The Queen stared.

Her golden eyes were wet. Her silver hair was loose. Her face was flushed—red, hot, the porcelain mask shattered. Her lips were trembling. Her chin was wet with tears. Her body was shaking—trembling from the orgasm, from the pheromones, from the sight of the cock, from the words that were sliding into her mind like oil into skin.

"Please—" she whispered. "Wait—"

He did not wait.

He placed his cock against her pussy.

From behind. The head pressed against the opening. The lips parted—willingly, eagerly, the body overriding the mind. The head pushed. The opening stretched. The oil helped. The wetness helped. The pheromones helped.

He plunged.

PAH—

"AAAANGHH—!!"

The Queen screamed. The sound filled the room. It bounced off the tapestries. Off the walls. Off the ceiling. It was not the scream of a queen. It was the scream of a woman whose body has been breached. Whose cunt has been stretched. Whose walls have been pushed apart by something that is too big, too thick, too deep.

His cock was inside her.

Twelve inches. All of it. The head pressed against her cervix. The shaft stretched her walls. The vaginal canal was bulging—the shape of his cock visible through her lower belly, a thick ridge from her opening to her navel. Her pussy lips were stretched thin around the shaft—pulled tight, the pink gone white from the tension. Her clit was crushed against the shaft—pressed, ground, stimulated with every movement.

"Ah—! Ah—! No—! Please—! It is— it is too— too big—! You are— you are tearing— ahhh—!!"

He leaned forward.

His chest pressed against her back. His hands found her breasts. He cupped them. He squeezed. His fingers found the nipples—thick, stiff, aching. He pinched. He pulled. He twisted.

Milk.

Milk leaked from her nipples.

It was sudden. Unexpected. The Queen gasped. Her eyes went wide. The white fluid beaded at the tip of each nipple—thick, creamy, warm. It ran down the curve of her breast. It dripped onto the sheets.

"Ahh—! No—! The milk—! Why is the— what is— ahhh—!!"

She fell forward.

Her face hit the pillow. Her ass rose higher. Her back arched. The position changed—from prone to partial knees, her hips raised, her ass in the air, her breasts hanging beneath her, swinging with each thrust.

PAH PAH PAH—

"AAAANGHH—!! HNNGHH—!! KYAAANGH—!!"

Raven fucked her.

His hips moved. His cock slid in and out. The oil made the sounds wet—obscene, slick, schlocking sounds that filled the room. SCHLUK SCHLUK SCHLUK— The bed creaked. The headboard hit the wall. The pillows shifted. The sheets bunched.

He twisted her.

His hands gripped her hips. He turned her—onto her side. Her leg came up. He held it. He fucked her from the side—spoon position, his cock entering from a different angle, the head pressing against a different wall, the shaft grinding against a different spot.

PAH PAH PAH—

"AHH—! Please—! Slow—! Slow down—! I cannot— my body— it is— it is dying—! Ahhh—!!"

Her body was dying.

Not literally. But the sensation was so intense—so overwhelming, so all-consuming—that it felt like death. Like the body was being taken apart, piece by piece, nerve by nerve, and reassembled into something that was not a queen but a woman. A woman whose pussy was full. Whose clit was being crushed. Whose nipples were leaking milk. Whose body was on fire.

She looked to the side.

Through the tears. Through the golden eyes that were blurred and wet and rolling. She looked for Old Tomas. For the old man. For the man who had massaged her for twenty years, who had been there, who had been safe.

She saw him.

He was on the floor.

The maid was beneath him. On the massage table—no, on the floor. The rug. Her gray uniform was open. Her breasts were out. Small. Firm. Her legs were spread. Old Tomas was between them. His rope was gone. His cock—six inches, thick, old, heavy—was inside her. He was fucking her. His face was red. Sweating. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were open but unfocused—rolled back, the whites showing. He was snorting. Like a pig. The sounds coming from him were not human—they were animal. Grunting. Thrusting. Sweating.

SLAP SLAP SLAP—

His old hips slammed against the maid’s young thighs. His cock slid in and out of her pussy. His balls swung—low, heavy, slapping against her ass. The maid was moaning—her own eyes rolled, her own mouth open, her own body responding to the pheromones and the cock and the sheer, overwhelming depravity of the situation.

