The Black Boar Inn crouched at the crossroads like a fat toad, its thatch roof sagging under the weight of two decades of rain. Cassian arrived at dusk, mud to his knees, the taste of Seraphine's cunt still on his tongue. He'd ridden hard—three days without stopping, cock half-hard in his breeches from the memory of her slick dripping down his chin.
Inside, the common room reeked of ale, tallow, and unwashed men. Mira Blackboar stood behind the bar, arms folded beneath breasts that had once been the pride of the royal court. Now they hung heavy, nipples dark and wide as silver coins, visible through the damp linen of her blouse. She was wiping a tankard when she saw him.
"Well, fuck me sideways," she said, voice like gravel and honey. "If it ain't the prince come slumming."
Cassian dropped a purse on the bar—gold enough to buy silence. "A room. A bath. And you."
Mira's laugh was low. "Bold, pup. I charge extra for royalty." But her eyes flicked to the bulge in his breeches, and her thighs pressed together beneath her skirts.
---
The copper tub steamed in the private chamber, water scented with rosemary and something sharper—her own sweat, Cassian realized, when she stripped. Mira was no delicate court flower. Her belly bore the soft pouch of three dead babes; her hips were wide enough to birth them. When she turned, her ass was a marvel—two pale moons, dimpled, swaying as she poured another bucket.
"Get in," she said. "You stink of horse and widow."
He obeyed, sinking into the heat. His cock jutted up like a spear, flushed dark, the head already slick. Mira's gaze lingered. "God's teeth. They said the Veylthorne men were hung like stallions. They weren't lying."
She climbed in after him, knees bracketing his thighs. The water sloshed, lapping at her breasts. They floated, heavy and soft, nipples brushing his chest hair. Cassian groaned.
"Easy," she murmured, cupping water to rinse his shoulders. "We've all night."
Her hands were calloused—years of scrubbing floors, pulling ale—but gentle. She washed his hair, nails scraping his scalp until his eyes rolled back. Then lower: across his chest, thumbs circling his nipples until they peaked. When she reached his cock, she didn't grip it. Instead, she traced the vein along the underside with one finger, slow as a confession.
"Sensitive here?" she asked.
"Fuck, yes."
She smiled, wicked. "Good."
---
Mira shifted, rising on her knees. Water cascaded from her breasts, running in rivulets between them. She took his hand and pressed it to her left tit—soft, warm, the weight of it spilling over his palm. "Suck," she said. "Been years since a man bothered."
Cassian latched on like a starving babe. Her nipple was thick, rubbery; he sucked hard, tongue flicking the tip. Mira gasped, hips jerking. A bead of milk—*phantom lactation*, the midwives called it—formed at the corner of his mouth. Stress, arousal, age. He swallowed it greedily.
"Christ, boy," she panted. "You'll have me leaking like a fresh sow."
He switched to the other breast, kneading the first until milk dotted his fingers. Mira's hand slipped between her thighs, rubbing slow circles over her clit. Her cunt was *dripping*—he could see it, slick strings stretching from her folds to the water's surface.
"Ride my thigh," he growled against her skin.
She didn't hesitate. Straddling his right leg, she ground down. Her pussy was scalding, lips parting around the muscle of his thigh. She rocked, slow and filthy, coating him in her juices. The water turned cloudy with her arousal.
Cassian's cock throbbed, untouched, leaking steadily. He wanted to bury himself in her, but *slow*. He'd promised himself control.
"Tell me," he said, biting her nipple gently, "when's the last time you came on a man's leg like a bitch in heat?"
"Never," she admitted, voice breaking. "They fucked me quick and left. You—*fuck*, you *watch*."
He did. Watched her belly quiver, her thighs tremble. Watched her cunt pulse, clit swollen and red. When she came, it was with a guttural moan, squirting hard enough to splash his chest. Her slick ran down his leg in rivulets, mixing with the bathwater.
---
Mira sagged against him, panting. But Cassian wasn't done. He lifted her easily—she was heavy, but he was stronger—and turned her to face the tub's edge. Her breasts pressed against the copper rim, nipples dragging with each breath.
"Stay," he said.
He stood behind her, cock sliding between her ass cheeks but *not entering*. Just teasing, the head nudging her soaked folds. She whimpered, pushing back.
"Please—"
"Not yet." He knelt again, spreading her cheeks to expose her cunt. It gaped slightly, pink and dripping. He licked her from clit to entrance, slow and thorough, tasting her release. Mira sobbed, fingers scrabbling at the tub's edge.
