Throne Room Claiming

Queen Silviana's fingers dug into the crystal armrests as the orc warlord entered her throne room. Fifty years since she'd found that book. *"A Treatise on the Mating Habits of the Lower Races."* Hidden in the restricted section, covered in dust.

She'd only meant to skim it. Academic curiosity. But then: *"The orc male's member is proportioned to match their frame, with prominent ridges designed to stimulate..."* The next line had been burned away, pages stuck together from age. She'd spent years imagining how that sentence ended.

After that first book, she'd become obsessed. Scouring the royal library for any mention of orcs. *"On the Savage Races of the North."* *"Diplomatic Relations with the Orcish Tribes."* *"Anatomical Differences in Humanoid Species."* Each dry academic text she devoured, searching for clues.

The most shocking discovery had been a medical text, hidden in the archives: *"The surface is marked by raised nodules, creating additional friction during..."* The rest water-damaged. But that single line had haunted her dreams. Raised nodules. What would that feel like? How would that change everything?

She'd even interviewed traveling merchants under the pretense of "understanding our enemies." They'd mentioned things. Whispered things. The size difference. The stamina. The way human women who'd been taken as war brides were said to refuse rescue.

Then came the gossip. Lady Silaithe, her most trusted lady-in-waiting, blushing over wine, confessing she'd heard from her cousin who'd heard from a merchant's wife that orcs could fuck for hours. That their spend was so copious it leaked for days. That once a refined lady had experienced it, she'd never be satisfied by civilized cock again.

"And the texture," Silaithe had whispered, wine making her bold. "Bumps all along... like nothing we have. They say it drives women mad with sensation."

"Can you imagine?" Silaithe had added, scandalized and fascinated. "Being ruined like that?"

Silviana had maintained her regal facade, expressing appropriate disgust. While arousal pooled between her legs. While she excused herself to her chambers early. While she fucked herself with inadequate fingers, imagining green ones instead.

For decades, she'd built her secret knowledge. Learned their language "for diplomatic purposes." Studied their culture "to better defend against them." Memorized every anatomical diagram she could find. All while sitting on this throne, thighs pressed together, playing the perfect elven queen while drowning in her own desire.

And now one was here. In her throne room. Real.

The terms of surrender had been her design. When the orc armies had approached, she'd convinced the council it was the only way - submit to the warlord's demands or see the kingdom burn. She'd pretended resignation, kept her voice steady as she'd read his terms aloud. The tribute he demanded. Gold, of course. Weapons. And the queen herself, to do with as he pleased.

The council had gasped. Her husband had sobbed. She'd maintained perfect composure while her cunt clenched at the words "as he pleased."

She'd negotiated personally. Sent away advisors. Met with his emissaries alone.

"There is one more term," the lead emissary had said, scarred face split in a knowing grin. "Non-negotiable. The king watches. Warlord Grashk wants your husband to witness his queen's... submission. To understand the new order."

She'd let her face show perfect royal horror. Let her hand tremble slightly as she reached for the quill. "That's... barbaric."

"Those are the terms."

Inside, she'd tightened with need so intense she'd had to shift in her seat. Her husband forced to watch. To see what she really was. What she really needed. She'd signed with a shaking hand that had nothing to do with fear.

All while maintaining the facade of a queen sacrificing herself for her people.

Now Grashk approached, and her careful scholarship crumbled.

The books hadn't mentioned the sound - each footfall like thunder on her crystal floors, making her ancestors' portraits rattle. They hadn't captured the scent - leather and iron and musk that cut through centuries of delicate elven incense. They certainly hadn't prepared her for the way the air itself seemed to thicken with his presence.

He was bigger than her research suggested. Each step made him loom larger, until she had to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. The size difference she'd imagined so many times was academic compared to the reality of his bulk filling her pristine throne room.

When he stopped before her throne, close enough that she could see scars crosshatching his grey-green skin, her carefully rehearsed words died. Fifty years of preparation and all she could think was: *The texts were wrong. Too small. Too clean. Too civilized.*

His eyes tracked over her - from her white-knuckled grip on the armrests to the pulse hammering visibly at her throat to the slight part of her lips as she struggled to breathe normally. The corner of his scarred mouth lifted.

*He knows. He sees what I am.*

She couldn't look at him directly. Not yet. Her peripheral vision caught bulk, scars, graying hair. Exactly as the texts described. Her inner muscles tightened involuntarily, silk undergarments already damp.

*Control. Maintain control.*

Her husband knelt beside her throne, bound with his own sash. She felt his trembling through the floor. Felt her own trembling that she prayed looked like rage rather than what it was.

Heavy footfalls. Coming closer. The smell hit her - leather and smoke and male musk that the elven court had never known. Her nipples hardened beneath twenty layers of suffocating silk. A bead of sweat rolled between her breasts despite the cool air.

When Grashk stood before her throne, she made herself meet his eyes. Dark. Knowing. His gaze dropped to her white-knuckled grip on the armrests, to the pulse visible at her throat, to the slight part of her lips. The corner of his scarred mouth lifted.