The Queen watched.

She watched her masseur—the man who had touched her body for twenty years with professional, clinical, respectful hands—fucking a maid on her bedroom floor. Snorting. Grunting. Sweating. His old face twisted with pleasure. His old cock plunging into a young pussy. His old balls emptying into a woman who was not his queen.

She realized.

Something is wrong.

This is not normal. This is not massage. This is not the way bodies respond to touch. There is something in the air. Something in the room. Something that is making everyone—her, the maid, the old man—lose control. Something that is making bodies respond with a hunger that is not natural.

But she could not stop.

Her own body was responding. Her pussy was clenching. Her nipples were leaking. Her clit was throbbing. The cock inside her was hitting places that she did not know existed—places that had never been touched, never been reached, never been awakened.

"Ahh—! Ahhh—! Please—! I cannot—! My body—! It is— ahhh—!!"

She squirted.

The fluid erupted from her pussy. It sprayed around his cock—clear, thin, shooting outward, soaking the sheets, soaking his thighs, soaking the mattress. Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth opened. Her tongue came out. Her body convulsed—violent, rhythmic, the spasms of a woman whose orgasm is so intense that it has crossed the line from pleasure into pain and back again.

"AAAANGHH—!! HNNNGHH—!! KYAAANGH—!!"

Raven looked at her.

His black eyes—violet beneath the surface, hidden but present—looked at her face. At the tears. At the rolled eyes. At the tongue. At the expression of a queen who had been reduced to a woman who had been reduced to a body that was responding to touch with everything it had.

He kissed her.

His lips found hers. His tongue pushed in. He swallowed her moans. He swallowed her screams. He swallowed her tears. He kissed her deeply—warmly, thoroughly, the kiss of a man who has just taken a queen and who is savoring the taking.

He pulled back.

"Congratulations," he said. His voice was calm. Warm. The voice of a man who has just finished a task and is satisfied with the result. "Now I am going to massage your back too."

The Queen’s eyes widened.

"What—?" she gasped. "No—! Stop—! You cannot— I cannot take—"

Her hand came up. She tried to push him. Her fingers found his chest. She pushed. Her strength was nothing. His body did not move. Her push was the push of a woman whose arms are trembling, whose body is spent, whose pussy is still spasming, whose mind is still reeling.

He twisted her.

He turned her over. Onto her stomach. Her face went into the pillow. Her thick ass rose—the cheeks full, round, heavy. Her anal was exposed—brown, dark, the ring still clenched but relaxing, the muscle twitching. Her pussy was visible beneath—swollen, red, dripping with her own juice and his pre-cum. The hair was matted. The lips were gaping.

Her anal was wide. Big. Brown. The ring was darker than the surrounding skin. It was puckered. It was twitching—clenching and relaxing, clenching and relaxing, the muscle responding to the pheromones, to the arousal, to the stimulation of the last hour.

He placed his cock against it.

"No—!" the Queen cried. Her voice was muffled by the pillow. "No—! Not there—! I have never—! You cannot—! It will not—! It is too—!"

He pushed.

The head pressed against the ring. The muscle resisted. Then yielded. The head popped in. The ring clamped around the shaft—tight, hot, gripping. He pushed further. Inch by inch. The shaft disappeared. The walls of her anal parted. The muscle stretched. The oil helped. The pre-cum helped.

"AAAAAANGHH—!!!"

The Queen’s scream was muffled by the pillow. Her face was buried. Her mouth was open. Her tongue was out. Her eyes were rolled back. Her expression—the expression of a woman whose anal has just been breached for the first time, whose body is being stretched in a way it has never been stretched—was the expression of someone who has crossed a threshold that cannot be uncrossed.

Her thick ass was getting fucked.

His cock moved in and out. Twelve inches. The shaft was dark against her pale cheeks. The oil glistened. The sound was wet—obscene, schlocking, the sound of a cock in an anal that is too tight and too dry and too hot. SCHLUK SCHLUK SCHLUK—

PAH PAH PAH PAH—

"AAAANGHH—!! HNNNGHH—!! KYAAANGH—!! HAAAAANGHH—!!"