When he stood, he finally freed himself fully. His cock slapped against her ass—*thwack*—leaving a wet streak. He gripped her hips, sliding the length along her slit, coating himself in her slick. Up and down, slow, torturous.
"Cassian," she begged. "I'm forty-two. My cunt's not as tight as a maiden's—"
"It's *perfect*," he snarled. "Wet and greedy. Made for this."
He notched the head at her entrance and *pushed*. Just the tip. She clenched, trying to pull him deeper, but he held her hips still. Inch by inch, he fed her his cock—9 inches, thick as her wrist. Her walls fluttered, stretching around him. When he bottomed out, his balls pressed to her clit, she screamed into her forearm.
He didn't move. Just stayed buried, letting her adjust. Her cunt wept around him, slick dripping down his sac.
"Move," she finally gasped. "God, *move*."
He did—slow, deep strokes, pulling out until only the head remained, then slamming back in. The tub rocked, water sloshing over the sides. Her breasts swung with each thrust, nipples scraping copper. He reached around to knead them, pinching until milk beaded again.
They fucked like that for an hour—*an hour*—his stamina a curse and a gift. Mira came twice more, each orgasm messier than the last, until the bathwater was a swamp of her squirt and his precome. When he finally let himself go, it was with a roar, pumping her full until his seed leaked down her thighs in thick ropes.
---
After, they lay in the cooling water, her head on his chest. His cock, still half-hard, rested against her belly.
"You'll ruin me for other men," she murmured.
"Good," he said, kissing her temple. "I'm not done with you yet."
Outside, the inn's sign creaked in the wind. Inside, the prince and the innkeeper breathed as one, the scent of sex and rosemary thick in the air.
The chapel of Castle Veylthorne was a cavern of stone and shadow, lit only by the dying glow of votive candles. Midnight had come and gone; the court slept, or pretended to. Cassian slipped through the side door, boots silent on the flagstones, the taste of Mira's cunt still lingering like spiced wine on his tongue. Three days since the Black Boar, and his cock had not softened once on the ride home.
He had come for solitude.
He found *her*.
Dowager Queen Isolde knelt before the altar, veiled in black silk, rosary beads clicking between trembling fingers. The candlelight painted gold on the swell of her breasts, pushed high by a whalebone corset. At forty-five, she was still the most beautiful woman in Aetheria—high cheekbones, lips like bruised plums, and eyes the color of winter seas.
Cassian's breath caught. *Stepmother.* The word tasted forbidden.
Isolde did not turn. "Leave me, Cassian." Her voice was frost over steel. "Some sins are prayed for in private."
He stepped closer. The scent of her—myrrh, cold cream, and the faint musk of a woman too long untouched—filled his lungs. "I'm not here to pray."
She rose slowly, silk whispering. The veil fell away. Her gown was mourning black, but cut low; her breasts strained against the fabric, nipples dark shadows beneath. A single pearl rested in the hollow of her throat.
"You reek of tavern whores," she said, lip curling. "Did the innkeeper's sagging teats satisfy you?"
Cassian's cock surged, thick and painful against his breeches. "Jealous, Mother?"
The slap came fast—her palm cracked across his cheek. The sound echoed like a bell. He caught her wrist before she could strike again, pulling her flush against him. Her breasts crushed to his chest, soft and heavy; he felt her nipples harden through the layers.
"Say it," he growled. "Say what you want."
Isolde's breath hitched. Her free hand pressed to his cock, tracing the ridge with reverent horror. "Monster," she whispered. "Your father's dead, and still you—"
He kissed her. Not gentle. A claiming—tongue thrusting past her teeth, tasting salt and incense. She fought for a heartbeat, then melted, a low moan vibrating against his lips. Her fingers clawed his tunic, pulling him down to the altar steps.
They sank together. Cassian knelt between her thighs, pushing her skirts up in fistfuls. No undergarments—*court mourning allowed no frivolity*. Her cunt was bare, lips plump and flushed, a neat triangle of silver-flecked curls above. She was *drenched*—slick coating her inner thighs, glistening in the candlelight.
"Look at you," he murmured, parting her with his thumbs. "The pious queen, weeping for cock."
Isolde's hips jerked. "Blasphemy—"
"Truth." He blew cool air over her clit; she sobbed, thighs trembling. "How long since a man tasted this royal cunt?"
"Since your father's last breath," she confessed, voice breaking. "He couldn't… not after the fever. I've burned for *years*."
