My mistake came in assuming my win.
When she flubbed the timing, I thought it safe to reengage my glow.To rise and savor her defeat as I traced a talon down her cheek and demanded the repentance owed to her Sovereign.
But instead of submitting... she kissed me.
And the control I thought was forged of steel snapped like a brittle taarhorn string.
She is conquered.Thrice.I could sacrifice her to Eryx now with a chest full of pride.
But my staff still aches inside her, unwilling to cede its prize—even in victory.
Then she whispers that she’s glad I took her virginity.
And something fractures inside my chest. Inside mymind.
Before thought can intervene, I drive my fangs into her neck—fangs forged for war, never meant for tenderness.
Her blood is sweet. And I drink it in heavy gulps.
By Eryx, she leans into the bite. Undulates her hips, drawing my seed out with every greedy slide of her sex.
I free her from my bite just as I release inside her?—
Her passage is impossibly tight. The first time I set her upon my staff, I barely made it halfway in. I had to use my hands to guide her silken folds up and down my length, afraid I might harm her if I allowed myself to drive deeper.
But each climax draws her lower down my staff.
By the time I come back down from my bite, I find her fully seated—her trembling sex stretched wide around my still-granite length.
This is when I lose all sense.
I seat her on my throne, grabbing onto a crystal to give myself the leverage needed to rut her furiously. The only sound is the slapping of me taking my human-shaped ruin without restraint, until my testes tighten and I spill another release deep inside her.
Only then do I soften and pull out.
The talons of reason claw at me. Tells me that the situation has gone beyond what I can control. That I should retreat, as my brother should have when he underestimated the might of Solmane’s army.
But then I make the fatal error of looking down.
Her sex still contracts with the force of her throne orgasm—pushing my seed out in sticky, glistening rivulets.
And a rage takes over me.
My staff thickens again, possessed by the primal need to replace what her body has expelled.
I rut her.
I rut her over the arm of my throne.
I rut her against my sleeping window, her breasts smashed to the glass.
Then, when I attempt to lay her on the taarhorn blankets so she can finally sleep, she makes the smallest sound of disappointment, and I end up rutting her again.
Earlier in the eve, I denied her climaxes. Now I cannot stop myself from giving them. Again and again.
I am crazed.
Her soft, helpless whines—each one begging for more—are my only reason for living.