*He knows. Gods, he knows what I am.*

The moment stretched. Her husband whimpered something - a plea, a protest. Neither of them acknowledged him. She'd been calling for this conqueror for decades, and they both knew it.

"The terms," Grashk said simply.

She had to swallow twice before speaking. "I'm aware."

His hand moved to his belt. Such a simple gesture. Her thighs clenched hard, a flood of arousal soaking through silk. Fifty years of imagining this moment and her body was already betraying her completely.

The ice queen mask was cracking. Each breath came too fast, too shallow. The crystal throne had never felt so cold against her overheated skin. With every second he stood there, patient, watching her pretend she wasn't dying for what came next, her control slipped further.

She could hear her own heartbeat - too fast, too loud. Surely the entire court could hear it echoing off crystal walls. Could see the flush she felt creeping up her chest despite the hall's chill. Could smell her arousal the way she was certain he could.

When he finally moved, she flinched. Just one step closer and her whole body reacted - nipples hardening visibly beneath silk, thighs clenching, breath catching. The books had described orcish intimidation tactics. They hadn't mentioned that intimidation and arousal could be the same thing.

His hand rose toward her throat. Slow. Deliberate. Giving her time to pull away, to order guards that no longer existed. She held perfectly still, watching those scarred green fingers approach. Larger than any anatomy text had indicated.

When his skin finally met hers - callused fingertips against her racing pulse - something inside her snapped. Not broke. Released. Like ice cracking after decades of pressure.

His touch was gentle. That was the surprise. After all her reading about orcish brutality, his fingers on her throat were careful. Testing. All that leashed power choosing restraint. For now.

The first moan that escaped her wasn't practiced. Wasn't performative. It was raw need finally given voice.

She felt her husband's shock like a physical thing. Felt Grashk's satisfaction. But mostly she felt the silk of her gown becoming unbearable against sensitized skin. Felt empty. So empty. Had always been empty but only now let herself know it.

Hands shaking, she reached for her clasps. Twenty layers between her and what she needed. As each fell away, she became more herself. Not the queen. Not the ice maiden. Just a woman who had been starving for fifty years.

When cool air hit her bare breasts, she arched without meaning to. When his calloused thumb brushed her nipple, the sensation shot straight to her clit like lightning. No elven lover had ever made her feel so immediate. So animal.

*This is what I am. What I've always been.*

She spread her legs without being asked. Let him see the dampness that had already soaked through. Let him smell her arousal. Let her husband see what he'd never managed to cause.

The first touch of his fingers through silk made her lose focus completely. Just that - just pressure against her clit through fabric - and she was fighting not to come. Half a century of fantasy about to become real and her body couldn't wait.

When he pushed the silk aside and she felt skin on skin, she lost the fight. Came hard, biting her lip bloody to keep from screaming. Came from being touched by an orc for the first time. Came while her husband watched.

Heat flooded her face. Her cunt clenched harder, aftershocks intensifying. She turned her head away but her hips pushed up, seeking more.

Movement in her peripheral vision. Her husband, still kneeling, but... his bound hands moving beneath his robes. The rhythmic motion unmistakable.

*He's... while watching me...*

Something new bloomed in her chest. Power of a different kind. She turned her head, met his shameful gaze, let him see her flushed face and wrecked expression. Let him see what his wife looked like when she actually wanted someone.

When Grashk finally freed his cock, she nearly came again just from looking.

All her anatomical diagrams, all her careful study, hadn't prepared her. The texts had been clinical: *"averaging 12-14 inches in length with a circumference of..."* Numbers. Measurements. Nothing about the way it would make her mouth water. Nothing about how those promised ridges would make her inner muscles clench in desperate anticipation. But most shocking - the bumps. Raised nodules along the entire shaft that the texts had only mentioned in passing. Each one promising sensation she couldn't imagine.

Thick. Ridged exactly as promised but somehow more. The bumpy texture making it look almost weapon-like. Already glistening. Everything she'd imagined and more. The empty ache inside her became unbearable.

She spread wider. Tilted her hips. Begged with her body because words were beyond her now.

The first push inside broke her completely. Half a century of careful fingers trying to imagine this stretch. Half a century of dreams that fell pathetically short of reality. He was barely inside and she was coming again, body clenching desperately around him, trying to pull him deeper.

Each ridge. Each inch. Each place he touched that had never been touched. She wasn't a queen anymore. Wasn't elvish perfection. Was just a body finally getting what it needed, and loving every second of its own destruction.

When he bottomed out, she did scream. Couldn't help it. The sound echoed off crystal walls - nothing like elven music. Pure animal satisfaction.

Through the haze of pleasure, she heard it again. That rhythmic sound. Faster now. Her husband fisting his cock while watching his wife get fucked properly for the first time in centuries.

She smiled. Cruel and satisfied. Met his eyes while Grashk thrust into her.

