says breathlessly. Blindly flailing, he tries to squeeze his hands between their hips, putting his palms on the firm front of her muscular thighs, trying to push her away. She’s got an iron hold on his flanks, pressing purple blossoms into the skin where the flesh lies thin over his bones.
He slumps forward and stops his flailing. “You’re too big,” he says, still now, almost factually. He looks up over his shoulder, at her face, just a cruelly grinning visage, squinting fox eyes, wolf fangs, night terror. The sight makes him swallow and abandon all hope of appealing to her reason. “I just… can’t.”
She almost pitties him in his ignorance. A wilted flower, that’s what he is. “Yes, you can, my boy,” she purrs in his ear, hair falling like dark currents of tar over his shoulder as she leans down to pour a hot gust of breath on his cheek, drowning him in her musk and the stink of meat and beer.
“You’ll hurt me,” he says meekly, more observation than plea. “You’ll break me.” His hands fall to his sides, surrendering to his fate.
Poor thing, she thinks briefly, so precious, so innocent. All pent-up and overripe, the fruit ready for the picking; he will bruise easily.
“I won’t hurt you. You’re made to be fucked,” she coos and draws her tongue over his earlobe, teeth scraping over the skin of it. In an instant he becomes slack in her arms, muscles failing, collapsing in a shudder, moaning at the mere touch of her teeth.
“See. Be good for me and I’ll breed you real good,” she says, breathing down his neck. She’s stroking him over his heaving belly, nails leaving a network of red lines, teasing at his bellybutton, combing through the tuft of dark hair. She grabs his cock and balls, which fit neatly in her fist, and roughly squeezes them together to give them a good pull that makes him wince. Precum wets her hands. “Be good and I’ll make you come on my knot.”
She can hear the tears in his voice when he moans, can feel him quivering around the head of her cock, quivering and weeping slick down her shaft, while she begins working her hips with shallow thrusts, barely fucking into him — No need to break her toy just yet. Slow and steady, almost gently, she’s prodding into his entrance over and over again, wet cock head fitting neatly into the widening hollow of velvet skin, like a spear to its wound, pressing and pressing in.
He wants her, craves that cock like the mare craves the stallion and the heifer craves the bull and the ewe craves the ram and all things crave their purpose. That’s why he weeps, why he’s holding so still, because any movement might make him lose what little composure he had left and push back into her like a slut and a beast.
The thought makes her snarl and she’s grunting quietly in the back of her throat, while pressing, pressing and pressing in. Her arms come around, squeeze under his damp armpits, holding him hoisted upright but holding too hard. Her muscles flex and burn, anything is good for a distraction to keep herself from ramming into him. He already feels so fucking good around her cock, so wet and so hot and so tight. Teeth clenched, she works her hips, pressing, pressing and pressing in. And then, oh, he opens up, letting her slide deeper with each thrust, muscle fluttering, opening and opening until finally his hole suckles her in and then she’s sliding further with each thrust, breaching him, filling him, stretching his virgin guts, rearranging his organs to make herself fit, each little movement of her hips driving the solid length of her cock deeper and deeper into his pristine body.
Before she’s even fully seated within him, he already comes with a soft wail of a moan, all but quiet, his thighs trembling against hers, one pathetic spurt of spunk drooling from his half-hard prick. In that moment he grabs her hands, where they rest on his shoulders, trying to pry them away, fails at that and then he just holds on. He holds the back of her hands so sweetly, fingers entwined, while his legs turn jelly and the only thing keeping him from collapsing are her strong arms around his chest and her cock in his ass like the wooden stake driven into the apostate. The last inch he slides down on his own. He gasps for air like it’s choking him, throws back his head and his eyes roll into the back of his head, all white like the clairvoyant, trembling head to toe in the sweetest ecstasy.
The dark unruly bush of her pubes is flush with the skin of his buttocks. His slick runs down between them, thick and sticky, stinking of sex. He hangs listless in her arms, head lolling, eyes half closed, dazed and unfocused. His panting mouth gapes open, spit shining on his bottom lip. He’s merely a doll for her to fuck into.
And fuck into him she does. Still skin-flush and seated, she pushes him down onto the bed, bends his obedient body so his fine ass is up in the air and his head rests on the many cushions, strong legs elegantly folded under him. With the change of angle she sinks deeper on her own, presses into him differently and he whines softly in response. His spine arches under the press of her hand and deeper yet she fills him. When she pulls out again, slowly, almost all the way, the sheath of his guts tries to hold onto her cock, a pink and purple ring bulging out of his hole.
“You look so good around my cock,” she says, curiously probing with her thumb at the swollen rim of his hole and the visible flesh of the inside.
He’s not gone entirely, he’s still got enough senses to be embarrassed. He turns his head away, pressing his face into the sheets so she can’t see him. So she can’t hear him groan when she slams back into him all the way with one smooth stroke, her whole weight behind it, fucking him hard for so many excruciating minutes. Her thighs slap against his thighs, leather on skin, his body is jostled, his limp genitals swing, his hole squelches obscenely. She hammers into him until she’s sweating herself, panting with him. Until she feels the tensing of her thighs, the coiling at base of her cock, the swell of her knot, and her long thrusts turn into frantic shallow rutting. That brings him back from his stupor.
“No, no, no, please, not like this,” he begs, turning to look up at her with tears in his eyes and snot running from his nose, all mixing with the drool on his lips. His face is wet, red and ugly. “It hurts, it’s too much, I can’t, not like this, please.” He flails and struggles impotently under her but each movement hurts him, him trying to pull free, pulling at the knot, his asshole only stretching too wide too quickly. Then it grinds the knot into his prostate and he shudders and groans.
“It only hurts when you fight it,” she says, gently patting him on the rump, and he sighs, because he knows and because the press of the knot is just right, making his cock twitch and trickle thin come between his legs again.
It’s perfect, the orgasmic clenching of his loins, the pressure on her fat knot, the sight of that arrogant king coming undone, coming on her again, oh-so-ashamed but helpless like a little boy pissing himself. She’s wedged in him, holding still as her orgasm rolls over her, slowly, hot wave after wave, pumping her seed down his guts for what feels like an eternity, like she’s filling him with so much he’s going to puke it out the other end again. She laughs at the thought and he winces and buries his face in his hands again, mumbling in his own language, too much, too much too hot, hot, hot...
When spent and exhausted, she falls over to her side, the bed’s frame shaking under her weight, she takes him down with her; they are still attached at the hips. He tries to pull away once, yelps at the pain, it’s impossible to pull the knot out just yet. She just chuckles and kisses him on the neck. Resigned to his fate he curls up, all fetal again, just as wet head to toe as the foal.
She pets his hair for a while, putting it back in order, stroking him with her big palm like she would pet a cat in her lap. He’ll make a good subject, she thinks. He can keep his kingdom, given its full submission to her will and whimsy. She’ll shower it with riches, new trade routes, better barracks and gymnasiums; make it prosper greater than ever and strong. Virgin king, they shall still call him, she’ll make sure of that. But she’ll laugh about it at the feasts with her generals — virgin king, cock sheath, knot slut, my little bitch, she will say fondly and laugh about it when she has him on his knees again, begging for her knot.