Cassian's mouth descended. He licked her slow—base to clit, savoring the tart honey of her arousal. Her folds were silk, swollen and hot; he sucked her clit gently, then harder, until her back arched off the steps. When he slid two fingers inside, her walls clenched like a fist, slick dripping over his knuckles.
"Cassian—*God*—"
He curled his fingers, stroking the spot that made her shatter. She came with a strangled cry, cunt pulsing, squirting a hot gush that soaked his wrist and the altar cloth. He drank her down, tongue fucking her through the aftershocks until she begged.
---
Isolde's hands fumbled at his breeches. "Let me see it," she panted. "Let me *pray* to it."
He stood, shoving fabric down. His cock sprang free—9 inches, thick and veined, the head slick with precome. Isolde's eyes widened, pupils blown. She sank to her knees on the cold stone, uncaring of the pain.
"Mother of God," she breathed, wrapping both hands around him. Her fingers didn't meet. She stroked once, slow, watching the foreskin glide over the crown. A bead of fluid welled; she caught it on her tongue, moaning at the taste.
Cassian threaded fingers through her hair—not pulling, just anchoring. "Take me in your mouth. Show me how a queen worships."
She did. Lips stretching wide, she swallowed him inch by inch, throat working to take more. Her tongue traced the vein underneath; saliva dripped down her chin, soaking the pearl at her throat. Cassian's hips rocked gently, fucking her mouth in shallow thrusts. The altar candles flickered, casting shadows of their joined silhouettes on the crucifix above.
Isolde's hands cupped his balls, rolling them gently. She pulled off with a wet pop, licking the length of him, then took him deep again. Her throat fluttered around the head; tears streaked her cheeks, but her eyes—*fuck*, her eyes burned with devotion.
He lasted longer than any man should—twenty minutes of her worship, her gagging, her humming around him. When he felt the edge, he pulled free, cock glistening with her spit.
"Not yet," he said. "I want to fill your cunt on hallowed ground."
---
He lifted her onto the altar itself, laying her back among the velvet cushions meant for kneeling nobles. Her legs fell open, cunt gaping and red from his tongue. Cassian notched his cock at her entrance and *pushed*. One slow, relentless thrust until he bottomed out, balls pressed to her ass.
Isolde screamed—muffled by her own fist. Her walls rippled, trying to accommodate his girth. He stayed still, letting her adjust, watching her breasts heave with each breath. The corset had slipped; one nipple peeked out, dark and begging.
He leaned down, sucking it hard as he began to move. Slow, deep strokes—pulling out until only the head remained, then slamming home. The altar creaked beneath them. Her slick coated his shaft, dripping down to stain the cloth.
"Harder," she gasped. "Ruin me."
He obliged, pace building but never frantic. Each thrust was deliberate, grinding against her clit on the instroke. Her second orgasm hit like a storm—cunt clamping down, squirting around his cock, soaking his breeches. He fucked her through it, relentless, until she was babbling prayers in three languages.
When he came, it was with her name on his lips—*Isolde*—spilling deep inside her, pulse after pulse. Her cunt milked him dry, greedy for every drop. He stayed buried, cock twitching, as they both trembled.
---
After, she lay sprawled across the altar, gown rucked to her waist, breasts spilling free. Cassian traced a finger through the mess between her thighs—his seed, her slick—painting it over her clit. She shivered.
"This changes everything," she whispered.
"No," he said, kissing her swollen lips. "This was *always* coming."
He helped her dress, fingers lingering on the wet patch blooming on her skirts. Before he left, he pressed the pearl from her throat into her palm.
"Keep it," he said. "A reminder. Next time, I take you in the throne room. On *his* chair."
Isolde's smile was slow, wicked. "I'll be waiting, my king."
Isolde of House Calveris was not born to be queen.
She was born to be *sold*.
At sixteen, her father—Duke of the frost-bitten North—traded her to King Aldric for three border castles and a promise of peace. On her wedding night, Aldric took her maidenhead in the great hall, drunk on victory wine, while courtiers watched from the shadows. She bled on white samite; he called it "a fitting tribute."
The marriage was a cage of gold. Aldric bedded her nightly for heirs, but never kindly. He liked her on her knees, liked her silence. Three sons came—two stillborn, one dead at seven from the sweating sickness. Each birth stretched her body further: breasts that once fit a man's palm now hung heavy, nipples cracked from nursing ghosts; hips widened by grief and bone-deep exhaustion.