*This is what I am. What we are. What we've always been beneath the performance.*

Her transformation complete. Not just from ice queen to wanton slut. But to something that fed on her own pleasure and his humiliation equally.

The throne room would never be the same. None of them would.

And she'd never been happier.

Then Grashk started to actually fuck her.

Everything before had been preparation. Testing. Now he gripped her throat with one massive hand, just tight enough to make breathing work, and set a pace that made the crystal throne crack.

Each thrust drove thought from her mind. Centuries of mental discipline shattered as he used her like the desperate thing she was. His other hand tangled in her platinum hair, pulling her head back at an angle that made her neck scream and her cunt clench.

*This. This is what I needed. To be nothing but a body. To be taken.*

She'd never been handled roughly. Elven lovers treated her like spun glass, like something that might break. But Grashk fucked her like she was built for this. Like her body existed to take his cock.

When he yanked her hair harder, forcing her to arch completely off the throne, she came again. When he released her throat to slap her breast, marking pale skin red, she gushed around him. Each degradation was a gift. Each rough handling proof that she wasn't a queen here - just a cunt that needed filling.

"Look at him," Grashk growled, forcing her head toward her husband. "Watch his face while I ruin his wife."

Through the haze of being fucked stupid, she could see her husband's expression. Devastated. Aroused. His hand moving frantically under his robes as he watched his wife get dominated by a "lesser" race.

Grashk shifted angle, hitting something inside her that made stars explode behind her eyes. Her legs shook uncontrollably. Sounds escaped her that no queen should make - grunts and whimpers and animalistic moans.

"Please," she heard herself babble. "Please, harder, break me, ruin me, I need-"

He flipped her suddenly, face down over her own throne. The crystal cold against her burning skin. Her ass in the air like an animal. When he entered her again from behind, deeper than before, her scream muffled against the crystal.

One large hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pinning her down. The other gripped her hip hard enough to bruise. Each thrust shook the throne, shook her entire body. Immobilized. Unable to do anything but take it.

The crystal beneath her cheek - the same crystal she'd stared at during countless ceremonies. Frozen. Empty. Proper. Now slick with her tears and drool as she got fucked like an animal on her own throne.

The texts had mentioned "establishing dominance." They hadn't explained that dominance could feel like freedom. That being pinned, controlled, used, could unlock something in her that fifty years of fingering herself to those same texts never had.

Her scholarly mind tried to catalog sensations - the weight of him, the stretch, the angle. But coherent thought shattered with each thrust. She wasn't a researcher anymore. Wasn't a queen. Wasn't anything but a body finally getting what it had craved for decades.

*This is what I am. A body. A hole. His to use.*

The thought made her come again, cunt spasming around him. She was sobbing now, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion. Fifty years of dreams made real and it was so much more than she'd imagined.

When he gathered her wrists behind her back, holding them with one hand while fucking her harder, she broke completely. No more queen. No more control. Just meat being used exactly how it needed to be used.

Through tear-blurred eyes, she could see her husband had given up all pretense. Cock out, fisting himself openly while watching his wife get destroyed. His strokes growing frantic.

Grashk's rhythm suddenly slowed. Almost stopped. She whined, pushing back desperately.

"Please," she sobbed.

But Grashk was watching her husband. Waiting. Just as the king's face showed that telltale tension, just as his hand moved fastest, Grashk pulled almost completely out.

The king's hand stuttered. His eyes wide, desperate, right on the edge but unable to finish without the sight of his wife being claimed.

Only then did Grashk slam back in, setting a punishing pace. Her screams and her husband's strangled cry mixing in the crystal chamber.

"Going to fill you," Grashk grunted, pace becoming brutal. "Mark you inside where he'll never reach."

The promise made her wild. Made her push back against him as much as her pinned position allowed. Made her beg incoherently for his cum, his claim, his ownership.

When he eventually roared and buried himself to the hilt, flooding her with heat, she came harder than she'd known was possible. Every muscle seizing. Everything going blank. Her body milking him for every drop while shaking apart.

As he filled her, she heard her husband's strangled cry. Saw him spilling over his own hands, hips jerking helplessly.

They stayed frozen like that - Grashk buried in her, her husband spent and shaking, her own body pinned and claimed and finally, finally satisfied.

When Grashk eventually pulled out, she felt his cum leak down her thighs. Felt empty again but differently. Wonderfully. Like she'd been hollowed out and could be filled again and again.

He turned her over, surprisingly gentle now. She looked up at him with wonder. Centuries of ice melted away.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He smiled, tusks and all. "We're not done, Your Majesty. That was just the first lesson."

She shivered with anticipation. Turned to look at her husband, who was staring at her like he'd never seen her before.

"Clean yourself up," she commanded, queen voice mixed with something darker. "You'll want your hands free for what comes next."

The look on his face - horror and arousal and dawning understanding that this was their life now - made her smile.

She'd found herself at last. And she was never going back.