Her moans filled the room. They filled the palace. They filled the corridors. They bounced off the tapestries and the walls and the ceiling. They were not the moans of a queen. They were the moans of a woman. A woman whose ass was being fucked. A woman whose body was being used. A woman whose mind had been overwhelmed by pheromones and pleasure and pain and the sheer, overwhelming, undeniable sensation of twelve inches of cock inside her anal.

PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH—

"AAAAANGHH—!! HNNNGHH—!! KYAAANGH—!! HAAAAANGHH—!! NNGHH—!! HIEKKK—!!"

Her thick big ass clapped against his hips. The sound was loud—flesh on flesh, the cheeks rippling with each impact, the flesh jiggling, the muscle beneath yielding. Her anal was stretched around his shaft—the ring pulled taut, the skin white from the tension, the vein on his cock visible through the stretched muscle.

He fucked her.

For an hour.

The room was filled with moans. With screams. With cries. With the wet, obscene sounds of a cock in an anal. With the creaking of a king-size bed. With the grunting of an old man fucking a maid on the floor. With the snorting of a pig and the sobbing of a queen and the gasping of a woman whose body was on fire.

The Queen’s face was in the pillow. Her tongue was out. Her eyes were rolled back. Her ass was in the air. Her anal was stretched around twelve inches of cock. Her pussy was dripping. Her nipples were leaking milk. Her body was convulsing with orgasms that would not stop—wave after wave after wave, each one building on the last, each one more intense, more overwhelming, more consuming.

And Raven—calm, quiet, unhurried Raven—fucked her.

He fucked her like a machine. Like a force of nature. Like something that did not tire, did not slow, did not stop. His hips moved with the same steady, relentless rhythm from the first thrust to the thousandth.

His black eyes looked at her body—at the ass, at the anal, at the pussy, at the back, at the silver hair—and they were calm.

Still.

Calm.

PAH PAHPAHPAH PHACCCKKK!!!!

"HNGH~~!! ANGH!! NEEIYAAANNNGGHHH~~~!!"

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The Queen’s eyes were closed.

Her body was on fire. Her anal was throbbing—stretched, raw, the ring of muscle still twitching from the hour of fucking it had just endured. Her pussy was aching—the lips swollen, the clit bruised, the walls still spasming with aftershocks. Her nipples were leaking milk—thin white trails running down the curve of her breasts, pooling on the silk sheets beneath her. Her face was in the pillow. Her tongue was out. Her breath came in short, sharp, ragged gasps.

She blinked.

The ceiling was white. The canopy was blue. The silk was beneath her—wet, ruined, stained with oil and seed and her own juice. The fire was still burning. The candles were still lit. The room smelled of sandalwood and sex and the thick, cloying musk of pheromones that lingered in the air like fog.

She was alone on the bed.

Raven was gone. His weight was no longer on her. His hands were no longer on her body. His cock was no longer inside her. She was lying face-down on the king-size bed, her body spread, her ass raised, her anal gaping, her pussy dripping.

She tried to lift herself.

Her arms trembled. Her shoulders ached. Her back was sore—the muscles that Raven had massaged were now loose, relaxed, pliable in a way that they had never been. The tension that she had carried for thirty years—the tension of queenship, of court, of survival—was gone. Erased. Replaced by a different kind of soreness. A deeper kind.

She pushed herself up.

Her arms shook. Her elbows buckled. She fell back. She tried again. She rose—slowly, painfully, her body protesting every movement. She sat on the edge of the bed. Her legs were hanging off the side. Her feet were bare on the rug. Her dress was gone—on the floor, in pieces, the buttons scattered. Her bra was gone. Her panty was gone. She was naked.

Her body was oily. The sandalwood oil glistened on her skin—on her back, on her stomach, on her breasts, on her thighs. The oil was in her hair. On her face. Between her legs. Her pussy was dripping—the seed was leaking from it, running down her inner thigh, thick and white and slow. Her anal was filled too—the seed was there, warm, deep, leaking when she moved, running down the crack of her ass.

She trembled.

Not from fear. Not from cold. From the sensation. The strange, overwhelming, impossible sensation of a body that had been completely, thoroughly, devastatingly relaxed. Every muscle was loose. Every nerve was quiet. Every knot that had existed for thirty years was gone. Her body felt like water. Like silk. Like something that had been taken apart and put back together by hands that knew exactly what they were doing.

She sighed.

The sigh was deep. It came from the bottom of her stomach. It carried thirty years of tension and released it in a single breath.

Her hand went to her head. She rubbed her temple. Her silver hair was loose—tangled, damp, spread across her shoulders. She looked around the room.

The fire. The tapestries. The candles. The oil warmer on the shelf. The crystal decanter of oil, half-empty, on the nightstand. The bed, ruined. The sheets, soaked.

And on the floor—

Her golden eyes focused.

Two bodies.

The maid. The young woman in the gray uniform. She was on the floor. On her back. Her uniform was open—her breasts were out, small and firm, the nipples still stiff. Her skirt was hiked up. Her legs were spread. Her pussy was visible—swollen, red, leaking. Her stockings were soaked. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was open. She was breathing in the slow, deep rhythm of unconsciousness.

Beside her—on top of her, partially—was Old Tomas.

He was naked from the waist down. His rope was on the floor. His shirt was open. His old body was on top of the maid’s body—his chest against her chest, his face in her neck, his arms around her. His cock was inside her—still, softening, the shaft slick with their combined fluids. His balls were resting against her ass. His face was red. Sweating. The expression of a man who has passed out from exertion and pleasure.

They were hugging each other.

Unconscious. Intertwined. The old man and the young maid, their bodies pressed together, their limbs tangled, their breathing synchronized. The picture of post-coital oblivion.

The Queen stared.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"This old—" she started. Her voice was hoarse. Raw. The voice of a woman whose throat has been used for screaming for an hour. "This old fool."

She looked around. She looked for Raven. He was not there. He was gone. The room was empty except for her and the two unconscious bodies on the floor.

She stood.

Her legs were weak. Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the bedpost. She stood. She pulled a sheet from the bed—the least ruined one, the one that was only stained with oil, not seed. She wrapped it around her body. It covered her chest, her stomach, her thighs. She tucked it at the side.

She walked to the door.

Her bare feet slapped the stone. She opened the door. The corridor was empty. The guards were not there—Raven had dismissed them, somehow, or the pheromones had driven them away, or they had fled when the screaming started. She did not know. She did not care.