After the last prince died, Aldric turned cold. He took mistresses—girls of fifteen with tight cunts and empty heads. Isolde was left to rule the nursery alone, her own womb a tomb. She learned to hide her desire behind ice: cold baths at dawn, rosary beads pressed between her thighs until the pain dulled the ache.
But the ache *grew*.
At night, she touched herself to memories of the stable boy who'd kissed her once, at fourteen, before her father beat the softness out of her. She came silently, biting her own wrist, imagining a man who *saw* her—not the crown, not the womb, but the woman drowning beneath silk and duty.
Cassian was that man's echo.
Aldric's second son—born late, unexpected, *vital*. She'd watched him grow: the boy who brought her stolen roses, the youth who stared too long at her breasts when she bent to light candles. When Aldric died, she'd knelt at his bedside and whispered, *"I'm free."*
Then Cassian walked in, cock straining his mourning breeches, and freedom tasted like sin.
The Weeping Vale, two weeks after the chapel.
Cassian returned under cover of storm—thunder masking hoofbeats, rain hiding the royal crest. Seraphine waited in the tithe barn, lantern low, skirts already damp between her thighs. She'd milked herself that morning, stress and longing turning her breasts into aching fountains. The front of her blouse clung, two dark circles where milk had seeped through.
"You're late," she said, but her voice trembled.
"I'm here now."
He backed her into the hayloft, the ladder creaking under their weight. The loft was a nest of sweet-smelling straw, moonlight slicing through gaps in the roof. Seraphine's gown was simple homespun now—no more silks for a traitor's widow. Cassian tore the laces with his teeth.
Her breasts spilled free—heavy, veined, nipples dark and dripping. A bead of milk rolled down the curve of one, hanging like a pearl. Cassian caught it on his tongue.
"On your back," he said.
She obeyed, hay prickling her bare shoulders. He straddled her waist, cock jutting from his open breeches—thick, flushed, a rope of precome already swinging. Seraphine's breath hitched.
"Push them together," he ordered.
Her hands—calloused from ledger work—cupped her tits, pressing the soft flesh into a deep valley. Milk oozed from her nipples, slicking the channel. Cassian groaned, guiding his cock between them. The head nudged her chin; the shaft disappeared into warmth and wetness.
"Fuck," he hissed. "Tighter."
She squeezed, her own milk lubing the slide. He thrust slow—long, deliberate strokes, the head of his cock bumping her lips with each push. She opened her mouth, tongue flicking out to taste him: salt, rain, the faint sweetness of Mira's lingering scent. He growled, pace quickening.
"Look at you," he panted. "Widow's tits milking my cock. You were *made* for this."
Seraphine moaned, the vibration humming through her chest. Her cunt throbbed, untouched, slick soaking the straw beneath her ass. She pinched her nipples—hard—sending twin jets of milk arcing over his shaft. Cassian's hips stuttered.
"Again," he demanded.
She did, over and over, until her breasts were empty and glistening, until his cock was coated white. The storm outside raged; inside, the only sounds were wet slaps of flesh and her broken whimpers.
When he came, it was with a roar—thick ropes painting her throat, her chin, dripping into her open mouth. She swallowed what she could, the rest sliding down her neck to pool between her breasts. He collapsed forward, cock still twitching, smearing the mess across her skin.
After, he lay beside her, tracing lazy circles through the sticky warmth on her chest.
"Your husband never did this?" he asked.
"He never *saw* me," she whispered. "You do."
Thunder rolled. Somewhere below, a horse nickered. Cassian kissed the corner of her mouth, tasting himself.
"Pack a bag," he said. "Midsummer feast at court. You're coming as my guest."
Her eyes widened. "They'll hang me for treason—"
"They'll bow," he corrected. "Or they'll answer to their futureKing
Mira Blackboar was never meant to pour ale.
She was born in the pleasure houses of Port Veyra, daughter of a dockside whore and a nameless sailor. At twelve, she learned to dance on tables for coppers; at fifteen, she learned what those coppers bought.
Her body bloomed early—heavy breasts, hips that swayed like a ship in storm. By seventeen, she was the most expensive girl in the Velvet Gull, trained in songs, tongues, and the art of making men weep with their cocks still inside her.
Then came Prince Aldric—Cassian's uncle—on a drunken progress. He saw her across the smoke-hazed room, tits spilling from a crimson corset, and claimed her for the night. One night became a season. He installed her in a manor outside the capital, fucked her senseless on silk sheets, taught her to read so she could whisper poetry while riding him.
She loved him.
He loved her cunt.
When the king tired of her—*"too old at twenty-three,"* he laughed—she was cast out with a purse of gold and a belly swollen with his bastard. The child came early, blue and still. Mira buried it herself beneath an oak, then walked until her feet bled, ending at the crossroads where the Black Boar stood empty.
She bought it with Aldric's gold.
Every tankard she poured was a fuck-you to the crown.
Every traveler she bedded was practice—keeping her cunt wet, her heart hard.
Until Cassian.
He looked at her like Aldric never had: not as a prize to be used, but a *woman* to be devoured. When he drank her milk in the tub, she felt twenty again. When he fucked her for hours, she felt *seen*.
Now, at the midsummer feast, she rolled into court with a cart of mead laced with crushed damiana and honey—her own recipe. *"For stamina,"* she'd wink. The nobles would drink. The milfs would *burn*.
The great hall of Castle Veylthorne blazed with torchlight and midsummer excess. Banners of gold and crimson hung from rafters; tables groaned under venison, honeyed figs, and Mira's "special" mead. Nobles laughed too loud, skirts hiked too high.
Cassian sat at the high table, crownless but *king* in all but name. His father's signet weighed heavy on his finger. The official coronation was set for autumn—after the harvest, when the dukes could swear fealty without empty bellies.
But Cassian had no intention of waiting.
**The Plan**
1. **The Dukes**: Three held the real power—Duvrey (Seraphine's dead husband's brother), Calveris (Isolde's father), and Blackboar (Mira's old lover, Aldric's bastard brother). Each hated the others. Each wanted the throne's ear.
2. **The Leverage**:
- *Duvrey*: Proof of his brother's treason—letters Seraphine had hidden, now in Cassian's possession.
- *Calveris*: Isolde's swollen belly (she'd missed her courses; the chapel fucking had taken). A royal bastard would bind the North—or ruin it.
- *Blackboar*: Mira's mead would loosen tongues tonight. A whispered confession of Aldric's illegitimacy (he'd been born before his parents' wedding) would shatter the line of succession.
3. **The Coup**: At dawn, Cassian would present the evidence to the council. The dukes would kneel—or be dragged to the block. The crown would be his by force, not ceremony.
But first: *the women*.
The feast dissolved into chaos by midnight. Mead flowed; skirts vanished. Cassian slipped away, the three milfs trailing like shadows.
They met in the king's solar—Aldric's old chamber, now Cassian's. The fire roared. A bearskin rug stretched before it, thick enough to muffle screams.
**Seraphine** arrived first, crimson gown unlaced, milk already beading through the fabric.
**Mira** followed, blouse discarded, breasts swaying free, nipples hard from the cool hall air.
**Isolde** last, black silk clinging to her curves, the pearl chain glinting between her tits. Her hand rested on her belly—*already rounding?*
Cassian stood at the hearth, cock straining his hose. "Strip," he said. "All of you."
They obeyed.
- Seraphine's gown pooled, revealing stretch-marked hips and a cunt *dripping* down her thighs.
- Mira's breeches hit the floor; her ass was a masterpiece, dimpled and wide.
- Isolde's silk whispered away, breasts heavy with the promise of milk, belly soft with new life.
He circled them, predator among prey. "On your knees."
Three women knelt on the bearskin, breasts pressed together, cunts glistening. Cassian freed his cock—9 inches, thick, veins pulsing. Precome swung in a long strand.
"Tonight," he said, "you're *mine*. All of you. And tomorrow, the kingdom will be too."
He started with **Mira**—gripping her hair, feeding her his cock inch by inch. She took him deep, throat working, saliva dripping onto her tits. Seraphine and Isolde watched, fingers slipping between their own thighs, slick sounds filling the room.
Then **Seraphine**—he pulled out, slick with Mira's spit, and slid between her milk-heavy breasts. She pressed them together, moaning as he fucked the valley, milk lubing every thrust.
Finally **Isolde**—he turned to her, lifting her chin. "Open."
She did, taking him to the root, tears streaming, throat fluttering. Her hand cupped his balls, gentle, reverent.
He rotated them for *hours*—mouth to tits to mouth, never entering their cunts yet. Their arousal soaked the rug; milk and spit mingled. When he finally let them touch each other—Seraphine sucking Isolde's nipple, Mira fingering Seraphine's clit—they came in a chain, bodies shaking, squirting over the bearskin.
Cassian watched, stroking himself slow.
*Tomorrow, the crown.*
*Tonight, the conquest